#and there was a time when i was 22 where i was relatively sure he was going to beat my ass so like. it wouldn't have been unheard of

[schwazombie]

Thinking about the time that my father got so, so, SO mad at me because he was trying to control me and I said, sir, with all due respect and you can get offended if you want, you think you know what's best for me, but I know I know what's best for me because I am me. Surprised he didn't knock me into next week for that I probably only lucked out because he was driving at the time

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate you — Part 21

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: please forgive spelling errors, I’m still coming out of my illness. I’d also wanted to write more but I suppose it’ll help to have a solid starting point for the next chapter! I can’t believe it’s been a year since the first part of cbmthy went up.

warnings: likely spelling errors; Deliah; reader’s miserable life

word count: 5,738

-Part 20- -Part 22-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“I know it’s difficult, but I urge you to tell your family as soon as you are able.”

Madja’s round, soft brown eyes are imploring as she looks into you, and you dip your head.

“I will,” you mumble, frowning into your lap. “I just want time to process it. Besides, you don’t know that for sure—it’s just a theory.”

“A theory that I wouldn’t tell you unless I thought there was a high or definite chance of it happening,” Madja counters, passing you the glass of water. You drink reluctantly. “I know it’s a lot, and it’s sudden… How are you coping?”

You set the glass down when you’ve had enough. “Silver lining, right?”

————

Madja’s earlier question has been echoing through the chambers of your mind all morning. Nagging for an answer until you’ve no choice but to pause, and think. A bench sits overlooking the Sidra, and you take it, choosing to seat yourself for the duration of the thoughts.

How are you coping?

Because you weren’t a while ago. That’s what got Azriel bedridden, although he seems to be on the mend. So, how are you coping now? You can barely feel the gloves around your hands, even when your curl them to scrape the fabric against your skin. There’s nothing more than a slight pressure.

To have no solution for the pain, that you’re permanently damaged… Permanently imperfect, even as a fae. You could have had something. Could have been like Nesta, wielding her Cauldron-Made magic. How stupid of you.

————

His door looms before you, the windows empty and the front garden still. Taking a deep breath you raise your hand to a fist, delivering three muffled knocks to the wood panelling, gloves softening the thuds. You take a step back, and wait. Glance about the small entry, the vines crawling up either side the door, the glass lantern hanging above your head.

The garden is dying, life slowly receding, pulling back in on itself to protect from the descent of winter. Another two weeks and the transition will be clear. Already frost is often crisping leaves and slicking cobbles, ice gleaming over the lip of windowsills and thick rolls of fog floating up from he sidra, basking the city streets in a deep cloud-cover. Sometimes it’s so thick you can’t tell where the edge of the canal lies, and you make a point to offer a generous margin of error. You’re not sure you’d have the will to fight the terrible shock of icy water or the wit to navigate, blind, through the thick mists back to a lowered platform.

You’ll stick behind the guard rails, for now.

Metal scrapes, a latch clicks, the door creaks open. A heavy, golden eye peers out from the relative darkness.

You push a smile to your mouth, weighted, subdued, tentative. “Hi, Bas.”

Golden eyes pause, taking you in from an almost passive standing point. His lips don’t shift like you’d become accustomed to, no half-amused smile curving his familiar mouth and no sweep of warmth across his face. Rather, his lips tighten, as if regretting having made acquaintance with a creature with needle sharp teeth that hook into skin and cling to flesh as it feeds. You’ll stay out of his life if he wants you gone.

You can manage to give him six months of space.

Bas sighs, his broad chest briefly deflating as his shoulders slope and the ice lessens to frost. The door opens wider and an ember of mild warmth begins to glow faintly somewhere in your chest. You take care not to show the visible relief—he hasn’t forgiven you, he’s just opening up for conversation. Maybe now he’ll tell you to stay away, maybe now he’ll tell you not to disappear again, maybe now he’ll tell you you’re forgiven, maybe now he’ll forgive you but he doesn’t want around.

You shake off the thoughts like a sparrow shaking off raindrops from her narrow, nimble wings, fluttering her feathers to rid the dampness from her warm body.

Inside the fire is lit, crackling in the hearth. Dried rosemary and herbs still hang in bunches from the thick wooden beams of the ceiling, patchwork quilts still hang over the back of plush armchairs, small, plump pillows still tucked into either end of the sofa and you sit yourself near one arm, knowing Bas usually takes the armchair to the left of the fireplace. Not directly in the way of the radiating heat but close enough to be warmed by the rolling waves as they spill out into the low-ceilinged living room. You meet his golden eyes. “How’ve you been?”

“Good.” Bas nods his head. “Been doing some thinking. Sure you have too, yeah?” He takes his seat but doesn’t lean back into the cushioning. Instead he braces his forearms on his knees, feet shoulder-width apart and the fire reflects in his strong, golden eyes.

You lick your lips, placing your gloved hands in your lap. “I’m sorry for using you like that.”

Bas cocks a brow. “Just jumping straight into it, huh. No preamble.”

“I understand if you’re angry with me. If you’re upset with me. I feel that you’ve been there for me a lot…more that I can say. Through a lot of stuff I haven’t been brave enough to talk about, too.” Your eyes are hot on their surface, burning from the heat of the crackling fire but you blink away the heat, swallowing. “I was in a bad space, when I left. And I wasn’t thinking right.”

Bas snorts. “You weren’t thinking at all.”

He pushes off from his knees, settling himself at last back into the armchair. Long legs stretch out over the thick, patterned rug, arms crossing behind his head and legs crossing at the ankle.

“I’m sorry, Bas.” You tell him, firmly. Looking into his fierce gaze. He’s always been more straightforward. You’ve managed to be more straightforward with him, too, and it’s been a perk of your…friendship. “Will you… Can you forgive me?”

Silence hangs in the air, his features unmoving, eyes holding that fierce glint in their golden irises. Seconds tick by and neither of you say anything. The room grows hotter, denser, and you shift in your seat. It’s sweltering. It’s been a minute.

Your eyes lower and you nod your head. “Okay.”

You rise from your seat, straightening out your skirts, unsure whether your cheeks are burning from humiliation or the fire. “Thank you for hearing me out,” you tell him, nodding your head once before finding your own way out.

“You aren’t going to ask for my side?” Bas calls from his seat, bringing you to a halt. You turn, looking at the outline of the back of his head, the muscles in his arms are tense and his fingers are pushing into his skin. You keep to the entryway, unsure whether he’s being sincere or whether he’s waiting for an argument. You’ve never known him to be manipulative, but he’s always been ready for a brawl in the past. Bas turns his head, and piercing golden eyes bore into you.

“What’s your side?” You ask, softly.

Bas snorts and makes a sharp gesture with his hand, telling you to sit. Your lips purse but you follow, returning to the seat but this time discarding an outer layer leaving you in a top and skirts. You’re here for a conversation—not a brief exchange where nothing’s said.

“Did you even listen to me, last time you were here?” Bas asks. “Where did you go? Who did you meet? Why did you think it was a good idea to just—” He bites off the ending, his frustration and anger bleeding out. His arms brace themselves back on his knees, body hunching over as his brows narrow, exhaling in a harsh hurry. “Talk to me. You got to talk to me instead of just vomiting up a bland fuckin’ apology like that. ‘I’m sorry for using you like that’? ‘I was in a bad place’?” He stares at you, hard. “Are you kidding me?”

“I- What do you want me to say, Bas? I’m sorry for upsetting you. I’m sorry for making you angry. I’m sorry for not telling you where I was going-”

“‘I’m sorry for making you feel like shit, Bas'. ‘I’m sorry for not only leaving and not telling you anything, but also then coming back and not telling you anything either, Bas’. ‘I’m sorry for creating something private and safe and then letting everyone in to tear it to shreds, Bas’.” Golden eyes gleam with heat, boring into you. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Those would have been a good fuckin’ start.”

You lick your lips, trying to buy yourself time to comprehend the words he’s spat out. Beats pass, but you have no idea what to say. You’re sorry. You regret the way things happened. They won’t unfold like that again. It all feels so insufficient when his eyes are so fierce on their surface but the tears are making them glassy. “You were my fuckin’ treasure,” he rasps. “And you fuckin' walked out without a word.”

“Bas I’m sorry,” you whisper. Heat prickles your eyes, “I just needed to get out.”

Bas laughs a wet laugh, “Fuck off with that.” His thumb and middle finger span across his eyes, bracing his temples. “You know I stopped seeing other people?”

Silence hangs in the air. Blood cooling in your veins.

Bas laughs. “Stopped drinking after you showed up, stopped sleeping around as much, started getting to bed on time. Started talking with ma again. Started to get better after pa-” He chokes off, a wet droplet breaking on the rug far below. He rubs his eyes shaking his head. Golden eyes gleam in the firelight. “You were good,” he whispers, “a good thing.”

Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it. You know what it’s like to feel you aren’t good enough to be trusted. You know how it hurts.

You stand quietly from the sofa, gathering your cloak and scarf. Pause when you pass him—he doesn’t look up, keeping his head cast down, staring at the rug. Your palm settles over his shoulder and you squeeze once, firmly. I’m sorry.

You’re in the doorway, the salty citrusy coastal air mixing with the warm rosemary of his interior when he calls for you once more.

“We’ll be moving to Winter soon,” Bas says through his raw throat. He swallows, hard jaw working. “Ma thinks it’ll be good for us—to visit pa’s Court. Reconnect with the magic there.” In one movement that exudes far too much boyish embarrassment for you to bear, he dries his eyes, rolling his shoulders and standing straighter. “Thought I’d let you know.”

“You’re leaving?” You can hardly hear your voice. Bas shrugs but the edges of the gesture are too sharp to be natural. “Guess Night Court isn’t working for us.” He licks his lips. Nods his head. “I wish you well, from here.”

————

The sunlight is watery, offering an edge of warmth but you’re in a daze. You’re not even sure you know where you are in the city. Just started walking and didn’t stop, feet moving mindlessly over the cobbles, carrying you through streets and alleys, down roads and narrow tracks between shops. With the smell of food you’d guess you’re near a restaurant zone, but…

He’s moving. All the way south to the Winter Court.

Will you be able to visit? Will he even want you to visit? You can admit you’re not the most well-versed on Court politics, nor the most caught up on current affairs, but it doesn’t take much to know the Night Court isn’t a Prythian favourite after the fifty years the High Queen ruled with Rhysand at her side.

You look around Velaris, the street you’re on. Did it look like this during her reign? Before? Did it change during the attack that took so many lives, Bas’ father among them?

Inside your chest your heart is flittering too fast, fluttering against your ribcage, pulsing in your throat sporadically. Where are you? None of it looks familiar. A breeze blows and you catch the scent of the Sidra, somewhat salty, somewhat briny, but crisp. Dampness dredged up from an open-mouthed estuary far from here. It’s only a few streets away, and a trail of cold relief slithers down your spine as you recognise the canal. If you follow the water upstream you’ll probably find your way back to a spot you know—you’ve been heading mostly downhill, after all.

————

Rita’s

That’s a name you recognise. You’re nearby, back in a familiar area at least. Although being lost had been a temporary relief from the tempest tipping and turning inside of your, raging emotion crashing on your banks and you’re unsure what to do with all of it. Even having lost a lot of feeling in your hands you can tell they’re numb. More numb than usual anyway, and the cold is spreading to the rest of your body. You seem to remember the others having spoken about it in a way to suggest its busiest hours would be after dark but you wonder if they might be open during midday—just a familiar place to step into and warm up for a bit.

Well, it’s not exactly familiar. Come to think of it, you’ve only really heard Mor speak of it as someone who’s been inside. It didn’t seem to be a frequent spot for the others.

You squeeze your eyes shut and pray she isn’t inside.

As soon as you step foot within the establishment you feel the warmth on your face, washing over the frozen tip of your nose and the nipped-at skin of your cheeks, lips probably chapped and dry from the cold. The lights are on—strung up around the ceiling, hanging from wall to wall so they look like hundreds of yellow-bottomed fireflies. Paintings hang from the walls, stacked closely together and rimmed in what looks like gold, carefully crafted to carve into swirls at the corners. Pictures of flowers and bouquets, horses and riders with neat hair and long legs, dappled shade on a pair of shoes. Parted lips painted a dusty rose.

There are a few fae about the place—there seems to be a part of the large interior sectioned off for games and socialising, pool tables set up with a piano in the corner and a violin laying on its top, a guitar against the piano stool. Plush settees are dotted about the place, mauve and maroon leather with a healthy sheen beneath the glowing lights.

You make your way over to a counter that looks like a bar, nervously approaching the female behind the stand. “I’m sorry—is it fine for me to stay inside for a little bit? I got lost and-” But she’s already nodding understandingly and you’re struck dumb by her beauty. Dark brown hair that snarls about her round face, healthy and rich, full lips stretching into a welcoming smile as she clops to your side of the bar, ushering you over to take a seat on one of the sofas.

“What can I get you? Hot water? Tea? Whiskey?” Her eyes are full and dark, round and pretty as they watch you. “You’re such a small thing! What were you doing out in the cold all on your own?”

“I- sorry. I don’t have any money on me at the moment… I’m after some warmth is all. Sorry,” you say, holding your hands up and shaking them gently as though metaphorically pushing her away. But her smile doesn’t falter for a second, leaning her weight to one hip and folding her arms over her slim chest, “And I asked what can I get you? You’re half-frozen, I should dip you in candle wax!”

“Oh, I-” You swallow thickly. “Then, could I have some tea? If it’s not a bother?”

“Stay right there and don’t wander,” she smiles, nodding her head, “I’ll be back in a moment. Hang tight and don’t freeze.” Then she’s clopping away, heeled feet clicking over the polished wooden floors, thuds muffling when she passes over a rug.

You blink away your surprise, adjusting yourself to Rita’s interior. It’s nice: warm and welcoming. You lay your hand in your lap, peering at the dark green fabric of your gloves, self-consciously fiddling with the fingers. Maybe if they become frost-bitten they’ll turn stiff and fall off. At least you wouldn’t have to deal with their ugliness anymore, but it’d still be all up your arms.

It’s not long before the server is returning, a pinkish ceramic mug cupped in her palm, taking care not to spill anything as she passes it over to you. “Careful not to burn your tongue, it’s piping hot,” she warns with a smile, “unless you’re frozen stiff. Then drink away!”

You manage a grateful smile, murmuring thank-you after thank-you until she’s trotted back to her place behind the counter, a new couple of fae having also come in from the cold. You wait impatiently for it to cool, gently blowing on it from time to time but it’s difficult to hold through your gloves and you have to be careful not to spill any on yourself, or worse, any on the lovely rugs. Raising the mug to your lips, you take a small sip but it’s still scalding. How did she even make a cup of tea this hot? You’ve waited for it to cool.

Sighing to yourself, you shift on the sofa, making to lean back against the cushioning then thinking better of it when you remember your layers. It would be nice to remove them, but you won’t be stopping for long—just waiting to warm up. Until you’re certain blood has returned to your fingers and toes. You try the tea again but only succeed in scorching your upper lip. You’re so preoccupied with willing your tea to cool that you fail to notice the fae approaching from the far end of the room.

A body fills the space beside you and you’re pulled from your thoughts. The female’s lips are a bright slash of blood red, white teeth glittering inside her mouth as she offers a smile. You give a polite smile in return, thinking nothing of it as you return to gently blowing on the steaming liquid.

“You’re new here…”

You blink, then turn back to the female. Her eyes are so dark they’re almost black. Not a suctioning void of darkness, but more like a peaceful midnight or experiencing a restful sleep. They’re enlivening, not draining. “Yes…I heard someone speaking about this place so when I recognised it I thought I might come in to warm up,” you reply, shifting in the seat so you’re facing her a little more.

Black silk trousers cover her lower half, a sheer, silky band hugging her slim waist before flaring into wide, sweeping hips. On her top is a sleeveless, rouge, lace-covered shirt that hugs her full breasts, exposing a sharp but surprisingly deep V of moon-pale skin. Around her collar bones sit pretty pearls, matching the ones pinned to her ears, and you wonder if she’s the kind who’s always so finely dressed or whether you’ve accidentally stumbled in during a special occasion. Blood red nails delicately clasp a stout, crystal glassful of amber liquid and from the smell of it you can guess the contents.

“You’ll warm up faster if you let the heat touch your skin,” she muses, reclining into the far arm of the seat, her crossed legs pointing in your general direction. A stray curl of rich, chestnut hair escapes over her shoulder, flaring outward in a neat curve. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be here for long…” you laugh, gently shifting the mug in your hands.

“Why not?” The female muses, swirling her glass in deft fingers. “We won’t be getting busy until at least six; it’s not even three yet.” She sips from her glass slowly, savouring the flavour. A pink tongue swipes at her lips, collecting the remaining taste. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. It’s what we’re here for.”

“I’m sorry—you work here?”

“I’m the owner.”

Your brows raise. “You’re Rita?”

The woman laughs through her lips, eyes twinkling faintly. “No. Rita was a friend.” She winks as she says it, like it’s some funny secret she’s decided to share between you. “And we’re all friends here, so you don’t have to worry about a thing. Stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you.” You flush at her warmth. How welcoming she is.

“Who told you about Rita’s?” The female asks, drawing you again from thought. You pause, unsure how to label your relationship with Mor. Instead you simply settle for giving her name. “Mor,” you answer, shifting in your seat before offering an unsure smile, “she’s a…friend.”

The female nods like she’s understanding part of a larger puzzle. You suppose it makes sense though—you’ve gotten the impression Mor is somewhat a regular, of course the owner would be familiar with her. Anxiety begins to crawl up your spine, bone by bone, piece by piece. What if she knows who you are—what you’ve done to upset Mor. But instead the female’s eyes twinkle, sparked by something.

“A friend of Morrigan’s,” she drawls, elegantly settling deeper into the cushioning, finishing off the knuckle’s-depth of her whiskey, knocking it back like it’s nothing. “Well then, you can call me Deliah.”

————

It wasn’t until the clock had struck five that you’d realised how long you’d been speaking with her. She’s a master of conversation, and you were swiftly swept up and away, almost forgetting your tea entirely, warmed beneath her attentive gaze. When you’d finally gotten up to leave, she’d wrapped you in a warm embrace, like you’d been friends for much longer than a few hours, and had pressed a departing kiss to your neck before you’d wrapped yourself in a scarf and headed back out into the much colder outdoors.

But still, the icy winds bite at your throat and nip at your cheeks, and you hug your cloak tighter to your body.

————

Night has fallen by the time you reach the River House, carefully hanging your cloak upon one of the iron hooks and removing your shoes. A surge of voices sound from your left—coming from the living room with windows overlooking the front lawn—and you quickly slip past into the kitchen searching for something to eat before tiptoeing up the stair to bed.

You don’t want to touch what Bas had told you—that he’s leaving. What if you hadn’t visited? What if you had put it off? What if he had decided not to tell you? What ultimately persuaded him to let you know? After all, he’d only mentioned it when you’d been leaving…perhaps he hadn’t intended to tell you, but something good in him had known the kind of emptiness you’d feel if you went to him one day to find the house packed up and empty? With no trace of him to be found?

The thought alone has a pit opening up in your stomach, eyes pressing together hard to keep tears at bay. He wouldn’t have done something like that, surely. Had you hurt him so badly?

For someone you had thought close to leave so abruptly without any notice…no reasons, no goodbye…just gone. How many methods of torture the mind could create with that. How the unknowing would surely swallow you whole. Regret feeding off every second, wishing to have a second chance.

Guilt weighs in your stomach.

“You’re back.”

You snap back to reality, ice flooding your veins as you spot Mor stood the other side of the kitchen counter, poised to pop open another bottle of wine. Your throat closes up but you nod, walking further into the room—it would too childish and obvious to exit as soon as you’d seen her. Her caramel eyes drop back to the cork, skewering the nail through the stopped and twisting. “Looking for something?”

“Just a bite to eat,” you manage, eyeing an apple in the fruit basket. Buttered bread with something on top would have been nice, but an apple will be great, too. Cool, and crisp. Hopefully not too tart.

“There’s food next door,” Mor tells you, neither of you really looking at the other, and you pluck the apple from the basket. “Olives, bread, cheese, grapes, wine.” She lifts the bottle, gesturing to the second one she has on the table beside her. “Probably apple slices and raisins too-”

Silence beats between you, and then fabric is rustling. You look up to find her almost upon you.

You jump when her hands rip the scarf from your shoulders, staring wide-eyed in…shock?

“Mor?” You ask, slightly defensively as you take a step back. “What-”

She grips your arms tight, pain flickering up through your flesh and your stomach clenches. “Stay away from her,” Mor hisses, her nails digging in through the fabric of your gloves. A low moan of discomfort escapes your mouth and her eyes again widen, inhaling sharply as she drops your arms. Mor recovers quickly, a mask sliding into place that’s cold and icy, not even a fragment of the previous hurt you’d seen to be found. “I don’t know how you met her, how you ran into her, and I don’t care. Just stay away from her.”

You’re breathing heavily, a light sweat on your skin but the light pain’s vanished as quick as it appeared, leaving you feeling cold and tingly all over. Flesh once again fading to numbness. “I don’t…Who?”

A small beauty mirror materialises out of thin air and she flips it open, showing the dark red imprint on your throat, a stamp of a woman’s lips. Deliah’s lipstick must have been pressed into your skin. A flush of regret rises up from your stomach and you slap your palm over the skin, hoping to conceal the blazing proof that you’d visited Rita’s. She’s never claimed it as her space, but it’s Mor’s domain.

“I’m sorry,” you splutter, trying to explain. “I was just cold, and I got lost, I didn’t mean to intrude, I swear I won’t go there again, I just needed somewhere to-”

“I don’t care where you go,” Mor hisses, a tissue appearing out of thin air, tipping your jaw to one side. “Stay in Rita’s all day if you like it. But don’t get involved with her. Does she know you know me?”

You nod your head, shame warming your cheeks. Mor sighs, rubbing harshly at your neck to remove the stain. It doesn’t take intelligence to tell she’s frustrated.

After a while Mor pulls away, the tissue a dark rouge colour, blood dried and faded to black. “I’ll talk to her. Tell her to stay away from you.” She turns, tossing the tissue in the bin. She shoots you a hard look over her shoulder, “Don’t go near her. Do you understand?”

You nod again.

Mor sighs, and you can hear her lips purse. “I’m serious. She’s a bloodsucker.”

“I won’t go near her,” you say, reaching for the apple and shifting it between you palms. “I promise I won’t this time.”

Silence hangs in the air, and you think you feel the tension disperse. She nods, once. “I believe you.”

Your lips press together, and you peer at the apple, turning it around in your hand to shift your awareness from the weight of Mor’s gaze. At last it lessens, and you look up to see her walking away, heading out of the kitchen and probably for the living room, where it sounds like the others are. She pauses on the threshold. Looks over her shoulder. “You can join these ones too you know. It’s not just the dinners people spend time together.”

You look at one another quietly, but before you can reply she’s vanished off into the hallway, the voices rising a few seconds later when she reaches the living room.

You can join these ones too, you know.

The waxy red of the apple shines beneath the faelights.

It’s not just the dinners people spend time together.

————

You pause in the doorway. One foot in the room with all of them, the other out in the hallway, already poised to depart. You feel it as attention openly shifts to you, not coming in, but not leaving either. For the first time, you’re openly wanting of their focus.

Your skin prickles as you feel the room quiet, but you’ve already taken the first step which you know from having heard so many people say is the hardest. It’s a lie. You know from experience it’s never the first step that’s the most difficult, but the one you have to make in the present. The present is always the worst.

You meet the blue-grey eyes of your youngest sister, Nyx held to her front, Rhysand at her side. “Will you sit down, for this?”

Feyre stiffens, and you can feel the room itself grow stagnant. The air that had previously been alive and bubbling growing colder. Even the warm lighting, the fae-lights and the candles seem to have dulled. A nervous laugh rattles her shoulders, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so serious.” Your features remain solemn, and the little mirth she had left in her eyes winks out. Feyre settles on the arm of one of the big, cushy armchairs, Rhysand sliding in beside her.

You swallow thickly, fierce, lionlike eyes passing through your head. Your head bows. “Madja believes she knows what’s wrong with me.” You clear your throat, and correct yourself, “With my magic.”

Silence hangs in the air, and you have to force yourself to continue, fingers leafing together. “It is a little serious,” you say, glancing briefly to Feyre with a tired, guilty smile, “so I’ll try to be as concise as possible.” Feyre nods her head, and you last a small breath before starting.

You lift your chin to dress the room.

“I only found out I had magic about two months ago. It caused me a lot of pain, and still does when I try to use it, though not as much as those initial attempts.” Your gloved fingers wring together. “After some poor experiences, the side-effects of my magic became apparent. You might have noticed I’ve been wearing gloves a lot lately—it’s not a new fashion craze.” A half-smile appears on Elain’s mouth and you could kiss her cheek for it. “Rather, it began to damage my body physically, externally. My hands became dry, and…there were some other things I’ll leave out, but there was obviously something wrong with them.”

You try to keep your voice steady, try to keep your hands from shaking as you pinch one tip of a finger and begin pulling the glove from your skin. The patchy, discoloured flesh of your arm appears, scabbed and flaky, skin ashen where it’s begun to peel. You remove the other, and fold them over your hands, clasped together at your front.

“After I…After the House Of Wind happened, the dryness spread further to my shoulders. I’ve lost almost all sense of touch in my hands, and most of my arms are numb, but they still hurt a lot if I knock into something.” Are you taking too long? Is this stupid? You try to imagine finding Bas’ house empty. “Madja’s been very attentive, an absolute blessing, and she’s figured that my magic wasn’t existing externally, because it was festering internally.” You pause, lips trembling, but swallow past the lump in your throat. Your voice is hoarse when you add, “For two years.”

The room itself shifts—Feyre sitting straighter; Nesta leaning forward, Cassian squeezing her hand tighter; even Mor’s shifted in her corner, no longer slouching against the wall; only Elain is frozen still.

“What does that mean?” Feyre asks, her voice like a finger dragging through sun-softened butter.

“Madja says she can’t reverse the damage; what’s happened to me. That two years is too long for her to even attempt to undo.”

“So…what?” Feyre’s voice is quiet, softer than you’ve ever heard it. “It’s going to keep spreading? There’s no way to remove the pain?”

