#but even summaries may be easier than tagging

[brekitten]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Danny Phantom Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Danny Fenton & Tucker Foley & Sam Manson Characters: Danny Fenton, Tucker Foley, Sam Manson Additional Tags: Inspired by Fanart, beta read so we don't die like danny, No One Knows AU, Ghost Zone (Danny Phantom), Ghosts Are Actually Dangerous Summary:

Humans have no reason to trust ghosts. They're dangerous - and often malicious - beings, completely driven by instincts and Obsessions without a care as to whether or not they're harming the fragile mortals around them. Danny sees no reason to contradict this belief - it's all true, and the more wary humans are, the better.

But when a fight causes his best friends to fall through a portal to the ghost realm, he wonders if everyone fearing ghosts like Phantom is really as much of a good thing as he thought it was. Because Sam and Tucker are in a lot of danger now, and if he doesn't get them to safety, they'll be killed.

If only he could get them to trust him enough to let him help...

The brainworms got ahold of me and refused to let go. I caved this morning and this fic is the result. Based on this and this by @zillychu! Beta read by @the-infamous-only!

[novaursa]

req for an aegon ii x reader who has a similar role of margaery tyrell? (love-bombing him so they can be betrothed and stuff)

she very easily manipulates aegon and basically uses his mommy issues to get whtv she wants (obviously bothers alicent to no end).

Web of Gold

Requests are closed!

- Summary: Alicent could only watch as you handle her son like a lioness who plays with her food.

- Paring: lannister!reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Next part: aegon in love

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

It’s a beautiful morning, yet the tension between you and Alicent Hightower crackles like a summer storm. You can feel her eyes boring into you from across the room, but you’ve become quite accustomed to her watchful glares. If anything, you thrive on them.

You smile sweetly, dipping your head toward Aegon as he lounges on the Iron Throne, looking far more relaxed than any king should. He’s watching you with that same eager gleam in his eyes, waiting for whatever praise you’ll offer him next. It’s become a game for you at this point—how much can you say before he completely melts? And it’s easier than it should be.

"My king," you say softly, stepping closer, your golden Lannister curls bouncing as you move. "You look especially regal today. Like Aegon the Conqueror himself reborn. Do you know what I see when I look at you?"

Aegon straightens slightly, his eyes widening with interest. "What?" His tone is eager, as though whatever you say might be the single most important revelation of his life.

"I see a man destined for greatness. Aegon, you are so strong, so powerful, and—" you let your voice drop into a breathy whisper, "so very wise." You emphasize each word, drawing out your compliments in a way that sends a flush of pride creeping up his neck.

Aegon shifts in his seat, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "Do you really think so, Y/N?" he asks, his voice almost boyish, seeking that reassurance from you.

"Of course I do, darling. And I would never lie to you." You reach out, letting your fingers brush against his hand in a gentle, lingering touch, just enough to make his breath hitch. "Unlike others who may have their own agendas…" You throw a quick glance toward where Alicent stands, her expression tight, lips pressed thin. The corner of your mouth twitches into a hidden smirk.

Aegon doesn’t notice. He’s too busy basking in the attention you're lavishing on him. "Mother just worries," he mumbles, though even he seems half-hearted about it.

"Worries?" You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "I think she underestimates you, my love. You’ve already proven yourself to be a far better ruler than anyone could have imagined. I can’t imagine why she continues to hover over you like you’re still a boy."

You know exactly why. Alicent cannot stand the idea of you influencing her son. It grates on her to see Aegon so smitten, so easily swayed by your honeyed words. But that’s precisely what you’re counting on.

Aegon chuckles, clearly amused. "She just doesn’t understand, does she?"

"She doesn’t," you agree, leaning in closer so your voice is only for him. "But I do." You place your hand on his chest, right over his heart. "I see you for the man you are, Aegon. A man who doesn’t need his mother whispering in his ear, telling him what to do. You’re king now. You should be able to make your own decisions. Isn’t that what you want?"

Aegon’s eyes flicker with something—desire, admiration, a need for validation. "Yes," he says, his voice firm, though you know it’s more out of wanting to please you than actual conviction. "That is what I want."

You smile, letting your fingers trail lightly down his chest before stepping back, your eyes sparkling with the satisfaction of a job well done. "Then take what’s yours, my king. Trust yourself. Trust me." You cast another glance toward Alicent, who looks like she’s about to bite through her tongue.

She’s always there, lurking like a shadow, trying to pull Aegon back into her grasp. But he slips through her fingers every time you’re around. Alicent has power, but you? You have Aegon. And he doesn’t even realize it.

You turn to face the queen mother, giving her a radiant smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. "Your Grace, you must be so proud of Aegon," you say, your voice saccharine sweet, as though you’re not fully aware of the tension between you. "He’s grown into such a strong man under your care."

Alicent stiffens, her lips twitching in a forced smile. "He has always been capable," she says, her tone clipped. "Though I think he still benefits from wise counsel."

You tilt your head, pretending to consider her words, though you already know exactly how to respond. "Of course," you agree, "but I think he’s ready to make his own choices now. Don’t you?" You let the question hang in the air, a gentle reminder that Aegon is your king now, not hers.

Alicent opens her mouth to reply, but Aegon cuts in before she can get a word out. "Mother, Y/N’s right. I don’t need to be told what to do all the time." He laughs, clearly proud of himself for standing up to her, oblivious to the fact that he’s only echoing your words.

You beam at him, eyes sparkling. "Exactly, my love. You are your own man. And no one, not even your mother, can take that from you."

Alicent’s gaze narrows, and for a moment, you think she might say something sharp, but she bites her tongue. You know it’s eating her alive inside, watching Aegon slip further under your influence, but she can’t do anything about it. Not without making herself look overbearing in front of her son.

"Come, Aegon," you say lightly, turning back to him. "Let’s take a walk in the gardens. You could use some fresh air after sitting on that throne for so long."

Aegon rises eagerly, flashing you that boyish grin that only makes him seem more malleable. "Yes, let’s."

As you link your arm through his and lead him out of the hall, you don’t bother to look back at Alicent. You can already feel the weight of her stare burning into your back. You have Aegon wrapped around your finger, and she knows it.

But as long as you continue to feed his need for affection, for someone to praise him and treat him like the king he so desperately wants to believe he is, he will never stray far from your side. And Alicent can do nothing but watch.

[lucyrose191]

Hey could you do fic for Toto Wolff with wife reader where she's been feeling unwell but insists she's coming to the track and he's worried about her. Long short story, their son (Jack) with her and she felt like she's going to go faint and she tell Jack to find Toto for her and Toto's being her knight in shining armor,rescued her. Just fluff and comfort. Tag me later. Thanks! :))

TAKE IT EASY| T.WOLFF

Pairing; Toto Wolff x Wife!reader

Summary; Your stubbornness to admit you may be feeling unwell might just be your downfall one day but your husband will always be there to catch you, as will your son.

Warnings; none

F1 Master List

You could feel the worried gaze of your husband from where he was standing in the en-suite getting dressed, he had woken up before you this morning which was his first notification that something was wrong but once he saw your flushed cheeks and pressed the back of his hand against your forehead he knew you certainly weren’t well.

He had tried to convince you to go back to bed but you refused, you were here to support him and Jack was so excited to attend a race again and whilst Toto was more than capable of looking after him, it was just easier for you to take care of Jack and entertain him because Toto still had work to do, a toddler didn’t just want to sit in the garage and wait for their father to finish a bunch of things before having fun.

So you insisted that you were fine and were adamant on going to the track, ignoring the churning of your stomach, fogginess in your mind and how weak your body felt.

Toto wasn’t happy with your decision at all, your health was so much more important to him than any race that he had brought up not going himself but you had shot down that idea before he could even finish his sentence.

So he relented.

You were now on your way to the track, the car wasn’t doing anything good for your stomach, leaving you to lean your head against the window with your eyes closed as you took deep breaths through your nose.

What was meant to be the comforting touch of your husband rubbing his hand back and forth across your thigh wasn’t helping with the nausea you felt either because all you could think about was how similar the touch was to him rubbing his hand up and down your back as you threw up.

Jack was in the back babbling nonstop about how excited he was to see Lewis again and hopefully sit in the car and you loved your son so much but your head was so fuzzy that everything he was saying you were hearing three times and you couldn’t think straight.

"Mama?" His small voice called out and you could perfectly hear the undertone of excitement.

"Yeah, darling?" You slowly turned around in your seat so you could look at him, mustering up the biggest smile you could for him.

"Can we see Charles and Carlos, today?" He asked, face filled with hope.

"We can do whatever you want to do but remember they’ll be very busy preparing for the race so they might not have time to speak with you."

"Okay, and can we see Bono?" He asked.

"Yes," you smiled weakly.

"And Mick?"

"If you want to, yes."

"And Lando and Oscar too?"

"We’ll do whatever you want to do Jack."

"Well I want food before we see Lando," he said strong cause you to laugh.

"Yeah, we mustn’t forget about that," you agreed before turning back in your seat. Of all the days for your son to be riddled with energy, today was not really ideal but you suppose that’s what comes with being a parent.

You rested your head back against the window, looking out at the streets you passed, reaching out blindly your clasped your hand with Toto’s that hadn’t removed from its position on your leg, hoping his touch could help you feel even the slightest bit better.

Toto released a deep breath as he turned off the car and turned to look at you. You hadn’t even registered that you had arrived at the track, still staring out the window in a daze. "It’s not too late to turn around and go back to the hotel, we can go back to bed." He spoke up quietly, not wanting to startle her.

You shook your head and turned to him with a smile, "I’ll be fine, come on, jack’s getting antsy," you responded, hearing your son trying and failing to unfasten his seatbelt.

Your husband huffed in defeat and reluctantly got out the car, opening the door behind his to let Jack out, you heard him entertain his childish rambling and as soon as the door shut you took a second to take a deep breath before getting out yourself.

"Mummy’s not feeling today so it’s up to you to take care of her okay?" Toto whispered to his son, who was resting on his hip, so you couldn’t hear.

Jack frowned and looked to his father in concern for you. "She’s poorly?"

Toto nodded "She’s doesn’t feel well, are you going to keep an eye on her for me?" Jack nodded with a determined look on his face before wriggling for Toto to put him down.

"Mummy!" He ran around the car as soon as his feet his the ground so he could get to you.

"Yeah, baby?" You crouched down, surprised when he wrapped his arms around your neck in a hug.

"I don’t want to see Charles, Carlos or Lando today, can we just get food and stay in Papa’s office and watch the race from the garage?" He asked.

You looked at him in confusion at his sudden change, he was beyond excited earlier and whilst you were relieved at the change in what he wanted, you were surprised at how abruptly he didn’t want to go and see the other drivers anymore.

"Are you sure that’s what you want?" You asked, skeptical as he nodded confidently but you reluctantly agreed.

"Okay then," you grabbed his hand and Toto grabbed his other as the three of you made your way into the track, you ignored the worried eyes of your husband that kept flickering to you every few seconds, the pair of you ignored the fans and shouts of media reporters as you weren’t in the mood to feign happiness and Toto was just far too concerned about you.

You had hoped that as day went by you would start to feel better but if anything you felt worse, you had went to hospitality with Jack to get some food to take back to Toto’s office but the mixture of smells had sent you spiralling and you tried to get out of there as quick as possible.

You and Jack had been in Toto’s office for about an hour and you hadn’t seen your husband in about two.

Jack was being on his best behaviour though, you don’t know where his change in what he wanted to do today came from but he seemed content sitting on the floor with his snacks and watching the live recording of the track on your phone.

You had sat yourself down on Toto’s chair to try and relax a bit but your head was spinning so much and your vision was starting to blur.

"Jack?" You called out weakly, you had tried to sound as though everything was okay as to not worry him but it didn’t work that well.

"Mama?" Jack pulled himself up to his feet immediately, live broadcast long forgotten as he saw his mother even paler than you had been this morning and leaning against his father’s desk, a thin layer of perspiration on your skin.

"Can you go get Papa for me? Tell him I need him quickly." You told him, trying to smile at him but your body didn’t even have the energy for that.

Jack didn’t need to be told twice, he turned around and ran to find Toto, opening the door with so much force that it banged against the wall before closing half way again.

"Papa!"

The Mercedes team all looked away from what they were doing and turned towards the sound of Jack’s panicked voice followed by the sight of him running through the garage with a petrified look on his face, searching for his dad.

"Papa!" He pretty much screamed, fear overtaking his body knowing that something was really wrong with his mother right now and you were alone and he couldn’t find his father.

The Mercedes team were worried beyond belief as they took in just how scared Jack was and how desperate he sounded for Toto who wasn’t in the garage at the moment.

"Jack?" Lewis slowly approached the boy who was stood in the middle of the garage, looking all around him, tears welling up in his eyes when he couldn’t see his dad.

He looked at Lewis frantically. "Where’s Papa?" He demanded.

"I think he’s speaking to someone right now, are you okay?" Lewis crouched down in front of him.

Jack shook his head aggressively, "I need Papa, Mama needs him quickly!"

"Where’s your mama?" Lewis asked as worry filled him. "Show me where she is, maybe I can help her?"

But Jack shook his head "no, she needs Papa, she told me to get him quickly."

Lewis sighed but nodded, a bad feeling was settling have in his chest for you. "Okay, you stay right here and don’t move and I’m going to go and get your dad, okay?"

"You need to be quick!" Jack told him desperately.

"I’ll be as quick as I can." Lewis told him, giving a look to the team to keep an eye on him before turning and quite literally running out of the garage.

People stopped and watched in confusion as they saw Lewis Hamilton running through the pits, looking around frantically for someone.

It didn’t take him long to see Toto sticking out from the crowd, in the middle of an interview with Martin Brundle, he didn’t care that it was live and brutally interrupted the pair of them, grabbing Toto’s arm. "You need to come with me, now. It’s important."

Seeing the serious look in his driver’s eyes, a million scenarios swirled around in Toto’s mind. He didn’t even excuse himself from Martin knowing that Lewis wouldn’t just crash his interview for no reason.

What took him back more was the fact that his driver had started running back into the direction of their garage and Toto didn’t hesitate to follow.

He couldn’t imagine how this looked, Lewis running through the paddock frantically, crashing Toto’s live interview and the pair of them running back.

"What is wrong?" He huffed as they weaved in and out of the masses of people crowding in the pits.

Lewis kept his voice down as he explained, not wanting this to hit the internet from someone overhearing. "I have no idea, Jack was screaming in the middle of the garage, looking for you. He said Y/N needed you quickly so I tried to get him to tell me where she was but he wouldn’t, said she told him to get you as quick as he could, he looked terrified."