“Kind of.” You nod, shifting on your feet. You can’t help wanting to look into a hazel set of eyes in the far corner of the room. You wonder what he’s making of this big speech. Whether it’s all stuff he already knows, and he’s waiting for it to be over already. Old news.

“Madja says she can’t erase the pain. It’s always going to be there because it’s been able to sink too deep.”

Feyre’s hand is covering her mouth; Nesta’s expression is focussed but her knuckles are white where she’s gripping Cassian’s hand; Elain’s eyes are wide, and her skin is sickly pale.

You bite your lip, shifting once again in the doorway. Shifting to stand just over the threshold, teetering on the edge of the living room and the dark, empty corridor.

“She’s given me about six months to live.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d think someone, somewhere, had plucked the final string of the harp and frozen time. It’s unnerving—being in a room filled with living statues.

You almost flinch when Mor pushes off from the wall. It’s not a sudden movement by any means, if anything it’s more subdued than you’ve ever seen her, but with a swift look around the room, locking gazes with four pairs of eyes, she takes her drink with her and makes to pass you, exiting the room. Cassian glances at Nesta, squeezing her hand tight before standing; Rhysand remains still, his and the High Lady’s eyes glazing before he’s pushing a kiss to her temple, scooping up Nyx and following after Azriel and Amren.

You almost crumble now it’s only you and your sisters.

It’s too much for you to bear.

You’d thought you were okay with your silver lining.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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[puck-luck]

wedding crashers | jack hughes

warnings: semi public sex, pining on jack's side, older!reader (jack is 22, she is 26), unprotected p in v (always... do as i do not as i say, wrap it when you tap it), fingering, dirty talk, insinuation of oral (m & f receiving) pairing: jack hughes x fem!reader request: "jack hughes and a slightly older reader (like idk 3 years older maybe), i feel like he’s so sassy and cocky that he would go nuts if he was able to get an older girl hahaha, maybe it could be like a challenge type situation where they were bantering over whether he’d be any good in bed bc he’s “just a baby” or something so he has something to prove.. 🫣" wc: 4167

You’d first met Jack Hughes in 2015. You were at one of the USA Developmental games with Matthew, your best friend at the time, watching his brother play for the last time that year. Since it was Christmas just recently, this was the only time you’d get to see Matthew until who knew when. Even though it involved hockey, which always stole Matthew’s attention from you, you decided to join him anyway. It was Matthew that introduced you to the Hughes family, after you had commented on Quinn’s performance.

Jack was a goof from the get-go. He was fourteen when you met, so all of his attempts to flirt with you went nowhere. Well, they made it to the front seat of Matthew’s car, where you laughed about the younger boy’s boldness. He was a sweet boy, and cute in a way that made you want to pinch his cheeks, and you were able to watch him grow up and come into himself. 

Your friendship with Matthew had dwindled since he was drafted in 2016, but you were still close enough with his family to be invited to Brady’s wedding. It was there that Jack cornered you, hitting on you for the umpteenth time. Now, he was 22 years old, overconfident and cocky due to years of praise from not only his coaches and peers, but from every pretty girl that fell into his company. You were 26, mature and happy with the life you had made for yourself. 

Jack had never stopped chasing you, though it wasn’t an overbearing and constant chase. He was sure that he would conquer you someday, having never forgotten the way he rubbed himself raw after he had first met you and you had smiled in his direction. What can he say– he was fourteen and a pretty girl, an older girl had smiled at him. 

And, pleasantly tipsy, Jack had decided that today was that day.

He tore himself away from Luke, having delivered a new drink to his underage brother, and made his way to you. You were sitting with one of Brady and Matthew’s relatives, making small talk over a glass of white wine. Your legs were crossed in a way that Jack could only describe as dainty, your nails painted a pretty blush color that matched your dress. Jack licked his bottom lip when an image of your hand around his cock, with those painted nails contrasting the color of his member, flashed through his mind.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack said, not really feeling sorry at all. He turned to you. “I was wondering if you’d join me for a dance.”

You smiled and shook your head slightly, a small laugh falling from your lips. “Sure, Jack.” To the Tkachuk relative, you excused yourself, standing to take Jack’s extended hand. You took a sip from your wine glass, polishing off the drink. 

Jack truly couldn’t have chosen a better moment to ask you to dance, as a new song began and decided for you, due to its pace, that the two of you would engage in a waltz of sorts. Jack wasn’t much of a dancer, but he was able to box step in time with the music and lead you through the dance. 

You had given Jack a knowing look when his hand found its way to the small of your back, threatening to dip dangerously onto the curve of your ass. Your hand rested on his shoulder, the other in his hand, held close to your bodies. 

Jack pulled you close to him, mere inches between your bodies. You laughed again, your head dipping to fall on his shoulder for a split second. 

“What?” Jack asked as you flicked your hair from your eyes with a slight tilt of your head. “You’re supposed to be close when you dance.”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever you say, Jack.” Your voice was light, almost sing-songy. “Your intentions are nothing if not innocent, isn’t that right?”

“I just want to dance,” Jack deflected, but the smile on his face told you everything you needed to know. His eyes were shining, both from the drinks he had consumed and the charged energy between your bodies.

You raised your eyebrows and pursed your lips, trying to suppress a smile as you and Jack continued to stare at each other. You broke first, looking away and shaking your head.

“What?” Jack said. “You don’t believe me?”

“No, I don’t believe you.”

“Oh, I’m hurt by that.” Jack pouted, his bottom lip jutting out in a way that caught your attention. It was plush and pink and just a little cracked from sun exposure. You knew Jack had spent the beginning of the summer out on the lake, and his skin reflected that– both tan and sunkissed at once. 

Though you hated to admit it, Jack had grown up to be very attractive. He glowed, especially in the summer, especially when he had a few drinks in his system and he had grown a little more brash and a little more bold.

“Poor Jacky,” You teased. You tilted your head down and blinked up at him through your lashes, saying in a baby-voice: “I hurt the little baby’s feelings?”

“You did,” Jack agreed, his pout just becoming more exaggerated. “How are you going to make it up to me?”

Your whole body moved with your laugh this time. “I suppose you’re about to ask me to kiss it better.”

“Well, I was hoping for more than just a kiss,” Jack said, chuckling at your laughter. He licked his bottom lip before biting it in a cheeky smile, the apples of his cheeks prominent and pink. His teeth were a sharp white contrast to the red dusting across his cheeks, but you found yourself growing fond of that shameless smile the more you saw it.

“Jack, you’re a baby,” You laughed. “In the real world, you’d have just graduated college. I know things are different because you’re a big, famous hockey player and you’ve been doing this job for years, but the fact of the matter is that you’re just too young for me.”

Jack was unscathed by your rejection, just like he always was. He didn’t even mind that your tone was borderline condescending, like you were talking to a five year old instead of a grown adult. 

“Plus, Jacky–” You smiled, itching to hammer the final nail in this coffin. “You can’t handle a grown woman.”

His eyes grew dark at that. “I can handle a grown woman,” He stated, voice definite.

You threw your head back, not quite laughing, but not quite rolling your eyes in exasperation either.

Jack’s hand left yours and found your jaw in a flash, bringing your face back to his. “I can handle a grown woman,” He repeated. His gaze flickered down to your lips. “Let me prove it.”

Your breath caught in your throat, eyes flickering down to his lips to match his motions. “In your dreams,” You denied, bringing your hand to his chest to put some distance between you.

Jack didn’t allow it. If anything, he pulled you closer. He pressed his hips into yours, took your hand off his chest and resumed its original dancing position. He tugged you tight to him, tight enough that you were looking over his shoulder and his mouth hovered right next to your ear.

“I’d be so good to you,” Jack whispered. Your eyes flickered around the room, but no one seemed perturbed by yours and Jack’s positioning. “I’ve had a long time to think about this, Y/N. Let me tell you what I’d do, what I have done in my dreams.”

You didn’t say anything, but the fingertips of the hand on his shoulder found the hair at the nape of Jack’s neck and stayed there.

“I always start by kissing you. Always. I’d start slow– just feeling how these pretty pink lips feel against mine. I’d wait for you to loosen up, to open your mouth and invite me in for more. I’m going to keep going slow, but I’m going to slide my tongue into your mouth and kiss you until I’ve figured out just what you taste like. Today, you’ll taste like your white wine at first, but I’m going to kiss you until I’ve deciphered your taste, Y/N.”

Jack moved his hand to your waist and squeezed gently.

“I’d start with my hands here, but I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I’ll start moving, feeling every inch of you. There’s not a part of your body where my fingerprints won’t be found. You won’t know what to focus on– when one of my hands is tangled up in your hair, the other one is going to squeeze your ass and really feel it out because I’ve been thinking about it for so long. And all the while, darling, I’ll be kissing you and stealing the breath from your lungs.”

You gasped at that, shifting closer to Jack. He smiled, knowing that he was closing in on the moment that he’d been wanting for the past eight years. His hand moved to the curve of your ass and you’re nearly helpless with it, or just unwilling to chide him for venturing that far. Jack made eye contact with Quinn over your shoulder and smirked, showing his teeth in a cheshire way.

He spoke again. “But then I’d bring my fingers down, won’t I? I’ve made you breathless, I’ve made you moan, I’ve got you begging for more– something you thought you’d never do. Yet here we are, and you’re always dripping for me.” 

By the end of his sentence, Jack’s voice was barely audible. You were straining to hear him, and his mouth was right next to your ear. You felt a bit breathless already, strung together by terrible stitching. Your resolve snapped when you felt his lips close around your earlobe, his teeth tugging at your skin gently.

You jumped away from him like you’d been electrocuted by his touch. You’re breathing heavily, chest heaving. 

Jack fared no better, standing in the same spot. You watch his chest rise and fall, the little bit of his skin you can see between his unbuttoned white shirt glistening. His mouth was slightly open, ready to whisper something else dirty in your ear. 

You looked him up and down like you couldn’t decide where to focus, like you were fulfilling a prophecy where Jack made you fumble where you once stood so sure.

In a second, you made your decision. You needed to see how this would end, needed to feel it for yourself.

You grabbed Jack’s hand and dragged him out of the reception hall, down the winding hallways until you’ve deemed that you’re far enough away from the party that no one would be able to find you if they came looking.

You shoved Jack into a closet– a closet, you thought to yourself, wanting to laugh at the absurdity. When you closed the door behind you and turned to find Jack’s eyes, he was waiting with a stoney face, not letting any of his emotions show. You’d have killed to know what he was thinking.

All you could do was nod, mouth opening and closing a few times, but never finding words. 

Jack tilted his head, his eyes flashing in the darkness.

“Please,” is the single word that ended up breaking the silence between you. 

Jack’s lips were on yours in the blink of an eye. His hands cradled your face and his kiss was insistent, bruising. He was slow, sure, but he was emphatic, unyielding. The kiss reflected the eight years of waiting that had passed before he got this chance. 

His hand pulled one of your legs up onto his hip before it circled around you to knead the skin of your ass. Your dress, already short because Brady and Emma had planned for a wedding in the dead of summer, rode up until your behind was barely covered. 

All the more for Jack to hold onto as his tongue made its way into your mouth.

You continued to kiss, breaking apart only to take a breath and recover, unbuttoning the rest of Jack’s shirt and pushing it down his arms. Your hands roamed his torso, feeling every muscle that Jack had worked so hard to build. 

Jack’s mouth traveled south, sucking along the skin of your neck. He bent down, both of his hands finding your thighs and lifting you. You wrapped your legs around him and ground down against him, finally getting some relieving friction from the sizable bulge that was pressing against his zipper. Jack moaned out loud, gasping at your movements. 

“What next?” You asked, grinding down again.

“What?” Jack replied, lost in the moment. His eyes met yours and they seemed cloudy, swirling with lust.

“After you, shit, after you touch me–” Your head tipped back as he pressed a kiss to your collarbone. “What do you do next, in your dreams?”

It took a minute to register for Jack, too caught up in the feeling of your pussy against his cock, even if there were multiple layers separating you. 

“I touch you,” Jack said, the obvious next action. “I don’t do anything, I just touch you. I use two fingers and I find every spot that makes you react. Once I’ve got you figured out, I–”

You cut him off. “Do it,” You told him. Your head felt light, almost dizzy, and you nodded like a bobblehead. “Do it.”

Jack let out a pathetic, wanton whimper at your command and walked forward until you were pressed against the wall. He shifted you over to that you were held up by his thigh and he brought one hand down to your panties.

He felt over the skimpy fabric, which was barely doing anything anymore. It was soaked, darkened with your slick, and briefly, Jack thought to take it off of you and pocket it to bring home as a souvenir. How dirty you would feel going back out to the reception… the thought of it nearly made Jack’s knees buckle. It would be a constant reminder that he’d won, that he’d managed to fuck you and satisfy you after thinking about it for so long.

He allowed his fingers to wander up and down the expanse of your pussy, cataloging how you whined when he rubbed over your swollen clit and how you clenched down when he pushed at your entrance through the fabric covering it. He noticed how your stomach tensed as he teased his way across your lips, running his finger over each curve and ridge. 

As if inspired by something divine, Jack pulled your panties taut, making them ride up into your cunt and provide some gratifying friction when you next ground down on his hand. Jack watched, eyes wide, as you chased your own pleasure. His hand was the catalyst and you were moving mindlessly, like he had already plucked every thought from your head and replaced it with desire for him.

“Fuck,” Jack choked out, feeling a spark zip up his spine. “Y/N.”

He said your name with such reverence, and flexed his hand against you like an offering. 

“Fuck me,” You said. Your hands found Jack’s hair and you pressed your lips to his. “Jack. I need you to fuck me. I need you inside me, I can’t– oh, need you to make me come. Baby, I’m so close already, I need you.”

Jack’s cock was throbbing like he might burst from the slightest breeze. There it was again– “Baby.” It didn’t mean the same thing now, Jack knew it was more of a term of endearment than an insult, but it lit a fire under him nonetheless. He was going to prove to you that he wasn’t a baby, that he was a man and in this moment, you were his. He was going to fuck you hard, like you’d never imagined he was able to do. He was going to make your legs shake, make it so you couldn’t walk or do anything but sit prettily at your table and sip on another glass of wine to cool you off.

He was going to make it so that the next time he saw you, you’d be begging him to make you come again.

Jack let your feet find the floor again, stepping back just far enough to get his hands on his belt. “Strip,” Jack commanded. “I want to see you.” At the same time, he unbuckled his belt and worked to remove his dress pants. He kicked them away, in a crumpled little pile near his dress shirt. His underwear joined shortly after.

You hurried to remove your dress, eyes locked in on Jack’s cock. It was a burning red at the tip, wet and straining. It stood away from his body, solid and you swore you might’ve just felt some drool pool at the corner of your mouth. 

His hand fisted his cock, eyes lasered in on your protruding nipples when you dropped your dress to reveal your body. 

Jack sighed, stroking himself slowly to keep himself at bay. “You’re better than I dreamed,” He said, causing you to blush.

“Jack,” You whined, aching for him to come closer, to slide inside you.

“Let me.” Jack stepped forward and got to his knees, gently bringing your panties down and helping you out of them. He dropped a kiss on your clit before standing again.

You brought an arm around his neck, your other hand placed solidly on his chest. You could feel his pulse racing wildly beneath your palm and you suddenly remembered that he’d been waiting to do this for years.

“Come on, Jacky,” You voiced. “Prove yourself.”

It was a weak command, a weak insistence, barely any indicator of sureness in your voice now. Jack had turned you inside-out, made you question everything because you never imagined you’d need him the way you do now. 

He practically growled and you could feel it rumble in his chest. He captured your lips with his, nibbling on your bottom lip before filling your mouth with his tongue. It was slippery and wet and it felt like magic.

Jack pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, feeling the head slide in. He stopped there for a minute, breathing deeply into your mouth to ground himself. He couldn’t disappoint you, wouldn’t dare shoot off early and cut short the night that he’d been fantasizing about since he was a teenager.

“So good,” You breathed out, feeding the words to Jack. He dipped his head and inched further into you, moving slowly until your pelvis connected with his. 

“Fuck,” Jack whimpered out. 

His thrusts started shallow. Jack felt like you were constricting him, squeezing him like a snake in a cartoon. His voice was caught in his throat like an ugly lump and the only noises that could force their way past it were groans and “uh”s that borderline on squeaky. He didn’t care about the noises, he didn’t care that he could be embarrassing himself in front of the girl he’s wanted for so long.

It didn’t matter to you, either– you were too caught up in the feeling of Jack’s cock sheathed inside of you. He was pressing against your most intimate spots and you could feel him throbbing inside of you, dragging delectably along your walls.

His thrusts grew deeper, became longer, harder. Jack’s hair fell into his eyes and you brushed it away. His eyes met yours and the air between you felt thick and charged. You brought your hand to Jack’s jaw and leaned forward, connecting your lips.

This kiss was different. It was soft, intimate. Your tongues slid against each other, licking into each others’ mouths and swallowing each others’ groans and whimpers. You forgot for a few minutes that you were in a closet at the wedding of a man you’d known since you were children, fucking a man that you swore you’d never touch because he’s too young.

That man was quickly proving that he’s one of the best fucks in your whole life. 

Here he was, mouthing against your neck after moving away from your lips. He was making these desperate noises, thrusting into you like he’s taking a chance at something he’ll never have again. At the beginning of this night, you might have agreed that he’d never get another chance. Now, you can’t help but look forward to the next time you see him, when you’ll get your mouth on his thick, skillful cock. 

You told him such, and Jack fucked you harder as a result. His hands clutched at your waist, fingertips destined to leave bruises. 

His cock entering and leaving you caused the closet to fill with wet noises and the sound of the slapping of skin. That, paired with Jack’s pants and whines, pushed you further to the edge. Your climax wound up inside you, tense and heavy in your gut.

“Jack,” You said, voice pleading. “I’m close.”

A moan was ripped from Jack’s chest, sweat beading at his hairline. The look in his eyes was almost animalistic, capturing you in his gaze like you’re the only being that exists in the world.

“Please,” Jack panted out. “Come on my cock.”

The winding coil of your climax unravels as Jack continues to thrust his length into you, drawing himself almost completely out of you and then forcing his cock back into your cunt. Your release leaked down his shaft, coating him completely.

The vice grip of your pussy on his cock made Jack hesitate, made him stutter. He still didn’t want to shoot off, he didn’t want to fill you up with his come, because that meant that this would be over. His dream, journey, his conquest would be complete, and he’d have to find something else to lust after. 

He knew in his heart that he was still just Jack, just a younger hockey guy who you’d known when he was pimply and stick-like, one who could never fit into your life the way he wished he could. 

He’d almost rather torture himself, deny himself from his release, than have this end.

But end it must, and it ended with a breathy whisper of his name.

“Jack,” You mewled, twitching in oversensitivity. 

“Oh,” He groaned as his cock jumped inside you, your walls milking him for everything he has. His eyelashes fluttered as you seemed suddenly re-energized, fucking yourself on his cock as he came inside you. It was like his come brought you to life, something too powerful and symbolic for him, and Jack closed his eyes at the thought.

You came down together, eyes finding each other intermittently in the darkness, only when the other wasn’t looking. Your breaths synched, unknowingly, as you dressed yourselves. You were close enough that your elbows could bump as you pulled your clothes on, but both of you were too conscious of the tension to let it happen.

You finished dressing yourself first and you looked over to Jack, feeling something close to awe as he buttoned his shirt and left some skin exposed. You were drawn to it, wanting to reach out and reveal the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the ridge of his waist again and get your mouth on him, but you couldn’t move.

The tension felt like molasses, thick and heavy. Jack’s eyes met yours and you knew that the emotion in his eyes reflected your own: that you knew everything had changed and you didn’t know if it was for the better or for the worse. 

Jack opened his mouth to say something, but you shook your head. You made your way into his space, tilting your head up to meet his lips in a sweet, short kiss. You pressed something soft into his hands, then turned and left the closet, leaving Jack alone in the dark. 

He didn’t know how you knew, but you had handed him your ruined panties. He slipped them into the pocket of his pants, mentally noting to find his suit jacket and move the panties to the inside pocket of that garment. 

When he saw you again at the reception, almost a half an hour later, you were sipping a new glass of wine. Jack made eye contact with you over the glass and patted his pocket, the small lump of your panties still visible to those who looked closely, and he grinned to himself when he saw you blush.

He’d text you later that night, having bummed your number off of Brady years ago but never used it until now. It was a simple message, teasing and confident, bold like you had come to expect from Jack:

“lmk when u want to see what i can do w my tongue ;)”

note: this might just be my magnum opus. this is my favorite thing that i've written in ages. i had toooo much fun with this. ...will write a part 2 when jack DOES show her what he can do with his tongue... maybe paired with another recent request i got about jack's current injury and what he is or is not able to do with his shoulder.

P.S. I'm not married to the title of this. It was kind of just something I threw out there. They do not crash a wedding. Although their behavior is certainly dramatic & would disrupt the wedding.

[leighsartworks216]

The Calm After The Storm

Sylus x gn!Reader

I know it isn't Christmas anymore but the vibes persist in my notes app

Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, silly, Christmas, alcohol, drinking, kissing, cuddling, some family drama

Word Count: 834

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

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You scrub a hand down your face, as if it could wipe away all the stress and overwhelm from the last few days. Booking flights, packing bags, wrapping gifts, dealing with your parents' nagging and your extended family's... whole deal. You can't wait to go back home.

Sylus sighs as he settles down beside you. His arm immediately wraps around your shoulders, drawing you into his side where you belong.

He's been your rock through all of this. When you start to lose your head to the holiday season, he's there to reel you back in. It was a real catch 22, though. He could be there to block your family's questions and interrogations, but that only brought more questions to the surface.

How did you two meet? How long have you been together? When is he going to propose? Will we finally have some grandkids? Why isn't he with his family? How big is he? (Asked by your great grandmother, utterly shamelessly.) And on, and on, and on.

For all the headache it brought you, he didn't seem too phased by the excitement. With all the grace of a businessman, he deflects, redirects, and obfuscates just enough to satisfy their questions without giving them too much of a rope to tug on.

Now that you've finally got a moment to yourself - all your relatives gone, your parents off to bed - all you want to do is sit on the couch and come down from it all.

Sylus is quiet. You know it's for your sake, to give you all the (metaphorical) space you need. All the power is in your hands to start a conversation. All he does is hold you close, rub circles into your arm, and offer you the wine glass in his other hand.

You grin wryly as you accept it. It's fruity, sweet - definitely not to his tastes. "Is this the one my nana got you?"

"Mhm," he hums. "It's a nice gesture."

You chuckle. "She had no idea what to get you. I mentioned that you like to drink, but she's... Well, she tends to gift other people things she likes."

You settle deeper against him, cradling the glass to yourself as you lean your head against his shoulder. He presses a tender kiss to your head.

"Is it always that chaotic?"

"No." You tilt your head up to look at him. "It's usually a lot worse."

He chuckles lowly. "I'm glad they were on their best behavior for me, then." He brushes his nose against yours, drawing out the peace of the moment just a while longer. He's had to severely cut back on how affectionate he gets to be with you to avoid encouraging even more marriage and children questions; he really wants to savor this for as long as possible.

The lights of the Christmas tree in the living room dance across the planes of his face. Every now and then, the red catches on his iris. Or the gold does, and gives him a draconic look. He's beautiful. Ethereal. Your cousin took one look at him, at his arm lazily wrapped around your waist, and gaped in awe at you. The only reason she couldn't get a chance to get Sylus alone and try to steal him is because he was too insistent on staying by your side through it all, whispering teasing remarks in your ear and making sure you weren't about to have a panic attack.

It felt really good being able to put her in her place at dinner, when she purposefully vied for the seat beside Sylus's. He'd ignored her the whole time, save for a politely dismissive phrase or two. After she stole your boyfriend from you in 9th grade pulling the same stunts that she tried tonight, you had no sympathy for the teary-eyed pout she pulled on her way out the door.

You lean up that last little bit. He ducks his head down to ease the strain on your neck, meeting you in a honeyed kiss. Sweet, warm and unhurried. You taste like the wine, hints of the bitter alcoholic sting softened by the fruity sweetness clinging to your lips. This may be his new favorite wine, if only for the way it tastes on you.

You pull away slowly. He leaves a few chaste kisses on your lips, chasing after the lingering sweetness, before finally humming his satisfaction. As soon as you both get home, he's going to make up for all the lost time. For now, he tucks your head under his chin, holds you in front of the tree, and basks in his first Christmas spent with you.

"Merry Christmas, Sy."

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart." He can't wait to celebrate with you again next year, crazy family and all.

You take a slow sip of the wine, basking in the silence for all of one minute. “Sy?”

“Mhm?”

“We’re taking the jet back home. I can’t be sat sandwiched between two screaming babies again.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko

[ak319]

Dark A.M x fem!reader

-- ★ The Word of Claim ┃ ─𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑─

Warnings/MDNI: forced marriage, manhandling, drinking, violence, abuse // I don't condone/romanticize such behaviour irl! +++ Jus' a reminder that Arthur is 27 (yeh, not 30's) in this and reader is 22. ✰ 8.3K

★ Prev I concept m.list

The maid, busy fussing with your hair, cast a wary glance at Doreen, who stood silently to the side. Her expression seemed to plead, "Help me out here," prompting the older woman to step forward and place a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

"(Y/N)... relax. You're going to claw that necklace off before the wedding," Doreen said, her gentle jab snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts.

You blinked, shaking off the anxiety that had gripped you. "Yeah, sorry. First time getting married, so..."

The two women chuckled with you, their laughter lightening the mood. Together, they helped you descend the grand staircase to the drawing room, where your parents waited. The wedding itself was to take place in the backyard, a picturesque setting that had been painstakingly prepared for the occasion.

As you entered, you were immediately enveloped in tearful hugs from both your mother and father, happy tears that warmed your heart despite your nerves.

Once the initial greetings were exchanged, you found yourself seated in a secluded room alongside your parents and brother. The air was filled with polite conversation and gentle pleasantries as you all waited for Omar's family to arrive.

"Shouldn't his brothers be here by now? They said they would come early," your mother asked, her tone tinged with mild concern.

Your father hummed thoughtfully before responding, "Love, you know how rocky the roads are. Considering they’re probably coming in a carriage, it might take time. I think they’re all coming together now, with Omar, so, when they do, I’ll take them straight to the yard. (Y/N), you stay here until I come to get you back, alright?"

"Okay, okay, I know. You’ve already told me the steps a million times," you replied with a small grin.

He chuckled and pulled you into a warm embrace. "You look pretty calm. I’m so proud of you."

You melted against him with a laugh. "I’m trembling inside, Dad."

"I’m sure you are. But that’s natural. No worries, alright?" Just then Suki jumped into you lap and you immediately hugged her.

"Did you pack Suki’s bag, Mama-"

"Yes, of course." your mother interjected with a fond smile. "Everything’s packed for her too. I feel like I’m sending away two daughters."

The room burst into laughter, the shared warmth easing some of the tension. But then your brother, Rayan, spoke up, his tone a little less cheerful.

"You’re going to visit, right, sis?"

Your heart broke at the sight of his forlorn expression. You reached out, pulling him closer so that he stood right in front of you.

"Of course, I will," you assured him gently. "I am not going that far. And you’re going to visit me too, alright? In fact, I’ll still be working with Dad in the office, so you can always come to meet me there too. Okay?"

He nodded reluctantly before placing a kiss on your cheek, which earned him two from you in return.

The clock ticked steadily, but Omar and his family’s absence was a glaring omission.

Where are they? you wondered, glancing toward the windows, where the hum of conversation and music from the garden seeped into the room. The guests outside seemed unaware of the creeping tension inside.

Your father, who had been deep in conversation with a relative, was suddenly approached by a servant. You caught the subtle shift in his expression concern etched into his features. Rising quickly, you gathered your flowing apparel and approached, frustration evident in your voice.

“What is it?” you demanded.

“There’s-” the servant began, but before he could finish, gunshots shattered the air, echoing from the front yard.

Screams erupted outside, freezing the room into silence for a split second before chaos broke loose. Your mother, standing by the window, gasped sharply and clutched at her chest. “Gunshots? Oh my God! What’s happening?”

“Stay here! Don’t move!” your father ordered, already making his way toward the door.

“(F/N), stop him!” your mother pleaded, panic coloring her voice. “What’s going on out there?”

Your father ignored her, his focus entirely on the source of the disturbance.

But you stepped forward, heart pounding. “I’m coming with you!”

“No, (Y/N), stay here,” your father snapped, his tone firm as he turned to block your path. “It could be dangerous!”

“I need to know what’s happening!” you protested, trying to push past him.

“Stay here with your mother-” You followed him nonetheless , staying behind him. , ignoring everyone's shouts of protest. “(Y/N)! Stop! Come back here!”

The sight in the front veranda that greeted you stole the air from your lungs. The commotion was loud and chaotic: servants whispering in horror, guests craning their necks to catch a glimpse, and there in the center of it all…...

It wasn't your in laws who came. Though Omar...

“OMAR!” Your scream tore through the air before you could stop it.

Omar.

Beaten.

Tied.

On a horse.

Arthur’s horse.

Then he was thrown like a sack in the center in a mocking way as in..

'Here, your fucking groom's here...'

Your Dad immediately held you protectively to stop you from going near the boy, his own eyes betraying the fear and shock. The guards had been shot. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU ALL DOING?! WHY?! Get the fuck inside (Y/N), (M/N) take her!" But your feet wouldn't move.

“Seems like there’s going to be  a change of plans folks.” Dutch’s voice rang out from behind Arthur, his eyes hidden by his hat. Not only Dutch had come, but Bill and Charles too. After all, according to tradition, a man must bring his friends or brothers to stand by him.

“ARTHUR!? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!? OMAR! OMAR! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!?” You could still see some strength in Omar’ s body as he was writhing, barely recognizable, the suit you had brought together was in such....bloodied and ruined condition that alone made your throat choke.

But Arthur...Arthur didn’t listen and then in one swift motion, standing at the center wasted no more time in doing what he came for. No….he can’t …he can’t be possibly thinking of doing-

"No!...Arthur! DON'T! Please-" Your plea went ignored.

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

"(Y/N)...(L/N)."

“N-no... don't- yo-u animal-" Omar choked out, every fiber of his being fighting to rise up, to somehow break free from the agony , the restraints and face the men who dared to do this to you. On their wedding. He was consumed with the desperate urge to protect you, to stop this madness.

Arthur's cold eyes narrowed, a dangerous smirk curling at the corners of his lips. "Say that again," he taunted, voice low and menacing.

"Let... her go... she's- she doesn't deserve a- pathetic man like you...you sc-um." Omar’s words were strained, each one a battle against the pain and exhaustion coursing through his body.

Without hesitation, Arthur raised his gun and fired three quick shots, striking Omar in the chest. The sound of the bullets ringing through the air was followed by screams, yours, Omar’s, and the terrified gasps of the servants hidden in corners.

"NO! YOU MANIAC!” you growled, fury flooding your veins as you watched your fiancé writhe in pain. Your words made Arthur’s eyes burn with more fury, the mocking smile fading into something darker as he aimed the gun at Omar again, this time his head, ready to finish what he’d started.

What a pathetic sight anyway.

But before he could fire, Dutch stepped in, moving swiftly to grab Arthur’s arm, halting him mid-motion.

“This is your special day,” Dutch said, his voice laced with something almost amused. “Let him live. You won anyway.”

Arthur’s rage flared up, his grip tightening around the gun as he glared at Dutch, not wavering from his stance.

"Don’t make me repeat myself, boy. No further blood. I don't think he's going to survive anyway..."

You couldn’t hold back the shout that escaped you, helplessness clawing at your chest. "HOW CAN YOU!? YOU ANIMALS!"

The sight of the other guests scrambling to flee, their faces twisted with fear and confusion, only made your heart sink further. Your father’s face was pale with horror, and your mother trembled beside him, helpless in the face of all this chaos.

“Someone, go help Omar!” (F/N) shouted, his voice hoarse with panic. His eyes locked onto the servants who were still frozen in place, fear paralyzing them. “Now! Do something!”

Your family huddled together, your mother pulling you close. Your younger brother, clung to your father, his face buried in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

Arthur holstered his revolver, his jaw tight, his gaze unwavering as he turned toward you. His eyes softened only slightly, but there was no apology in his demeanor.

Dutch stepped forward, arms outstretched as if to calm the chaos, though his smirk betrayed his amusement. "Well, now, that’s one way to quiet the doubters. Any one else wants to play hero?"

Your father stepped forward, trembling with fury, shielding you and your brother behind him. “You think you can come here, ruin everything, and walk out without consequence? You’ve destroyed her life, her future!”

Dutch chuckled darkly, leaning in close. "Big words for a man who just watched his son-in-law-to-be piss himself. Better watch that temper, old man. I wouldn’t want Arthur to get any more ideas." Dutch continued sauntering a few steps with his hands raised.

"Now, Mister (L/N), I understand this isn’t… ideal. But you know how it is. The world ain’t fair, and sometimes you just have to let things...go. Man to man...years ago, I came to return your girl, didn’t I? Found her lost, scared... vulnerable. And I handed her back with no strings attached. Out of respect. Now, we have come to take her....with respect. And you damn well know that even if the law gets here, they won’t care about this. It’s only a crime on paper… in reality, the sheriffs and marshals? They won’t lift a finger. They don’t give a damn about this"

"HOW CAN YOU DO THIS ARTHUR! ALL OF YOU! I FUCKING TRUSTED YOU!"

"Sweetheart, Arthur’s done the word and by law, well, by our law, that means you are coming with us. However, you wanna go, whether, crying, whining, screaming....but you are gonna go...ain't that right Arthur.”

"Damn right, Dutch."

No...no..wait--this can't be real right? Arthur must be doing some prank.

The pain in your chest was suffocating, and the anger burned so intensely that it almost felt like it would consume you. Your eyes were fixed on Omar's body, alive or lifeless? Being helped and dragged away...

God, let him live.

“No! I won’t go! I fucking won't!” You screamed, the words escaping through a mix of sobs and sheer frustration. “You can’t make me! Yo-u are playing--Dad--I know he's pranking me! I know it! He won't do this--right? You won't do this Arthur, say it!”

“Stay where you are!” your father shouted, positioning himself in front of you protectively. But Arthur barely acknowledged him. His focus was solely on you.

You stumbled back further, the suffocating anger now laced with raw terror. Your parents clung to you, but you wrenched free, the heat of Arthur’s presence pressing too close.

“You’re fucked in the head! THIS IS MY LIFE! I CHOOSE WHAT I WANT! NOBODY ELSE! ESPECIALLY YOU! Son of a bitch-” you spat, the words trembling with rage as you turned and ran inside.

Arthur sighed, the sound of his boots growing louder as he followed. Seriously? He easily pushed your family out of the way preventing your father from following after you and entering the house which he knew the layout of vividly. His movements were confident, almost leisurely, as though he had walked these halls a hundred times before. The absence of the guests only made his pursuit easier.

As he ascended the stairs, his hand trailed along the railing, casually tearing down the garlands and decorations that adorned it. They fell to the ground in shredded heaps, symbols of the celebration that had been shattered, just how this life was being torn apart from pieces your life.

Your dress was hitched in your hands as you sprinted through the house. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t stop, not until you reached the study. Slamming the door shut behind you, you locked it with shaking hands and immediately dove for the desk.

'Be smart, be strong. Be calm.'

This isn’t real. They’re bluffing. They have to be. But the glint of Arthur's revolver, his actions, his words and the cold indifference in Dutch’s eyes told you otherwise. This was no...bluff or a friendly prank...

The pounding of Arthur’s boots echoed in the hall, and his voice followed, taunting and casual. “Darlin’, come on out. You can't fight this, it's already done."

Your trembling hands tore through drawers, scattering papers and trinkets in your frantic search. "Die, die, die...fuck-"you muttered, barely audible over the sound of your ragged breaths. Finally, your fingers brushed against the cold metal.

“YOU BETTER GET OUT OF OUR HOUSE, ARTHUR! YOU ASSHOLE!” you screamed, your voice hoarse with anger and fear. He merely laughed. "Really? Or what , darlin'?" Without thinking, you raised the gun, aimed toward the sound, and fired.

The first shot made Arthur grunt in surprise.

BANG!

Two more shots followed as the door shook violently under your relentless assault.

"....You done, darlin'?" Arthur’s voice rasped, still calm , edged with a dark amusement.

"DON'T FUCKING CALL ME THAT!"

You fired again, the bullet tearing through the wood. Your hands were shaking now, your breathing ragged. The final shot left the chamber, leaving the air heavy with the acrid smell of gunpowder.

You fumbled with the revolver, desperate to reload, but your hands trembled too much to work quickly. The sweat not helping at all.

'Don't let him in, don't let him in, (Y/N).'

The door, already weak, now flew off its hinges as he sauntered in. Finally, your shaking fingers managed to slot two bullets into the chamber. You raised the gun again, aiming with what little steadiness you could muster.

"NO! STAY BACK!,” you hissed, voice cracking.

He didn't listen. Like you expected.

BANG!

The bullet hit him, low in the chest, and Arthur staggered, a sharp intake of breath betraying his pain. His hand flew to the wound, blood seeping between his fingers, but his expression didn’t falter

Arthur lunged at you before you could steady your aim, and your finger squeezed the trigger in panic.

The shot went wild, embedding itself into the ceiling as the force of his body crashed into yours. The revolver slipped from your grasp and clattered to the floor. You screamed, your fists lashing out instinctively, one of them connecting with his jaw.

He grunted, stumbling slightly, but it only seemed to fuel his determination. “You’re a little hellcat, aren’t ya?” he growled, wiping at his mouth where a faint smear of blood appeared.

You scrambled backward, desperate to put distance between you and him, but he caught your wrist and yanked you forward with unsettling ease.

"Let me go! ARE YOU MAD ARTHUR!? WHAT'S GOTTEN INTO YOU! PLEASE!" you shouted with tears, twisting and clawing at his arm.

Arthur didn’t flinch. His grip was iron as he forced you down onto the nearest couch, pinning you beneath him. The weight of him pressed into you, making it difficult to breathe as you thrashed against him.

"Keep fightin’, darlin’, "he murmured, "You’re just makin’ this harder on yourself."

Your knee shot up, aiming for his stomach, but he anticipated the move and shifted, pinning your legs down with his own. His hand grabbed your dress, and for a moment, fear twisted into something colder in your chest.

"STOP! DON'T-"

"Be still."

He tore at the hem of your dress, not with the intent to harm, but to rip free a strip of fabric. His fingers staining your apparel as his other hand pressed against the wound in his side, blood staining his shirt and seeping between his fingers.

He worked quickly, wrapping the torn fabric around his torso with surprising efficiency, his hands steady despite the crimson soaking into the makeshift bandage.

Your breath came in sharp gasps as you glared up at him, anger and fear battling in your chest. "You’re sick in the head. ABSOLUTELY SICK! ONLY A COWARD WOULD DO THIS!" you spat, venom lacing your words.

He seized your jaw with such force that your mouth snapped shut, your eyes narrowing into slits under the pressure. Arthur leaned in, his piercing gaze burning into yours with a chilling intensity. "Call me whatever you like, darlin’. It won’t change a damn thing. You’re coming with me. End of story."

With his free hand, he gripped your fingers, his touch rough and unrelenting as he yanked the ring from your hand. The metallic clink as it hit the ground was filled with disdain, as though the very sight of it repulsed him. Without hesitation, he slid a new ring onto your trembling finger.

"You take this off, and you’ll be missing some fingers."

His tone was calm, almost too calm, as if he thrived on your resistance. His sick, cruel revenge for the rejection. This couldn't be the same fucking man....you wrote to, shared light moments, who you felt safe with. He should have been the last man to make you feel this exposed and vulnerable. He was....totally gone now, almost as if possessed.

"You played enough fucking games, now it's my turn."

❀˖°

Meanwhile, downstairs, your parents and Rayan were huddled in the corner, your mother clutching your brother tightly as though her grip alone could shield him from the madness. Your father stood protectively in front of them, every muscle taut, but even he knew one wrong move could be disastrous.

Dutch, however, looked unfazed, seated casually in the loveseat, a cloud of smoke curling from the cigarette dangling between his fingers. His sharp eyes scanned the room, unbothered by the panic that clung to the air like a suffocating fog.

“Charles,” Dutch said, his voice calm yet commanding, “take the boy and Mrs. (L/N) to gather the girl’s necessities.”

Charles hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering toward the stairs before nodding. He motioned for your mother and Rayan to follow, his expression hardening as he led them toward the hallway. Your mother cast a desperate, tear-filled glance at your father before disappearing with your brother.

As the door shut behind them, Dutch finally stood, flicking ash from his cigarette with deliberate ease. He turned to your father, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"How?” your father spat, his voice trembling with fury. “Why? Is this why you saved her all those years ago? To... to ruin her life now? You fucking filth."

Dutch closed the distance between them, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, absolutely not,” he said, his tone mockingly offended. “Your daughter? She’s a firecracker, no doubt about it. But innocent?” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous timbre. “Not as innocent as she likes to think.”

Your father’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as he struggled to keep himself from lashing out. “What the hell are you talking about?!” he growled. “She hasn’t done anything to you! Think twice about speaking about her like that! You are the one to say this?!”

Dutch straightened, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. "Didn’t she? Well, must have kept you in the dark then...” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Trapped one of my strongest men in some kind of spell, huh? Poor Arthur, wallowing in misery over a petty little thing. Can’t have that going on with my son, now can I?” His grin widened, cruel and calculated. "Don’t worry, though. She gonna be in safe hands."

“She did no such thing!” your father roared, his voice echoing through the room.

But then the sharp, jarring crack of gunfire rang out from upstairs, six shots in rapid succession.

Your father’s eyes widened in horror. “(Y/N)!” he cried, surging toward the stairs, only to be intercepted by Dutch, who pressed a hand firmly against his chest to hold him back.

“Stay put,” Dutch ordered, his tone brooking no argument. He gestured with his cigarette toward the ceiling, his expression entirely unbothered. “She’s probably fine. A little fight in her, that one, but Arthur can handle it.”

Your father’s chest heaved with restrained rage, his eyes blazing. “If anything happens to her-”

Dutch raised a hand to cut him off, smirking as he took another drag. "Relax. You should be proud. She’s got courage." His grin turned sharper

"Please, for fuck’s sake! I BEG YOU! You can ask for anything else, anything! Just let her go! Please, what do you want? Gold? Money? Just name it!" Your father’s voice cracked, desperation and fear pooling in every syllable.

Dutch chuckled, a low, mocking sound that filled the room. "C’mon, don’t tell me you’re so clueless to this tradition," his voice dripped with condescension. Your daughter’s married now, and look, even better, it’s the occasion.”

Your father’s hands trembled, the weight of helplessness bearing down on him. His lips parted as though to speak again, but no words came. His eyes flickered toward the stairs, where gunfire had just torn through the house, his thoughts scattered, struggling to comprehend everything unfolding.

At that moment, Bill, who had been standing silently in the background, moved behind Dutch and whispered something to him as your father stood broken at the side, his face twisted in silent grief, barely able to hold himself upright.

"Dutch...aren't we going to loot..." Bill's voice was hushed, but still tinged with curiosity and greed.

Dutch silenced him with a glare, one that made Bill pause.

"Now’s not the time. We came here for your brother’s sake, remember?”

Bill seemed to understand, taking a step back and nodding quietly. Dutch, however, didn’t break his smile.

Your father, still trembling, shot a glance toward the stairs, his mind racing with dread. He was standing on the precipice of losing everything, and there was nothing he could do.

"Don’t worry," Dutch continued with mocking reassurance, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his gun. "We’ll take care of her."

The sound of approaching footsteps was unmistakable, growing louder with each passing second. Through the open door, the trio saw Arthur, dragging you by the back of your neck like a ragdoll as he descended and made his way to the front door, your screams filling the hallway.

"DAD! HELP!"

"Well, that was a one hell of a climax. Time for us to go," Dutch stubbed his cigar, mused.

"NO! At least promise me you’ll let her meet us, Dutch! ARTHUR!?" Your father’s voice cracked as he desperately followed them outside, his every step driven by panic.

"I ain't promising nothing," came a flat, unfeeling reply from Arthur.

He continues dragging you to the horses, his grip unyielding, his eyes fixed forward, refusing to meet your tear-streaked face. He ignores your curses, your protests, and even the anguish that radiates from you. He can't bear the sight of your grief-stricken expression, it gnaws at something deep within him, unsettling in a way he won’t admit.

But a custom is a custom. A law is a law. No matter how cruel it may seem. If he can do it, so he will. He deserves this. You made him do it. That’s what he tells himself. That’s what he has to believe.

Right now, there’s no one, nothing, that can change his mind. Not even you.

"You heard the man," Dutch added.

With no further hesitation, he shoved you towards the waiting horse, the sight of it sending a jolt of fear through your chest. “Get on,” he ordered.

Dutch, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow and let out a chuckle. "Wow, Arthur seems like she gave you a run for your money."

But Arthur, not in the mood for jokes, shot him a glare before forcefully pushing you over the side of the horse. The impact jolted you, knocking the wind out of you, but you barely had time to recover before Arthur was behind you. He swung himself up with ease, his arm immediately locking around your waist and arms, not allowing you to smack his face.

"ARTHUR, STOP! PLEASE! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!" You screamed, your voice breaking with every word. "DAD! MAMA!!"

“Let her have her moment,” Dutch muttered. “It won’t change a damn thing.”

“Keep quiet,” he murmured, almost soothingly, his breath warm against your neck. “We’re not finished yet, but it’s better this way.”

"I'll NEVER FORGIVE YOU ARTHUR! I TRUSTED YOU! YOU SICK BASTARD."

You couldn't believe that he, Arthur , of all people would pull this sick tradition on you.

Arthur’s jaw ticked, but his face remained unreadable as he nudged the horse forward. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he muttered, his voice low. “But you will understand.”

As the group began to move, the last thing you saw was your father standing alone in the yard, his figure hunched with defeat and sorrow.

From inside, your mother’s muffled cries pierced the stillness, her silhouette visible through the window. She clung to Charles, who whispered words of comfort, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. But it was futile. The anguish etched on her face, the way her fingers clawed at the glass, spoke volumes, she was powerless, just as they all were, as they watched you being taken.

Dragged away from your shell, from the safe haven that had cradled you. Dragged away from the life you knew, the life you were about to begin, toward nothing but hell.

❀˖°

Hosea stood frozen for a moment, the faint crunch of boots on the dirt fading as the reality of what he was seeing set in. His feet moved almost instinctively, drawn toward the commotion in disbelief. He’d been hearing whispers all day, murmurs of a celebration, an event, an important job for Arthur the men went for, but he had dismissed them as the usual camp talk, exaggerations, half-truths, nonsense.

But now, seeing Arthur dismount his horse and drag a trembling girl, still clad in a torn and dirtied wedding dress, toward the tent... it was undeniable. They had really done it.

His gaze darted to Susan, who stood just as stunned. Their earlier conversation flashed in his mind, the discussion about where the men had gone, the unease about the strange orders from Dutch, and the peculiar behavior of the girls tasked with tossing roses on the ground like it was some sort of sick celebration. He’d hoped, prayed even, that it was some kind of twisted joke, a misunderstanding that would blow over.

But this?

This was no misunderstanding.

He couldn’t look away from the girl's figure, her torn dress, her tangled hair, her earring missing, her sandals scuffed and unevenly hanging on her feet, as Arthur pulled her forward, unrelenting, without so much a word.

"What the hell have you done, Arthur?" Though no one was near enough to hear it.

Neither of them could stop watching as Arthur continued forward, the girl stumbling in his grasp.

Your stomach churned every second as your eyes registered the half-hearted trail of roses that lined the dirt path leading to Arthur’s tent.

What a sick fucking joke. Sick people.

The petals were scattered unevenly, their soft pinks and reds a stark, mocking contrast to a camp filled with bloodied hands. Clearly, an instruction to decorate, under Dutch’s twisted idea of humor and celebratory mood for something mentioned as a 'Special night, ladies and gents.' They looked less like a romantic gesture and more like an haunting welcome for a captive bride.

Arthur’s grip on you was ironclad as he dragged you through the camp. Every step felt heavier, the sound of your feet and protests against the ground swallowed by the murmurs around you. The others watched silently from the sidelines, the faces curious, some avoiding your gaze entirely, others too indifferent to hide their stares.

The girls, who had once whispered excitedly about the possibility of Arthur performing the tradition, now stood frozen, their faces pale with realization. They had heard the rumors, the stories of lovers who ran away together taking advantage of this tradition and some had hoped that you, his secret new lover, and Arthur were following that same romantic, rebellious path instead of the other one, which was done out of either malice, ego and all the darker emotions. But as they watched, they saw the truth, this was no act of love, no escape from an overbearing family. This one was performed as the latter option...

"Ladies and gentlemen, c'mon, celebrate. Our boy's married. Your brother Arthur! Javier, hit the tune, boy," Dutch called out, his voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd, forcing attention back onto him. "Tonight’s a night of celebration, in fact, this whole week! A celebration of new beginnings, don’t you all agree?"

He received few cheers and hoots and the music picked up, the strumming of the guitar piercing the otherwise silent night. But for now, the noise was a necessary distraction. The leader was tired of the whole drama and wasn't in the mood to hear you yelling.

"We’ve got ourselves a fine family here, don’t we? Now let’s enjoy this night."

The celebration continued, the laughter getting louder by the second but you....you were stuck with nothing but a monster in a suffocating space.

❀˖°

"WHY?! ARTHUR, WHY?!" Your voice cracked with frustration and disbelief as the words tumbled out, the weight of it all suffocating you.

Arthur’s eyes were cold, his expression unreadable as he loomed over you. His grip tightened on your jaw, his fingers pressing into your skin with cruel force. "Why? Huh? Because I wanted to. And I did it," he replied, his voice low and venomous, as if daring you to challenge him.

You struggled against him, your mind racing, trying to make sense of the madness. "Because I rejected you?! HUH?! You couldn’t fucking handle that?! NOTHING CAN SCREAM COWARDICE MORE THAN THIS!"

Arthur’s face twisted, dark fury flashing in his eyes. Without warning, his hand shot up to your hair, yanking it painfully. You gasped, the sharp sting shooting through your scalp. Your heart raced, and a sick feeling churned in your chest.

"Not so in authority now, hm?" Arthur sneered, his grip on your jaw tightening further, his nails digging into your skin. "Did your precious money help? Your pristine pathetic fiancé? Your daddy? See? At the end of the day, you had nothing," he spat, each word like a dagger to your chest.

You couldn’t breathe, every inch of your body screaming in agony. But even as his fingers threatened to crush your spirit, you refused to let him see your weakness. You glared up at him, despite the pain, despite the fear.

"I HAD EVERYTHING!" The words escaped in a broken, desperate gasp, but they were firm. Your chest heaved with every breath, your body trembling under his hold. Your lower body was already tired due to the ride and all the struggle and now from scraping against the ground, supporting your upper body as he held you without an ounce of softness.

"Yo-u fucker- I still have everything. Will have, always." You spat, rage flooding your veins as the words broke through the pain. "I am not the one who lost dignity, it's you, cowboy. Men lik-e you, lowlifes, so desperate to have anyt-hing, that they have to use some illiterate, pitiable traditions just to get the bare minimum-"

Arthur let out a low chuckle, his grip tightening around your waist as he lifted you up, his gaze cold and calculating. He held you there, suspended against his chest, his eyes boring down into yours as if searching for something to break, something to conquer.

"Nice speech," he mocked, his voice dripping with venom. "I see where Daddy put all his efforts when raising you. But say whatever the fuck you want, sweetheart. Just remember to look around and see where you are before you do."

His words cut through you, each one an anchor pulling you deeper into the hellish reality of your situation. "Yeah, you're back with us, but it ain't the same anymore, darlin'. You are with me now. Your husband." He smirked which made your stomach turn. "And I ain’t gonna be nice anymore."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "This is what happens when you act all coy and play with someone, someone like me."

Your heart pounded, and you tried to push against him, but he held you firmly, his strength like iron around your body. "You si-cko! You think I wanted this? Wanted you?! Don't forget you were the one begging to be with me! You could have done this with anyone! Any other woman Arthur! ANY! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO RUIN MY LIFE!?"