A deep sickening feeling settled into the pit of Toto’s stomach as he quickened his pace, he knew you weren’t well today and the multiple scenarios of what could possibly have happened scared him.

"Papa!" Jack yelled as soon as he saw his father enter the garage, running straight for Toto and diving into his legs. "Quickly! Mama said she needs you."

Toto picked Jack up and looked him in the eye. "You stay here with Lewis, okay? I’m going to go see Mama."

Jack nodded, suddenly a lot more calm now that his dad was here and didn’t complain when he was passed off to Lewis.

Toto quickly made his way to his office and as soon as he stood in the threshold of the doorway, his heart fell to his stomach as he lay his eyes upon you, unconscious on the floor by his desk.

He was by your side in a second, kneeling next to you as he rolled you onto your side and moved your hair from your face.

"Liebe?" He gently tapped the side of your face, trying to coerce you out of unconsciousness.

At no response, he pressed the back of his hand against your forehead, grimacing at the amount of heat he felt radiating from your body. Looking around his office, he saw a glass of ice water sitting on his desk, he grabbed the glass and dipped his hand inside before pressing it back against your forehead, hoping it would cool you down a bit.

"Schatz?" He tried to wake you again, this time successful as he heard a slight change in your breathing and saw your eyes moving beneath your lids.

"Y/N, you’re okay, take it easy." He continued speaking to try and coerce you more awake, smiling when he saw your eyes open.

You were confused to see your husband hovering above you, your mind was foggy and your body felt so heavy you couldn’t move your limbs.

Looking around, you found that you were lying on the floor causing your face to contort into confusion.

Turning back to Toto, you blinked up at him and upon seeing the questioning look on your face, he explained. "You fainted, and gave Jack quite the fright too."

Hearing Jack’s name, your body filled with worry and you tried to sit up but Toto’s hands on your shoulders encouraged you to lay back down. "He’s fine, he’s with Lewis."

"Need a drink," you told him causing him to look at the glass on the edge of his desk.

"I’ll get you a new one, I put my hand in that one to try and cool you down," he told you.

You shook your head, "it’s fine," you held out your hand for him to just give you the one on the desk, not really wanting him to leave at the minute.

Toto brought the glass to your lips, insisting on hosing it for you since your hands were shaky and he didn’t want you spilling it all over yourself. "Have you had anything to eat?"

You shook your head, the idea of food earlier had knocked you funny but you know you should probably eat something.

"I’ll get someone from hospitality to make you some toast," he told you, not really giving you the opportunity to refuse, not that you would have anyways. "Do you feel better now?"

"Yeah, thank you." you replied, sitting yourself up to lean against his desk. It was as though passing out was what your body needed to recover because the fuzziness in your head had faded away, the hot flush all over your body was gone and your stomach was no longer churning anymore, it just felt empty.

"We should’ve stayed at the hotel," Toto repeated for what felt like the hundredth time today and you couldn’t even argue with him this time. "I know," you responded.

"Do you want to stay in here and rest while the race is happening? I can keep Jack with me."

You shook your head, "No, I want to watch it out there; I’ll be fine."

Toto sighed but nodded.

"Mama!" Jack ran away from Lewis and towards you as soon as he saw you and Toto leave his office, you smiled widely and crouched down for him to run into your arms despite Toto’s protests, knowing you still felt a bit weak.

"Hi, baby," you wrapped your arms around him tightly and rubbed a hand up and down his back.

"I got Papa just like you said," he spoke into your shoulder.

"I know, you did such a good job," you told him proudly.

Toto insisted that you stay near him whilst the race was happening, not willing for you to leave his sight incase anything else happened so you curled up on a chair beside him with Jack on your lap, the boy also not wanting to be far from you, with Toto’s large coat draped over the pair of you.

A plate of toast and a glass of water had been set in front of you next to the monitors and there was no way you could stomach all four slices so you and Jack split it.

The media had their speculations as to why Toto and Lewis had been rushing through the paddock but once they saw you snuggled up on the chair beside Toto, still very pale, they could guess what happened but they thought it was adorable seeing how the man would constantly glance away from the monitor to you and Jack to ensure you were okay, his hand stroking your hair away from your face every few minutes.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part eighteen —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Over the next four days, you find yourself panting in exhilaration each morning you spar with Ghost. Every slam of your hand into his ribs feels strangely better than the last. He goes harder on you. He'd been holding back, too, apparently— an unfortunate fact for your ribs. The pain seems to motivate you more, even if he is still beating the shit out of you.

Blue also motivates you. "Hit his nose again!"

Of course, that is the one part of him you purposely avoid.

The sun returns and sweat glides down your face. You knee his stomach. It's less vulnerable than swinging a kick, but still, he attempts to grab you by the waist. You quickly skirt away, the ground firmer beneath your feet, only for his hand to latch onto one of your braids, instead. A sting pulses through your scalp as he tugs hard, wrenching your ear close to his mouth.

"Quicker. Good. But don't get too cocky."

"I thought you wanted me to be more confident," you retort between ragged breaths. 

"Yes, but you can't forget who has the advantage here." There is the slightest bit of arrogance in his voice that makes your teeth grit.

"How could I ever forget?" Your head tilts and he releases the braid. Suddenly, the thought of smacking his nose again doesn’t seem so bad.

His eyebrow quirks. "Get some water, Twix. You need it."

The water caresses your tongue as you gulp it down without abandon. Unsurprisingly, Blue has disappeared somewhere in the treetops. The lack of more broken bones has waned her interest.

When Ghost lifts his mask to drink, you steal a glance at his nose, noticing that the swelling has gone down significantly. The fact he is still wearing that thing with a broken nose upholds your theory that he is at least slightly insane— as if the fact that he once shoved a gun into your fresh wound wasn’t already evidence of that.

Out of nowhere, he materializes beside you and places a hand on your stomach. Your sore muscles spasm under the surprise of his touch, his long fingers stretching from one side of your ribs to the other.

"Your strength starts here,” he explains in a hoarse murmur. “Keep it tight and you will deliver more damage."

You purse your lips to hide a wince and tap your nose. "Don’t I already deliver enough damage?"

"The nose is fragile. You may be landing more hits on me, but I still hardly feel a thing from them."

He allows you to pry his hand off, but the pressure of it seems to linger. Ghost studies you in a way that turns you translucent before demanding, "Lift your shirt, Twix."

Exhaling through your nose, you hesitate before peeling it up, revealing the collection of bruises you have earned from him. A myriad of pink, purple, and yellow skin flares up under his gaze. They have been giving you a hard time lacing your boots and tying your hair in the morning, but once you get moving, the ache becomes easier to ignore.

He has already seen your stomach and more, yet, your skin itches from the exposure. You shove the shirt back down.

His expression shifts. "You should have said something."

"They're just bruises. I'm not bleeding or anything."

"Still."

"Still what?"

He looks irritated. "You need to fucking communicate."

"I don't see why it matters. No coddling, right?"

"That doesn't mean I'm interested in breaking you."

You jerk your chin up to meet his stare. “You won't."

Blue swings down from a tree, plopping between the two of you and unintentionally—thankfully—putting an end to the subject. "I'm glad you two are finally getting along. It's good for the team." She nudges her dad. "But are you done with her yet? You can't just hog Twix all to yourself."

He clears his throat and the air between your bodies breathes wider. "If you're getting bored maybe we need to find something for you to practice."

"Nope!" she says quickly. "Not bored at all." 

He nods to a tree. "Go on. Practice your knives. You haven't done that in a while. Then, you can have her."

With a groan, she trudges away. 

The sparring continues.

Ghost's fists soften by a smidge.

"He annoys the shit out of me sometimes."

Blue rips up a tuft of grass as you inch back to admire the swipe of color on her eyelids. It was her idea to use the bold-colored flowers for makeup— just like the models in her magazines. You did your best to mash the petals and mix them with some creekwater, but the result is kind of patchy and not nearly as smooth as the stuff you used to put on years ago. 

"Hold still. I'm doing your cheeks next."

The sun highlights the splash of freckles on her cheeks and you try to recall if Ghost had them. Her nose is nothing like his. A dainty button. Another trait she must've gotten from her mom. 

"Did you used to wear makeup?" she asks curiously, eyelashes fluttering down. 

"Sometimes. Especially when I went out."

"Went out where?"

Concentration nudges between your brows. "To clubs and stuff. It's where people would... dance."

Her lips spread as she cocks her head to the side in a manner that emulates her dad. You have to remind her again to stop moving. “Oh. Sorry. You danced?"

"I mean, not good dancing. Just dancing for fun,” you murmur, shrugging at the faint memories of being sandwiched between strangers, alcohol flowing through your veins rather than fear and adrenaline. Back then, mornings were spent nursing a hangover before class rather than earning bruises from an ex-lieutenant. 

Humor dances in her eyes when they reopen. "I don't think Ghost ever went to a club. I cannot imagine him dancing."

The images in your mind morph into something utterly laughable— him standing there like an immovable tank as people try to dance around him. "No, probably not."

"He never really tells me about his life before shit happened," she says thoughtfully. 

This piques your curiosity, but you keep your voice light. "No?"

"Well, he tells me the simple stuff. Mostly about his job. But never... never the small things, you know? Like I have no idea what he used to do for fun or what his life was like when he was a kid." She pauses a moment before adding, "He had a brother. That much I know."

You glance up. "Had?"

"He died before the virus. His mom and dad, too. But every time I ask how they died, he just says," she deepens her voice, "'Doesn't matter how, kid. Dead is dead.'"

"Oh, um, yeah, that sounds like something he would say." You tap your fingers under her chin. "I can put some on your lips, too."

Her eyes close again as she puckers her lips out. When you're done, she continues. "He also never talks about my mom." Her face twists. “I think he thinks talking about her will hurt my feelings."

For a few seconds, you struggle to find a response. The rare mention of her mom always makes your heart stutter, but this time, your broken, callused hand reaches out to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

"It's okay to feel hurt, you know."

Blue shrugs and looks up at the cobalt sky. "I don't think I remember her enough to feel that hurt anymore. She feels so... far away. I remember small things, like the sound of her voice and her old apartment where I lived, but sometimes I wonder if I am making up those memories, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean." A terrible urge sits on your tongue to ask her more about her mom, about what exactly her relationship was like with Ghost, but Blue changes the subject before you can.

"Does the makeup look good?" A shy blush clouds her cheeks.

You stand up with a faint smile. "I think I did pretty damn good. Come on. I want you to go look in the mirror."

Music.

It pounds so hard you feel it in your chest.

Neon walls enclose you as someone touches your backside, dancing against you. There is a man's voice in your ear that you think you recognize but it's hard to hear him through all the laughing and chatter. Your hair falls in loose curls down your back, free of braids, and you swipe it from your sweaty skin before excusing yourself to the bathroom.

You push through the people. The narrow hall is shrouded with different doors... so many doors. Where is the bathroom? It must be a Friday night on Oxford Street with how fucking crowded and stuffy this place is. Someone knocks into you roughly and your footsteps quicken. A sense of urgency drags you into the next door you come across, a large one made of grey oak.

The smell is horrendous but you feel relieved to see urinals and stalls. Immediately, you press into the granite counter and grip the edge as you catch your breath. The scratched, warped mirror houses a face covered in makeup. Youthful eyes. Flushed cheeks. How much have you had to drink? You need to go home. You will pee and then go home, you tell yourself. Over and over, you repeat this as you relieve yourself in one of the graffiti-doused stalls where condom and tampon wrappers crinkle beneath your heels.

When you're done, you try for the large door you came through, but it doesn't budge. The muffled music outside has faded. Panic sears your chest. You press your back against the door. The bathroom has changed. The stalls are gone. The walls feel like they are closing in, and the smell of piss turns into something even worse. You are alone. Where is the man you came with? You look down. Dead bodies. Strewn limbs. You're standing on a pile of them.

You start screaming. Banging on the door. Digging your fingers into the wood until the flesh rubs down to bone. 

It's not a room anymore, but a box. The fluorescent lights replaced by sheer darkness.

The edges of the door disappear.

A sickening silence replaces your screams.

And then—

"Twix."

You sit up, wild-eyed. You grip onto something—fabric—and a foul taste travels up your throat without warning. You heave several times, your entire body shuddering. 

When awareness settles in, you wipe your mouth and blink up. Ghost. He is... here. Hovering over you. His shirt is tightly bunched between your fingers and you have just vomited into it. The realization smacks you awake and you recoil sharply, staring at his moonlit mask with an expression that must be just short of mortified.

"I... Fuck. I am so sorry. I don't know why— I just..."

When you dare to look at the mess you've left on him, you nearly vomit again. Hands shaking, you rub at your clammy face and begin to ramble unthinkingly as his stare flickers between you and his soiled shirt.

"I've been trying so hard not to hold back like you said, but I think it is fucking me up a little and letting out some things— memories, I guess. I was pretty good about keeping it all in my box because I've been too tired to even think about it, but now I just..." You trail off, realizing your words must make little sense. 

"You've certainly let something out," he rasps.

Your hands drop against the sofa and you cringe. "I'll wash it for you. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

You inhale. "I just fucking threw up on you."

"I'm aware."

Ghost straightens. He pinches the collar of his shirt and carefully hoists it over his head. Then, you're looking at his bare chest. Slivers of moonlight caress rigid brawn and mountainous scars that capture your gaze for a few heartbeats before you tear it away. 

"I'll, um, hang it outside and... wash it in the morning." 

Your legs are unnervingly steady when you stand up and take the shirt from him, carefully grabbing it by a dry spot. You are relieved to get away from him, draping it over the porch and swallowing gulps of fresh air before you go back inside, praying he's gone back to bed.

Luckily, he has. When the empty living room greets you, you sink to the sofa and palm your eyes. Then, you notice something left on the pillow. A cigarette. You pick it up and recall the few times you smoked whenever your friends offered one. The taste never sat well with you. 

You rummage for your lighter. The first inhale burns terribly, but you cough into the pillow and try again. It starts to calm you down after a few times, and only when you've gotten to the butt of it do you go back to sleep.

"No wonder you're not getting stronger if you throw up like that every night."

Not even five minutes into training the next morning he brings it up. The rest of your sleep ended abruptly when he got you up at an unearthly time, probably to avoid having Blue as an audience. You are too winded to even scowl, your fists held tight in front of your face as you try to predict where he will aim next.

"I told you. That was the first night in a while." 

"Right. Something about a box, huh?"

"Can we just forget about it, please?"

"Hard to forget when my shirt still smells."

"I washed it the best I could."

The next dodge has your head flying down fast enough to undo one of your braids. Hair slips over your face and you huff, holding your hand up. "Hold on. Give me a minute."

As you undo the other one and opt for shoving your hair into a tight bun instead, he watches you strangely. The feel of his stare ignites a spark of irritation and you flash him a sideways glance. "Look, thank you for the cigarette and everything else you have ever done for me, but you can stop looking at me like that. Like you... pity me. I'm not going to break, I'm not going to ask you to kill me again. Everyone left in this world has nightmares and mine probably aren't the worst of them."

"I don't pity you," he says. "I am just trying to understand you."

"Why?" You finish the bun and drop your arms awkwardly at your sides. 

"It's important to understand your ally."

"Oh. Is that what we are?"

His eyes narrow. "Obviously. I wouldn't bother wasting my time with this every day if we weren't."

"Good to know you aren't doing it because you owe me."

"You know what I mean, Twix," he growls. 

"No, I don't." You throw your arms up. "I don't know what you mean and I don't know why you never killed me because you had every reason to, and I definitely don't understand you, so I guess we make terrible allies, Ghost."

"What is with you?" He cocks his head to the side, tone mild with curiosity. "So talkative all of the sudden."

"I have no problem talking when the other person isn't blatantly ignoring me."

His brows lift. "Fair enough."

A deep inhale flares your nostrils before you spread your stance. "I'm ready now."

Despite your claim of readiness, he quickly backs you into a defensive position that has you frustrated once again. You don't understand why, but your progress slips. You keep having to adjust your stance and all of your attempts to hit him fail. It's not long before he locks you against a tree with a tattooed forearm against your neck. 

"You aren't focused today," he accuses.

"Damn, you're observant," you breathe out. 

"Jesus fucking Christ. If I wanted to listen to someone mouthing off, I'd get Blue out here." He presses a bit harder and your throat twitches. "I'm not going to threaten you anymore, but clearly, you think straighter when you channel your anger, so whatever you were dreaming about last night— get it out of your head."

He's right. You breathe deep and try sorting through everything in your head, focusing on just the anger, but it's like fishing in murky water. When he releases you, more of the same happens. This time, you end up on your butt. Ghost glares down at you, circling like a vulture.

"You were doing good the past few days. What the hell is this?"

"I told you," you say through your teeth, brushing off the dirt from your jeans. "Letting out my anger means letting everything else in the box out and it is... confusing me. Making my head fuzzy, I guess."

His chest expands with a deep breath and his pointed stare turns meticulous. "Explain this box to me."

You hesitate for a moment. "It's just... where I put away all of the shit that would otherwise make me insane."

"And what is wrong with being a little insane, Twix? This world is insane. Might as well match it."

Your mouth opens, then closes. You struggle for an answer and rub your temples. "I don't know. Being insane means losing myself completely. I mean, I have already changed so much in the past five years. Like I said, I was never meant to be this person."

"What person? A person who survives? A person who does what she has to?"

"A person who hurts others," you grit out. "A person who kills." 

"You've killed people, right?" he roughly asks and you nod. "Then you're a killer. You were always meant to be a killer. End of story." His words strike you, and you begin to shake your head defensively, but he continues before you can muster a reply. "The past five years haven't changed you, they have revealed who you are. Now—" he raises his fists, "—open the stupid box and turn everything you feel into anger. All of it. It is valuable fuel that will continue to keep you alive."

He swings.

A kaleidoscope of long-ignored memories flashes through your brain when he hits your sore stomach. Your family. Your friends. The life stolen from you. 

And then— you recover your footing and slam a boot into his knee. It loosens his stance just enough for you to throw yourself at him, effectively knocking him over. The ground welcomes your bodies again, but this time, you grip his shoulders and wind up on top, practically laying all of your weight on him. A few harsh breaths expel from your nose before you become fully aware of the position, the heat from his chest pressing into your breasts.

Quickly, you splay your hands flat against him and sit up straight, thighs spread over his narrow hips. Ghost could easily flip you over and pin you if he wanted. But instead, he crosses his arms behind his head. 

"Comfortable?" you ask him breathlessly, raising a brow.

"Quite. Though, if this were real, I suggest an elbow to the neck once you've got them down."

"So you admit it, then. I got you down."

"I allowed it."

"Sure." Your teeth snag on your lip and you lightly brush a finger over his masked nose, detecting a tick in the hinge of his jaw. "Then I will 'allow' you to keep this for now, but next time, I might do more than just break it."

His eyes widen imperceptibly before he quickly recovers. "Ah. So you are a person who hurts others, then. Someone was trying to tell me otherwise."

Your lips twitch at the corner on their own accord. "Shut the fuck up."

He simply stares at you for a pregnant pause before clearing his throat. "I did allow it, but that was good. You focused on the anger, didn't you?"

You nod. "Yeah, I did. Is that what you do all the time?" you ask curiously. "Just get angry and kill people?"

"Pretty much."

By the tone of his voice, a deep brass that reverberates through all the places your bodies touch, you are certain he's joking. Realizing that you are still on top of him, you push off his chest and swing a leg over, careful not to knee his face or let him see the deep flush that crawls over every inch of your skin. 

[ginnsbaker]

Bulletproof

Summary: You're the only Avenger who sleeps in a cell. | Series Masterlist

Word count: 2.9k+ | Tags: Mild Angst, Fluff, Sharing A Bed, Enemies to Lovers

Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Gender Neutral Reader

Requested by anon:

could i maybe request wanda x r where the whole team kinda mistreats them and wanda is especially bad. & r saving wanda on a mission, with this: wanda: “How'd you know you were bulletproof?" r: "I didn't. I just knew that you weren't."

Author's note: Thank you to the anon who requested this :) Not sure if this is exactly how you wanted it, but I had fun writing the battle (my first time!) Hope you don't mind I took some liberties ;) Takes place before Civil War.

--

“You don’t have to be so mean to them,” Natasha tells her. 

Wanda's eyes narrow as she continues to fixate on you, her glare seemingly willing the daggers to find their mark. You can sense the energy of her powers tingling in the air, but she maintains control, stopping the daggers just short of their target.

“They need to know what they’re up against,” Wanda retorts, her accent slipping through in a rare moment. “If they’re going to be one of us, they have to prove themselves.”

Natasha moves to stand between you and Wanda, her body language calm but assertive. “They will, in time. But not like this.”

You can feel your heart pounding, but you refuse to let Wanda see any fear in your eyes. Your choice to leave your former life and join this team wasn't made lightly, and you won't be intimidated.

“I'm right here,” you say, stepping forward. “And I'm not going anywhere. If you want to test me, do it properly.”

Wanda smirks, and the daggers drop to the floor, clattering loudly in the silence. “Impressive,” she says, almost as an afterthought.

Steve Rogers, observing from the sidelines, steps in to defuse the situation. His authoritative presence commands respect, and his voice is steady and even. “That's enough for today. We're a team, and we need to start acting like one.”

He looks at you, his eyes filled with understanding but also a hint of caution. “However,” he continues, his tone shifting, “You'll still be sleeping in the cells.”

Your heart plummets, each word from Steve feeling like a blade to your chest. Being sent back to that room, devoid of windows, with only a tiny bed and a comforter too thin to ward off the chill, feels like a betrayal every time. You've spent nights there, shivering and reflecting on your decision to join this team, yet still, you find yourself confined.

“After several months of captivity, even cooking your dinner, you still don't trust me?” you ask, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice.

Steve's expression softens, but his resolve remains firm. “It's not about trust,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a weight of experience and pain. “We've been crossed so many times before, mostly by former HYDRA agents.”

Like you, he doesn’t need to say.

You understand the logic, but it doesn't make the reality any easier to swallow. The sense of being an outsider, the cold isolation of the cells—it wears on you.

Wanda, who had been silent up to this point, suddenly speaks up. “Maybe you should just leave then. If it's so unbearable, why stay?”

The room goes quiet. 

A thousand retorts spring to your mind, but you swallow them down, unwilling to escalate the situation further. The temptation to throw back that it's rich coming from her, considering she's also a former footsoldier of HYDRA, is strong, but you bite your tongue. 

You look at her, stunned by the bluntness of her suggestion, but also recognizing the challenge in her eyes. 

Her words strike deeper than she may realize. Leaving isn't an option you've entertained, mainly because there's nowhere for you to go. No one left in your life to turn to. This makeshift “family” despite their reservation and distance, is all you have.

-

The days that follow are marked by a subtle but relentless isolation. 

In the training room, Wanda's partnership becomes more aggressive than usual. Her powers lash out without warning, her critiques sharp and cutting. You hold your own, but the lack of camaraderie is palpable. Each comment she makes stings, and with every barb, you feel more and more alone.

At meal times, the rest of the Avengers seem to be in their own world, deep in conversation, sharing stories, laughing. You sit at the end of the table, your presence barely acknowledged, a shadow among them. Your attempts to join in are met with curt replies or indifference. You try to brush it off, believing that you should be used to rejection by now. But no matter how much you tell yourself that you're accustomed to it, that you've developed a thick skin, the pain is still there, raw and fresh.

Mission briefings are no better. Your opinions and insights are consistently overlooked. You contribute where you can, but your ideas are dismissed without consideration. You are a tool, a means to an end, not a part of the team. The realization gnaws at you, festering in the pit of your stomach.

Casual encounters with the team become equally disheartening. Tony passes you in the hallway without so much as a glance. Natasha avoids eye contact. Bruce mumbles something noncommittal when you try to engage him in conversation. Steve's assignments are devoid of the warmth or encouragement he shows to everyone else.

Your cell becomes a constant reminder of your status, metaphor for how the entire team treats you. 

You’re both just a weapon and a first-aid kit at their disposal.

Wanda is relentless, her words sharp and her gaze cold. You have no idea why she treats you worse than any of them, why her manner towards you has turned so hostile. You don't understand why you get under her skin without even trying, why she seems to target you with a venom that feels deeply personal.

You were expecting that Wanda would be the one to understand what it feels like to be an outsider, given that you both share a common history as former HYDRA agents. 

As the days turn into weeks, the isolation wears you down. The walls of your cell seem to close in, and a growing determination to prove yourself begins to take hold. 

You'll show them all that you're more than just a disposable weapon.

But underlying that determination is a gnawing doubt, a fear that no matter what you do, it will never be enough to earn their respect, their trust, or their friendship. It's a lonely road, and for the first time, you begin to wonder if Wanda's earlier suggestion might hold some truth.

Perhaps it would be easier to leave.

-

It’s not like you know the extent of your abilities, but they bring you along the most dangerous missions for one thing:

Your healing ability.

On top of your martial arts training, you provide a sense of security to your teammates, knowing that you'll be there to heal them if they get hurt.

Now, you find yourself on one such mission, infiltrating a den of underground supers. These aren't ordinary criminals; they're mercenaries hired to carry out the dirty work of high-ranking government officials. It's a treacherous job, one filled with unknown risks, and you've been paired with Wanda for the operation.

As you and Wanda are attempting to escape, things take a turn for the worse. You find yourselves cornered in an alley, your escape route cut off by a group of armed thugs and a few individuals displaying unnerving superpowers.

Wanda takes on those with special abilities, her eyes glowing red as she unleashes her powers in a flurry of attacks. You, on the other hand, focus on the armed assailants, wielding two-handed pistols with expert precision. Bullets fly, and bodies fall as you both fight for your lives.

But in the midst of the chaos, you notice something that sends a chill down your spine. Snipers, perched on a nearby rooftop, taking aim at Wanda. Even with your healing abilities, you know that a precise shot to the head would be fatal.

“Wanda, get down!” you shout, but she's too engrossed in her battle to hear you. Your mind races, knowing that you have only seconds to act. 

Without a second thought, you turn and run towards Wanda, your body moving on pure instinct. Bullets whiz by your ear, but you keep going, your focus solely on reaching her before it's too late.

You leap into the air, positioning yourself between Wanda and the snipers just as they pull the trigger. 

You hear the distant release of the bullet, muted but deadly.

The world seems to slow down as you brace for the impact, only to feel the bullets bounce off your skin.

You land, unscathed, your mind reeling from the realization that you're bulletproof. But there's no time to dwell on it.

Wanda looks at you, her eyes wide with shock but also gratitude. “How did you–”

“No time!” you cut her off, urging her to keep fighting. “We have to get out of here!”

Wanda's eyes flare with a vivid scarlet as she zeroes in on the snipers in the vicinity. With a flourish of her hands, she uses her powers to locate each of their positions. A pulse of energy emanates from her fingertips, reaching out to the snipers' weapons, and within moments, the firearms disintegrate into dust, leaving the men defenseless.

Seeing an opening, you reach for Wanda's arm, your grip firm but not rough. There's no time to waste, and you start pulling her towards the exit, half running, half dragging her to safety. Her breath is warm on your neck, her body close to yours, as you weave through the maze of alleyways, your heart pounding in your chest.

Once you're at a safe distance, Wanda turns to you. “How'd you know you were bulletproof?”

“I didn't,” you admit, still in disbelief, and much to Wanda’s horror that you almost got yourself killed for her sake. “I just knew you weren't. And if those bullets got to you, I wouldn't be able to heal someone who's already dead.”

Wanda stares at you, her eyes searching your face as if she's trying to see something… deeper. Her lips part, like she wants to say something more, something that's just on the tip of her tongue but won't come out.

That's when you realize that you're still holding her arm, your bodies so close that you can feel her heartbeat. A flush of embarrassment washes over you as you become aware of the intimate proximity. Wanda clears her throat, a delicate, almost shy sound, and you immediately let go of her arm.

The silence that follows your sudden step back is heavy and awkward. You can't help but glance at the spot where your hand had been moments ago, still feeling the ghostly sensation of her arm beneath your fingers.

You look at Wanda, and she's looking back at you, her eyes wide and filled with something you can't quite name. 

And then, without warning, Wanda starts to laugh.

It's a soft, bubbling sound at first, almost as if she's surprised by it herself. Her laughter grows, becoming louder and more contagious, and you can't help but stare at her, your mouth agape, wondering if she's lost her mind.

“What's so funny?” you finally manage to ask.

Wanda wipes a tear from her eye, still chuckling. “I was just thinking,” she says, her nose scrunching, something you haven’t seen on her and you find it quite… adorable. “You're like a shield now. As effective as Steve's vibranium one, maybe even more so.”

The absurdity of the statement causes you to finally join in her laugh, and your heart seems to flutter at the sound of Wanda's glee.

“I don't know about that,” you say, trying to sound modest but unable to keep the smile off your face. “Steve's shield has a bit more style.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Wanda teases, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “There's something quite stylish about being bulletproof. And practical too.”

Was that a compliment?

You shake your head, still smiling, your previous awkwardness forgotten. You're not only pleased at the first light banter you've shared with a teammate but also smiling at something else, something that stirs deep inside you and that you're not quite ready to confront.