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening, before he roughly shoved you, lifting you up and throwing you onto the cot with force. The impact left you gasping for breath as you struggled to make sense of everything. "Shut your fuckin' mouth," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

"I think it's clear by now, why you."

You barely had time to react before he seized both of your wrists, pinning them behind you with a brutal grip. His movements were cold and calculated as he reached beneath the cot, pulling out something that made your heart stop. You had no time to process what it was before he was tying your hands to the cot's frame, his fingers quick and efficient, securing you in place.

"NO! STOP!-" you started, panic creeping into your voice, but Arthur cut you off with a chilling command.

"Be thankful I ain't gagging your loud mouth. Now missy, you are gonna sit here all nice," he said, his tone devoid of any emotion, "till I come back."

You struggled, pulling against the tight restraints, but it was no use. Your body was pressed against the rough material of the cot, and the reality of your situation hit you like a punch to the gut.

Arthur stood over you, his eyes under the hat scanning every inch of you with a gaze so cold it made your skin crawl. His eyes lingered on your wedding suit, disheveled from the rough treatment, your face streaked with angry tears, the fury, fear, and pain burning in your gaze.

He took in the scene...really took it in.

You

Now sitting on his cot.

Unable to escape.

Bound and helpless.

Perfect.

"You better hope I don't come back to a mess."

"WAIT! Arthur please, t-think--I am--ready to forgive you if you take me back, I swear I'll forget--I'll forget this night in a flash! And my family too. And I am sorry if I hurt you that day but please….y'know, I don't deserve it...y'know it right?! I DON'T! PLEASE! Be the same Arthur you were before, please…we were friends. Friends...don't do this. C'mon..there's still time. Please. Take me back..." You let yourself sob hoping that he will see some sense...feel your pain.

Friends.

Arthur froze for a moment, his hand gripping the tent's flap, his body tensing as your words rang in the air. The desperation in your voice hit him like a blow, each syllable a plea for mercy, for the man you thought he could be, the man he used to be. But he didn’t turn around, didn’t immediately react. Instead, he stood there, his breath shallow.

His eyes closed briefly, and for a moment, there was something, something that almost looked like hesitation. His jaw clenched tight, his mind warring with itself.

He should walk away. He knew he should. This wasn’t supposed to be about you anymore, wasn’t supposed to be about anything resembling softness or mercy. He had made this choice, gone this far, and there was no going back.

But then, your words sank deeper. He could hear it in the way you begged, the way you crumbled before him, the desperate promise that you’d forget this night, as if erasing it could make everything right again. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that he could take you back and everything would be like before, that his world could go back to the way it was when you and him...met in that cafe and everything felt simple.

No.

He couldn't let himself go there. Not now.

That place was where it all started and unfolded. Where his love was humiliated. It was the same...cafe where Mary had met him a few times. Yeah, that's why he chose it because he wanted a new chapter with you filled with the same sweetness...

With a slow, controlled exhale, he finally turned around, meeting your tear-streaked eyes. There was something in his gaze, something darker and colder than before.

"You think I care about your forgiveness? Your apology?" His voice was low and rough, but there was a strange calm to it now. "Well, sweetheart, you believed in reality right? Different worlds huh? Here it is. My world. Which means it's your world now. One single world now. And you are going to accept it. And all this bullshit about friendship- well, you'd be shocked to know that this is the same me, this is how we can be when we want to be. That's what an outlaw is, darlin'."

He stormed out of the tent and his ears were greeted with music which he totally didn't hear when he was inside, as if his ears had blocked the noise.

The congratulatory nods and claps on the back from the boys barely reached his ears, they too backed of sensing his mood. He kept his eyes ahead, his thoughts spiraling into a fog as he headed toward the wagon to treat the damn wounds.

In his heart he was chuckling though, at your attempts that took place earlier.

Endearing indeed.

He could still hear your voice in his head, desperate, pleading, and it only made the gnawing frustration and anger inside him worse. Your apology, your words of regret, meant nothing now. In his mind, it was too late for that. He had already made his choice, and the consequences were to be damned.

"Ms. Grimshaw, c'mere!" Arthur barked, tossing his jacket onto the wagon and snatching up the medical kit.

Nearby, Grimshaw was fending off Mary and Tilly, who swarmed her with questions like inquisitive hornets after Dutch had spun his tale, taking credit, of course. Arthur found his love because of me.

"Why didn’t you ever tell us she was here before, huh?"

"How rich is she, exactly?"

"Is it really love marriage, though?"

With one sharp scolding, Grimshaw silenced the girls and made her way toward the new groom.

"It’s (Y/N). Remember?"

"Y-yes...I remember-"

"Exactly, now go inside that tent and get some sense into her head. She needs to realize how things work. How they are gonna fuckin' work."

He shot her a look that dared her to question him. Grimshaw hesitated for a moment, her usual strict eyes flicking toward his tent where you were likely still seething with rage and sorrow.

"Now!" Arthur barked, once again.

With a stiff nod, Grimshaw swallowed her uncertainty and turned toward the tent, the weight of his command heavy in her steps. Arthur watched her go, then turned away to tend to his wounds.

❀˖°

Susan entered the tent, her steps hesitant as she tried to piece together how she was supposed to handle this mess. Her sharp eyes took you in, sitting motionless on the cot, trembling, your expression caught somewhere between disbelief and seething rage.

Oh, dear.

The sight pulled at something deep inside her. You weren’t a child anymore, that much was clear, but it was the very fact that you had grown, matured, and still ended up here, in this nightmare, that shattered her heart. All the efforts they had made to shield you from the darkness of the world felt cruelly pointless. The very horrors they had once tried to save you from had found you anyway, only worse, delivered by the very people who had sworn to protect you.

"Girlie..." Susan's voice softened as she moved closer, kneeling down and sitting in front of you. Your eyes remained fixed on the distance, unblinking and hollow.

"I'm so sorry for... what happened. It's me, Susan. Remember? Aunty Susan. I’m with you, okay? Hey, please, look at me." She reached out hesitantly, and suddenly, your head snapped toward her, startling her just enough to make her flinch.

"Su-Susan? Aunty Susan? Listen, you have to help me, right fucking now. Open the rope, just open it, and I swear, I'll reward you. You’ll be taken care of for life. In fact, come with me, and you'll see how much you'll be rewarded. Here, take this necklace! It's worth so much! C’mon, take it! Open the rope woman!" Your voice cracked, a frantic desperation breaking through every word, as your neck nudged the jeweled necklace toward her.

Susan swallowed hard, her gaze lingering on the necklace. It was beautiful an obvious treasure, but it wasn’t the gleam of gold or gems that stilled her. It was what it symbolized, the dreams your parents had woven into this day, the life you were supposed to have, and even her own long-buried memories of what her wedding day had meant to her.

"You have to... understand," she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to betray her own emotions. "I can’t, darling. I can’t do that. It won’t help anyone. Trust me."

You stared at her, your breaths hitching, disbelief written across your face as her words hung heavy in the air. Not knowing what else to do, not knowing how to comfort you, or even how to be firm, Susan leaned forward and wrapped her arms around you.

"H-how did this happen?! Tell me it's a joke..."

"It's not," Susan said softly, her voice steady but laced with sorrow. "It's real. And it’s only going to get worse if I do what you’re asking of me. For you , for me and...even your family. So don’t ask me that. Don’t ask me for what I can’t give you, darling."

"I wanna go back--please--let me go!"

Her hand moved to your head, gently caressing it as she smoothed your messy hair, the gesture tender and maternal. "I’m here with you, okay? I’m here,"

You didn't know how long you sobbed pathetically in her arms being cradled like a child. By now she had wrapped a blanket around you , another way to offer comfort , warmth and to shield you...perhaps momentarily, but still.

Just then, someone cleared their throat outside. Your mind immediately went on high alert, hyperaware of Arthur’s presence or any man’s presence, and you stiffened. Sensing your panic, Susan tightened her grip on you protectively.

"Yes?" she called out sharply.

"I brought the Miss's stuff..."

"Come in," Susan replied.

Charles stepped inside, his eyes downcast as he carried several bags and a chest, placing them carefully in a corner.

"I-uh... also brought your cat," he added, his voice softer, as though he wasn’t sure how to break the news.

"Suki?! Where?! Is she okay?" Her name alone made some scrap of hope return to your eyes.

"She’s in my tent for now... don’t worry, she’s safe," Charles reassured you, glancing at you briefly before looking away.

"Please bring her here-" you started, your desperation palpable, but your words were cut off by the sound of heavy boots entering the tent.

Arthur strode in with a bowl in his hand, his presence oppressive and inescapable. Charles froze, his back straightening as he turned toward Arthur.

"You didn't bring anything extra right? Just the necessary stuff?"

"Nothing extra. Didn't take anything else...just like you said. Only important stuff her mother gave."

"Hm, right."

Charles then immediately exited the tent with a stiff nod.

"You two havin' a little heart-to-heart in here?" His eyes flicked to Susan. "Hope you’re not fillin’ her head with any ideas, Miss Grimshaw. She don’t need no rescuin’. She’s right where she’s meant to be."

He stepped closer, the bowl in his hand almost forgotten. "Now, you gonna make sure she eats, or do I need to stay here and do it myself?"

"I am doing it, Arthur."

Even Susan was pissed internally at the boy, beyond pissed but she couldn't say anything.

Without waiting for a response, he turned sharply and exited the tent, his boots crunching against the dirt outside.

You couldn't take more than one bite due to your misery. Your head pounding with visions of what a fucking nightmare you went through today. Not only you...but your family and...Omar. God, he didn't deserve this, any of this. It's all your fucking fault. ALL OF IT! Why did you have to be friends with a fucking outlaw of all people? How the fuck are you supposed to rest for a second not even knowing if he survived or not. And his family? God, knows what these assholes did to them. You had found a gem of a man, whom you were about to marry and spend a peaceful life...it's all gone...? Just like that?

"Though, for the record, I’m not fond of buying flowers. I prefer them in their roots, not plucked out."

Omar tilted his head, intrigued. "Fair enough," he said with a soft chuckle. "I’ll keep that in mind next time."

You realized how deeply you related to the flowers that were plucked from their roots, uprooted from the soil they called home. Taken not for their own sake, but because someone else wanted them. Wanted to display them, to use their beauty to adorn a corner of their world. In this case, to be nothing more than an accessory in someone else’s life.

❀˖°

Dutch sat at the small table, casually pouring himself a drink, his demeanor annoyingly calm in the face of Hosea’s frustration.

"So this was it, huh?" Hosea snapped, his voice sharp. "Him getting a bigger tent, a new, bigger cot, you ordering to decorate the whole damn camp like it was a festival, all that shit was for this?! Whilst you kept silent and watched him?!"

Dutch took a sip of his drink and leaned back in his chair, unfazed. "Yes, so? Weren't you the one worried about him, Hosea? I just did what was necessary."

"Necessary?!" Hosea practically exploded, throwing his hands in the air. "God give me strength. I said to talk to him, Dutch. Or better yet, to talk sense into him! And what did you do? You sided with him! Egged him on! Didn't even tell me all of this?"

"I didn’t side with him, Hosea. I gave him what he needed. Handled it, reigned him in. Don't wanna lose him now, do we?"

"And you think this was the way to handle it?"

"Hosea, he is his own man, he can make decisions, I just supported him! So stop clutching your pearls and see the bigger picture here-" They paused as Molly stepped into the tent, carrying a bowl of stew.

"Thanks, darling," he said with a warm smile, pressing a kiss to her cheek before watching her saunter back out to the lively sounds of the camp party.

"First of all, sit down."

With a grunt, Hosea obeyed, though it was clear from the slump of his shoulders that he wasn’t entirely willing. He braced himself for whatever convoluted plan Dutch was about to spin, fully expecting it to be something that would leave him exasperated.

Dutch leaned forward, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. "Okay, this, for now, stays between you and me. Got it? Especially not Arthur. The boy’s already on some level of feral, and I’m trying to keep the fire under control. So yeah, I fed him a fish, like you’d toss to a starving lion but this fish, Hosea… this is a special one. Trust me when I say that. You are going to like it too, in fact thank me. And you noticed, right? No dowry taken today. Not a cent from her family. Arthur didn’t want it, too proud, too sentimental, apparently an honourless act for him, which is fine. I get it. But me? I had my reasons too. Always do."

"We are not lootin' em Dutch. Not a leaf or stone."

"Course' pal...Just the girl."

Dutch took a slow sip of his drink, savoring the moment. "Just trust me," he repeated, his voice steady but insistent. "I didn’t bring in some girl. I brought a gem itself. And don’t you start on that 'we saved her years ago' crap, because let me remind you, it wasn’t me who decided to have some kind of romantic rendezvous with her. That was Arthur. And, well, maybe it’s fate. The boy finally made a damn choice."

"So dragging her into this mess is your idea of brilliance? Another one of your so-called masterstrokes?"

Dutch leaned forward, his voice lowering into something just short of a warning. "Trust the process, Hosea. Have some damn faith. Don’t let her tears fool you, she’s no saint in all this. She brought some of this on herself, and you know it."

"Oh, I’m sure she did," Hosea bit back, his voice laced with sarcasm. "But tell me, Dutch, what woman in her right mind would ever want this?"

Dutch leaned back, unruffled, a sly smile creeping upon his face. "Want it? Maybe not. But this is what happens when you get tangled up with us. Choices were made, Hosea, by her and by Arthur. And now? She’s one of us. A Van Der Linde."

★ Next

─AN: A fic of mine can't be whole without Dutch's plans ofc ¬_¬) To be added or removed , you can always comment , I'd suggest commenting on the first part so you guys aren't scattered everywhere. Peace.

★ tag list: @shackspossum @whalecage @nayykura @m1stea @warmsideofthepillow03 @thatoneraeder @marzintears @nxttaru @cazzacarm @she-is-my-unrequited-love34 @nulixity @poll-u @bajabish @cheesycheddarr @luzzbuzz @dilfsarelife @ninastyless @claire-is-here @raeraypoca @hopingtoclearmedschool @lain3iwakura @bashfulcowgirl87 @catjsashrine @bipolarbitties @lizynownow

[vinylfoxbooks]

November 22 - Warn | @into-the-jeggyverse | wc: 612

James loves this job. While they were hesitant to take it up when Regulus asked if they would be willing to be the bouncer at the bar that he was putting together with Barty and Evan, he was eventually able to convince them to try it out for a week. And James liked it. 

They like that they get to work in a fun, bright atmosphere while making sure that it’s safe -- and they know that Regulus would never let a bar that he’s co-owning get too crazy in one direction or the other that Barty or Evan might want to bring it to. They like that they get to see their boyfriend in his pretty little bartending outfit that Barty dared him to wear at one point and he decided he liked, and decided that he liked the blush on James’ face when they saw him in it. They like that they get to work for their boyfriend and his friends, who treat and pay them incredibly well. 

They like their job so much that many of the regulars know them and will come up to them to prattle away if they’re on their break or not doing anything in particular. And, when they have the time, they’ll always engage with people because they love talking to people. 

That also means that they have, at many points, been able to fuck with some of the patrons that get a bit too ballsy with their boyfriend -- as Regulus is strict about James and Regulus keeping their relationship to themselves at work -- when they know that Regulus is in the mood for handling some folks. 

Today is one of those days, where for some reason Regulus woke up in a wonderful mood and has been messing with James all day. In particular, he’s having a fun time making sure that James is watching him before doing a trick he knows James finds attractive or he swishes his hips a little more than usual, or a myriad of other things. So, when a semi-regular that has gotten relatively used to talking to James at one point or another during the nights tells them that they’re in the bar goes up to James and starts talking about how Regulus is particularly hot tonight and he’s going to ‘shoot his shot’, James doesn’t discourage him like they normally would. 

Instead, they grin down at him, “I will warn you, you’ll have to go about it carefully.”

“Right,” he nods, intent, “Any advice for me?” 

“Be… loud and flirtatious.” James hums after a couple seconds, making eye contact with Regulus for a moment when he turns to face them and the guy they’re talking to, “I know it doesn’t seem like he likes it, but if you’re insistent, it works.” The guy nods, gets this determined look on his face as he chugs the rest of his drink, and starts marching towards Regulus, who is still watching them. 

James smiles at them, looking pointedly at the determined man and mouthing, ‘have fun’. Then finding an excuse to go up to him several minutes after Regulus has sent the guy away to give him a wink and a small huff of a laugh at Regulus’ glare. They do it several times throughout the night, stopping at the first sign of Regulus getting tired of their antics. 

And when they’re done with their shift, both heading into the back to get changed into warmer, more comfortable clothes, Regulus punches them on the arm, “I hate you.”

“If you can tease me all day, love,” James grins, leaning down to kiss him, “I can have some of my own fun.”

[ahgasegotarmy116]

He Doesn't Deserve You | A Jeon Jungkook Series | Chapter Two

Summary: You decide to finally do something for yourself and ease your mind Pairing: Noona reader x Jeon Jungkook (She's 28 and he's 22) Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: Not too much for this chapter in particular besides mentions of domestic violence BUT yändere, manipulation, self harm, cheating, explicit language, smut, angst throughout the rest of the story a/n: Since you guys seem to be really liking this story I worked hard to get chapter two out quickly! Let me know what you think! p.s. Fuck me y'all I literally deleted chapter 2 but luckily I write on wattpad and I was able to restore it. I was literally about to cry Requested by the lovely: @kkusadmirer 💜

We had another fight. 

Honestly I don't even remember what it was about, something stupid like I left the door open after I came in with the groceries and forgot to lock it. Or maybe it was the fact that I actually left the house and got them instead of just ordering them to get dropped off on the doorstep. 

He always tells me it's too dangerous out there or that I should just wait for him to go with me instead. If I did that though we would never have any food here and I'm not about to order takeout for every meal. 

I don't understand why leaving the door open would be such an issue. We live in a relatively nice complex and our neighbors always make sure to look out for me so I don't understand why something as simple as that could set him off. 

But then again it doesn't take much to set him off these days, I guess it was something I should've expected. 

He hasn't been home for two days and at this point I've decided that maybe it's time I went out for the night. Nothing crazy or anything but just, out. 

Putting on yet another turtleneck I make sure that the old and new marks are covered. I've taken it a step further and put some makeup on to make sure that no one will notice. Although I doubt anyone would notice me anyways since I usually fade into the background. 

But tonight isn't about feeling insecure in myself. Tonight is the night where I finally do something on my own and get out of the house. 

Taking out my phone I look up the address for the local pub I've decided to go to, making sure to wear comfortable boots since it's a little ways away. I'm luck that it's winter right now so bundling up is normal, making my outfit even less suspicious. 

Taking a couple of deep breaths I reach for the handle, unlock the door and step outside. 

'Should I really be doing this?' I question but before I'm able to second guess myself I hear our next door neighbor unlock her door as well and step outside her door.

"Oh, y/n. What a pleasant surprise! It's been a while since I've seen your pretty face" she says scanning my features, clearly having heard the fight we had had the other day and making sure that I look okay. 

"Hi Mrs. Mitchell. How have you and Mr. Mitchell been?" I ask, returning her warm greeting but feeling awkward talking to someone that isn't Taehyung or my editor. 

"As well as we could be I suppose. Harry just turned 73 last month so he's been complaining about how old he his and how his knees don't work the way they used to. What can you expect when you get to our age?" she says, chuckling at her husband who is a few years younger than her.

"Seems like no matter how old men get, they still whine and complain whenever they get sick or injured" she continues, clearly trying to lighten my spirits. "I guess so" I say, not daring to bad mouth Taehyung since he's probably already gotten a pretty bad reputation around here with everything we've been through over the past few years. 

Sometimes I'm surprised by the fact that we haven't gotten evicted with all of the noise complaints we've gotten. 

He always makes me answer each and every call from our building even though he's the one responsible for a majority of the noise but he always makes sure to stand close by to make sure I don't ask them to send help no matter how severe things have gotten. 

"Where are you off to?" she asks taking note of the fact that it's getting late in the evening. "I figured I might just head over to the pub a few streets down and see if I can clear my head for a while" I say, not bothering to give more information than necessary. Not that there would be any more information to give. 

"Good for you dear! It's always good to go out and get a new perspective on life. Let me know anytime if you need any help alright? Oh and I'm so excited to read your next book!" she says and with that last part catching me off guard. "You've read my books?" I question, taken aback and almost embarrassed at the fact that a woman of her age would be reading the type of genre I write, let alone my own. 

"Of course dear! As soon as I found out that you were a writer I went straight to the bookstore and bought all of them! You really are very talented" she finishes, with a glimmer of admiration in her eye. 

"Thank you so much, your support means the world to me, truly" I finish and she quickly shoo me off, apologizing for holding me hostage. 

"Next time I see you I'll sign your copies if you'd like" I offer and the look on her face is absolutely priceless. 

"I'll make sure to have them sitting by the front door with a pen in hand!" she beams and I wave one last goodbye before I make my way to my destination. 

~~~~

Walking in the doors of The Blue Pearl I'm greeted by the sound of soft rock being played in the background and a low murmur of the small amount of people spread through out. This pub seems to be a little old fashioned so I guess it's not a big draw for the younger rowdier crowds. Which was exactly what I was looking for. 

Just a slow night to clear my head and a strong drink to drown my sorrows. Knowing me though I'll probably stop after one or two drinks. 

I decide to sit at the bar on the stool closest to the wall and wave the bartender over. 

"Surprise me, something sweet but something strong" I say trying to sound as confident as I can. "You got it" she says and comes back soon with a pink drink of some sort a few moments later. "What is this?" I ask after taking a sip, already dying for another one at the fruity but subtly sweet drink. 

"I like to call it The Slut Puppy" she says with a proud smile. I tilt my head when I look at her, confused as to how she came up with the name. "I'm still workshopping it to be honest but your reaction to the name definitely played true to the puppy part. I laugh realizing that I subconsciously played into her game and she laughs right along with me. 

"Long night?" she asks after I've settled in, using her bartender powers to see right through my act while walking away a bit to clean up the shaker she had used to make my drink. 

"Try long life" I say, rolling my eyes before taking a sip of my drink again, sighing in contentment. "That bad huh?" she laughs bitterly, knowing one way or another that what I'm dealing with is beyond fucked. "Let's just say the best part of my week so far has been this drink" I and steal a quick glance at her, embarrassed that my words are flowing so easily to a complete stranger. 

"But it's Saturday night" she say with her brows pinched together. "Exactly" I say and before I can even ask she decides to grab another shaker and makes me another drink which I accept with a somber smile. "I put some extra ice in this one so don't worry it's not gonna go straight to your head" she says, looking out for me as if she were someone I had known for my whole life. 

"I'm y/n by the way" I say, hoping to move from strangers to acquaintances at the very least. "Rae" she answers before tending to another patron. 

"So y/n" she starts as she makes her way back over to me "what do you do?" she asks, maintaining conversation but not trying to pry when it comes to what I'm clearly upset about. 

"I'm a writer" I answer and her interest is immediately peaked. "A writer? Really? What do you write about?" she asks, leaning up against the counter so she can hear me a bit better. 

"To be honest my stories are pretty fucked up romance novels" I say scratching the top of my head feeling a bit awkward at the confession. 

"Sounds like my type of book" she laughs. I let out a breath, thankful that I won't have to explain myself to her since this genre isn't everyone's cup of tea. "So what are some books that you've written? Maybe I've read one before" she says going back to cleaning up a few things, making sure to use her time wisely. 

"Well 'Trials of the Broken' is one of them. It's my best seller at the moment. I'm actually working on writing the sequel right now" I respond, embarrassed but proud of my achievements all the same. 

"I think I've heard of that one! My friends have been trying to get me to read it but I never got around to it" she says, surprised at her chances of meeting me. 

"If you ever get around to it then let me know what you think" I say, now kicking myself for putting on the pressure for her to read it. "I definitely will" she says and makes her way over to the other side of the bar to serve some more patrons that just made their way inside. 

Glancing over at them I notice one that is a few steps behind the crowd, making me question if he's come here alone but I go back to looking at my drink, trying my best not to stare. 

My eyes somehow manage to drag themselves over toward him as he places his order and waits for Rae to make it. 

He takes off his hood and I'm met with first, the sight of his sharp jaw, then his shaggy hair he ruffled as soon as the hood dropped and finally his lips, the bottom one pierced twice rested in a soft smile. I realize though that the only way I would be seeing his full on smile would be if he was looking back at me and I make somewhat panicked eye contact with him before quickly turning my head in the other direction. 

'Great job y/n, drooling over the first hot guy you see. He's probably going to think I'm some sort of creep now' my thoughts thought are interrupted with the sound of what I believe to be is a drink set down on the counter a few seats away from me. 

"Is it alright if I sit here?" a smooth baritone voice says, making butterflies fill my stomach. 

"Um yeah sure" I say, taking a sip of my drink before glancing at him, quickly looking away again before I start to stare again. 

"So how's your night going?" he asks, clearly in an effort to make small talk. 

"It's going. How about yours?" I question back and see that he's no longer looking at me, instead watching as he swirls his mystery drink around in his cup. "About the same" he chuckles, clearly amused with both of our lack of effort to divulge any details. 

We sit there for a second or two in silence before Rae walks over and gives me another drink. I watched her make it and I can tell she she went even easier on the alcohol this time and makes sure to question nonverbally if I'm alright to which I nod. 

"What are you drinking?" he asks, smiling at the visual of the bright pink drink with two cherries placed on top. "You're gonna laugh" I say, brushing a piece of hair behind my ear, feeling a little apprehensive saying words like this to a complete stranger (a hot one at that).

"It's-" "It's called a Slut Puppy" Rae interrupts from the other side of the bar, not even bothering to hide the fact that she was clearly listening. "Um yeah, that" I chuckle, taking a big sip of it to hopefully calm my nerves. 

"A slut puppy?" he asks, flashing an amused smile at me, sending my heart beat into overload. "Her name, not mine" I laugh awkwardly. Trying, but failing at sounding normal but from the looks of it he doesn't seem to mind. "Right" he says dragging out the first syllable before taking a sip of his drink. 

"Do you guys know each other?" he asks, curious as to who our not so secret eavesdropper is. "Kinda. We just met. Although it almost seems like I've known her my whole life" I say smiling at her, thankful for the fact that she was able to lift my spirits so easily. 

"It's nice when you meet people like that" he says and when I bring my attention back over to him I can tell that he's been looking at me for a while, making me shy all over again. 

"Oh, I'm Jungkook by the way" he says holding out his hand, and I turn my stool towards him and shake it, fixing what would've been an awkward angle if I had stayed in place. He after seeing what I had done decides to turn as well, angling his body towards me and I notice now that there's only one seat between us. A respectful distance, making me feel a bit more comfortable talking to him. 

"I'm y/n" I say and he gives me a soft smile, whispering my name under his breath, almost as if he were trying to keep it as a secret all for himself. "So y/n, what's your story?" he asks, withdrawing his hand at almost the same time I do and goes back to taking another sip of his drink, making sure to keep his sparkly eyes trained on me. 

'Sparkly? Y/n you are a married woman. You shouldn't even be talking to this guy'.

"My story? Well to be honest there's not much to tell. I grew up and went to school in the city and now I'm a writer. There's not much else to my life if I'm being honest" I say, doing my best to maintain conversation but also not give away too much. 

"That ring on your finger says otherwise" he says, nodding towards it and playing around with his straw. Not in an abrasive way but more as if to remind me of something else that I might've forgotten.

"Oh, um yeah" I say, showing him the ring up for a second to confirm his suspicions but pull my sweater down to cover it up a second later, hoping he won't ask anything else about that aspect but unfortunately luck is not on my side in that department tonight. 

"Is that why you're here? Needed to get away for a while?" he asks, curious but not insinuating anything that I would expect a guy of his age would be asking me. "I guess you could say that" I say taking a deep breath deciding that if he's asking I might as well get the male perspective while I can. 

"With being a writer and everything I'm pretty much cooped up in the house all day. Which for me is fine and it's been like that for a few years" I say, taking a second to try and figure out how to formulate my next words carefully, not wanting his to worry or judge the situation too much.

"I'm sensing there's a 'but' here" he chuckles and takes another sip of his drink and waves at Rae in an effort to get both of us both another drink without me noticing to avoid protest. "But" I start out, confirming his suspicions. "with my husband being used to me doing that all the time he tends to get a bit, how should I say this..." I trial off, still not sure how to phrase it. 

"Controlling?" he offers, a bit more blunt than his other responses. "Worried" I counter, although his word is more accurate than mine. He nods a bit, clearly not believing my words but doesn't press in hopes that I will continue. "He's worried that something might happen to me if I go out alone. That someone might recognize me because of my books and try to do something like kidnap me" I say, fully confident in my words.

I hear Jungkook snort beside me a second later, leaving me looking over at him with my brows scrunched up. "What's so funny?" I ask, confused and almost annoyed by his reaction. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry continue" he says doing his best to calm down. "No, what about that is so funny?" I press as I can clearly see that he's still trying to hold his laughter in. 

"I'm sorry y/n it's just, well isn't kidnapping a little bit of a stretch?" he says, clearing his throat and breathing through what he thought was a ridiculous excuse. "Woman and children get kidnapped everyday! Look up the statistics!" I retort, trying to convince him that there's truth to Taehyung's argument. 

"Yes, I know that it happens a lot, but you can't let that keep you from going outside and living life. It's a horrible thing and I don't understand why anyone would do such a thing but you can't use it as a way to cripple yourself from ever leaving your house" he says, this time being completely serious and trying his best to convince me that I shouldn't be living like this. 

"I'm out now aren't I?" I argue, and to that he nods his head but presses further. "How long has it been since you've been out like this though?" he asks and I just let my head droop a bit in response before taking a sip of my new drink. 

"Well I'm proud of you for coming out tonight and doing this for yourself. And look, you're completely safe. Plus seems like you've already made two new friends tonight" he laughs motioning to himself and Rae and when I look over at her all I can see is her bright smile, happy to see me getting more comfortable. 

"Who knows though, you might just be acting nice to me just so I'll let my guard down so you can kidnap me" I tease and at that he acts like he's offended, throwing his hand over his heart as if I had shot him. 

"You hurt me with your words. It's a shame though, I was just in the market for a new best friend" he says, wiping away a fake tear. "Or in the market for some fresh meat" I continue laughing at his act. "Twist the knife why don't you" he says, now resorting to pouting. 

"Aw, it's okay I didn't mean it" I say patting his shoulder in an effort to apologize. "You better not" he says looking at me, still pouting. "Come on, let's turn that frown upside down. Why don't I buy you a drink?" I ask as a way to make amends. 

"No that's alright, I've actually gotta get going" he says, pulling out his wallet and placing some cash on the counter to more than cover his drinks. "Let me get you some change" Rae steps in, quick to help since she is otherwise unoccupied. "No it's okay, use it to cover us both and then keep the change" he says as he straightens out his jacket a bit. 

"No you don't have to do that" I argue and go to take some cash out of my purse as well. "It's okay I got it. But if you want to make it up to me I'll always take your number as payment" he says with a cheeky smile. 

"Just as friends of course! I would never want to seduce a married woman" he says, jumping over himself, making me sure I know his intensions are pure. 

"Can we do email? I spend most of my time on my computer so it's easier for me" I say, making excuses as to not giving it to him. "As long as you promise not to mark my messages as spam" he jokes and hands me his phone so I can add it in. "I promise. It was really nice to meet you Jungkook" I say handing it back to him, our hands touching a few moments longer for it to be seen as something with the promise of being platonic. 

"Take care" he says giving me a soft smile and then waves at Rae, clearly seeing her not even bothering to hide that she's staring at us. 

"Bye" I say under my breath, not knowing how to feel about anything now that he's gone. 

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[kiiwiigii]

The Red-Eyed Boy pt. iii

Pt. One | Two | Outtake

Alec x Swan!Fem!Reader

Summary: Alec returns and shows you how sorry he is. *wink, wink*

Warnings:

Smidge of angst

Smidge of bondage

Straight up smut

Word Count: 3,130

A/N: Today I learned that suck at writing smut, but please enjoy anyways. As with all my Alec fics, he is aged up. Also, I am fucking obsessed with this gif.

Tags: @rosedpetal, @lack-lust-3r, @badass-daisy-22

Alice and Bella eyed me warily from their spot on the kitchen table as I padded around the kitchen. It was my turn for dinner tonight and I was working on a new recipe.  

"Please stop looking at me like that. I'm not about to keel over dead and I'm definitely not about to poison Bella right before she gets married." 

I grinned when Bella scrunched up her nose in annoyance. 

"You're not gonna die because you're tied to Edward through a piece of paper, Bells." 

"Says you." She grumbled. 

"Have you heard from him?" Alice asked softly. 

"No." I pursed my lips. 

It had been nearly two weeks, and I hadn't heard a damn thing from Alec. I had called and texted only to be ignored and left on read. I knew he'd be mad, but for the love of God, he was taking this too far. I just wanted to strangle him. I had spent the first week moping before trying to shake myself out of it. I refused to let myself fall into the state that Bella had after Edward left. 

Although it was really hard not to. I still had my moments, usually in the evenings when I was alone. 

I paused in the middle of chopping an onion, looking over my shoulder at Alice. Her visions were the only thing I could really count on right now, unless I had a vision of my own. Unfortunately, sleep had been avoiding me, and when I did sleep nothing came to me. 

She shook her head sadly, indicating that she hadn't seen anything. Yet. However, she also hadn't seen anything different from her previous visions, so nothing had really changed, and that gave me hope. 

"So, Y/N, we have your first dress fitting tomorrow." Alice, thankfully, changed the subject.  

"Ooh yay! Do I get to see Bella's dress?" 

Bella groaned before plonking her head onto the table. She was so easy to tease. 

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you didn't want to marry me." Edward entered the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket. 

I smiled watching them all together, happy to watch the little scene from afar. Eventually I had to turn back around, doing my best to hum a tune in my head, both to distract myself from the situation with Alec and so Edward wouldn't pick up on my depressing thoughts. This should be a happy time. 

Somehow, I don't think I was fooling anyone. 

It was official. I hated weddings and anything to do with them. I was almost positive that had I not been in a house full of vampires, Rosalie would have stuck a few pins in me on purpose.  

It was dark by the time I finally arrived home, and all I really wanted to do was shower and pass out on my bed. Keeping up a relatively happy façade almost 24/7 was exhausting. 

The house was dark, and I suddenly remembered that dad was out on one of his camping trips with a friend. Well, at least I would have the house to myself, and I could be as depressed as I wanted. 

I went straight to my room to gather some pajamas and a towel. I almost felt too tired to even shower, but I'll be damned if I'm not going to make sure I do some basic self-care. Throwing my bag onto the bed, I began to strip. 

"You should keep your window locked." 

I jumped and let out a scream, quickly covering myself, dress already hanging half off. 

It was Alec, propped up on my bed, another book in hand. How had I not seen him?? I even threw my bag in his direction. 

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" I wheezed at him, trying my best to get my racing heart back under control. 

"Not particularly." His eyes roamed over me, from head to toe, his eyes lingering on my neck, where my pomegranate seed necklace hung. And then the dangling straps of my dress. "You look beautiful, tesoro." 

I blinked rapidly, trying my best to figure out what the hell was happening. I hadn't heard from Alec in nearly a month and here he was, just sitting here. In my room. On my bed. As if nothing had ever happened.  

"Where have you been? Why have you been ignoring me?"  

He simply eyed me before closing the book with a thump.  

"I was extremely… angry. There was a while where I did not really have control of myself. I even scared Jane." He admitted. "I didn't want to take it out on you. Or for you to see that side of me." 

I glared at him. 

"So, you just disappear without a word? Didn't bother telling me that you were okay and that you just needed space? You're aware that I've had visions of you since I was like, six years old, right? I've seen you angry." 

"Not like this, you haven't." He said quietly. 

"Do you know what I thought? I thought you had left me. Despite whatever Alice's visions tell her, I know that they can change at the drop of a hat. I was just sitting here waiting, praying that you wouldn't change your mind." 

Fuck, here come the tears. 

He was next to me in a heartbeat, hands cupping my face. I tried to back away, but he kept his grip firm. 

"I would never leave you, Y/N." He said softly, wiping the tears away. "Ever. I have never been good at relationships. I have always kept myself at arm's length, but you, you are different. And when I saw you on that field, after the battle, I had never been so scared and angry in my life." 

He paused for a minute, searching. "Had I lost you, I would have burned the world down." 

My breath hitched in surprise, and I could feel my heart skip a beat. He kissed me then, and I allowed it, wrapping my arms around his neck as he reached for my waist. His kiss was soft and controlled, while mine was bordering on desperation. 

"Don't you ever do that to me again." He whispered against my lips, a warning. 

Why did that turn me on and piss me off at the same time? 

"I'm sorry, what was that? Because it sure didn't sound like an apology, Alec." 

He pulled me flush against him, nipping at my collarbone in reproach. I hissed in pain, but he quickly soothed it over with his tongue. 

"Then let me show you how sorry I am." He whispered. 

He pulled me in for a heated kiss and I couldn't help but gasp. Alec took the opportunity to dip his tongue into my mouth again, and the moan that worked its way up my throat had him growling possessively. 

I could already feel my nipples tightening and the wet heat between my legs. 

I grabbed him by the collar to pull him closer. He gladly obliged and before long, he had me pressed into the bed, right underneath him, his lips giving slow languid kisses anywhere he could reach. 

"Alec." My voice was caught in my throat. 

Goddammit. He hadn't even gotten me out of my clothes before he had me begging. Hell, he had barely even touched me.  

And I was supposed to be mad at him, dammit! 

He paused, lips at the swell of my breast. Finally, he lifted himself up so he could look me in the eye, searching my face. 

"Do you trust me?" 

I nodded my head furiously. 

"I need to hear you say it, Y/N." 

"I trust you." 

I was practically panting. 

Alec produced a long strip of gauzy fabric and slowly tied my hands together, gauging my reaction, before putting them above my head. 

"Did you come prepared with that?" I gaped at him. 

"No. I took it from your bag." He smirked. 

My bag? Since when did he have the time to go through my bag? I looked at my tied wrists again, trying to wrack my brain as to why I had a long ass strip of- 

'Oh my god.' 

It was the sash to my bridesmaid's dress. I know I hadn't put it in there. The last time I had seen it- Alice. She fucking knew. She had to. She had a vision and didn't even tell me. Granted, if this was a part of her vision, I would be highly embarrassed to hear her explain exactly what she saw. 

"Now." Alec put my hands above my head again, and then trailed his own hands down my arms to my collarbone, thumbing over the mark he had placed on it earlier. "Your hands stay put above your head until I say otherwise. If they do not, I stop. No matter what I am in the middle of." He warned, pausing to make sure that I understood. "Are you okay with this? If not, we can stop." 

I shook my head back and forth frantically. 

"Y/N, I need you need to say it out loud." 

"Yes." I breathed. 

"Good. If you become uncomfortable at any point you are to tell me." 

"Yes sir." It was out of my mouth before I even realized it and I blushed furiously. 

"Are you sure you're a virgin?" He teased. 

"Why don't you find out for yourself?" I teased back, a little breathless. 

Alec's brows raised before he smirked, leaning in closer, mouth right next to my cheek. 

"I think I am going to enjoy this very much." His hands began to make their way past my collar bone to cup my breasts through the fabric of my dress, his thumbs flicking slowly back and forth over my nipples.  

My back arched in a gasp, and he let out a hum, pleased with my reaction. Soon I felt more and more skin being exposed to the cool night air, his cold lips and tongue following right behind it, licking and nipping his way until, aside from my bra, I was fully exposed from the waist up. I blushed as he sat back, admiring the view. 

"You are truly beautiful, mio cara." He breathed.  

His cold hands caressed every inch of exposed skin, purposely avoiding the spots that I wanted him to touch the most. I pouted up at him and he swiped a thumb across my lip. 

"I must admit Y/N, I like seeing you like this. And I think you like it too." 

Slowly, I gave his thumb a long lick before sucking it into mouth. His eyes darkened even further, and I could practically feel the rumble of possessiveness in his chest. 

"Careful, amore." His voice was now husky and strained. 

I released his thumb, edging my teeth along the sides and cocked an eyebrow at him. "I thought you were supposed to be apologizing." 

His eyes were now pitch black. 

"I think you forget who's in control here." 

I let out a squeak as he moved aside and ripped my dress the rest of the way down, leaving me in just my bra and panties. He settled himself between my legs, to nip and kiss his way along the inside of my thighs. 

I sucked in a sharp breath when he placed a kiss right over my covered mound, and then nuzzled into it. My hands jerked and he looked up at me, remaining still. 

"Hands, amore." He chided. 

I immediately put them back in place, wriggling my hips in anticipation. Finally, he slid my panties down, revealing my inner most self, glistening and wet just for him. 

"Perfect." 

It was the only thing I heard before his mouth was on me and my back arched off the bed yet again.  

Keeping perfect eye contact with me, he gave me long slow licks, delving into me with his tongue. And then he found my clit. I couldn't help it, I cried out, my hands immediately coming down to lace themselves through his hair. 

This wasn't an apology; this was fucking torture.  

He paused with a growl. 

"Hands, amore." 

"But- but-" 

He lifted himself up slightly, a warning look in his dark eyes. "Hands." 

"Alec." I whined, wriggling my hips again and trying push him back down. "Please." 

"You know the rules, principessa." 

"Did you just call me princess?" 

He just smirked. "You're learning. Now, hands. If I have to tell you again, I will tie you to the bed." 

'You just may have to do that.' I thought. 

He watched me for a moment more before slowly lowering himself back down, wrapping his arms around my thighs to keep my hips level. He began his slow assault on me yet again and I did my absolute best to keep my arms above my head. It was working so far... barely. 

Before long I could feel a warm heat beginning to build low in my stomach.  

"Oh god, please don't stop." I chanted. "Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop." 

I wasn't entirely sure what was happening, all I knew what that it felt good, and he absolutely had to keep going. Otherwise, I was sure I was going to die right then and there. 

And then the bastard stopped. 

"Alec." I let out a low whine. 

He crawled back up to me, placing a kiss on my lips and I groaned at the taste of my arousal on him.  

"No cumming just yet, amore." He swept his tongue along my lips. "The only cumming you will be doing is on my cock." 

I almost choked. "Have- have you always been this dirty?" 

"You have no idea." He bit my earlobe and I squirmed at his words. “And this is only just the beginning.” 

"Well, it looks like won't be doing much of anything, since you're still dressed." 

"That can easily be remedied." 

My eyes widened as he slipped off his shirt. I had always known he was muscular but there was a big difference between feeling it and seeing it. Next came his pants and underwear, and I’m pretty sure my brain stopped working. 

How was that going to fit?? 

"Like what you see?” 

I simply nodded my head, my mind still trying to process the situation I was in... and the fact that his cock was rather... large. 

He leaned over and began untying my hands. I raised a brow at him. 

"I want you clinging to me when you cum." 

Oh fuck. 

My hands immediately went to explore his naked chest when he caught my hand and kissed my fingertips. 

"Are you still okay?"  

"Alec, I swear to God if you don't fuck me-" 

He cut me off, crushing his lips to mine and I suddenly felt him nudging at my entrance. He sat back briefly, rubbing himself in my juices, preparing. 

"Eyes on me, amore." 

I swiftly looked back up at him. I don't think I could have taken my eyes off him in that moment. 

Finally, finally, I felt him enter me ever so slowly. I let out a hiss of pain, my hands clutching desperately at the sheets, and he stopped, letting me adjust for a minute, all the while never breaking eye contact. This, this was something else. I had never felt so full.  

"Fuck, you're tight." 

I let out a whimper. 

"It's okay, mio cara." He kissed away the tears from my face, I hadn't even realized that I was crying. "I'm going to move now." 

And boy did he move. It took a few thrusts before the pain subsided and then I felt as if I was flying. He kept his thrusts steady and deep, his hands roaming my sides before cupping my breasts and placing gently kisses along the edges. And then proceeded to close his mouth on one of my nipples through the lace.  

"Alec." 

He didn't reply, deciding to suck harder and scrape against the sensitive buds with his teeth instead. If he kept this up, I wasn't going to last long, and I think he knew it. He sat up again, but this time he angled my hips up and I was suddenly seeing stars. He was hitting my sweet spot now and I couldn't contain my moans any longer. I could feel it building, and building, and building.  

"Don't you dare stop." I panted. 

"Eyes on me, darling." He ordered, grabbing my face, and making me look him in the eyes. "I want to see the look in your eyes when I make you come on my cock." 

Oh, God. He was speaking to me in Italian, and I didn't have the slightest clue as to what he was saying, but it was hot. 

"Alec, please. Make me cum. I want to come." 

"Fuck, so tight for me." He thrust harder and I could feel the walls of my pussy starting to tighten up. "I want to see you come undone around me." 

"A-Alec!" 

He forced me to look up at him again as I came hard, legs wrapping around his waist as he nearly collapsed on top of me. If I was seeing stars before, now I was suddenly seeing a whole fucking galaxy. 

"Fuck." He kissed me deeply as I felt him spasming inside me, cool liquid coating the walls of my pussy. 

He hovered like that for a long moment, his kisses turning into soft, languid ones, his hands roaming in even softer caresses. Finally, he pulled out of me, and let his eyes wonder over me. I'm sure I looked a mess, but he seemed to like what he saw, judging by the smirk on his face. 

"Come, amore. Let's get you cleaned up." 

"I don't think I can walk." I closed my eyes, doing my best to breathe and not die from great sex. 

"I can definitely help you there." 

I nearly yelped as he lifted me from the bed bridal style. 

"Is this your way of saying you want shower sex?" I wriggled my eyebrows at him. 

"I had not really thought of it, but if you insist." 

I laughed and snuggled into his chest. 

He paused a moment, really looking me over now. "I am truly sorry, Y/N. For everything." 

I placed a hand on his cheek. "Apology accepted." 

NEXT - (Outtake)

{Masterlist}

Translation (Done via Google): Tesoro: Darling/Treasure  Mio Cara: My darling.  Principessa: Princess 

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[mischiefmaker615]

Ghost (Loki Love Story) Ch.22

Your eyes quickly looked up to the smirking god of mischief who sat calmly across from you at the table. This is about the seventh time you’ve had to move your legs in a different position before he sought them out with his own again to rub against you under the table. Apparently warning looks weren’t helping and there was nowhere else you could sit while Steve continued with the meeting.

Now and again you were sure he knew what was up and caught some irritation in his voice while he spoke. That reaction seemed to then trigger Loki doing it again, almost giving off a smug look he failed to hide while you pressed your legs together.

Ever since you both left the bathroom after your.. moment.. the rest of the morning while you headed towards the meeting had been filled with nothing but sexual innuendos and his hands “accidentally” brushing up against particular parts of you- mostly your ass.

The very thought of your moment with Loki had your cheeks reddening and your thighs squeezing together again while you trained your eyes on Steve. Any attention off of Loki- especially on Steve made him rub against your ankle harder- it’s not like you had a choice?? Steve was running a meeting!

You thought about kicking him in the leg, but something told you you’d pay for it later.. yet the gods blessed you to having the urge to pee where you then raised a hesitant hand up and paused Steve’s talking.

‘’bathroom run..’’ you said apologetically and stood, Steve giving you just a nod with a blank expression before it gave Loki a distasteful one when he stood up too.

‘’stuck together, you know how it goes.’’ He chuckled, raising his hands with a small shrug but looked anything other than disappointed where you sighed and had him follow you out.

The feeling of his slender hand then finally run along your lower back to pull your side against his made your skin feel like it was tingly and your cheeks redden.

‘’so darling, do you actually need a bathroom break or are you wanting a bathroom break?” he winked, trying to search your face to see if you had just secretly got you both out of there to continue your.. activities before you gave him a dry look.

‘’bathroom break.’’

Loki raised his hands again in a surrender position yet his smirk remained. ‘’very well darling, I’m sure waiting outside in the family facilities would be not to far to be teleported.. unless you want me to go inside and-‘’

‘’the family bathroom is a single unite and is relatively close to the wall. It should be fine if you wait outside without having yourself teleported.’’ You said with the same dry sound, hoping he’d catch on to your disappointment on how he had totally interrupted the meeting.

Loki didn’t get the hint as he lowered his hand at your side every so slightly to try to sneak his fingers under your shirt before you shook him off a little.

‘’we’re in public- would you mind just watering down your actions a notch??” you scolded but he merely chuckled as he kept his pace with yours that quickened.

‘’so you are referring to the fact that if we weren’t in public, my affections would be acceptable?”

You merely gave him a ‘watch it’ look before you gripped the handle to the bathroom. ‘’I won’t be long.’’ You told him and he gave you a nod, leaning against the wall as if to wait with his arms crossed while his gaze watched you disappear.

As soon as the door closed behind you, you felt yourself exhale and your shoulders slump to relax yourself finally.

Fuckkkkkkkk last night was truly amazing.. but he seemed to now think it could happen anywhere. He seemed quite adjusted to this whole thing, having no problem to this whole ‘stuck together’ situation but honestly- you needed air. There was nothing wrong with being together but.. for gods sakes you needed privacy in the damn bathroom region of the issue.

Running a hand through your hair, you freshened up with some water in your face before a deep breath. ‘’just finish the meeting, then back to figuring this thing out..’’ you told yourself, knowing Loki used every excuse to try to get out of it or avoid it but- no. no no no. this was happening. You took hold of the doorknob, chest puffed up to be firm and took a step forward.. only to take several back when ‘speak of the devil’ collided his lips with yours, pushing you with the door slamming shut behind him until your back found the wall.

‘’for gods sakes Loki- bathroom sex??” you whined, never really fond of the idea but by his wondering hands and lips over you, he may be able to convince you as you pressed your hands against his chest to separate you both.

‘’if your facility is so adamant with following orders than im sure your janitor followed his.’’ Loki said, finding it clean enough to hoist you up and sit you onto the bathroom counter, his slender hands gripping your hips while he moved his body to stand between your legs.

‘’that’s not the damn point- we have a m-meeting to go too-‘’ you tried to reason, finding it hard to think while Loki leaned forward and began brushing his lips along your neck, adding open mouth kisses while inhaling your sweet scent he loved so much. ‘’d-don’t you want to take things so?-‘’

‘’darling, I don’t remember your preference being slow’’ he winked before a hand reached up to rest behind your head, pulling you forward so he could get a hold of your earlobe and nibble, causing goosebumps running up your skin while you shivered.

‘’but the meet-‘’

‘’the meeting was boring and pointless. Rogers just calls it so he can just keep an actual eye on us.’’ Loki brushed it off, working his hands up your shirt now while your own gripped his shoulders.

‘’but he had an idea to get us to work until we figure things out-‘’

Loki paused his movements, slowly pulling back enough to look at her with a raised brow and a questionable expression. ‘’when did you have time to talk to him?”

‘’when you were in the bathroom.’’ You told him with a small shrug.

‘’when I was in the- this morning?? What the hell is he doing up that early?” Loki said with irritation while he furrowed his brows.

‘’it wasn’t that early.. we were almost late to the meeting but apparently not really. He always does his jog- er.. run in the morning before he begins to prepare for the debriefing.’’

‘’I don’t even want to know how you are aware of that’’ Loki shook his head and sighed, resting his forehead against your shoulder like a pouting child while his hands rest at your thighs. ‘’I want sex..’’ he said quietly.

‘’now don’t tell me just because we.. did it, it now has made you needy.’’ You gently tease him as you ran a hand against his back, the other tangling in his hair where he moans at how you scratch gently.

‘’I really didn’t desire to leave that room Y/N.. ever..’’ he breathed, growing an erection at the memories from this morning and it made his hand glide around to your hips, puling you more forward against him while his face nose to be nose to nose with you. ‘’don’t tell me you aren’t needy too..’’

Your cheeks reddened, fingers gripping his shoulders while you felt the urge to instinctively close your legs while you looked at him. ‘’you were.. amazing Loki..’’ you breathed, feeling arousal as your teeth captured your bottom lip while Loki’s nose playfully rubbed against yours. ‘’but we need to get back to the meeting.. there will be plenty of time after to-‘’

‘’done.’’ Say no more, Loki took hold of your hand and helped you off the counter, a blush creeping upon your cheeks but you couldn’t help the small smile tug at your lips as he confidently lead you out of the bathroom and back to the meeting room.

Steve was still going on about files Loki was still sure wasn’t important, when he paused to look at them enter. ‘’took awhile..’’ he said dryly, clearly looking at Loki while he gave him a smug look.

‘’we got caught up discussing just how fascinating this all was.’’ Loki said sarcastically and resumed his seating across from you where you sheepishly sat down and sighed, trying to break the two up.

‘’carry on..’’

‘’honestly you both are like an old married couple.. but divorced.’’ Tony ‘complimented’ while he sat back with his arms crossed impatiently.

‘’anyway-‘’ Steve dragged on before continuing.

 While Natasha gave you a few looks, nonverbally asking if you two actually did it in the bathroom, Loki began resuming his rubbing against your leg, causing your attention to be split while Steve gave an irritating tone while he tried to power through. The moment you jumped a little by Loki’s somehow-skilled movements with just his leg, Roger’s threw his hands up and huffed.

‘’will you for once in your life just-‘’

*BOOM*

Someone violent seemed to shake the building, causing you all to jump to your feet and look around.

‘’what the hell is that??” Clint asked, looking around while Tony raised up his wrist device.

‘’Jarvis- what are we looking at here??”

The tower shook violently again, a loud explosion being heard from somewhere below them while it felt like a drawn out earthquake. The lights began flickering, alarms could be heard down the halls where Nat had to cover her ears briefly with a wince.

‘’seems like something shot into the tower- a missile of some sort but a smaller type, it looks like- hang on!’’ Tony yelled, everyone bracing and some gripping the large table before another harsh jolt of the tower could be felt, Clint losing balance while Loki pulling up along side you with an arm around your waist.

‘’now’s a perfectly good time to end the meeting, right?”

‘’not now Loki- everyone else head out, suit up, I have a feeling this is coming from-‘’ Tony cut off Steve as he growled out the word Hydra, everyone losing balance once another missile hit, causing some of the ceiling boards to fall down and break apart upon impact.

‘’lets go, come on!’’ Steve ushered, standing by the door as he let everyone hustle out- Tony, Clint, Nat and Loki- Y/N holding onto Loki’s hand where you were almost out the door yourself before you both fell onto the ground after another violent shake.

‘’you okay?” Loki asked, getting to his hands and knees while you rolled over off your back.

‘’yeah I’m-‘’

‘’watch out!” Steve yelled, grabbing Loki’s arm and yanking him back as a piece of ceiling collapsed between you both.

‘’Y/N come on-‘’ Loki yelled, struggling to his feet by the swaying building while you raised a knee to get up.

Just before you could stand there was a horrible ripping sound while the building shook before you felt yourself sliding back away from Loki. Your nails dug into the floor, trying to anchor yourself while you glanced behind you to see that the floor was falling apart and down a couple floors below.

‘’Loki-‘’

‘’hang on!”’ he yelled, getting onto his belly and crawling towards the ledge you hung off in as if the floor had literally made a cliff. ‘’take my hand-‘’ he told you, Steve having to back off as the floor in front of him crumbled, leaving you and Loki on crumbling floor patches held by barely a thread while he clung to the now useless doorway.

‘’almost-‘’ you breathed, your fingertip brushing against Loki’s before another blast was shot, this time you could see the flames from the broken window beside you where you quickly covered your head, the glass scattering beside you before you felt yourself being elevated into the air. Once you opened your eyes you could see yourself falling, your back towards the ground as you passed several floors whose floors had collapsed too. As soon as you felt like you were going to hit the ground- squeezing your eyes shut, you suddenly felt strong arms envelope around you while you fell, opening your eyes to see Loki holding you close.

There was a sense of relief upon seeing him, even though you both now were falling through the broken floors, some pieced scraping against your sides and legs that still clung to the original frame before you suddenly hit the ground with a thud, pain shooting through your body where your cheek rested against Loki’s chest, indicating he had used himself to absorb most of the impact so you could land on him.

‘’-you okay?..’’ Loki grunted, a hand on the back of his head where he winced from hitting it on the ground.

‘’y-yeah.. are you oka- look out!’’ you screamed, by the gods mustering up the strength to shove him out of the way while the building’s ceiling came crashing down amongst you both, causing darkness and dust to be in the air while Loki heard a gut-wrenching scream come from amongst the rubble.

‘’Y/N?! Y/N!!’’ he yelled, ignoring his pains while he looked around, coughing while he waved the dust from in front of him to see, moving broken concrete and wood out of the way before he finally turned the corner of the largest piece to find you.

Pain shot up in waves through your back, your fingers curling into fists on the ground while you stayed laying on your side while your legs kicked out to try to wretch yourself free and your hands searched for something to pull at. It hurt so much- you felt like you wanted to throw up while your skin began growing cold and your face draining. ‘’L-Loki..’’

‘’I’m here Y/N I’m here-‘’ he breathed, kneeling down at your side as his hands hovered over your body, not sure if he should touch you while his eyes searched for injuries. That’s when he saw it..

Amongst the largest part of concrete rubble, your wings stayed pin right underneath them.

‘’oh gods..’’ Loki whispered, his voice hushed as to not scare you while his eyes frantically looked over the rock. Using his shoulder and arms, he rammed against it, hearing a yelp leave your lips while he used all his god strength to try to push it off. ‘’fuck..’’ he cussed, Midgardian language slipping out as he ran his fingers through his hair while his eyes widened, trying to figure out what to do.

‘’Loki..’’ you breathed, your voice weak as you tried taking in proper breaths through your shock.

‘’yes Y/N? yes? What do you need?” he asked, his voice shaky as he immediately knelt at your side, a hand grasping yours that shook just as much as yours.

‘’Loki… cut them off..’’

Tag List: @violethaze @fire-in-her-veinz

[batsplat]

Oh im obses whit your blog like you are such a great historian on vale and love the way you analys stuff admire the way of writing all of your toughs in such a corent way 🩷🩷🐹

this is so nice, thank you!! okay so this ask was initially sent in response to this post about how marc knew what a dick valentino was to his rivals and appreciated/wished to emulate that side of him, in particular in the context of copying the jerez pass. and... well, there is one more follow-up post to that I did want to make. it didn't really work within that post because it's pretty speculative, but I think it's fun! here goes

so you know argentina 2018, right, big drama, reconciliation over, bla bla (I promise this is going in a more fun direction, stick with me here). there's a bit of marc's post-race media scrum that I am a wee bit obsessed with. or well, two specific lines, one in english (0:00) and one in spanish (1:02) - I've included the full responses for context, but in this post I'm really only interested in those two lines

in english:

But he was in the past also 25 years old, and will remember, everybody.

and in spanish:

He has also been 25 years old and, well, I hope that people also remember.

... 25 years old, did you say?

okay, look, fair warning. the rest of this post is going to be reading too much into what was probably an off-handed comment - even if, I'd just like to point out, it is something he felt the need to say twice. but let's just have some fun here, and read too much into it. as a treat

so obviously the most generic way to read this is him saying 'well valentino used to be really aggressive on-track too, so people shouldn't be criticising me more than they did him'. thing is, I wouldn't say there was that much of a noticeable decline in how aggressive valentino was being, and 2017 did still feature some major scraps where valentino very much got his elbows out (cf assen and phillip island, I included a bit more detail on this in the marc race rec post). sure, valentino did increasingly have his reservations about some of the behaviour of younger riders, so maybe he was less aggressive now relative to the field... but I just don't feel like that's quite what this line is implying. it's also not about valentino making 'mistakes' in general, because there would have been no reason to refer back to past-valentino in that regard... the 25 year old version of valentino was considerably more error-free than the 39 year old

so then, my theory is that it's about valentino's controversies! that's what people "will remember", right - it's not the general style of riding, not just innocent mistakes, it's the times when valentino caused a bit of a stir on and off the race track. now, again, you could go the generic route here and say 'ah well maybe marc is just thinking of all the mess valentino got himself involved in when he was younger, from getting into a fist fight with max biaggi at age 22 to pissing off casey stoner through his aggressive riding at laguna at age 29'. but let's say for a moment that marc was thinking a bit more specifically than that... after all, if we're just talking about valentino controversies in general, surely marc should be able to think of a rather more recent example where valentino, like marc at argentina 2018, caused another rider to crash and was subsequently penalised for his riding? of course, marc probably didn't want to bring up that particular controversy - but it's still interesting he feels the need to refer back to a younger version of valentino at all, the fact that this crossed his mind in the first place to make him bring it up unprompted while making his case. so maybe when marc, who is after all a known valentino rossi fan, refers twice to what valentino was like at "25 years old"... he is in fact thinking of what valentino was like when he was 25 years old. and in what year would that be? well, here's the thing. it would be 2004

readers of the sete post can probably guess where I'm going with this, but let's just take a moment to review what specific on-track incidents marc could be thinking of here. let's give him a little bit of extra leeway in terms of the age, even though I trust marc to be more on top of the exact age gap than valentino was in times past. let's throw in one year either way, so 2003 to 2005, and draw up a list of any particularly controversial races valentino was involved in. here's what I've got:

assen 2004 - valentino executed a hard overtake for the win on the last lap on sete gibernau. he's not in complete control and almost loses the front at the next corner, which would have taken them both out

qatar 2004 - after his team rubber up his grid slot the night before, valentino gets slapped with a back-of-the-grid penalty. he ends up crashing out of the race and burns his relationship with sete in the aftermath

jerez 2005 - at a time when their relationship is already very chilly, valentino and sete engage in another duel. valentino executes a block pass with contact at the final corner and is booed by the crowd

motegi 2005 - the first chance to seal that year's title, and one valentino would very much have liked to take to spite honda. an unwise overtaking attempt on melandri leaves both on the ground

so, my guess is that neither assen nor motegi were really big enough controversies to fit the bill, though maybe they stuck in marc's mind as instances of 'reckless riding' that he includes in a more generic internal understanding of young valentino rossi. we do of course know for a fact that marc was more than aware of what happened at jerez 2005, not least because he, you know, directly copied that move twelve years later (again, link to the relevant post). like marc in argentina 2018, valentino barged into a rival in rather controversial fashion, and obviously it also made the relationship between him and said rival deteriorate still further. sure, you can't really argue the move was 'as bad' as argentina 2018, but as far as I'm concerned it has the same general vibe

you know what else has the same general vibe? here's a race description for you:

a 25 year old rider is sent to the back of the grid for a reason they consider unfair

they proceed to deliver a phenomenal performance even by their lofty standards, quickly working their way up to a position that seemed unattainable to them

they barge a rival out of the way in their impatience, reaching back to apologise for the move

the race ends poorly for them and they fail to score any points

afterwards, their relationship with a rival is ruined as a result of the events of the race, and the whole thing remains a lingering controversy for years to come

one race that fits this description is, of course, argentina 2018. the other is qatar 2004. there's obviously plenty of details that are significantly different - valentino's move on barros is less egregious and far less controversial, and his race ends in the gravel rather than with a post-race time penalty. still, that start of valentino's? the impatience? the post-race fury? the repercussions this race had? come on, look at the race footage I included in the qatar post and tell me there's not a little bit of a shadow of that qatar fury to the argentina recklessness

this is a point I snuck into the marc race recs post, where I included this excerpt from a post-argentina 2018 write-up:

phillip island 2003, hm? as it happens, in the qatar post, I did include a bit of the autobiography that compares those two specific races:

so, phillip island 2003: a performance that made everyone wonder just how much valentino had left in reserve to draw on whenever he needed it. what valentino is saying here is that this performance wasn't a result of him holding back in all the other races that year - this was speed that was accessible to him only in that moment because he was so angry. so yes, maybe it's a valid question to wonder what would have happened at phillip island 2003 if it hadn't just been the ghost of his bike that had to pick its way through the stragglers. then again, valentino says it's not just rage that does the trick for him - it's controlled rage... which is all well and good, except when you lose control

and see also:

that's what argentina 2018 is all about, isn't it? it's a performance that's rooted in impatience, in restlessness, in frustration - where marc tuns his "rage into pure speed", as valentino would put it, in a hubristic dismissal of the rest of the field. ideally, the two of them channel those emotions to spur themselves on to special, signature performances... but sometimes, it gets the better of them. it got the better of marc that day in argentina and cost him the tentative peace with valentino. at qatar, it could have cost valentino the title

(also shades of this in jerez 2020 - an error sets the stage for some extraordinary pace before it all goes wrong) (catalunya 2003 is a fun more compact nephew to that race without the unhappy ending)

now, look, am I saying that marc was really referring back to qatar 2004 specifically, a race that had happened fourteen years earlier, when making an off-hand remark in a post-race media scrum as he tried to do some damage control in the wake of one of the most controversial races of his career? well, no. he could have been! but it's unlikely. maybe he's shit at maths and was actually thinking about laguna 2008 after all. still, I would like to once again point out that he felt the need to mention valentino's behaviour at age twenty five not once but twice. he's telling us that he wants people to remember what valentino was like at that age, and in the most literal sense I am doing what he's asking for. surely it's worth at least noting that there just happens to be a race where valentino was at that exact age and his temper overcame his rationality, leading to him making a costly error... surely it's worth acknowledging this...

even if marc wasn't actually obliquely referring back to that race or indeed any of the races I mentioned above, of course the parallels between valentino's foibles and marc's are in any case interesting. it speaks to how they get those special performances out of themselves, the similarities in how they operate in that regard... but of course also in how they both sometimes stray rather close to the limit, how they repeatedly flirt with crossing the line. a stubbornness and a hubris and a rage that can sometimes lead to disaster for the both of them. and another thing - who knows if marc was thinking about qatar 2004, but he must have been thinking about something. that's the point of that jerez post, right... marc is valentino's successor in so many ways, he has fashioned himself in valentino's image - and he keenly grasps and remains aware of all the different aspects of that legacy. he's the most accomplished of valentino's students and he felt strongly that what he did in that race in argentina was in some way comparable to what valentino himself had been doing at his age, part of the same tradition even. yes, to some extent marc is obviously accusing valentino of hypocrisy here: how can you judge me when you were once young and foolish too? his tone isn't exactly filled with remorse either, is it, he's pretty feisty in that media scrum! still, there's something more to it... something almost poetic to the whole thing, wouldn't you say? valentino had just accused marc of ruining the sport - and in response marc wants people to remember that they are just the same

[lilacxquartz]

taking chances;

gn!reader x fiddleford h. mcgucket

summary: tensions were an all time high with your college roommate, so when you both found yourselves pushed together at a party, things started to make even less sense — themes: mutual pining, gender neutral reader, first-time kissing, eventual smut — w.c: ~5k • ao3 • masterlist

a/n: by request, i hope this fulfills your vision after everything that we’ve discussed, i tried my best with it. <3 let’s put him at around 20-22 here.

It was late summer—just the first week of September, in fact. The air outside was still warm and the skies were still welcoming, bright, and full of promise. College was going to be your to be your much-needed fresh start from a life you hoped to leave behind—it just took you a while to get there, you supposed. And now here you were, ready to start life anew in the dead center of Backupsmore College, ready to take on whatever it threw at you.

You were moving in alone, without the help of a relative or a friend, and albeit uncomfortably, lugged your suitcase up the three sets of stairs to your assigned dorm. Number 321, it was. You found it funny, that to go forward, you were to be living in a room that signaled the opposite. Three. Two. One. Not one, two, three. A bittersweet perspective perhaps, but it was what it was and you were always good at that—noticing what went on between the lines—except perhaps where it should have mattered.

Your hand pressed down onto the door handle, not quite sure what to expect as you pushed inside. There was an option to go for a solo room, but you told yourself that if it was going to be different this time—then that meant no more closing yourself away—no more running or isolating, you were going to push through, even if it meant being uncomfortable through a lot of it.

You only started to notice such a thing after you graduated, after all, that pretty much everyone in high school was just as lost as you were, but they pushed forward, simply because that was the only choice. It took you a while of internal loathing and self-inflicted sabotage to get past that point, but now you were ready.

(Because if not now, then when?)

A lanky figure stood before you, dropping something out of a box that they were in the process of unpacking. The first thing you noticed about him was the way his glasses sat crooked against his nose and the way that his shirt messily spilled out of his mustard-yellow jumper, which you noticed, by the way, was perhaps actually stained slightly with real mustard. You found all of those select little details to be oddly endearing in your first impression.

Just like you, there was an equally awkward and lost individual right in your personal space—a comfort like no other—you were so alike (and perhaps more than you both even knew).

Your new mystery roommate seemed startled at your sudden entry, his shoulders stiffening as he frantically whipped his head to the side to take a good look at you. Before you intruded, he was hunched over a desk that was a mess with wires, screws, and an odd sort of contraption. His glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose with his mouth propped ajar as he searched for a response, his mind faltering for a moment.

You could almost see the mental cogs in his brain turning, trying to figure out how to be a normal human being in such a sudden moment. You were doing the same, after all.

“Oh, uh, hey,” he spoke up after a hot minute, his accent letting slip a little to hint at where he might have been from, “you must be… my new roommate?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” you managed, sounding equally nervous.

“I’m Fiddleford,” he replied, extending a shaky hand towards you before clearing his throat, “Fiddleford McGucket.”

You took hold of his hand to shake it. His grip was a little too firm, yet somehow clumsy, but it was warm and you could tell that beneath the nervous demeanour that he let on, that he was kind.

You introduced yourself next, giving him your full name before flicking your eyes back to the mess he caused on his side of the room. “So, are you, um, working on something there?”

“Ah,” Fiddleford replied, his eyes widening as he stepped over to block out the sight with his body, trying to desperately avert your gaze to other matters, his voice trembling as he couldn’t help but stammer out a slurry of scatterbrained responses, “j-just a little, uh, w-well, it’s nothing real fancy. I’m just trying to… rig up a uh, an old radio to work with some other equipment I have, it’s n-nothing too exciting.”

Perhaps it was your fault for letting the conversation die, but you got the impression that he didn’t want to talk about what he was doing, so you didn’t press the issue further. Instead, all you did was clear your throat and tell him that you were going to be back to collect the rest of your stuff, finding it almost hurtful that by the time you returned, he wasn’t there.

Just faint fragments of him remained; his suitcase was there, and his stuff was unpacked, but he moved away his project off to somewhere else.

(Did he think that he was bothering you?)

All potential interactions fizzled down after that first meet and the two of you, despite seeing each other every single day. The two of you both settled into your respective corners of the room and that seemed to be the end of your initial pleasantries. Slowly, your side started to feel like more of your own, while a cold, unfamiliar side filled out the opposite end—your roommate who was more of a stranger—locked himself up in his own little world, unwilling to share beyond what was was already said.

On occasion however, you stole half-asleep glances at Fiddleford as he tinkered around during the odd hours of the night when he thought you weren’t watching. When he thought you were asleep. You liked watching him work on whatever it was beyond the clinical glow of his work lamp, finding all of those focused mutterings that escaped his lips to sound oddly sweet, even finding the satisfied smack of his lips when something went right to sound cute, rather than something bothersome.

He was fascinating in a quiet, unassuming way but that also made him frustrating, because something about him had also made you hesitate—leaving you unsure as to how to bridge the gap between you—that over time, kept moving further and further away.

Days of this later turned into weeks as the two of you settled into the every day of college life. The two of you lived quietly within each other's company, ate in the same canteen and even attended the same overlapping classes—but it was like there was an invisible wall keeping the two of you apart. Every interaction you had was a little too curt—a little too formal. He was far too polite and you were far too cautious, but beyond that, you couldn’t help but feel that there was something more to it all.

Like a buzzing sort of electricity when you were both together, a current that was blocked off by something in the way, yearning to trickle free, buzzing restlessly beneath the surface.

It was especially evident and highly suspicious when in the early mornings, you’d both try to get ready in as much of a rush as possible. You’d both avoid eye contact and dress in the corner or the communal bathroom instead and in class, you’d sit several rows apart, stealing occasional glances from each other, both of you quickly turning your heads away rather than letting the friendly gaze linger.

The evenings were the most difficult though; the small dorm room when packed with two people that you were by then certain, were at least curious about each other yet neither brave enough to make the first move, was a suffocating experience.

Something about it all felt strangely… intimate?

Sometimes, he’d break the silence with what sounded like a weak attempt to make small talk, often about the weather if it suddenly changed outside or idly complain about the class assignments but not making too much sense. At times, you’d indulge and reply, only for the few words exchanged to falter and drop again.

It wasn’t that you meant to be this self-destructive, because if anything, you wanted nothing more than to get to know everything about him—but every time you made the conscious effort to reach out—the words you delicately crafted caught in your throat, dissolving into something unintelligible.

(And if you were reading him correctly, he was struggling with the same damn thing.)