Your crush on Wanda Maximoff.

-

The toll of the day's event is weighing down on you and Wanda, but like every mission, you're required to report the details of the mission–successful or not. Your muscles are sore, your mind is weary, but the mission was a success, and you can't help but feel a sense of accomplishment.

Arriving back at the Avengers compound, you follow Wanda into the debriefing room where Steve is waiting. Wanda explains what happened, how you discovered your newfound ability, and saved her life. Her voice is filled with respect and something more, something warmer, as she recounts your bravery.

Steve's face lights up with pride. “You both did well today. I'm proud of how you handled yourselves out there.”

You exchange a glance with Wanda, waiting for something more, perhaps some acknowledgment of your change in status within the team, or even an upgrade to your sleeping quarters. But instead, Steve simply nods, his face turning serious. “Dismissed.”

Wanda's face falls, and you feel a sharp pang of disappointment. You start to retreat towards your cell, the cold, windowless room that's been your home for months, but Wanda's voice stops you in your tracks.

“Wait a minute, Steve,” she protests. “After all that's happened, after all Y/N has done for us, don't you think it's time for a change? A real room, perhaps?”

Steve looks between you and Wanda. You hold your breath, hoping for a reprieve from the isolation you've been feeling.

Finally, Steve sighs, his face softening. “Wanda, if it were up to me, Y/N would have their own room already. But it's not that simple,” he explains, his voice strained. “I still need to place an official request with Tony. He's the one who approves these things.”

You can hear the frustration in Steve's voice, and you realize that he's fighting for you, in his own way.

“Fine,” Wanda says, crossing her arms. “But this needs to be done quickly, Steve. It's not right.”

“I agree. I'll talk to Tony first thing tomorrow.”

As you turn to leave and retreat back to your cell, Wanda's hand on your arm stops you, and you look back at her, surprised by the action.

“Come with me,” she says. Without another word, she leads you towards her quarters. 

Your heart quickens at her words, and you follow her, trying to process what's happening. 

Is she really inviting you to stay in her room?

Once inside her quarters, the reality of the situation sinks in, and a nervous tension takes hold. Her room is filled with personal touches–little trinkets, photographs, her clothes all over the place–that provide glimpses into a life you've only seen from a distance. You feel like an intruder, momentarily paralyzed as you take in the intimacy of her space.

Wanda seems to pick up on your hesitation, her eyes narrowing as she studies you. A smirk plays on her lips as she teases, “Don't look so terrified. I won't bite.”

You chuckle at her remark. “Well, that's a relief.”

Wanda's eyes sparkle with amusement, and she moves further into the room, gesturing for you to follow. “Make yourself at home,” she says. She then goes to the closet and begins to pull out a spare pillow and blanket. “You'll be staying here with me until we sort out a room for you,” she says.

“Thanks, Wanda,” you say softly.

Without further comment, you move to make your bed on the floor, your movements deliberate and slow as you try to give her space and respect her privacy.

“What are you doing?” Wanda asks, her eyes widening as she realizes your intention.

“I'm just getting ready to sleep,” you explain, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I'm quite tired.”

“No, what are you doing on the floor?” she clarifies, a hint of disbelief in her voice. “You're sharing the bed with me.”

“I wouldn't want to impose,” you say, though the offer is tempting.

“You're not imposing,” Wanda assures you, her eyes sincere. “You've earned a proper bed, and I trust you.”

The word 'trust' hits you like a wave, and you feel tears pricking at the back of your eyes. 

Blinking them back, your voice cracks a little as you reply, “Thank you, Wanda. That means more to me than you know.”

“Good night, Y/N,” Wanda whispers, turning on her side to face you.

“Good night, Wanda,” you say, just as softly.

You both settle on the bed, and with a flick of her wrist, Wanda uses her powers to switch off the light.

The softness of Wanda's bed is worlds away from the harsh, unforgiving mattress in your cell. You find yourself sinking into the plush comfort, every muscle in your body releasing the tension from the dangerous mission earlier. The scent of Wanda on the pillows only adds to the incomparable comfort they provide. The difference is staggering, and it contributes to you falling asleep much more quickly than you have in a long time.

In the middle of the night, you're stirred awake by the feeling of Wanda rolling closer to you. Her arm finds its way over your stomach, and her soft snores fill the room. Being ever alert, the small action wakes you, but as soon as you realize it's just Wanda, a smile forms on your face.

You lie there for a moment, taking in the warmth and the gentle pressure of her hand. A soft blush creeps up your cheeks as you place your hand over hers to keep it there.

You've become more than just teammates.

You've become friends.

And maybe, just maybe, something more.

[a-spes]

| DEVIOUS LIES — Part one (3.842 words).

| Summary — Anon Request — When your friend asked you out for a drink, you didn't think much about it. Yet, maybe you should've, because that night ruined your life. It has been two years, and you can't stop think about what you lost. Your job, your friends, your lover, and even your mind was left in that motel room.

| Tags & warnings — Avenger!Natasha Romanoff x Avenger!Reader, AoS!OC x Avenger!Reader, Other Avengers, angst without comfort, cheating, mental health issues, suicidal ideations, self depreciation.

| MOODBOARD — ✧ — MASTERLIST — ✧ — TO SAY SOMETHING

| Part one. Part two. Part three.

“I am really not sure we should do that, Stark”, you repeated for what may be the tenth time since you picked up the phone, “it sounds like a really, really, bad idea, and you know, I am not sure sh~”

“Come on!” he said, cutting short your ramblings.

Your thoughts are racing, your mind imagining all the things that could go wrong. It is an endless series of “what ifs” that is only stopped by Tony’s voice. You both knew that if he lets you think too much, he would lose his battle. It’s a risky plan he wants to drag you in. 

“I am sure you are dying to say yes,” he added when you didn’t answer him, and you could hear his petty smile through the phone. As he sensed that you were about to accept, the man tried to convince you with one last argument, “she won’t know anything, I promise. None of them will, I thought about everything,” he assured you, and you believed him.

He was right, you wanted to say yes, but you couldn’t get yourself to say the word aloud. There are too many ways for it to end badly, and you really don’t need to make your situation worse than it already is. Two years ago, you lost everything. None of your teammates tried to understand your situation, they didn’t give you a chance to explain what happened. Instead, they threw you away from the team, and the tower, without giving it a second thought, as if you were just garbage.

Maybe that’s what you are.

Sometimes, when you think about the events, you surprise yourself by siding with them. It’s easier to think that you deserve what they are doing to you than to accept the injustice of the situation, which you can’t do anything about. After all, the proof was against you. You’ve seen the pictures, everyone has seen them, and they felt so real that your certainties have faltered. How to convince them that you are innocent when you are not even sure yourself? Eventually, you gave in, it is a battle you couldn’t win.

“When is it, already?” you sighed, eventually giving in. An argument against Tony Stark was another battle you knew you couldn’t win.

The man has been the only exception. He has watched over you from afar, and believed your version of the events. For once, he has listened, and it means the world to you. So even if you try to not wince at the enthusiasm he lets out on the other end of the phone, a part of you is happy. It doesn’t matter if things don't go well, at least that would have pleased the billionaire, and you owe it to him, even if you couldn’t match his enthusiasm, too anxious for that.

For a second, you thought about changing your mind. Your fingers were a centimeter away from the interphone, but you haven’t rung the bell yet. It would be so easy to listen to your instinct that is screaming at you to run away. It would be so easy to break the promise you’ve made to Tony, he wouldn’t mind right? Yes, despite the disappointment, he would understand that you couldn’t do that. It was too early and too much. You shouldn’t even have taken that call, it is always a bad idea to trust a billionaire, especially when his last name is Stark.

The last time you’ve set foot in the Avengers Tower, it has been two years ago. You haven’t seen them since, only their pictures in the news. One time, you’ve thought about going to one of those press conferences they hold sometimes, but you knew you wouldn’t be welcome — Maybe they even added your name to the list of bans. You aren’t welcome anywhere near them, they made it clear when they threw you away.

It is as if all the years spent by their side have been erased. Even the world seems to have forgotten your name. It is almost as if you have never been a part of the Avengers, as if you’ve never existed, and it was just something you mind made.

Maybe it’s for the best, you thought.

Yet, here you are. In front of the building you left years ago, promising to yourself that you’ll never come back in here. That day, you felt so humiliated that you swore to yourself that you wouldn’t add the shame to crawl back at their feet, begging for their forgiveness. No, no matter how bad you were craving to throw yourself in their arms, you won’t. Never, ever. Except that, sometimes, circumstances change, and you find yourself unable to refuse your friend’s crazy invitation, despite the dangerousness of his plan.

“Pl- please, ‘tasha, let me ex~,” you were begging the woman. It wasn’t your kind but exceptional situations call for exceptional reactions, and the one you found yourself in certainly was. 

Tears aren’t your style either, nor it’s Natasha’s. Yet, both of your cheeks are stained with them, your eyes reddened. She is angry, and you are frustrated. She is full of hatred, and you are full of despair. But, today, something broke in both your hearts.

“Shut up,” she said firmly, not giving you a chance to explain yourself. She didn’t want to hear a word from your bullshit. None of them want to. “You’ve lost the right to call me that way,” she added, spitting every one of those hate-filled words in your face, “honestly, you’ve even lost the right to talk to me. I don’t want to hear your voice or to see your face ever again. Did I make myself clear?” she yelled. You would have never thought that she could speak to you in such an angry, hateful tone, and yet, here you are.

She has, indeed, made her intentions clear. When you came home, you found your clothes scattered on the pavement in front of the tower. She hasn’t waited for your explanations before deciding to throw all your belongings away. You were quick to follow them, you barely stepped into the building that she was here to drag you out of the building.

You have never seen your loved one in such a state. She isn’t even acknowledging your pleas for her to slow down, or at least to loosen her grip on your arm. But she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care anymore if you were hurt, or if you were stumbling on your feet — If she had to drag you out by the hair, she would do it without hesitating. 

The Natasha that was scared she could hurt you was long gone. She wasn’t the one that swore to protect you anymore, you’ve seen in her gaze that the promises she made no longer stand. She has a stern, harsh expression painted on her face, and it was your fault. She hadn’t hit you, not yet, but you could still feel how her nails are digging into your skin, leaving a mark that will stay for days. It is a reminder of what you’ve lost that day, not that you could forget.

A second later, you collide with concrete. She throws you on the ground, alongside your belongings, with all the strength she has — And she is a former russian spy, so she’s got plenty. The force of the gesture causes you to stumble over your own feet and fall, scraping your hands and knees in the process. You don’t even try to get up. Dejected, you remain on the ground, barely daring to turn around to see her one last time.

“Don’t you dare to come back, you are not welcome here anymore,” she said before walking away, and disappearing behind the doors of the tower. You wanted to say something but the words didn’t come out, nothing you could say felt right.

It is the last time you’ve seen her, and as pitiful as it is, you have long cherished this last contact with the redhead. No matter how violent and hateful it has been, it was still the last time you’ve touched the love of your life, and you missed it the moment she let go of your arm. Her, and her touch. Despite everything, despite the years, you still needed her presence by your side, and it doesn’t matter if your relationship has to be brutal, you are ready to accept anything if it means being close to her for a few more days.

The rest of the team stayed here until you left. Your eyes met theirs, pleading them to at least say something, but you didn’t get the help you were looking for, their hatred toward you matching Natasha’s. Clint, Steve and Sam, they are all people that you thought were your friends, except they didn’t hesitate a second before siding with the redhead.

Steve has been the first one to leave, almost running after the woman. Before they disappear in the elevator, you’ve caught his hand resting on her shoulder. You should be the one to touch her like that, the one to hold and comfort her, but this right has been taken from you, and maybe you deserve it. You broke the trust she put in you, one that she doesn’t grant easily.

You’ve always known it was a bad idea. In fact, since the moment he suggested that you should come to Natasha’s birthday, you’ve had a bad feeling about it. He thought that it would help you, knowing that you had been living in isolation since you’ve left the team, and a part of you believed him. The same part that never stopped hoping that things could go back to the way they were. 

Until today.

If there is something you’ve learned from that experience, it’s that things will never be as they were because it’s nothing more than a pipe dream. The past two years, you have continuously dreamed about that moment, when you would eventually see her again. You’ve even made up a whole apology speech, one that would erase all your mistakes, and if it’s not enough, then maybe you would have begged them until they forgive you — Promises be damned. In any case, it would have ended with a hug with Natasha, a happy reunion after all those years spent apart. 

Except that none of that happened, because reality isn’t fiction, and you don’t deserve a happy ending. To be fair, you could have never imagined that the reunion would go like this, that you wouldn’t even be able to exchange a word with them because they had no idea that you were here. You couldn’t have imagined that the barriers you have built over the last few years would crumble the moment you set foot in the tower that once was your home.

The tears were streaming down your face, hidden behind that ridiculous mascot costume Tony had forced you to wear. He assured you that it was all part of his plan, the one that’s supposed to make everything better, but honestly, you’ve never felt so ridiculous and pitiful than when you put on that costume that’s supposed to look like a cartoon version of Natasha. That is the genius idea Tony’s came up with a few weeks ago ; having you wear a suit so that you could attend Natasha’s birthday party without anyone knowing.

You thought that you were strong enough to face them, but it turned out that you weren’t. There is nothing that hurts more than realizing you are nothing more than a stranger in your own house. An intruder, that’s exactly what you are. You should enjoy the moment, but you can’t, your heart races, fearing they could guess you’re the one behind the costume.

You were watching them from the corner of the terrace where you found refuge after giving them a little show, and you noticed that all of them, without exception, had a bright smile on their faces. You should be glad that they overcame the difficulties of life, right?

Then why is the only thing you are feeling agonizing jealousy?

Because you were slowly realizing that things changed after you left them, and maybe it was for the best. That’s what you’ve heard them saying in an interview they held a few months after your departure — “Yes, the team has undergone some changements, and we believe it’s for the best” — and maybe they were right, because you don’t remember seeing them being so peaceful in the past. They never clearly said that you’ve been banned from the team, nor they talked publicly about the events that lead to your departure, but people weren’t stupid, they guessed that it was because of something you did.

All days are the same since.

You wake up early, but it’s not the sign of a healthy life, only of a light sleep that is disturbed by the slightest noise and glint of sunlight. The thought of a new day only makes you sigh, what’s the point when every day is the same? They are all filled with loneliness and misery, and you are not sure you have the strength to deal with that, so you don’t move an inch, waiting for the night to come again. 

Sometimes, you get out of the bed you’ve been rotting in, but it’s not before you are so hungry that your whole body is uncontrollably shaking. That's the only time you leave the darkness of your flat, when you go to that small shop at the end of the street to get something to eat. You would buy anything and everything here, but especially junk food that can be eaten quickly. Most of the time, it’s PastaBox or anything with chocolate,  the papers piling up in the kitchen as the days go by, but you’ve never had the heart to take down the overflowing bin.

Waking up, rotting in bed, eating a bit if you are really hungry, going back to rot in your bed, then crying until Morpheus comes to get you, that’s now what your days are.

It’s a strange situation. You have mourned people before, but never someone who’s still alive, never your whole life, never yourself. You are still alive. You know it because you are still breathing and your heart is beating, but it feels like you are not anymore. You don’t even want to cry anymore, you are just laying here, waiting for something to happen, anything. Maybe death. Maybe it’ll eventually come for you, and that moment will be the sweetest. It would be a relief, and not only for yourself.

You don’t want to think about the fact that it may not be. What would be the point in suffering if it’s not to get a threat at the end? The possibility that nothing will come after that life feels unfair, and scary. When you are not finding comfort in your death, you are looking for it by imagining a universe where your life with Natasha wouldn’t have ended that way, where none of that happened.

These are the thoughts that lull you to sleep every night, but the next day, when you wake up, the ache in your heart is back. It never seems to fade away, the pain being as strong as it was on the first day. If anything, it got worse. You are aware that every day that passes takes you further away from those ideals, dashing your hopes of getting your old life back. Your despair grew as you realized that all you were doing was pulling away from the love of your life, and there was nothing you could do to get her back. 

What is going to happen when you’re going to forget about how it feels being close to her?

What if you forget everything? Her voice, smile, and the smell of her clothes? 

The few times you are getting out of your apartment, you are walking with your head down, hiding behind the hood of your sweatshirt, and today isn’t an exception. The weather isn’t that cold, but the collar of your sweatshirt is still up to your chin, leaving only your eyes for the world to see. The ones that are fixed to your feet, avoiding to look around.

You used to do that to avoid paparazzi and insistent fans the days you were too tired to interact with the world, but you are now doing it to avoid problems. Your face and name have been all over the news after, and not for good reasons. People had no idea what had really happened, but their imaginations had no trouble imagining the worst and spreading rumors. It has been years, but the world still hasn't forgiven you for things you’ve never done.

In a few days, the way people see you changed drastically. You went from being one of the country’s greatest heroes to being canceled. The smiles turned into hateful looks, compliments into insults, and although no one has tried to hit you, you prefer to keep a low profile. The fall has been painful, but it isn’t surprising.

How could you expect strangers to believe you when even your oldest friends didn’t?

You have never been their favorite anyway, and you are perfectly aware of that. You are not a former spy, nor are you a genius or an enhanced human. You have nothing special, and the world knows your name only because of your teammates. It’s not a big surprise that they prefer them, and decided to side with the real Avengers.

But maybe they’re right. Maybe things are better that way, because you are not sure you deserve being loved. What you’ve tried to say to ‘tasha is true, you can’t remember what happened that night — At least, not the details that matters —, and that is the worst in your situation. The doubt creeping inside of you, and the guilt mixed with the frustration because you're as likely to be innocent as guilty.

Did you do it?

Did you cheat on her for real?

You are walking as fast as you can, only wanting to get home as quickly as possible, shaking your head in an attempt to get rid of those poisonous thoughts. You didn’t stay long at the party, barely half an hour has elapsed before you decided that you had enough. At least you’ve seen her blowing the candles, even if you left without saying a word to the woman. The thought crossed your mind for a second before you decided it was safer not to break the peace she had built up.

She deserves to be happy, even if it means that you are not a part of her life anymore. 

The only trace of your passage that you have left is a black box. You have hesitated to leave it on the pile of gifts, as she would know it was from you, but it didn’t feel right to keep for yourself the gift you were supposed to give her two years ago. It isn’t yours. You wished you could have stayed longer, just to see her reaction when she opens the box, just to see her smile one last time, to make her smile one last time before saying goodbye forever.

That night, you’ve been crying uncontrollably, and so did you the following days until you have no more tears to shed. Gladly, thanks to Fury, you have a bed to spend your days in. The man has been kind enough to pay for your rent until things get back to normal — That’s the promise he has made to you, that he will quickly find a solution. 

A new place for you to work at, in another country, far from everything you’ve known, where you weren’t hated by everyone: that’s the solution he came up with. “The furthest you are from the Avengers, the better it is. At least for a few months, we need things to calm down,” he told you that day, and you agreed. Not that you had a choice because if you had, maybe you would’ve said no. But there was no choice but to accept to leave everything you’ve ever known behind you — Your family, your friends, your memories. 

Did you for real?

That story is sticking to your skin, and the memories to your mind. Whenever you are going, people are glancing at you, and you are sure it’s because they know. Whenever you are going, all you can see is a glimpse of your past, ghosts that are haunting your present. The world will never forget, nor forgive your mistakes, and you understand them, because you don’t think you can either.

Every morning, when you wake up, it is the first thing you are thinking about. Every night, when you are about to sleep, it is the last one, until it becomes an obsession. Except it didn’t give you your memories back. The opposite has even happened, your mind confusing what you remember with what you've been told, trying to fill the gaps.

At one point, you were so desperate that you almost asked Fury, or Tony, if they didn’t have some technology that could help you to recover your memories. You’ve even thought about asking Wanda, but it was impossible to reach the woman, and maybe it’s for the best. You can’t deny that a part of you is scared of what you might find. You’ve once read that, sometimes, the brain keeps some memories away for a good reason — It is a response to trauma.

But for you, you were sure it was alcohol. You don’t remember how many drinks you had that night, but probably a lot if you can’t remember how the evening ended. The last thing you remember is talking with Astrid, one of your colleagues from SHIELD that invited you for a drink. The next time you remember is when you wake up in that motel. From the moment you opened your eyes, everything happened so fast.

You couldn’t take your eyes out of the pictures which were hung up all over the offices, you even kept some of those. But they are the worst. The thing you can see on those, the two of you in that stupid bed, her kissing your throat, and even more, it feels so foreign. Your brain refuses to accept that you are the one in the pictures. Yet, it's undeniable proof of what you've done that night. 

You are so lost that it hurts your brain. 

Sometimes, you wish that someone was here. Anyone that would take your hand, and guide you through this story. Most of the time, you imagine that it’s her, Natasha. That she is here, holding you in her arms, whispering in your ears that everything is going to be okay, exactly as she used to do. 

Then, you realize that she is not here, and everything crumbles again. 

| MOODBOARD — ✧ — MASTERLIST — ✧ — TO SAY SOMETHING

| Part one. Part two. Part three.

| Taglist — @m0nsterqzzz, @marvelwomenarehot0

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wicked Games 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: non/dubcon, cheating, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: you had a one night stand. Or did you?

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

A week passes in a tense slog. Barrett continues his pandering penance and you wallow in irritation. You want to put it behind you. You want to get past it but every time you do, it just happens again.

If this was the first time, it would be easy but you’ve lost count of all the times you’ve had this fight. 

Your menial office work does little to distract. It only allows you to think about all the bullshit. The way Barrett dismisses everything you do and has to list of everything you don’t. The way he can’t see his own flaws or how you’ve never once rubbed his nose in them like a dog.  

Is it passive or weak or just acceptance? You can’t say. You just always put up with it.  It’s just easier not to make an issue of every little thing. Problem is, now it’s a big thing. 

When you come home, you’re worn out but you still have work to do. Dishes, tidying, cooking. Even your weekends don’t allow you must rest. You need to sort through the bills and go get groceries. All along the way, he’s in the way. You’re not sure he’s trying to help, more so trying to force his way to forgiveness. 

You grab a bundle of reusable shopping bags from the cupboard overflowing with them. It only took about a hundred of the things to start remembering to take them with you.  

As you shut the cupboard, Barrett’s on the other side of the oven. Watching and waiting. He’d be a lot more help if you didn’t have to tell him what to do. You forgot a mug and to him, that’s high crime, but he can’t remember to pay the power bill without six texts on the due date. 

“So... what’s going on today?” He smiles. 

It used to be that that smile made you melt. It would make all your troubles flutter away like butterflies. Now it’s just another irk. 

“Groceries.” You wave the fistful of bags. 

“Oh, cool, want me to come?” 

You nearly scoff. Every weekend you ask and every weekend he’s too busy. His pals want him to jam in their garage band or go fishing down at some dirty river. Another tick on the wrong side of the Pros-Cons list. 

“Sure,” you shrug. It’s easier to just let him come along. You don’t need another argument and you could use the extra hands. 

You shove the bags into the folded shopping cart and put your shoes on. He toddles behind like a lost child. You’re repress a glare as you grab your keys and purse. You’re going to have to talk this out sooner than later our you’re really going to hate him. 

He follows you out to the bus stop and you wait in silence. You had a car but it broke down last year. Ever since, he gets a ride off his coworkers or friends and you flash your bus pass. It’s cheaper than leasing a car, even a used one. 

You don’t know what stresses you out more; thinking about all the stuff he does or just thinking about your life. You get on the bus and sit near the back. He reaches over to grab your hand. You wince but don’t pull away. 

“Nice day,” he says. 

“Mhmm,” you grumble. 

His attempt at small talk doesn’t go much further. You get off at your stop and walk the block to the grocery store. You unfold your shopping cart and pull out your list. Barrett grabs a bag of gummy bears and dumps them in the cart. 

“Those aren’t on the list,” you say. 

“I know but it’ll be a nice treat for later. We’ll have some tonight after dinner.” 

“Oh, alright.” 

You factor in the extra cost and mentally cross off the avocado from the list. You can go without. You roll through the produce section and work your way down the list. Barrett trails behind you. 

You stop in the cereal aisle to grab a bag of oatmeal. As you stand, you flinch and cry out at a surprise peck on your cheek. Barrett puts his arm around your shoulder as he presses his lips against you. 

“What are you doing?” You ask. 

“Baby, giving you a kiss.” You look at him and he grins, “I miss you. I love you. I’m tryna be better, honey.” 

“In the grocery store?” You challenge. 

“It’s cute.” 

“Mm, it’s... let’s wait ‘til we get outta here. It’s starting to get busy.” You glance around at the other customers, hoping none of them noticed his little act. “How about you go grab some drumsticks? Flyer says they’re on sale.” 

“Oh, I can do that. Be right back!” He proclaims. 

He shuffles off and you shake your head and turn back to the shelves. The store brand on discount is all out. You hiss in disappointment. You search the rest of the selection. That’s the cheapest on the shelf and you really can’t stretch the extra dollar. 

You look up at the overstock along the top. It’s right up there but you’re just too short to reach. You give a poor attempt then stand flat on your feet. You peer up and down the aisle. You could find an employee. 

“Need some help?”  

You turn to face the stranger and give a start. They aren’t so strange after all. You know him. Well, not know-know him. Everyone in the city knows Steve Rogers, the Captain America. 

“Uhhh...” 

“What’s your brand?” He asks. “They don’t run restock until before closing. I usually come then, less busy but I got... ha, sorry, I’m rambling. What can I grab for you?” 

You lick your dry lips and glance at the shelf. You appreciate the help but telling Captain America that you need the cheapest bag on the shelf isn’t exactly dignified. You point to the price tag on the shelf and he reaches on his toes to grab the edge of the box on the top. He wiggles out a bag and stands flat. 

“Here,” he offers it with a handsome smile. “You know, it’s made at the same factory as the regular brand.” He taps the back of the bag, “exact same address. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re from the same lot.” 

“Oh, well, er... thanks,” you take the oats and put them in your cart. 

“No problem. Sometimes being a hero isn’t very glorious. Sometimes it’s just reaching the top shelf.” 

You force a chuckle. You’re sure the Cap’s life is all sunshine and rainbows. Must be a real ego boost to help the little people. 

“Well, I appreciate it, Captain.” 

“Steve,” he smirks and stares. Your lower your brows and look behind you. Is he looking at someone else? 

“Oh, of course. I should go find my husband.” You roll around him and try to shake off the awkward encounter. You look down at your list as you stop at the end of the aisle. 

“Hope he’s not lost...” Steve calls after you. He says your name and you crane to look at him. You meet his gaze and blanch. He turns and struts off without another word. 

You turn back to your path and slowly leave the aisle. How did he know your name? You replay the interaction and try to recall giving it but you can’t. Well, you’re not exactly thinking straight right now. It’s nothing. You’re just stressed. 

[stxrvel]

coincidence! (2)

series summary. the holy grail of the seven men who ruled the country's entertainment used to be your friends at school. now, ten years later and between successes and failures, what reason would they have to want to come back into your life? pairing. eventually ot7 x f!reader. content. first of all, english is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes! curse words, we're still on the safe zone, angst if you squint, just silly writing! a/n. hi guys! finally second chapter is out! im blown away with your response!! thank u so much from the bottom of my heart! i loooooved reading your comments <33 pls remember updates are weekly or biweekly! and if you want to be tagged pls say so in the comments! see you next week ;)

series masterlist | bts masterlist | previous | next

“This is unbelievable! We're going to be rich!!!” 

“What makes you think my sister is going to give you any of that money?” 

“I created that Instagram account that was tagged in Kim Taehyung's damn story, I deserve a raise!” 

“What makes you drones think my daughter is going to give you any of that money?”

“None of you are going to get anything out of that act of feigned innocence. Honey, are you all right?”

It seemed like a light had gone on in the room, four pairs of eyes landing on your still pale, surprised face. The night had been heavy after Yuna's call and you'd had so little sleep that you didn't know how you were functioning at the moment. Maybe that was the thing: you weren't functioning at all.

When you woke up, you thought it had all been a bad dream and that definitely the first exposure you'd had to the guys in years hadn't been because Taehyung came across your books at a convention you decided not to go to and uploaded them to his Instagram account with over eighty million followers. It was impossible, wasn't it? Too crazy. 

Maybe not as crazy as waking up to your parents banging on your bedroom door saying that over a hundred thousand orders had been placed overnight and they didn't have enough book production for that much demand. 

Be that as it may, Yuna and your mother took care of the communications on the account. You went from having twenty followers (including your family and friends —your father had created an account exclusively for that and only followed you—), to almost sixty thousand in at least twelve hours. The posts you had worked so hard to create and put together were finally getting the attention they deserved, but it had all happened so fast and suddenly that it was too strong to process calmly. 

Weighing which was stronger, whether Taehyung's acknowledgment of your existence after so many years of zero contact or that your book sales shot up so immeasurably that they couldn't even keep up with demand, even if a month went by, didn't make things any easier. 