~~~

One fateful evening, deep into the semester, you found yourself at a party, believe it or not. One of the dorm residents, Stanford Pines, convinced (or rather, bullied) you into accepting what he described as one of the biggest parties of the century, swindling you into going, saying that it would be good for ‘someone like you’ and feeling caught out, you reluctantly accepted it. The party itself wasn’t your scene, not by a long shot, but you stuck around as if wanting to prove something to yourself—perhaps to others, too.

The dim lighting flickered against your eyes, making you feel woozy, especially when coupled with the cheap beer that was shoved into your hands, but you were there. You were at a party. In college. That was the dream, right? That’s what people most looked forward to when they were there… right?

The house was packed but also, you were unsure as to whose it was. The party was supposedly organised by Stanford Pines, but he left very little answer as to where this place even came from. Nobody else seemed to mind, however, with everyone else happily drinking and dancing to a tune that you didn’t even recognise. In fact, you couldn’t recognise anyone here either. You were alone… until you weren't, locking your eyes onto a familiar face just across the living room.

Fiddleford. Standing all alone in a corner with a half-empty drink in his hand, looking less than thrilled to be there. Just like you.

You pretended to not see him however, as if to not give him a reason to leave, but on occasion, you’d flick over little glances at him that you were certain he caught onto. It felt like that, in a sea of overflowing confidence that ensnared around you, your mutual nervousness fed off of each other, creating something once again stagnant, pushing you both apart yet again.

Just as you were about to drift off to another room, however, Stanford Pines’ voice cut through the room, somehow overriding his presence through the chaos, “Alright everyone, listen up. We’re all, we’re…” he slurred a bit through his announcement, seeming more than just ‘drunk’, “we’re gonna play a nice little game of spin the bottle.”

“Bit childish, don’t you think?” a voice shouted out—you didn’t recognise whose it was.

“Ah, to hell with maturity,” Stan replied, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, “gather ‘round, we’re gonna,” he hiccuped mid-sentence before continuing, “we’re all gonna get to know each other.”

The crowded house collectively both groaned and cheered at the same time, leaving your stomach churning with dread. Almost instinctively, you started to back towards the front door, but then you felt Stan’s hand clamp down against your shoulder before you could make your escape.

“And where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

“I-I uh…” you trailed off as you stammered, “I’m really not cut out for this kind of thi—”

“Nonsense,” he huffed, although in a teasing way, interrupting you mid-sentence, something about his tone was less taunting and more friendly as if struggling to convey that he was plotting something deeper than he let on. “You’ve gotta have fun at least once in your life and you’re not exactly helping yourself standing around on the sidelines like that.”

Before you could protest further, Stanford dragged you over to the floor, propping you down right in between a stranger but also right next to Fiddleford. The circle spanned surprisingly far and all sorts of people were pushed up to the shoulders against each other as you barely kept up. The chaotic slur of both laughter and conversation alike had already dizzied you, leaving you feeling painfully out of place.

And then, it all somehow got worse when the bottle that Stanford spun had landed right on you, almost abruptly so, somehow stopping mechanically, as if controlled. Just like in a nightmare, the whole crowd of unfamiliar faces snapped right at you, focusing the spotlight of unwanted attention where you didn’t want it to shine.

Stanford clapped his hands, seeming almost giddy. “Truth… or dare?” he asked, a mischievous glint playing in his eyes.

“T-truth!” you exclaimed almost immediately—there was no way in hell that you would have him make you do something even potentially humiliating.

“Yeah?” he smiled, thinking to himself for a moment. “Alright... Do you have a crush on anyone in this room?”

Suddenly, you gulped. “H-hey, that’s not fair…”

“It’s not a fair game,” Stan dismissed with a shrug, “you picked truth - so that’s on you.”

You stammered, only to be cut off, “B-but—”

“—No buts,” he shut you up, “rules are rules.”

“N-nobody?” you weakly responded, trying to will yourself to disappear.

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that,” Stan encouraged, “it’s just a game, you can say anyone, really.”

You warily looked around as you tried to pick a ‘safe’ option, only for your eyes to fall upon Fiddleford who was looking at you with wide eyes. It was only a couple of seconds, but your gaze lingered for a little too long, hinting at the obvious truth that you had long refused to acknowledge. Stan, however, was having none of that, picking up on your longing right away.

“Ah, what’s this?” he piped up. “Looks like there is someone after all, huh?”

“W-wait, I didn’t say anything—” you stammered again, only to be predictably cut off once more.

“—Fiddleford, huh?” he continued, watching with some amusement as you buried your sights into the floor, with Fiddleford mirroring you, looking away from you in a rush of embarrassment. In Stanford’s mind, he always knew deep down, you both had something going on, and perhaps he was doing the wrong thing by pushing you both together like this, but he also knew that if you weren’t ready now, then someone like you was never going to be ready without a little push to begin with. It was a necessary push of evil, where he’d get to play the bad guy that would hopefully, leave you with a good end.

This also meant that of course, he wasn’t finished meddling, at least not yet.

Continuing, Stanford got up from where he was sitting, walking over to yank you both up by the collar. “Alright, alright, you’re both gonna figure out whatever… this… is,” he announced, dragging you both towards another portion of the house, shoving you both into a closet.

“W-wait a minute,” you and Fiddleford both protested in unison, your voices sounding completely panicked at the thought and yet, the protests were useless as they fell upon willingly deaf ears. The crowd was clueless as they watched on, yet encouraging as they cheered for the two nerds who were impromptu shoved into a small space together, likely imagining all sorts of things.

The door then slammed shut and before you could both finish voicing your concerns, the lock clicked into place, leaving the two of you sealed in a closet full of coats and in the dark. There seemed to be a light switch, but it didn’t work, leaving you pushed up against each other in a pitch-black space.

You stood stiffly with him for a moment, awkwardly trying to shuffle around the area, only to bump into him several times. Fiddleford did the same, unable to direct himself at all.