“She's obviously still in shock,” Yuna replied to your mother at your lack of response from the living room, right across the dining room where you had been sitting since you had come down from your room. Your breakfast was still untouched on the table, but that seemed to be the least important thing in the room with all the more important news. 

“Have the printers answered yet?” your brother's voice through the speaker of your father's phone rang as you blinked, reality settling too slowly on your shoulders. You didn't even want to think about what it meant that Taehyung had done that. Maybe it was simply an altruistic act, wasn't it? Maybe he felt guilt and wanted to ameliorate it somehow. What better way than to do an act of charity?

“I'm on it,” your father was sitting across from you in the dining room, his laptop on the glass of the table as he moved his hands over the keyboard and stared through his glasses at the full tip of his nose. From the way his eyes narrowed, your mother snorted. 

“Why don't you get those glasses adjusted if you know you don't see well up close, let alone on electronic devices?” the woman reached over, dragging your father's glasses until they were almost glued to his eyebrows. Your father barely gave her a goofy grin as your mother started shaking her hands. “You better move. I'll do it. You write too slow; you're getting on our son's nerves.” 

“Nah, I'm fine. I don't know if y/n is tho.” 

Silence returned and you growled internally. Well, that was enough conjecture and assumptions without any information to substantiate them, it was time to get down to business. 

 “Do you think we should take over this business now?” Yuna completely ignored your stretch and you sent her a confused look. 

Your brother exclaimed from the phone in agreement. “I call dibs on the treasury!” 

“There's no way you can keep the accounts right! You're studying law.” 

“Seojun is good at numbers, Yuna.” 

 “Ha, with all due respect Mrs. I/n, he must only be good at counting sheep.”

 “Hey,” you tried to get attention, getting up from the chair. 

 “y/n, don't talk, you're still in shock. Can you believe he once called me from the supermarket to ask if he got his change right? He didn't even move from the checkout counter. There were people booing him.” 

 “Ow, my poor baby.” 

 “I told you not to say that to anyone!” 

 “I can't keep quiet if they're speaking lies about you!” 

 “This wasn't lies! This is about my pride!” 

 “Nonsense. I'll handle the treasury. I double majored in finance and international relations for a reason.” 

 “You can't run anything without starting bossing everyone around!” 

 “It's not my fault you're a good-for-nothing!” 

 God. It was going to be a long day. 

- 

Sorting out the whole printing issue and the number of orders was difficult, but with a couple of stories, interactions with new followers and express delivery of the few copies you'd already had at home for months, the waters calmed down a bit. Now, in the stifling silence of your room, you wanted to run. 

 “Are you going to stare at the ceiling all night?” 

 “Maybe.” 

Yuna watched you from the bed while all you could do was stare as notifications continued to pop up on your Instagram account and your mail because the requests simply wouldn't stop, even though you had made a thousand clarifications to all the new followers. You were trying to focus on the bright side of things, regardless of whatever reasons there may have been for everything to have happened that way, but with your friend's incessant gaze lying on your bed it made it a little difficult. You knew she wanted to pierce your skull from curiosity, but you wouldn't know how you would answer her questions. 

 “Is there anything you'd like to share with the class?” 

 The tension had become a little more latent during the last few minutes, when Yuna saw a specific notification on the account. Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin had followed you. To describe your look of shock might be an understatement, and all you did for the next half hour was run across the room and throughout the house vociferating that you were living a nightmare. 

 Yuna has known all along that you had never been a fan of the siamese or their clan of friends, but she never knew why exactly. You had to tell her that you weren't interested in fashion, that you didn't like the kind of music Jungkook made, that hip-hop was never your thing, that you weren't interested in dilfs and you weren't interested in dance either. You had to tell her that all the things you once did with them didn't matter to you because it was painful, even if it was hard to accept.

 You couldn't remember the times you would go shopping at the small mall in town to buy the trending clothes to put together different outfits with Taehyung and Jimin, then go try them all on at your house and invite the others and even your parents to do an impromptu runway show. You couldn't remember how the genre of music that Jungkook and you listened to all the time on his iPod and your MP3 player was the same one that his entire music career focuses on. You couldn't remember the nights when Yoongi would share his writings with you and you would help him compose a song or two on the piano when he felt brave enough. Or the times when you would accompany Hoseok to his workouts and then watch him create dance routines to his favorite songs while Jungkook sang in the background. You also didn't want to remember the times when Namjoon and Seokjin would sponsor their trips and give everyone gifts without expecting anything in return. 

You couldn't remember those things. It was too much to bear for such a weak heart. 

“What do you want to know?” you sighed, your body sliding on the chair as the notifications grew. 

“How did all this happen?” 

“Why do you think I have an answer for that?” 

Yuna clicked her tongue, sitting on the bed with the cell phone still in her hands, still staring at the notification that snapped her out of her sanity. 

“It's just… this is all unbelievable, magnificent and unreal. But how come you're not so excited about what happened?” Yuna slid across the sheets, to be right in front of you, but you refused to look away from the computer. Every time you thought you had overcome and grown around everything that happened so many years ago, something would pop up to remind you that you still had a long way to go. Maybe the nostalgia was strong, but so was the anger. “Regardless of how things turned out, because I know you're not as big a fan as me, this opens a million doors for you and I don't know why you're not celebrating it like we are.” 

 “It's…complicated.” 

 “I don't think so. Tell me.” 

Yuna was unstoppable when she wanted to get answers out, but besides the obvious, of course there was something else that bothered you and kept you from enjoying this boom so much. 

 “It's just that all of this doesn't feel like it was a product of my effort,” you began, letting your gaze wander over the desk. The copies of your books you kept for yourself, the first ones you'd ever printed several years ago, lay there, as tattered as your failed accomplishment. “It doesn't feel like an achievement that my work had exploded thanks to a celebrity whose fans would buy even the toilet paper he uses. A lot of those people won't even read the book. They will just buy it and take a picture of it to say that they have the same book that the great Kim Taehyung read. Many of those books will never have a life, they will just be dust collectors and be reminders that all this did not happen because of my effort.” 

“What the fuck are you blabbering about? Of course it's the fruit of your effort! Of course you deserve it!” Yuna got up from the bed and moved the chair around the back to leave you in front of her disgruntled and almost offended face. You could see the words drawn in her face. “You worked so many years to pull this off and after so many bumps you finally can! You deserve to have what you wanted so badly. This recognition will last just the same because many other people will read them and love them and they may not be many, but you will form a solid foundation as time goes on with people who will be truly unconditional and supportive and that will grow over time. Don't look at this so negatively, maybe you skipped a couple of steps, but you had every right to. It was what you deserved after all the effort and dedication you put into this project for so many years.” 

 Yuna didn't hesitate for a second. Her very serious expression sent a shiver down your spine and you could tell from her furrowed brow that she really was angry at your perception. Perhaps she was right, but without knowing the full background of this specific situation, you were only left to shake your head in assent and send her a grateful smile. 

“I guess you're right,” you lifted a shoulder, turning your gaze back to your mail notifications.

“Of course I am!” the smile returned to her face and it didn't take long for her to look back down at her phone with sparkling eyes. “Now that we got the emotional charge out of the way, would you mind telling me how you know Taehyung?” 

Your breathing stopped for a second and you cursed yourself because it sounded too loud as you almost choked on your own saliva. 

“Oh?” 

Play fucking dumb. 

“What, did you think I wasn't going to notice? He wrote it crystal clear.” 

Yuna wasn't even looking at you, too focused on running her finger over the row of notifications. Her nonchalant demeanor only caused you to panic more. It was as if she had caught you red-handed. 

One of the best writers I've ever met in my life, damn you Kim Taehyung. 

“Ah… I didn't… I didn't really know him so let's just say…”

“He couldn't have said that for nothing, don't you think? No celebrity would do that unless it was a person they hold in deep regard.” 

Yuna had just caught you totally off guard. Maybe you should've focused a lot more on what Taehyung had written before you blocked his user from your personal account and threw the phone in the bottom of your drawer the night before and tried hard not to think about the rest for the rest of the night and all that day. 

“It's just that… uhm… we studied at the same school. But for a short time actually. I don't even remember it well actually, ha, ha.” 

Your laugh came out too constrained under your friend's narrow-eyed stare. You knew you'd have a hard time convincing her because you were a lousy liar. 

“You know, it always struck me as odd that you weren't a fan. Taehyung and Jimin are like the two extremes of your ideal type.” 

“Whaaaat?”

“And Jungkook's music is literally the kind of music you listen to, you just don't listen to his. All the other artists in the same genre you do listen to.”

“That has nothing to do with…” 

“And even your parents don't claim to know Kim Seokjin when your mother was literally a nurse. She probably worked with him.” 

“What does that have to do…?”  

“And your brother is a hip-hop fan. How come he doesn't listen to Agust D? He's the best rapper of the last few decades and he's been trending for a long time.” 

“…” 

At what fucking moment? 

“And all of them, plus Hobi and Namjoon, they all went to the same school. They're all friends. And you say you went to school with Taehyung?” 

“Ahm… well, yes, but it's not like I would have met the others.” 

Yuna looked at you, really looked you straight in the eyes as if that way she could tell what it was you were hiding or as if that solved all her guesses. It was impossible for her not to figure it out if she had already tied up all the damn loose ends. 

Since the boys had left one by one, clearly your family was the first to realize how much their departures had affected you. In the beginning there was communication and all, but when Jungkook was the last to leave you lost any kind of link with them completely. You never knew exactly what happened because no matter how hard you tried to contact them you couldn't, not even your parents could talk to the boys' parents. Perhaps they had simply grown up, matured, completely forgetting about their ordinary life in that town. 

They seemed to have disappeared from the planet. 

Until your family moved to the capital. Jungkook was just starting out as an idol, but he had an amazing debut. He had captivated the entire audience and was too successful almost from the second one. It was a torment to watch them grow professionally little by little because, although you were happy for their achievements and all, you couldn't forget that they had basically abandoned you. And your parents and Seojun had noticed. They had noticed how much seeing them all over the place was bumming you out, so unreachable when at one point they were all in your living room eating your mother's delicious kimchi and listening to your father's anecdotes. Everyone was affected by their departures, but clearly no one as much as you. 

That's why, of course, your parents and brother had made a silent vow to keep all media about the boys away from you, because they didn't even talk about it by accident in the house, at least not when you were present. 

“It must be a huge coincidence…” Yuna continued and only at that moment did you realize how much you got into your head. Your vision slightly blurred. “I shouldn't accuse you of anything for things like that, should I? What nonsense.” 

You were probably as white as a sheet of paper. 

“Yeah, it would be too weird… ha, ha.” 

God, you had to stop letting out those giggles when you were nervous. 

“Anyway, should we order fried chicken for dinner?” 

“I think I heard mom say she was going to make japchae.” 

“Ohhhhhh, Mrs. l/n's japchae is delicious!” 

You let out a laugh watching your friend spring up from the bed and head for the door. She stopped halfway out and pointed her index finger at you. 

“Don't tell my mom I said that.” 

You made a gesture to zipper your mouth shut and Yuna finally left. 

The previous conversation had been so tense that you already felt tired and ready to sleep at seven o'clock at night. Really the whole day had been so heavy for everyone that you didn't know how the lights in the house were still on. For now, you couldn't do anything else, even if orders continued to come in, now everything depended on the printer and how fast the books would come out, so you would have to wait. 

Maybe you should rest. You had asked your boss for the day off, but tomorrow you would have to continue working hard. Regardless of the incredible growth you'd had, you couldn't let your work go to waste. 

Tomorrow would be a new day. A quieter one, preferably. 

-

a/n: i'll try to have ready part 3 for next week! see you on june 13 at 11:59 pm - GMT5 time!

tag: @rinkud @futuristicenemychaos @pastelpeachess @parapiop7 @kokoandkookie @midiplier @thunderg @lizzymizzy-blogg @ladymorrie @butnotmontana @lovelgirl22 @jjeonjjk7 @aurorathi @ot7stansthings @kunacat @borahaetelevision @mylovingstars @ghostlyworld @talyaaas-blog @slowlyshycomputer @jjk174 @maynina @saintomie @damn-u-min-yoongi @juju-227592

[vampiresfromxenon]

I Wanted To

Astarion x gn! Reader/Tav

Almost 3.5k words 

Tags: Fluff, kisses, cuddling, angst, biting mention, no use of y/n, words of affection (so much sappiness), soft! Astarion, they’re in love your honor!! 

CW: Slight mentions of SA and trauma (extremely minor, incredibly light piece)

Summary: You and Astarion decide to start your relationship over once you both confess your feelings. It's a mutual decision to take things extremely slow, celebrating little victories of intimacy here and there. Tonight, you can't hide your words of affection as he becomes more comfortable and vulnerable around you.

~

It’s been a few months traveling with this rowdy crew, and you can’t help but smile thinking about how much you love them all. Granted, they all piss you off on the daily, what from Shadowheart and Lae’zel attempting to kill each other, to Gale eating your favorite pair of enchanted gloves, but you can’t help yourself from smiling every time you think about how close you’ve all grown. One particular member in the party you have become very close with stands out a bit more than the rest, and thoughts about him are enough to make you unsettlingly giddy. 

For the longest time, you and the pale elf fought your feelings, too cold to warm up to each other. You both had a wicked past, something that tainted your current perceptions of love and romance. His may have been far more extreme than yours, but regardless of that fact, your feelings and emotions were still valid. For a short few weeks, you found yourselves being extra intimate, dismissing it all as stress relief and nothing more. Those little excursions were merely there as a form of self protection: He gained your trust and protection, and you felt less alone and vulnerable at night. Or, so you thought, until you noticed how distant he was, his eyes never meeting yours every time he sought to pleasure you. 

It wasn’t until recently that these barriers slowly began to be chipped away for the both of you, your infatuation not only becoming more real, but unfortunately, more terrifying. One night, you approached him, being brave and understanding if he had other thoughts about what you two could be. It was late, most of the camp either asleep or preparing for bed. You approached him, a soft hand on his shoulder, even though he was well aware you were there. What you were there for though, remained a mystery to him. He turned, smiling at you, taking your hand and kissing it affectionately. As your heart raced, you began a discussion with him, asking his thoughts and feelings about your ‘connection’ rather than just bombarding him with an overwhelming confession of love. 

He seemed stunned to say the least, unsure of what to say or how to feel. It was strange for him, his cold heart beating a little faster, feeling a little warmer at the sight of you in front of him, actually seeing him for him and not just another plaything. All these feelings were bubbling up inside him because, for the first time in a long time, someone not only asked him what he wanted in a romantic relationship, but they respected anything he said on that subject matter. In all his nervousness, he felt that he could be honest in his reciprocation to see how far you two could go, this time with real feelings. That was a few weeks ago, and all this time since has been magical. 

You haven’t intimately slept together since just before that night, instead establishing boundaries and focusing more on the non-sexual ways to be intimate, loving, and kind. He loves the way your hand brushes his, the way your fingers interlace with his as he moves in to hold your hand. You love the way his hand lands on your back, stretching to your hip to pull you closer to him, especially when meeting new people from town to town. While you still struggle with eye-contact in general, it feels easier around him, especially now since he has found himself to be more comfortable actually looking at you, taking in your appearance and being more present in your conversations. 

For many nights now, you’ve been cuddled up nicely in one or the other’s tent, fingers interlaced, hands gently wrapped around hips, legs occasionally intertwined. He still continues to feed on you, though he makes sure to gain your permission before bed each night. On the nights where you felt too tired, too drained mentally even, he would leave you be, hoping to keep you as comfortable as possible. Those nights were just as romantic, as you could feel his breath against your neck as he cuddles you tightly, his lips on your shoulder as he falls into the soft rhythm of sleep. 

Tonight didn’t start off any differently from any other night; you both gathered in his tent, doing your nightly routines as per usual (always before promptly passing out until the next morning hit you like a boulder). Most nights he would wear a nice, silky pajama set, one he purchased from an unreasonably expensive fashion designer in a small village. You didn’t have as luxurious of pajamas, but yours still covered most of your body, keeping you feeling safe and snuggled up each night.

Neither of you expected that this night would change everything.

He’s standing off to the side of your shared bedroll, changing into his pajamas while your back is turned to him, fiddling with the blanket you both share. You notice just how used this blanket is, and you realize that it might have been the only thing giving him comfort, the feeling of security over the past 200 or so years. Astarion was far from one to share, whether it was his feelings or his belongings, and it isn’t long before you have a second realization: you are possibly the only person to have ever slept with that blanket besides him. Your fingers gently roll the decaying fabric between your fingers, taking in all of his memories that have been exhausted on the threads. 

You hear him walking over and you drop your thoughts about the blanket, not wanting to pry into more of his distressing past. He kneels, picking up the blanket and sliding next to you, your bodies touching in an instant. Turning your attention away from the blanket, you look up to see your love is shirtless, moving around in the bedroll, trying to be more comfortable at your side. 

You know just how insecure he is about his scars from Cazador, that disgusting, vile, treacherous bitch, but it was so lovely to see him stepping out of his comfort zone. While you’re quick to notice this new change, he’s even quicker to notice your reaction. Diving back into his comfort charm, he smirks at you, loading a phrase to protect his vulnerable side.

“Like what you see, darling?” His eyes flutter to the side a bit, and you immediately notice his withdrawal from the conversation. With a calm and gentle hand, you caress his cheek, turning his attention back to you. 

“I always love what I see…” You smile, your eyes looking at him in such a way that your face beams with pride, though you try to find a balance between that and neutral so as to not overwhelm him. To see just how much he trusts you, is willing to open up to you and be vulnerable… Your heart can barely take it. In a quiet voice you’re sure to check in on him, wanting to make sure he feels secure in his choice. “Don’t feel you have to do this for me though, okay?” 

His hand reaches up to hold yours against his cold cheek, his stare suddenly becoming more present. “I wanted to.” His voice is low, his hand taking yours off his face as he leans in gently to kiss your palm. He kisses your forehead before moving to lie down, making himself comfortable in your small space. 

You sit there for a moment, considering your options. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable, but you want him to be aware that you feel the same sense of shared comfort. As he turns to the side, looking at a book he left on the ground earlier, you move to remove your shirt, tossing it off to the side. He moves the book away from you both so you don’t roll into it in the night. Turning back to face you, he pauses, taking in the sight of your bare chest. He looks up at you, tilting his head, nearly asking you the same question you just asked him.

Before he can say anything, you lean slightly closer to him, your voice a loud whisper. “I wanted to.” His eyes soften, and you can tell he’s flattered by this display of intimacy. You begin to crawl under the old blanket with him, and he pulls you close, his hand around your waist. The feel of his cold, soft skin against your bare back is enough to send shivers down your spine, and you realize that this must be so close to what heaven feels like. His free hand reaches up and caresses your jaw before tangling in your hair, gently playing with it as he knows it helps you fall asleep. 

Your hand rests on his bare chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat slowing down as he continues to relax in your care. You lie there for a while, trying to sleep, but something is keeping you awake. Perhaps it’s the looming threat that you could all die soon in brutally vicious ways, or the fact that you don’t want to waste a single second enjoying this time with your new lover. Suppose you’ll never truly know. 

Regardless of what is keeping you up on this night, you begin to feel a little restless, unable to lie there in that position for too much longer without your arms going numb. You sit up a little, leaning on the arm you’ve been lying on, trying to not wake your companion. However, his body shifts with you, and it appears that he is still just as awake as you are.

 “I didn't wake you, did I?” You whisper in a worried voice. 

“Not in the slightest, my dear. Unable to sleep tonight, as I am sure you understand.”

You sigh, still leaning over him slightly, his hand that was once on your waist now drawing circles on your shoulder blade, the hand in your hair now resting on your hip. You want to speak, but you find yourself getting lost in the way his face looks in the moonlight peeking through his tent flap. It frames his face so perfectly, almost as if this scene was sculpted by the Gods. He notices your sudden distance, and he is quick to check in on you. 

“Are you alright, love?” He asks, a tinge of concern in his voice, once again tilting his head like a confused puppy. 

“Sorry… Yes, yes. More than alright.” You reassure him, not breaking your focus. A beat; he attempts to determine what’s on your mind. Thinking he’s found it, he smirks. 

“Admiring how beautiful I am?”

“Yeah… Just looking at creases around your eyes…” You say in a loving tone, not even remotely aware of how backhanded the comment you just made sounds. 

He begins to shuffle, pushing you away, offended by your lack of sincerity. “Alright, there’s no need-” 

“No! Not like that.” You chuckle, snapping back into reality. You grab him, pulling him back to you, his head pressing back into the pillow below you.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just-” You can’t stop yourself from laughing a little at the sight of your pouting partner underneath you. 

You notice just how unamused he is, and you abruptly stop laughing, clearing your throat and composing yourself in a more serious manner. Your hand reaches up and the pad of your thumb brushes against his crows feet, your mind falling back into your feelings of love and adoration for him. 

“The way your eyes crinkle when you laugh… The way your eyes sharpen when you’re glaring at me, like you are right now… The way they soften every time I walk in the room… I love those wrinkles, they’re such a beautiful part of you.” He relaxes again, taking in your words, though still unhappy at your mention of his wrinkles, making him feel old. Though, no matter how much he hates his aging characteristics being brought up, he will never turn away any form of flattery. 

“Well, augh. You really are sweet, aren’t you? But I’m sure you like more of me than just my dreaded wrinkles.” He was definitely fishing for compliments, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t aware of just how much you wanted to smother him in loving words. You lean forward and kiss his crows feet on both sides, surprising him. Smiling, your thumb traces over his eyebrows, taking in their shape and feel. 

“My eyebrows, really? Nothing else catching your eye?” He whines, his hands going back to resting on your shoulder blade and hip. He can feel your body shake as you laugh, your head falling forward towards his chest as you continue to giggle from his pouting. You bring your head back up, focusing on his face once more. 

“One thing at a time, dearest.” You pause, analyzing the shape of his eyebrows. Just how sharp they are, how often he uses them to his advantage when he is charming people. As you continue to gaze at them, he raises one of them, making your heart go crazy. 

“You’re so expressive. Your eyebrows are so perfectly shaped, the way you use them like a weapon… I know it’s silly, I know they’re just eyebrows, but they’re your eyebrows, and they mean so much to me.” You trail off, your face flushed with embarrassment as you realize just how overly sentimental your words are. He smiles at you, knowing just how hard you’re trying, and appreciating every second of it. You kiss his eyebrows before quickly moving on.

Your fingers trace along his face, noticing his mole. By now he’s exhausted, you’re three for three with things he’s sensitive about. “Darling, if this is your way of making me feel less upset about not being able to look in mirrors, I must say it’s starting to work.” His words deceive his face and body language, but you still try to abide by his wishes. 

Wanting to show your love, without spending too much time on it, you mention how much the mole under his eye suits him, how he would almost seem incomplete without a beauty spot. The usage of ‘beauty’ in ‘beauty spot’ convinced him to let it slide, but the ice you were dreamily skating on was wearing thin. Kissing his mole, you move on once again. 

The skin of his nose was soft as you trace the pad of your finger down the bridge of his nose. “Your nose… it’s so sharp. Don’t laugh, but one of my favorite feelings is when I wake up and your nose is either on my back or my neck. I can feel your breathing on my skin, your nose pressed against me while you sleep. It’s so calming, having any little part of you so close to me.” He looks at you a little confused, mostly due to the fact that you’re still here appreciating him. The things you’re saying, they’re so small and insignificant, yet you enunciate each word like it’s the most important thing you’ll ever say. Each word has a purpose, a meaning, and they fall out of your mouth effortlessly; something he still has yet to learn how to do. 

You kiss the tip of his nose, your fingers tracing down his face to his smile lines. Oh his smile lines. You just can’t help but adore his smile lines, no matter how much he absolutely hates them. He hates them because they age him, but you love them for all the same reason. To know he laughs, smiles, has any semblance of being happy is enough for you to be overjoyed at the sight of these lines that prove the existence that he has been able to enjoy life enough to have physical proof on his face.

“Don’t you dare.” He teases, though you wish he could bear with you for just a moment to explain your thoughts. Figuring you could do it another time, as tonight has already had enough excitement, you kiss his smile lines and spare him from your honeyed words. 

Last, but certainly not least: his lips. Your thumb traces over his lips which are closed together, gently pushing up just enough to where you wonder if he was trying to secretly kiss your thumb. As you continue to run your thumb over his lips, reminiscing on all the times your own experienced his, he takes you by surprise. 

Removing the hand from your hip, his thumb graces your lips, and you find yourself trying to inconspicuously kiss at it like he did to you just moments ago. You open your mouth to speak, but he uses his finger to silence you, gently shushing you. 

“My turn.” His voice is smooth and tender as his thumb continues to trace over your slightly parted lips. “Your lips… They have always been so soft and inviting.” He pauses, still staring at them.

“I must admit, I despised them at first.” A confused expression crosses your face just before he continues. “They would taunt me on a daily basis, the one thing I couldn’t have no matter how much charm I threw at you. When I was eventually graced with them, I loathed the way my name would be cried out from them, almost as if you were saying it like a prayer. It tore me apart, wanting something I wasn’t sure I actually wanted, or even felt like I deserved…” He trails off, though his gaze remains constant on you.

“How do they make you feel now?” You softly ask, just barely loud enough for even yourself to hear.

He thinks on this for a moment, searching for the proper word.

“Safe.” 

He leans up to you, cupping your cheek as he kisses you, the most delicate and loving kiss you two have ever shared. You both pull from the kiss, exercising restraint and respect for your pre-established boundaries. A hand resting on his chest, you encourage him to lie back on the pillow once more, which he does. You lean forward, kissing every part of his face that you mentioned, as well as a few spots just because you wanted to. Kissing his lips again, you pull apart just enough to whisper against his lips. 

“I admire everything about you. Every aspect of you is just so lovely… Thank you for being here, with me. I don’t ever want to leave your side.”

He smiles, his fangs poking out this time. His hand moves a strand of hair out of your face as he clears his throat. 

“And thank you for all the kisses.” He says, resuming his usual charm. You try to hide your slight disappointment, but you know he is trying his best and you can’t expect him to always meet you halfway, especially in this time of healing. 

“Always.” You whisper, lying down next to him as he wraps his arms around you, holding you closely. It’s late, and now that you have this feeling lifted off your chest, you find it easier to sleep. Your heart rate begins to slow, your breathing finding its usual pattern, your lover wrapped up tightly with you. 

When you’re on the edge of falling asleep, you feel his head tilting down towards yours, which is resting on his chest. His lips kiss the top of your head, his chin then resting on that same spot. A quiet voice breaks the air, unaware that it still has an audience.

“I love you.”

You freeze, unsure of whether or not you have actually fallen into a dream state, or if you just heard him correctly. In this state of grogginess, your body shifts as you attempt to determine the truth.

“Shit. Did you hear that?”

“Mhm.” You sleepily groan. He lets out a sigh of relief, thinking he’s talking to you in your sleep like he has before. Settling further into the bedroll, making himself more comfortable, he pulls you tighter, finally deciding to rest. 

“I love you too.” You break the silence, your voice more awake this time. His eyes flash open, his red irises laser focused on you. You can feel his heart pounding as you rest on his chest, and you lean over and kiss just above his heart.

“Safe.” Is all you can say before promptly passing out, your warm skin slowly heating up his own. He sits there for another moment, taking in the events of today. It was a lot, to say the least, but he felt comfortable and confident in his decisions, and that was almost truly a first for him. His hand finds its way back into your hair, stroking it as he begins to drift off to sleep, for the first time in a long time feeling comfortable, guarded, protected, safe. 

~

Author’s Note:

He’s extremely OOC, I’m 95% sure lmao but I love making characters total softies, even if we don’t see that side of them in the media they’re from. (I'm still in the very beginning of Act 2 so I'm learning a lot about him through this site too)

I’ve never experienced love, I’m also sure that’s obvious- I’ve always wanted to do something like this with someone though (look at their face and kiss all my favorite spots). While I was writing this, I felt so awkward writing such sappy dialogue, but I realized that moments like these aren’t smooth and rehearsed; feelings get mushy and oftentimes people say dumb and dorky things because they’re just so in love. I hope it gets translated that way at least hahaha

My Spotify is fucked because I listen to specific songs on repeat whenever I write. I have probably about 4-5 hours of “Blue Moon” by Billie Holiday logged on there now because of all the time planning, writing, and thinking about this fic- I got this song from Neil’s Astarion playlist, it’s so sweet and loving :) 

Edit: So many people are saying he’s actually pretty in character so thank you for the validation because I was nervous 😭

[not-the-cheese]

one sentence(ish) summaries of every magnus archive episode PART 2

(eps 61-110) thank u for the funny comments and tags on the last part i love u guys

the rest of these may take a while as i've caught up to where i am currently in the podcast but i will finish them like in a month i promise

----

61. the thrilling sequel to man does not open coffin: man DOES open coffin.

62. surely this doctor can find an easier way to scam people out of money than putting them in a little book.