“S-sorry,” he muttered out, even now, sounding a touch bit too polite.

“It’s… fine,” you quickly replied, sounding just as formal as you always did.

A mutual silence then brewed between the two of you beyond that short exchange. It was heavy and suffocating, perhaps even more so than the tiny stretch of space between the two of you. Just outside the door, the party continued without you, the sound of clapping and cheering steadily ongoing. Some people chanted for others to chug whatever, while the creak of beds could be heard just upstairs.

“D-do you think they’re letting us out anytime soon?” Fiddleford warily asked.

You shook your head before realising he couldn’t see you, then sighed. “No, I-I don’t think so. Stan locked the door and just… left us here, so, probably not after some time…”

“O-oh,” he fretted.

Another silence followed once again, with neither one of you willing to break the tension apart. You could tell that he was fidgeting as the picking of his nails intensified and his breathing grew nervous. Both of you were lodged in this dreaded place, both seeming uncomfortable beyond your limit.

But then finally, he spoke. His voice sounded a touch hopeful. Something at last changed and Stan’s plan was in motion, “So, did you mean it? …D-do you really like me?”

The question caught you off guard for a moment and if you were anywhere else, you would have tried to run from the question, but you supposed that you couldn’t. Forced to face the truth, you decided to hell with it, and confessed to him at long, long last. “Yeah, um. Yeah, I do. I think I always did.”

You could hear Fiddleford gasp in what almost sounded like disbelief. He tried to reply to you a couple of times, but his words fell flat from the moment he uttered them, and then, after a while, something coherent finally stuck. “R-really? I mean—I thought that maybe you didn’t, especially after you left so suddenly after when we first met… Really?”

“Ah, yeah, I’m sorry,” you backtracked, “I guess I was just as nervous as you and… I didn’t really know how to continue the conversation,” you admitted, hating in a way at just how vulnerable you sounded, “I’m not good with this—I’m not good with people, but I… liked you, yes, from the very moment I saw you.”

The sincerity in your voice caught the two of you both off guard, enough so to even make him stop fidgeting. You listened in as he tried to form a response, the numbing darkness somehow feeling almost loud, leaving you feeling a little overwhelmed from the situation at hand.

“I, uh,” Fiddleford hesitated, letting the silence linger again—even if something about it did feel different this time—it was less heavy and more charged with something else, perhaps that faint spark you once felt, desperate to burst free. “I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to say something smooth, but I’m not that type of person either.”

You cracked a smile, leaving a breathless laugh to roll off of the slip of your tongue. “That’s okay. I’m fucking awful at this, so…”

The silence was at this point, as frequent as it could get, and then suddenly as if by some unseen force, that gap that had been developing between you both had finally dispersed, an unseen force pushing you both together. It wasn’t particularly graceful and it was, very much clumsy, but your lips brushed against his own at long last. You both tasted like stale, cheap beer, and if even for just a moment, the world around you went quiet. Nothing else mattered. The party just outside seemed to fade away, the suffocating void you were both locked within felt lighter, and suddenly, you felt something else arise within you—not just want—but need, too.

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Fiddleford immediately backtracked, but you were done running from your life, so you didn’t let him run from his feelings either.

“It’s okay,” you hushed, trying to calm him. Cautiously, you then reached for his hand, leaning your face in again, although this time with more certainty than before. You wanted this just as much as he did.

The second time you kissed him, it was longer, warmer and when it ended, you felt like a part of you was missing and perhaps it felt that way for him too, because he found himself kissing you again. And again. And again. Each time, it felt all the bit more natural, like it was the only thing in this crazy world that made sense.

You surrendered yourself to more of him, not waiting for a second further as you gave in, but then he pulled back slightly, right before the heat of the moment got too hot, too fast.

“O-oh god,” he shakily murmured out, his breath hot on your lips, “w-what if they hear?”

You paused and considered, listening to the cheers just outside; the drumming on the floorboards for something unrelated and the like. “I don’t think they will… so we might be safe, besides… maybe we shouldn’t care for once?”

“I-I just… I’m worried about the aftermath, I guess,” Fiddleford admitted.

“Ah…” you considered, wondering just what sort of mess would spill around the college if news of such an encounter got out, thinking back to all such other ‘scandals’ between other people, “I think we’ll be fine. The news lasts for a week at best… and besides, do we really both want to continue living in fear…?”

“I… that’s a fair point. I guess not…” he admitted. “Do you really want to do this?”

You half scoffed, leaning into his lips again. “Yes,” you replied in an almost exasperated tone, “I like you and I want to do this… but only if you also want to.”

“A-ah, yeah… I just needed to make sure, I don’t want to pressure you into anything,” Fiddleford fretted again, but ultimately calmed down at your continued reassurance.

You still couldn’t see a single thing in the dark, but you could feel the heat of his body radiating from being parked so close by. His hands fumbled around your frame in the darkness, groping, feeling and exploring but never quite lingering just yet.

“I-I have never done something like this before,” he admitted again, yet still continuing to reach around you.

Your hands shook as they reciprocated his caressing motions, mapping around the unfamiliar contours of his flesh. “Me neither,” you confessed, having no real idea if you were doing anything right or not, “we’ll just do what feels right, I suppose.”

“Y-yeah, sounds like a good plan,” he admitted, continuing to reach around you and feel wherever possible, caring less and less wherever his touch landed.

You both shuffled out of the restrictive clothing you both wore, not quite fully undressing but loosening up however possible. His skin soon met with yours and you leaned in close, your mind racing with how on earth to continue. His arousal was apparent, poking up against you within the limited confines, his fingers dipping a touch lower, reaching to press against your sensitive sex, his movements growing more eager with each passing second and yet, still playing it safe.

You, almost on impulse, grinded into his hardness, feeling your stomach tighten in anticipation. A warm slurry of comforting warmth overcame you, rendering you into a flushed mess all the more that you explored; trailing your touch further down, over to his stomach, his hips and finally… just below.

“C-can you touch me?” he let slip, a sliver of confidence peeking out. It felt so refreshing to hear to be wanted back, for him to need you specifically to return such feelings. It made you react in a responsive manner, feeling your own arousal heighten.

Swallowing hard, you tried to proceed with ease, only to deliver it clumsily instead. You dipped your hands into his trousers, pushing down the unzipped pair. Albeit cautiously, you then wrapped your fingers around his length, feeling it grow hard in the palm of your hand. Fiddleford shook out a stream of stuttered out, ragged breaths, leaning his chin into your shoulder as you started to move your hand in languid motions against his now, fully erect cock.

He moved closer towards you, dropping the clothes you wore to the floor as well, positioning himself right against your sex, guided by his quickly building arousal. Fiddleford still had zero idea how to properly proceed, but did what felt right instead, taking your words to heart.

You reached to tangle your fingers in his hair, your voice sounding somehow both confident yet nervous at the same time, “I-I think I’m ready if you are,” you whispered.

“R-right,” Fiddleford followed on, gripping at your hips to get a good hold on you.

Slowly, he searched around to find entry, easing into your core with one strained slip. Although unseen, his eyelids fluttered in the dark and his lips let out a guttural moan as the sensation of heated pleasure took him over for just a moment. Such admission of being so involuntarily turned on awoke something primal in you and you lifted one leg up, allowing for him to press into a more comfortable position—hopefully letting him move around with more ease, given the constricting circumstances, at least.

“This feel okay?” he quietly murmured, trying his best not to hurt you.

“Uhuh,” you muttered back, placing your hand around his shoulder, trying to hold onto him as best as you could before things took a whole new direction. You wanted this. You wanted this so much. Right here and with him.

“So, I’ll just…” he continued, talking to himself more than you, as if to soothe his fluttering heart—he leaned his hips forward, allowing his length to be swallowed by you, letting himself stand there for just a moment and allowing for you to adjust.

After a moment, Fiddleford then began to move. His initial motions were clumsy at first, with no real idea as to what he was doing, but after some time of you both just feeling around each other, of finding the right position and getting comfortable—it all started to feel so right. The found pace felt natural, good, even. His hands clamped around your waist, bucking into the hilt of your depth with strained composure.

“D-does this feel good for you too?” he whispered, unable to find his voice.

You couldn’t reply with any shred of coherency any longer as your face leaned into the crook of his neck where his shoulders met, something similar to a “yes” might have slipped out, but it was barely audible. Instead, you pulled him closer, feeling as your lower stomach began to feel impossibly coiled—like a wound up spring threatening to break free—you felt so good, so damn good.

The sounds of breathless moans—of skin smacking—of the walls creaking started to fill out the small space. His lips on occasion sloppily reached to kiss on your own, needing somewhere to direct his affections, still riding the high of the recent confession.

“This… does this still feel good?” he asked, sounding more coherent that time.

A hum of agreement left your lips, although it sounded strained on delivery as your peak approached. It was very obvious with just how barely he held onto his crumbling composure, that he too was just as close as you were, with his legs stuttering and his breathing uneven, sounding all the more laboured with each passing moment.

“I… I’m close,” you warned, his hold around you growing intense upon your confession. There was something raw about this whole situation; from the feelings exchanged to the intensity of the situation—everything felt almost dizzying, especially as you (both) reached the point of no return.

Fiddleford followed up next, his hips giving out as a final, pushing thrust let spill of all of his pent up want and need. You felt him twitch inside you, releasing fully into the filled out void of your center. A low groan shuddered out of his lips, with his forehead leaning against the wall. The two of you were just barely able to recollect yourselves, feeling depleted from the aftermath.

“Was… was that good? Did I do good?” he kept asking, his words repeating in a slurried babble, his tone suddenly so tender, yet unsure and even a little afraid—as if he was terrified to hear anything otherwise.

Oh, Fiddleford. Although you couldn’t quite catch a glimpse of his face just then, you could already imagine his eyebrows knitted in anticipation, his eyes nervously scanning over you to gain that validation he so rightfully deserved. This was also new for you, but you felt good after—you wanted to do this again and again, in fact, but only with him.

A breathless nod was all that you could reveal for a moment, the words rolling off of your tongue still slightly disjointed, “Yes, yes. So good. Definitely good. Everything was perfect… you were perfect,” you gushed, pulling yourself back after a moment had passed, lazily fumbling with your clothes to pull them back up.

And for a while, it was all quiet again, but not in an uncomfortable way. It was a mutual silence in which no pressure had transpired between the two of you, allowing for the both of you to recover at your own level before heading out to face the real world again.

Fiddleford tried the door first, finding that to his surprise (and yours), the closet was now unlocked. The two of you had the same racing thoughts flood your mind: when? Had someone heard? Perhaps even seen…? The two of you then thought back to how freeing such a confession felt and how good everything else that followed after, felt good too—so perhaps the fear of being discovered was baseless, or at least, it didn’t quite matter so much anymore.

Whatever would happen next, you would at least not have to deal with it alone.

“Are you okay?” you asked as you squeezed at his hand.

Fiddleford’s voice was still trembling just a little, but his words came out with a newfound sense of confidence, sounding much more certain than he ever did before, “Y-yeah, I think so. I feel fine, but it’s just… the idea of returning to a loud house party orchestrated by Pines is not my idea of a good time.”

You laughed, fully understanding his concerns. “Yeah, it’s… quite something. We can try to beeline for the exit and recover a little in our dorm?”

“Sounds good,” he half laughed, feeling relieved that your mind was in the same place as his before adopting a more serious tone, “so, are you ready to deal with whatever comes next?”

“I am,” you assured, equally abuzz with what could happen, for once in your life not quite caring about how it all looked. The accusations, the given approval or even the lack of it—all of it—for once in your life, you didn’t care about what other people thought because as long as you were by his side because then it would all be worth the trouble.

For once in your life, it was all going to be okay.

You were sure of it.

[syndrossi]

Still thinking about AU where the twins are Aamon's kids and Daemon's age. As much as I'd love to see Aamon alive, it would be interesting to see a "there are 4 young adults left of the ruling family" scenario. Because. They really don't have any of the older Targaryens left around to help. Vaegon and Viserra (if they're alive) aren't around, maybe Alysanna if she survived Jaehaerys? Sure, Jaehaerys himself sat on the throne at a young age, but 1) he had at least a mother as who ruled as regent 2) he didn't have 3 relatives in charge, one of whom (Daemon) could throw something out at any moment.

I'm also wondering where Otto is in this AU. Was he also the hand in the later years of Jaehaerys? Or was it Jon/Baelon? What happens to him after the king dies? It's clear Jon won't trust him, but you have to give Otto credit - he ruled pretty effectively while Viserys 1 was feasting, so throwing out a useful man would be wasteful. Will Otto try to turn Jon against Daemon like he did in canon? Daemon would be furious, I can see how he would adore his cousin he grew up with together. Will he try to bring Jon and Alicent closer together in the future? Or switch to Rhaegar?

If they're around Daemon's age, they'd be 22 when Jaehaerys dies at last, which isn't all that young by ASOIAF standards, honestly. Even if they're a few years younger, 20 would be considered more than mature enough to reign. Viserys would be the eldest, at 26.

Jon's quite savvy, especially with Rhaegar's aid (I think I have them as Aerion = Jon, Valerion = Rhaegar for this AU), so he likely chooses his council and advisors in such a way to maximize/consolidate support. Award Daemon with a position that keeps him happy and demonstrates trust; if need be, grant him his desired annulment from Rhea and give him leave to seek a match to a highborn woman of his choice. He makes Rhaegar his Hand, finds a position that is suitable for Viserys. Corlys is definitely made master of ships if he isn't already, because that's their brother-in-law.

From there, it's a matter of filling other positions with capable men from houses whose favor it would benefit them to court.

I am not sure what Jon decides to do with Otto. Given the twins' age when Baelon dies (20), I could see Jaehaerys being persuaded to let him or Rhaegar serve as Hand rather than Otto.

("Fun" fact: I got Baelon's dates as Hand wrong in Regnal. Apparently Jaehaerys waited until 100 AC to name Baelon Hand, meaning he served in that office for all of one year before his death! WTF Jaehaerys? Especially considering that the man Baelon replaced was also serving as Kingsguard at the time! We'll say that Regnal!Jaehaerys came to his senses and made Baelon his Hand a few years after Aemon's death.)

The thing about Otto is that his talent and ambition make him dangerous. If Daemon's marriage to Rhea is annulled, perhaps he goes after Daemon with Alicent instead? Depending on if Jon or Rhaegar have any heirs from their own marriages yet, he's not that far down the line of succession and Aemma doesn't seem like she's going to be having a successful childbirth anytime soon.

Obviously if one or both of the twins are not yet married, he'd be jumping all over that. One thing I could see is Jon perhaps downplaying Otto's role in the Dance too much, since it was one of scheming rather than a military one. I do know that he's not going to be very successful turning Jon or Rhaegar against beloved family members (of which Daemon certainly qualifies). Their biggest challenge with Daemon will finding the appropriate Daemon-enrichment. I could see them approving a Stepstones war that is properly funded and supported with dragons, so that Daemon gets to live his mini-Conquest dreams. And then, a bit like Viserys, they hope he has a kid or two that can help him settle down.

[frisbys-artwork]

Meet Koobori & Shin

The oldest of five brothers, Koobori was an animal lover from the start, and had his parents take him to zoos almost weekly. Koobori knew he wanted to become a zoologist and conservationist the moment he watched a documentary on an animal network. He also became fascinated by bodybuilding at a young age, and committed to working out to be able to compete in shows, winning 2nd place in a show held in Bushsray at just 17 years old, and became an IFBB Pro by the age of 22, to where he continues to compete to this day when he gets the chance.

Never the type to sit still, if he wasn’t playing sports or actively with his brothers, he was always out traveling the outbacks of Kiwattle, surfing, and diving in reefs; sometimes even volunteering at schools to give wildlife shows to kids.

Shin was born with strong psychic abilities, able to sense the presence of spirits from a young age. For many years he trained as a Kannushi, and was able to banish yurei and yokai from abandoned homes with much ease. At the age of 17 he had decided to join nursing school, since he always enjoyed helping others.

Both met by pure chance. Shin was heading to school when he stopped to check out a large crowd near a convention building, when he spotted Koobori posing for fans and the cameras in all his half naked glory. When he was too shy to get any closer, Koobori practically shoved his way through the crowd to approach Shin and ask him out to the best ramen shop in the city (he described that any trophies and medals he won didn’t matter as much as wanting a date with the Ustonese guy). Shin’s Common was too broken at the time to understand what the Kiwi was saying, but he could tell by the expression alone on the muscular man that he was being asked out. Realizing he was running late, Shin agreed and handed Koobori every form of contact he had, and rushed to school.

Both now have three sons, Giallo (16), Calder (12) and Oshan (9), and expect their triplets (which Kobori promises will be their last kids).

—

Hey guys! Back at it again, and this time with my oldest couple relative to age closeness lol. Yeah, I finally drew an older couple expecting kids, but there’s a reason for that, and that’s because their oldest kid was part of a series of characters I did many, many years ago as the lead of said series. So you can say they aren’t the main characters but that doesn’t matter as I’m not really sure where I’ll head with these two at the moment. I like them a lot, but for further related context Koobori here is actually a modernized drawing of him, now with an improved style and anatomy, design, etc.

Long ago before I came out and before I did much actually characters development, most of my characters were just colorful and there for the sake of being there, so Koobori was married to a woman originally, and so I’ve pretty much decided on redoing the entire characters a new way. Koobori is now married to this guy, who’s an entirely new character, and still has the same amount of kids, only now they’re going to be designed to better suit their designs and origins, etc.

I’ll stop there for now as I want to surprise you guys later on when I get these designs more fleshed out, but I’m happy with this design on Koobori, and I like his hubby. It’s the first time I’ve drawn a fully South Asian characters and damn are they HARD to do.

Here’s the tattoo design on Shin’s shoulder and his badge ID if anyone wanted to get a closer look at them.

Lastly, here’s a comparison of the old and new Koobori. Like wow.

[tsuunara]

,, BSD FANDOM STOP FUCKING MISCHARACTERIZING CHUUYA FOR ONE SECOND CHALLENGE

i need to get this out of my head because i can't do this anymore with ppl who mischaracterize chuuya so much

tw ; opinion and lots of stormbringer and 15 spoilers! i think it's safe to put that here (also sorry for my poor wording of this i'm trying my best here sob sob justice for chuuya!!!)

"chuuya would be a red flag in relationships because he has incredible anger issues and gets violent!"

,, what a bullshit statement LOL i'm (not) sorry for saying this but i really don't think chuuya has any anger issues whatsoever?? NOW JUST HEAR ME OUT FOR A SECOND being short-tempered ≠ having anger issues!!! ,, having anger issues is something you CAN'T control and causes you to say or do things that can cause harm to others. chuuya does NOT have anger issues!!! we relatively don't see chuuya taking his anger out towards ANYONE with NO CONTROL over his actions whatsoever (arahabaki excluded, it's literally a god of destruction)

,, "but he takes it out on dazai!! he fought with him!!"

,, chuuya mentions that it was to SPITE him. when dazai and chuuya are together, i'd say chuuya is more pissed and annoyed because dazai is usually pushing is buttons. he's just a bit short-tempered and loses it a little more easier than others! of course he also does loses his temper a bit whenever he's stressed as well (that one cannibalism arc episode!!! where he said "son of a bitch") but he didn't particularly go KABOOM KABOOM, ifykwim. ,, we can also see him relatively calm and serious with his work in some episodes too!! he's not yapping and exploding all the time, because obviously he's a 22 year old man. throughout these 7 years, chuuya WOULD'VE learned to mature himself and control his emotions ESPECIALLY after going through his trauma.

,, "but chuuya is violent all the time!"

,, "all the time" ? bffr LMAO. okay sure, chuuya is MAFIA EXECUTIVE and that's part of his job. but that doesn't mean he's always killing this and that!! literally in the official wiki it mentions how chuuya isn't "impossible to reason with" when dealing with his enemies!!

,, ALSO FURTHER PROOF THAT CHUUYA ISN'T SOME COLD-BLOODED KILLER WHO KILLS EVERYONE HE SEES!! in stormbringer, we're up to the scene where N literally tells chuuya that he wasn't human and literally TORTURES HIM, verlaine - the man who KILLED off all his friends - gets him to kill N. but guess fucking what? CHUUYA DIDN'T!!! he tried to go for verlaine instead!! and he also sympathized with him because he KNEW where he was coming from as well!!

,, also!! when he was betrayed by the sheep in the 15 arc, dazai gave chuuya the choice of what to do with them when he was ordered to kill both the sheep and the GSS. and chuuya told him not to kill any of the sheep - most likely due to the fact that he actually still sees them as his family (give this man a break wtf) ,, even if we see chuuya angry at times, at most we can justify his anger - i mean who wouldn't go feral if you had to face the man who killed all your friends or the man who literally killed off your original self, tortured you and told you you weren't human? if anything, it's a very human thing if im being honest. (further proof that chuuya is human) ,, now, bringing back to our bullshit statement - why would chuuya need to get angry or violent if he loves his s/o? chuuya may be a red flag and has his flaws but i REALLY don't see the need for him to take any of his anger out on his s/o. he's really not angry 24/7 all the time, nor does he always NEED to use violence even as being part of the mafia - and just so you know, it's confirmed that chuuya would treat women the best out of everyone!!!! so let's just call it a day and go home guys 🤗🤗🤗

tldr; there would be no need for chuuya to get angry or violent if he loves his s/o, being a mafia executive does NOT necessarily mean he is violent all the time as he sympathizes with others, chuuya does NOT have anger issues and just loses his temper a little more easier than others (especially when it comes to dazai), and asagiri literally confirms he respects women.

thank you for coming to my ted talk. have a good day, evening or night ^_^

[cellarspider]

22/30 An old man, allegedly

(Previous) | (Index) | (Next)

⛬

We return once again to that movie I wish to send the gift of a single tribble, Prometheus.

Yes, the movie’s gotten around to a twist it’s been clumsily foreshadowing for much of its runtime: Ol’ Man Capitalism, AKA Peter Weyland, is in fact alive and on the ship. I’ve been informed this was a relatively late addition to the plot, according to the available script drafts. His inclusion makes a stab at some themes. Let’s see how they do.

Content warning for deliberately gross old feet, weird religious imagery, death mention, Holloway mention.

Yes, David’s discovery of a living Engineer has meant it’s time to take Weyland out of the tupperware and reheat him for a bit. And it means we get to see Guy Pierce in the flesh, under a pile of old man makeup.

Weyland looks no less weird than he did as a hologram. In fact, he possibly looks weirder, because we no longer have that excuse for why he looks unnatural. Weyland is very frail, and very frail people’s appearance can change rather drastically in ways that aren’t usually put to film, but frankly, he looks more like Grima Wormtongue has been giving him investment advice.

Weyland is here because he thinks the Engineers can stop him from dying. I’m not certain he’s not already expired, and I’m also not sure where he got that impression. There’s a missing step of logic here, which the movie never mentions, but it’s likely related to the assumptions of christianized worldview: if something is the creator of humanity, then it must also have ultimate power over human life and death. Therefore, appealing directly to it can grant you eternal life. The cosmic watchmaker can replace your gears and keep you ticking indefinitely.

I will go along with this framing for just a bit, particularly because this scene is obviously reaching for some biblical imagery I’ll try and tackle in a moment. When the movie remembers to have characters engage with its themes, there are various reactions to the potential of meeting humanity’s creators. 

Shaw is positioned as a true believer, but what that actually means to her is extremely unclear. She has some curiosity about the details of creation, so she’s not buying tickets to the Ark Encounter or whatever. She assumes welcoming and benevolent intention from the Engineers, but there’s never any indication of what she intends to do here, beyond prove herself right. 

She’s also christian, and she thinks the christian God ultimately created the Engineers. How does that fit into her cosmogony? She has to be the sort of christian that takes Genesis as allegory, but what does it mean that humans were shaped by another species in their own image? Are humans more faithfully created in the christian God’s image than the Engineers were? Does she think the Engineers have souls? Are they angels?

We get no opinion on any of that from her. We don’t even see much of anything about how her apparently strong faith affects her life, beyond having a family keepsake and having belief in things. Holloway at least had an explicit goal in mind–it was a hubristic goal, but it was a goal. He wanted to get all his questions answered about life, the universe, and everything, answered personally, rather than letting anyone else get there first. Finding out the Engineers were dead immediately took the shine off of that, seemingly because he’d thought they were omnipotent and omniscient, despite being positioned as an atheist in the dialog. 

Holloway’s position here was odd, particularly for an alleged scientist. He expresses that the creation of life turned out to be “nothing special” during his drunken funk. This echoes common misconceptions by deeply religious folks about how atheists and/or scientists think: the idea that if you’re so set on finding natural, rational explanations for everything, you’re doomed to view the world without wonder or beauty, just chemicals bouncing around for no purpose. That to seek the logic behind the world is to fling yourself into total anhedonia.

As many others have stated before, that’s not what comes out of it, what they’re describing is in fact called “clinical depression.” Understanding more technical details about how the world works doesn’t take the awe out of it, it makes it even more amazing. I’ve excitedly rambled to people that if sequencing tech was cheaper and easier, I’d love to study the genetics and epigenetics of weeds growing on dirt roads, to find out what makes them different from their cousins living only a few feet away in less crappy soil. The existence of a tuft of grass in dusty gravel is endlessly fascinating to me, and I know just enough about them to want to know more.

But no, Holloway’s behavior is common in depictions of atheists by religious people who fundamentally don’t get that one can exist around religious folks without secretly thinking the same way they do. It’s doubly weird, given how surface-level Shaw’s faith is, in a way that also seems to be written by somebody who doesn’t understand the concept too well.

In any case, Holloway got pre-disappointed in the answers he didn’t get, to the very basic philosophical questions he wanted to ask: why were we made? Do we have a purpose? Those sorts of things. Honestly, he could have had more complex things to say about this, even without dislodging his bro persona. Being a bro does not negate the possibility of thoughtfulness, it just means that thoughtfulness might be expressed differently. I didn’t see the movie doing that with him. 

The only other potentially intentional thing it was doing with him is using the sum total of his behavior as a negative example: don’t question these things, it’ll lead you to despair and death. Not sure if they meant that, but the rest of the movie uses the punitive morality of some slasher movies as part of its basic structure, so it’s not an impossible read.

Skipping over David for now and going to Weyland: he’s all about what the Engineers can do for him. It’s a gesture toward people who approach christianity from a transactional angle. Faith in exchange for something. There are definitely people like that out there. A lot of premillennial dispensationalist evangelicals fearfully cling to the belief that, as long as they say the right words, they’ll bodily ascend to heaven and leave everyone else behind for the Antichrist, conveniently skipping that unpleasant “death” thing they don’t want to face.

For those who grew up with that stuff or those brainrotted enough like me to remember it, yes. Yes, I am comparing Peter Weyland to Tim LaHaye. The dialog in this movie is bad enough that it makes me think of Left Behind.

All of this stuff positions the Engineers as either equivalent to the christian god, or to the imperfect gnostic demiurge who is mistaken for a god. But frankly, the Engineers seem more like they were trying to make a sourdough starter, but the last time they opened the fridge, it’d grown fuzz and smelled awful. They were ready to throw out their project. 

Was there a heavy ritual aspect involved in their actions? Sure. But the movie hasn’t sold me on the idea that they are themselves acting as christian allegory, only that christian allegory is being placed on them by others.

Speaking of Weyland and more christian stuff, he’s getting his feet washed by David.

Must be maundy thursday. Foot washing before entering a dwelling is a practice that started as a practical act in a sandal-wearing culture, and became one of power dynamics and religious symbolism. Water would be provided, or a host would wash the feet of a guest themself, or, if they were rich enough, a servant or slave would do the washing. This is very much the dynamic as far as Weyland is concerned. Weyland believes in souls, David, by his estimation, does not have one, therefore he serves humans.

Of course, foot washing also has connotations of humility, and is strongly associated in christianity with Jesus washing the apostles’ feet after the Last Supper. David has certainly and consistently shown himself to be more competent at everything he does than the other characters, and they wouldn’t have gotten this far without him. He’s working on a level they aren’t, even if he’s still forced to be humble about it. If this is the reading we’re meant to reach for, David’s managing a complicated double-act as Jesus (he’s going to be killed for the sins of man yet rise from the dead pretty soon), and also Judas (he is hella jazzed to betray somebody to their death).

In any case, Shaw tries to convince them not to wake up the Engineer. In response, Weyland essentially goads her about Holloway’s death and her beliefs: “And what would Charlie do, now that we’re so close to answering the most meaningful questions ever asked by mankind? How can you leave without knowing what they are? Or have you lost your faith, Shaw?”

Yes, indeed, Weyland, WWCD. Once you determine that, you do the opposite, and you’ll never be steered wrong.

So of course Shaw decides to go with them.

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Alt-text rambles

https://wheelchair.spinergy.com/collections/wheelchair-everyday/products/lite-extreme-lx 

https://youtu.be/7h8zJHywjAw 

https://www.patheos.com/blogs/slacktivist/2015/11/05/left-behind-index-the-whole-thing/

https://www.slashfilm.com/503786/first-photo-and-video-footage-from-robert-zemeckis-a-christmas-carol/ 

Overflow Ramble #1

I’m in wait-and-see mode on Fallout one right now. I’m not personally a FO:NV person, so I don’t have special attachment to the West Coast stuff, but I see what they were *trying* to do, even if it didn’t land with me at all (TL;DR playing a queer character felt especially bleak thanks to a lack of underground queer culture in the face of the homophobia). 

The trailer looks good, there’s conflict between the BoS and NCR, which hopefully means both factions are going to be the absolute, incurable disasters they should be. Goggins playing a ghoul who helped sell the lie of the Vaults is good, and he’s a damn solid TV and character actor. Dale Cooper and 80s!Paul Atreidies himself Kyle MacLachlan plays the vault overseer, so that’s fun. I’m not a TV person so I don’t recognize the rest of the cast, but I’m hoping it manages to be something good. We’ll find out in April, by which point I’ll hopefully be fREE OF THIS MOVIE

Overflow Ramble #2: Tribulation Force

Close-up of Nick Cage deep in his “paying the bills” phase as Rayford Steele in Left Behind (2014), looking precisely as enthused as he should be, to be playing Rayford Steele. I chose this reaction image because I am not subjecting anyone to flashbacks of the older movies with Kirk Cameron in them. 

Want to know how I know too much about this stuff, despite literally spending my childhood thinking people just entertained the idea of Jesus the way they did Santa Claus around the holidays? 

Because of a blogger by the name of Fred Clark, who decided one strange day in 2003 to write a thorough dissection of the Left Behind books (cite 3). Thankfully for his sanity, he lost steam eventually. …When Tim LaHaye died in 2016. All fear and respect to Fred Clark.

⛬

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⛬

[ask-codeearasure]

The Outer Realms -- Chapter 22

<-[Previous Chapter]

[Next Chapter]->

Wish to refill Ink's Paints? Go to our Ask Box!

—-----

Chapter Twenty-Two:

Honesty Part 1

—----

“Honesty is the first chapter of the book wisdom.”

― Thomas Jefferson

—-

“Come on! Tell me! How do you do it?!” Leo begged, staring at Edelweiss who was sitting across from him. His curiosity was buzzing. This guy’s AU must be crazy compared to all the ones his brother visited.

Leo, Ink and Aster were all curious about how he had such strange spells, from cryokinesis to even the ability to appear human without it being a full on illusion. Though Ink had run off to change his clothes due to being covered head to toe in snow a moment ago, the guy was curious about the human transformation.

“I am also curious. Only Boss Monsters have such power on a daily basis, and the ability to transform into such a convincing human form is fascinating.” said Aster, who sat next to his son.

Edelweiss froze up and searched every word in his mind to try to figure out how to explain the way his powers worked and how he had such powerful magic. Finding the best route to go he took a deep breath and did his best to explain.

“For my Ice Magic, it’s a bit… hard to explain.” he began to use the magic to make a large snowflake made of ice, so he could fiddle with it, usually he’d take apart a gun but he didn’t want to seem threatening, “I’ve alwayz had it. At first I wasn’t all zat good at utilizing it but eventually something happened to… force me to train endlessly to improve my skills so I could join za military. I realized zat, to control the weather, the atmosphere itself, itz all about how zou think about it. Condensation, and controlling it through temperature. Once zou get that, itz as easy az breathing.”

He messed with the edge of the snowflake.

“As for za human form… I got zat for taking za soul of a human. Since it waz za same type of soul az one we already had, it waz given to me. I waz supposed to use it to go to za surface to collect za last few souls we needed, but everyone in za military protested because I waz too young, according to them.”

“Too young?” Leo asked, confused, “How old were you when you got it?”

“Ten.” Edelweiss answered. He didn't even need to think about the answer.

“Ten? And you were in the military?!” Aster exclaimed, “Who let you into the military?! Why?! Where were your parents?” shock and horror laced the hybrid’s voice like a thick syrup.

Edelweiss would’ve rolled his eyelights at the questions. “Yes. King Asgore. Because I needed to take care of my brother. And dead.”

Aster was taken aback by how casually and automatically Edelweiss answered the questions. The soldier likely had heard the questions many times in his life. But it was still shocking. How many AU’s did not have an orphanage? What about relatives? Why would the king of his AU let him in?

As they spoke, Ink had gotten the backpack Edelweiss had brought him and took it with him to the guest bedroom that he had woken up in, minding Error’s napping. They were rummaging through it, looking to find anything that could reawaken their missing memories. He found strange weapons and chains that he had no recollection of, and the empty paint vials that felt alien to him. Sure, they held the paints that helped him, but they didn't feel right. Like they didn't belong to him. He didn’t recall carrying jars with him instead of his usual sash of vials. Even the bag itself didn't feel like it belonged to him. He had no recollection of having it.

Upon taking those items out of the bag, he found a notebook that had several journal entries in it.

Was it his diary? Since when did he keep one? Did his scarf finally run out of space?

He opened up to a random page and began reading.

—--

Entry 5:

The doctors insisted that I need to feel emotions in order to function properly. That they're “important”. That they have a use for self-preservation and having connections with those around me. I don't understand it.

The other patient, Digital Klezmer, also insists that emotions are a necessity. That they are what make the worlds themselves interesting. Diverse.

That being emotionless is like a deck of cards that are all blank.

Nothing they say is really making sense.

It is all illogical.

The asylum itself is evidence of how emotions are useless and do nothing but harm. Perhaps emotions are a mental illness itself.

People are broken, unable to escape their own broken mental states because of their emotions. When I brought this idea up to Digital, he told me that if I kept up this line of thinking I will “lose everything to the house”. When I asked what he meant by that, he said it was Gambling Terminology, essentially meaning that I will lose everything I have and walk away with nothing.

I still don't get it.

What do I have to gain from emotions? What do I lose to not having them?

—-----

Was this even his? He knew exactly what he'd lose by not having emotions. He'd lose his life, his freedom, all his awareness. All feeling in every way, shape, and form. And even then, he had fun, he had connections, he had memories!

He flipped a few pages.

—-------

Entry 15:

Digital Klezmer is the strangest person here. I do not understand him. He always goes and plays the piano in the common room in A-Wing. He will even take the kids of this AU to show them how to play despite his irrational fear of physical contact.

He even taught them several simple melodies.

What did he gain from doing such a thing?

When I asked, he said “Nothing, I just felt like it.”

Though it was hard to understand him. That scarf of his kept getting in the way. Why does he even have it around?

He said it belonged to his brother. Claimed it meant a lot to him.

It's just a scarf.

His AU is gone. It served its purpose. Why keep the scarf around?

—------

Ink frowned and flipped several pages this time only to find something that they couldn't even describe.

The closest thing he could compare it to, was criminal evidence.

The pages were a mess and hard to understand, scribbles and smudges stacked on top of each other with scrawling and chicken scratches for handwriting. The most he could make out were the words ruined, lost, and done.

Ink didn’t know what they could do with any of this, but he now understood for certain this couldn’t possibly be his. Even the writing itself looked flat under normal circumstances, and they could recall they regularly wrote in cursive, for the sake of comparison. But if this was not him, whose diary was this? 

The artist stopped pacing around the room and sat down against the bed’s side, turning to the back of the notebook for empty pages. He fished through the bag for a pen, pencil crayon, something, and got a broken colored pencil, then just to prove to himself that his handwriting was just as good as he remembered, scribbled random words on the empty page.

Okay. Cool. Definitely different.

Ink sucked in a breath and let his head fall back onto the corner of the mattress behind him, letting Error’s snores fill the atmosphere for a second before he started investigating again. Absentmindedly, he reached for the tail ends of his scarf, but their hands closed on nothing. Ugh, they forgot. Without his scarf, Ink felt a little naked.

They sighed and closed the notebook. Maybe they’d ask Error what was up whenever he decided to rejoin the land of the living, but he was… really irritated before Aster took them out of the room an hour ago. 

But seriously, what the fuck was wrong with whoever owns this notebook? Ink didn’t want to profile them, but it was clear the two of them shared some similarity… in the… no-natural-supply-of-emotions part.

Ink ran his fingers up and down the fabric making the brown sweatpants he pulled on a few minutes ago ground him, letting them wander over the teal star patches sewn into it. They couldn’t figure out why reading through all that made them so disturbed, not when a big part of their work as the Guardian of AUs demanded he reads the scripts of every disturbing AU alongside every other story in the multiverse, and they definitely could get worse than Underfell. He felt sorry for whoever couldn’t stomach the simplicity of Underfell’s premise.

Though, that would mean he felt sorry for Dream, which didn’t have the most respectful connotation… oh my god. Dream.

He sat up immediately and went back into the closet across from the bed, fishing out a brown shirt, teal tank top to put over it, and grabbed one of Leo’s old hoodies, previously a bright blue, but turned a worn gray-blue shade with its age. He needed some layers. He just needed them.

Did they find Dream yet, cause he had a sinking feeling where his soul should have been that screamed NO. 

Their body worked on autopilot, swiping a roll of dark gray sports tape and a silver necklace to add more than just brown and teal to their hopefully temporary look. 

Distantly, they heard the front door open and close, catching the vocals of Aster and Leo welcoming in two other sources of voices which they recognized, but was again struggling with names. Aster is married, right…? That would mean he has another parent, and he was blanking on who that could be.

Ink wrapped the sports tape around his feet and ulna and radius, then twisted the necklace around his right arm. If it didn’t look as good as he visualized, they could always change it. The only thing missing still was his scarf and vials.

Okay, they were definitely missing more than that, but they couldn’t think of anything else they wanted right this minute for another layer of self-stability.

Ink sat down again with the bag and pulled out the last thing that stood out, which was another book, and opened it from the middle. The artist was greeted with solid and simplistic patterns, things one would find in birthday party banners from the dollar store, laminated construction paper that hung from the ceiling. It was that kind of deal. Ink flipped through the pages onwards, finding the same thing over and over and over, and the few differences between them that initially began in that middle segment were gradually taken out.

His brows furrowed, paired with another uneasy feeling he couldn’t recall the word to, and flipped back to the beginning, now greeted with more intricate designs and sketches, uses of the paper that had some life etched into it. There was some variety, drawings of people and places, sometimes things one would find specifically in a doctor’s setting, but the one theme common in most of them was this one specific person. 

A skeleton wearing glasses, wearing a particularly fluffy jacket and a worn scarf, as they were shown almost every time they were drawn. Sometimes they discarded the jacket and stuck with a normal sweater, sometimes their face wasn’t even shown as they were drawn from a different angle, but the owner of this book had drawn them so frequently Ink could tell it was the same person over and over again regardless, but the one thing that stuck out to him the most was the presence of tear-tracks stretching down their cheeks from the bottom of their eyesockets.

It was no surprise there were other errors, even glitches that closely resembled them, throughout the multiverse, but none of them looked almost completely like Error.

The artist twisted from where they sat to look at their slumbering friend, then held up the sketchbook, turned to a page with the odd character, for the sake of comparison. 

Error’s lookalike looked tired, more tired than Error himself did every other day, but this contender really took the cake. And in some sketches, the smile they presented made all of it look like there was no weight to it, no bite.

But Ink still couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong here, and it was beginning to irritate him beyond all else. He knew he knew this person too, and it wasn’t just their physical features shared with Error that ticked every box. He saw this person somewhere. He knew he did.

The sound of boots clacking against the floor down the hall snapped Ink out of their frustrations, and a particular pattern of soft knocking was audible from the guest room door.

“Ink, are you in there?”

Oh! That was one of the people that just got here! The artist sprang to his feet, the sketchbook an afterthought, and slowly turned the knob so the squeak wouldn’t disturb Error. Ink peeked out the door, his vision blurring with the minimal movement he had to offer, but could almost make out the person waiting for him. Now it finally clicked. This was Gaster.

Ink, by some miracle, managed to suppress the squeaky part of a squeal, pushing the door out of his way to hug Gaster’s legs as his other father laughed softly through his teeth, getting the hint he should be as quiet as possible as well, and backed away from the door as an extra measure as Ink proceeded to jump onto his shoulder, hugging Gaster’s entire face, their arms covering his eyes in an affectionate squeeze. Somehow, Gaster was able to maneuver the both of them out of the hallway despite his loss of sight and Ink’s refusal to budge, the artist’s ribcage rattling up a storm, making a fucked up purring noise. Gaster laughed, though it was muffled.

He reached up and patted Ink’s head and used the walls of the hallway to guide himself back to the dining room where Aster, Edelweiss, Balloon, and Leo were at. He knew he got to the dining room the moment he heard Aster gasp.

“Ink! Get off of your father! You could get both of you hurt like that!”

Ink whined as he felt Aster grab him by his sides to gently lift him off of Gaster’s face. Aster shook his head as he chuckled to himself.

Sons…

Gaster also seemed to take joy in the moment.

“Glad to see you easily remember dad than you do your own brother.” Leo teased.

Ink stuck his tongue out at Leo who rolled his eyelights.

“I see our guest is feeling a bit more comfortable,” Gaster looked over at Edelweiss who gave a nervous shrug.

“He will if you don’t tease the poor thing.” Aster whispered and used his tail to playfully pat Gaster’s shoulder.

“Thanks for helping Ink, by the way,” Gaster smiled, “He got us very worried there for a while.”

Edelweiss shrugged, “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“Actually wait–” Ink said quickly, “if you can… I mean…do you know where Dream is? Also I’m missing my scarf and a few other things, do you know where they are?”

Aster put the artist down only for him to grab Edelweiss by the shoulders before the soldier could even answer the questions, “Please!”

Edelweiss rubbed the back of his skull and hummed, “I do know where Dream iz, but it will take a while to get zere. Az for zour belongings… I have an idea az to where they could be, but I doubt you’d want to get them on your own, but I might be able to figure out how to get them myself.”

Much to Edelweiss’ shock Ink grinned… then quickly looked away to vomit a pool of his namesake.

“Iz–” “It happens all the time, you’ll get used to it.” Ballon interjected. He didn’t even react when Ink manipulated the mess, shaping it into a carpet, then started changing the design over and over again.

Edelweiss looked at Balloon as if he said the sky was neon pink, and the resident Papyrus’s face brightened in response to his visible shock.

“I’m serious! One day with him will either make you or break you!”

“I think he gets the idea, Dodge Ball!” “Ink, my name is Balloon.” “Peu importe, Ballon.”

Balloon stood up from his seat in a playful threat and cracked his knuckles. “Don’t use your French against me, BROTHER! I WON’T UNDERSTAND YOU!!! I AM BEHIND ON MY FRENCH LESSONS!”

“C'est votre problème de compétence!”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, BUT I, THE HILARIOUS PAPYRUS, WILL ASSUME IT IS AN INSULT!!!”

The artist got the message and leaped out of the way of Balloon attempting to grab him. With a shit eating grin on his face, he hid behind Gaster’s legs like the vertically challenged gnome he is in spirit.

“Is everyone here insane or something?” Chara asked.

Edelweiss decided he didn’t want to die today, thus, he kept his mouth shut.

But as if this world hated him, Ink opened his big mouth. “What, you think you wouldn’t fit in or something, Chair-AH—” Leo swatted them with a rolled up napkin, having joined Balloon in messing with him.

Edelweiss grumbled under his breath, “Erschießen Sie mich.”

He was seriously going to have a long, long conversation with Klezmer about his choices in targets to attack. Along with maybe an extremely long month to a year in Asylumtale. Just… trying to figure out how to get this shitty human soul from pissing him off constantly. Perhaps even convincing Toriel to help him get the damn thing to go dormant so he could just live his life without having to put up with the damn demon every five fucking seconds.

“Verpiss dich.” Chara shot back at the soldier.

He heroically held back the urge to freeze his and Chara’s souls in dry ice.

Thankfully now, the world’s unrelenting supply of spite was put on pause. Ink squeezed himself in-between Aster’s wings and the back cushions of the couch, giggling like a maniac as Balloon quickly retreated and Leo attempted to climb right over their father to get to him, pillow in hand.

But have mercy on his impulsive ass, he got swallowed by their parents’ black and violet feathers, trapped for what could be a few minutes. Being trapped with Aster was no joke. The hybrid monster cleared his throat, keeping his grasp on Leo firm until he gave up the struggle and teleported to Edelweiss’s side, picking a couple feathers out of his eyesockets. “So uh. Know how to write with a quill?”

“I know four people who can, not counting myself.” Edelweiss shrugged, taking the biggest feather. He guessed he owed Izanagi an apology gift. Why were their Gasters like this?

In Leo’s absence, Aster had managed to snag Ink in his hold, but unlike his brother, the artist was content with his fate. Gaster sat next to them and crossed one leg over the other. 

“May I have your attention, Ink?” “Of course!” Ink sat up a little straighter, watching as Gaster took off his top hat and pulled out folded fabric. The ringmaster straightened it out, then turned it to a shade of brown and started adjusting the color to something more faded. Ink leaned in closer to watch Gaster work, always fascinated with his mode of creation, even for the little things. “I wanted to know if you remembered anything before you arrived here with Error.” “Ah…,” The artist’s face fell, “I’ve been asking myself the same question, but I don’t really recall anything… sorry.” “Mm.” Gaster nodded, “I figured as much, but didn’t want to question your companion. Aster already tried with little results.” “Eeegh… yeah, that’s Error for ya!” Ink replied. “Is there anything we can do for you? It’s no secret you have a limited supply of paints. I’ve already made a few trips to the Doodlesphere and back–”

Ink nodded along, his face twisting with dull emotion, but enough for it to be obvious he wasn’t exactly pleased. The artist sighed, and Aster patted their head. “The creators have been gone for a while… I thought maybe everyone was taking a break, but it got too long and– someone came in and destroyed as many AUs as they could reach. I don’t… Error and I have been doing what we can to keep the remaining ones safe. I even brought their papers with me just in case they went back for more, but… I don’t know what else to do. I thought you and dad would help.” Aster and Gaster exchanged an understanding glance. Gaster breathed in, but Aster cut him off.

“I don’t know what we can do for the other universes, but maybe we can help you with your paints? We already made a few attempts, but they didn’t do anything to wake you until Edelweiss came along.”

Ink frowned, deep in thought. “It doesn’t work that way, I don’t think… My paints are created through, well, creation, and seeing how there hasn’t been much for a while, I uh– eheheh… I’m not sure if you can make the paints by yourselves. That’s the only process to it as far as I remember. Wait–” He then sat up a bit to look at Edelweiss. Thinking about Aster’s words he asked, “You got me the paints right?”

Edelweiss nodded.

Ink then asked, “Where did you get them from?”

Edelweiss sighed, “His name iz Sketch, he’s a bit like zou in the vain zat zou both don’t have souls and rely on paints to feel anything. But unlike zou, he refuses to take them. And despite this he doesn’t stop functioning. He only really carried them around because he didn’t want anyone to try to trick him into taking them.”

Ink stared at the soldier. So that bag and those notebooks belonged to this Sketch-person. Wait a minute…

“Wait, can he communicate with the creators too???”

Edelweiss thought about it, “The last time I heard anything about him doing so, he could hear them but never really tried. Mainly observed from a distance. I don’t see why he couldn’t communicate with them. Though I think he can only really hear two of them?”

Only two…

Shit.

Gaster looked down at Ink, “I doubt that would be enough to help recover enough of his medication.”

“Surely your friend knows more creators…” Balloon mumbled.

Weiss cringed at the word ‘friend’, “I can’t even say he knowz those creators. Like I said, he only observes them. Maybe he and Ink can go around looking for some. But I cannot promise anything.”

“It’s better than nothing.” Leo shrugged.

It was a gamble, but Ink had to admit it was better than nothing. Before Ink could say anything he saw Error walking into the room, stretching all the tension he could out of his bones.

“Error!” Ink exclaimed, “Have a nice nap?”

Error nodded, “Mmmhm–” he froze and stared at the soldier. Eyeing the shorter skeleton suspiciously.

“Oh, that’s Edelweiss!” Ink said only for the glitch to suddenly attack the soldier with a flurry of scarlet bones. When the shock wore off, they found the chair was impaled beyond repair, but Weiss was gone.

Weiss was barely able to dodge the attack but was able to make a quick teleport to the other side of the room.

“ERROR, WHAT THE—”

“You IDIOT, that’s the guy who shot Dream!” Error growled, “That Klezmer guy was the one who told us that, remember!?”

Edelweiss didn’t deny it.

—---

Klezmer watched as the multiverse went dark. He hated it. Fact was he hated the darkness of what always appeared to be Death. It was just something that made him shudder. He found his target and yet had to contend with the fact that his target was likely going to kill him if he didn’t find Edelweiss should the worst come to fruition. That was his end of the deal.

If anything were to happen. If he were to find himself nearing Death’s door. If he were to be running out of mana. He needed to find Weiss and just be nothing more than a mouse leading the predator to a different target for his own survival.

It was the worst feeling in the world. But here he was, with the weapons that Edelweiss crafted for him.

Edelweiss had discovered that enough gravity magic could force the arrows to shatter. It was thought only Morabito himself could ever break the arrows and destroy them – powderize them. But no. Edelweiss, being the weapons master he was, found that enough Gravity Magic was the one other factor the arrows had no other choice to give into. It took a lot of mana, but he was able to craft the many weapons they all had been relying on to try to at least incapacitate the abomination that was Nightmare.

But this… this was practically his Magnum Opus. The epitaph to Nightmare… hopefully.

Ribbon-spears woven with Klezmer’s strings coated and woven with strings made of the Positivity Magic Morabito had to make the arrows. He had about twenty, considering that he often had Edelweiss’ help with weaving all of them when they were first developed. But this would allow him to be able to control the weapons without even thinking about it, as always.

He had them all pulled back the same way he had them in his fight against Ink. The rotating strings lending their momentum to the ribbon-spears, all the strings pulled taught just to lend to their soon launch to have a velocity and power that would rival any arrow’s pound-per-square-inch.

Here he stood on a gaster-blaster waiting for the abomination to show itself. He even had a ribbon spear, unfurled and wrapped around his neck like a scarf. He knew that if anything, this was going to be a fight to the death, whether he looked for Edelweiss or not. It wasn’t an exaggeration.

That creature was only against killing because it preferred torture. Calling it a monster was insulting. It was more than a monster, more than any demon Izanagi could ever summon. It was worse than that, and the issue was there weren’t enough words in the English language that could properly describe it.

And Klezmer was suicidal enough to say ‘Fuck it, I’ll fight the damn thing to bide Dream some more time to recover because balance and whatever.’

The moment he spotted the damn creature, Klezmer held back the urge to vomit. He wasn’t sure why. Fear? Maybe. Disgust? Possibly.

A complex mix of emotions that couldn’t even be described due to the fact that he could hear Death’s humming as it observed him and the damn creature, knowing what the outcome would be despite the fact that nothing has happened yet?

Definitely.

That damned song.

Oh Death, won’t you spare me over til’ another year?

That accursed song.

That song it loved so much because it showed its favorite aspect of the living. The unyielding begging to be spared from being taken.

Klezmer summoned the embodiment of his contract: The Lantern. He stared at it. Its faint emerald glow made him feel uneasy. He kept it.

He swore he heard a chuckle.

He took a deep breath and used the spell Edelweiss taught him: Calculation.

With a wave of his hand he was able to see where his target was and all the escape routes it could take. It was as if the Check spell was more advanced. More designed for enhancing lethal spells. The moment it finished…

He fired 18 of the ribbon-spears at his possible murderer.