63. THE DARK ATE MY BROTHER IN LAW.

64. this is possibly the plot of laura croft tomb raider

65. mmm crumchy

66. what's the opposite of an unboxing video

67. as close to a coffeeshop au as you're going to get from this podcast

68. Doctors hate him! Man REFUSES to die from tuberculosis!

69. your college's psych department has the worst idea ever.

70. reverse death note

71. not even death will stop this woman from taking the british subway

72. man doesn't want to be low key racist in his last moments before getting eaten

73. police versus the second coming of dark jesus

74. lady is haunted by an ad for coffee

75. mike crew says "uh fuck it let's just put this guy on a skyscraper forever"

76. ryan from buzzfeed unsolved breaks into a train yard and suffers consequences

77. you're not a enough of a bitch to be my real mom

78. man gets harassed by his cousin and then exorcises him

79. you know that chase scene in scooby doo with the doors

80. stupid idiot motherfucking jurgen leitner

81. i have been personally victimized by the sequel to the hungry hungry caterpillar

82. pov: elias threatens to cancel you

83. mannequin takes matters into its own hands after people don't like its pitch for a new window display

84. a hoarder put newspaper on my friend's face :(

85. hey there's maybe a little man upon these stairs?

86. man gets got by a squiggly thing in the dark.

87. plumber is so oblivious to spooky happenings around him that it possibly saves his life.

88. guys i think this guy likes to dig

89. lesbian investment banker finds a new, less evil job: arson!

90. guy who turns people's bones starts a gym where he promises not to turn your bones! (he is lying)

91. i was stalked by lightning for 10 years and i all i got were these stupid scars

92. jonah magnus is a bad friend // another day another elias slay

93. ocd is no match for purple fuzz

94. let the bodies drop gently to the floor let the bodies drop gently to the floor

95. im so sorry my brain refuses to remember what the war ones were about but i think one guy got gently kissed on the forehead so that's pretty nice.

96. diversity wins! the not-quite-human delivery men who stole your identity and business are maybe gay?

97. man gets gaslighted by an entire town about a hole

98. 🎶mister sandman bring me a dream, actually don't, please stay far from me 🎶

99. another one bites the dust

100. archival assistants face off against the general public (they lose)

101. jon finally levels up high enough to unlock an eldritch horror's tragic backstory

102. LOCAL MAN MARRIES BUG

103. peppa eats a clown and they cover her in concrete instead of congratulating her.

104. pennywise stole my brother's skin

105. it's world war z baby

106. Something Big Is In Space.

107. man is interrogated about the time he saw thomas the train roasts people alive and also sans is there

108. actor is stalked by mask who liked his monologue so much that it tells its mask friends to come watch.

109. sometimes a family is just a serial killer's daughter and that guy who maybe killed some vampires

110. yeah man those spiders be eating

Part 1 |

[ghouljams]

And I Can Only Think of You (Act II End)

Words: 5.3k Tags: Knight!Ghost x Princess!reader, Keegan x f!oc, knight fights, tournament violence, blood, love confessions(sort of), shitty dads, König being a creepy weirdo, major character injury, no beta we die like [redacted] Summary: Your stage has been set, the player take their places, and suddenly decide to improvise.

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The flags are raised first. Tents follow. Then the knights and their squires, then the arena and brown dirt that will so quickly become darkened with blood. You watch the set up from the castle, content to think through your plans as fences are raised and benches are built. Your mind is made up, wheels in motion, and players taking their places. You have every confidence in Ghost. 

Perhaps you should have that same confidence in yourself, but… one step at a time. It’s hard to turn around a lifetime of conditioning. You have to remind yourself of your convictions, remind yourself that you’re worth the same confidence you offer your knight. Yet, too often you find yourself hoping this is a terrible dream that Ghost will wake you up from, and you’ll find yourself back in the forest with him. 

Suddenly bandits and assassins seem so much easier to deal with. “The enemies you know” as the saying goes.

You’ll find your confidence when this is all over, when you have proof of your abilities. Until then you have your embroidery.

-

It shouldn’t surprise you that your Ghost is popular. He’s at least a head taller than most of the other knights, standing proudly and directing his subordinates in that lovely deep voice, of course there’d be women that admired him. You don’t know why there needs to be so damn many of them though, especially this early in the morning. Your heart clenches so tightly in your chest you think it might have stopped. You wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake, a mistake of the heart that you don't know how to recover from. Until he spots you and his dark eyes lighten with a flash of warmth that may as well melt you. 

You feel so suddenly like yourself, like that damsel he’s always been so dutiful in his protection of. A princess running from her father’s attempt at a marriage arrangement and leaving her slippers with a stranger. Even with that dark cloth over his mouth you know Ghost’s smile by the crinkle of his eyes. You clutch your token close to your chest, something you should have given to Ghost when he'd been taken off your detail. You’d thought he’d be wearing your colors at least, but the cool flash of his armor holds no green besides the reflection of grass under his feet. You tip your head to look up at him, letting his dark eyes hold your gaze until he reaches to smooth his thumb between your brows. 

“What are you frowning about now?” He asks, the low rumble of his voice warm and teasing. The leather of his glove under the cool steal of his armor only makes you pout more. He’s always touched you so easily, too easily if the rumors around you two are to be believed, but it’s never warmed your skin like this. Your fingers dig into the token you’d fashioned, nearly crushing the embroidery under the weight of your nerves.

“I’m merely anxious for the tournament.” You tell him, and earn a crease of his eyes, an amused hum.

“Have I ever disobeyed an order from you, my lady?” Ghost asks, his fingers slipping from your forehead to trace your jaw.

“Of course not.” You frown. You feel strangely… scolded.

“Then trust me,” He tilts his head, “You told me to win, and I intend to.”

The cold determination in his eyes washes over you like a chill. You’ve seen those eyes too many times, caught the fury in them as his sword splattered blood over his helm. It’s the same look he’s held every time he’s saved you from certain doom, and you want nothing more than to give into it, to let him save you once more. What once held your hopes now feels burdensome in your hand. You wish- 

No, no more wishing. You made a promise to yourself. You're not going to be that scared little princess anymore. You're not going to wait on someone to save you. You're in charge of your own destiny, and if you want something you have to take it for yourself.

“You’re not wearing my crest,” You change the subject, leaning to inspect his cape, or lack thereof. Ghost huffs.

“Never would’ve made it out of the barracks if I ‘ad.” Your father’s doing you’re sure. Anything to keep Ghost separated from you, unburdened by responsibilities to the throne. Despite his new position as captain of the knights he doesn’t wear the royal crest. Disavowed, abandoned by the throne he serves. Ripe for a new king to swoop in and claim him.

“Well,” You nod, reassuring yourself, “it’s a good thing I came around then.” Another satisfied hum from Ghost, approving. It leaves your cheeks burning. You hold up the deep green fabric clutched between your fingers, the long strip embroidered carefully with the curling ivy and white dahlias that make up your personal crest. 

“Just in the nick of time,” Ghost makes no move to take it, “was worried one of the other ladies would tuck theirs in my belt first.” It’s a joke, but it stalls in your brain. His hand drops to his side, fingers tugging at the leather belt looped around his middle. Making room for you to slide the banner in.

“Oh,” You stall, beg yourself not to stutter, without finding a single word to stutter on. You glance around at the other knights, house banners and lovers’ tokens hang off their belts. It makes sense, capes would get in the way of combat, but something simple like a flag on their belt…

You glance up at Ghost, feel his stare like a two ton weight. He’s teasing you, you’re sure. The same dry humor that made you throw sticks at him when you made camp. Horrible jokes. 

You look down at his belt, watch his hand raise out of your view, feel his fingers pluck at the hair peeking out from under your circlet. Your own fingers go to his belt, calling his bluff as you thread your banner over the leather, and tug it into place. He leans to press his lips to the strand he’s pulled free, his shadow makes a chill run up your spine, and you feel the tug at your scalp as you shudder. You try to look busy making the banner lay flat, picking at the forest green until it’s perfectly draped over his belt, your crest on display for all to see.

Your fingers won’t pull away from him. You will them to, but there they stay. 

“Thank you,” Ghost says, his voice a low murmur. You nod. His gloved finger traces over your cheek, tips your head up to meet his eyes. “Where did my confident lady go?” He teases you.

“Waiting for her father.” You mutter.

Ghost hums, his distaste clear in the tone. You fidget with the banner on his belt, enjoy the nervous flutter in your stomach as his fingers stroke your cheek. You don’t know how he does it, how he can be so steadfast. There’s never a moment where he’s wavered, never a time you’ve questioned his devotion to you. Ever since you met him, you’ve known that Ghost was here by his will alone and no one else’s. 

Maybe that was why your father hated him. The one man in the kingdom who held no allegiance to the crown. Who never would have taken his commission if he hadn’t wanted to. Who told the monarchy “no” with as much mirth as he did conviction.

“I have to talk to the priest,” You tell him, hoping mention of your errands will help move you. 

It doesn’t help to move Ghost. His hand stays as it was, the worn leather covering his knuckles skirting over your cheek with painful care. 

“What do I get when I win?” Ghost asks.

When, you remind yourself, not if.

“Hopefully whatever you want,” His eyes crease at the edges, warm honey brown making your heart patter, “so start making a list.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You have to look away from him, your cheeks far too warm to allow for eye contact. It takes his hand from your cheek, gives you the strength to pull your hands from his belt. You can’t hang around him all day. Both of you have roles to play, proverbial swords to swing.

“Good luck my lady.” Ghost mumbles. The heat of his hands following you as you hurry back to your retinue.

Your lady-in-waiting smiles at you, takes her hand off your knight’s arm. You note that her family’s crest decorates his belt with, perhaps, too much interest. You’d noticed them growing closer, but not that close. Your knight covers the banner with his hand, and you force your eyes from it to smile at your maid.

"You have everything prepared?" You ask her. She nods.

"Of course m'lady." She twists to unhook the pouch she'd brought, producing a scroll for you.

You'd been worried after your letter to Ghost, that she might resent you. You've known your lady-in-waiting since you were a child, but knowing who you could trust was difficult when your father's grip on your life only seemed to tighten. Still, she'd been steadfast in her allegiance to you, and almost excited to help you in your scheming. You're sure you've been too clear in your affections for your knight, clear enough to risk her as well, it's nice knowing she's in your corner. Even if you hadn't thought she'd been there.

Maybe she weighed her options. Though you're not sure how you won if she did.

"Who's with my father?" You ask Keegan. He makes a face, his nose scrunching his mask in distaste.

"Graves."

"Perfect." You take the scroll from your lady-in-waiting and turn to find the announcer.

"I'm sure he'd be chuffed to hear that," Keegan tells you with an almost audible eye roll.

You're sure he would be. Just like you're sure Graves is doing his best to shove his entire head up your father's ass with how much he kisses the damn thing. That man has his eyes on knight captain, and you're sure your father has already let him know that the position will be open shortly.

Not if you have anything to do with it.

You spot the bored looking priest that's been assigned to announce the contest. Impartial in that he seems uninterested in all of it. You couldn't think of a better puppet than one who seems so keen on staying out of the actual event. Who better than someone who won't question changes because they simply do not care?

"Priest," You wave him down, dissatisfied with the placid smile he turns your way as you walk towards him.

"Princess," He greets.

"My father asked me to deliver this," You hold the scroll out to him, he nods once, a slow and steady bowing of his head. You detest it. Your fathers name carries God's weight. "König had some changes he wanted made to the prize." You smile. An explanation that's unasked for, short and sweet for a man that cares only enough not to crush the paper in his hand.

"Of course." The priest agrees. Inept, you think. There's no chance the man checks your switch, even less that he checks with your father about it. You won't be sad to see him go when your father decides to behead him after the tournament.

You nod, the priest bows, you part ways. You count yourself lucky that his ineptitude extends to his desire to pray for you.

Your lady-in-waiting sticks close to your side as you make your way to the sheltered seats reserved for your family. Another point of luck that you're sitting beside your mother. You father is too busy with his attempts to impress König to notice you settling in your chair, though you do see König's eyes flick to greet you. Mad dog he may be, at least he keeps track of his surroundings.

Your stomach ties itself into knots as your parents are plied with wine. You decline your own glass, too nervous to entertain even thoughts of alcohol. You may throw up. Your confidence, or lack thereof, in the priest is waning the longer you wait. Maybe he's peaked at your alterations. Maybe he'll send a page to alert your father. Maybe you'll be locked in your room for good to prevent any further scheming before you're sold to the highest bidder.

The priest takes his place, carried by long divinely purposeful strides, in the center of the arena. If nothing else, at least he's loud.

You tune out most of the drivel he spews. Artfully copied word for word by your lady-in-waiting from the real scroll, you really should ask where she learned such forgery, it's all praises for the king, the day, your god on high. Worthless. Less than worthless. At least the paper holds value, the ink, the time taken, but the words themselves? God. Get to the important part.

"The prize-" The priest screeches, "-which shall be allotted in full to the victor alone, announced to the people by their gracious and loving king, heretofore and forever regarded as the divinely appointed ruler of the land, shall be His Majesty's only daughter's hand in-" The priest stalls, stutters, stares at the parchment and finishes weakly, "-in marriage."

There's silence.

Then chaos.

The knights in their pen turn to you with such pinpoint precision you'd think they'd practiced the movement. You keep your eyes on the priest. Of all the eyes on you, you feel your father's the heaviest. He nails you in place, unable to speak a word over the raucous excitement of the crowd. The crown princess, finally to be married, and to a knight- no, the best night in the land, no less. It's like a fairy tale.

If you can survive it.

Your eyes dart to the pen, to the stoic figure of your knight, his eyes fixed on the priest as well. His hand is clenched tight around the hilt of his sword. Even with all the excitement he stands like a statue, his gaze level. If you didn't know him better you might mistake his stillness for calmness. He's thinking, calculating, weighing his odds. You told him to win, he'd already known what he had to do, but this- this changes things. Chaos is harder to account for.

He turns your way, his eyes dark when they lock onto yours. He gives you a short nod, and you feel the weight of it settle in your chest. Ghost turns back to the arena and disappears behind the helm he presses over his head.

You haven't seen it in ages. Burnished steel, the white pattern of a scull pained over the front, and his eyes flashing cold in the shadows. He cuts a fitting picture, your father's nightmare given human form. He has no one to root for now.

You turn your attention back to your family. Your mother hides her shock behind a facade of calm, her eyes fixed on her people with a placid smile. You never had a chance to truly ask her- no matter. Your father hides his contempt well. Practiced at it, you suppose. König has his cheek resting against his hand, his lips curled over his teeth in an approximation of a smile. You've seen monkeys in caravans make that expression, baring their teeth the way their human handler has taught them. Some part of you feels glad to have earned some semblance of his approval, as detestable a man as he may be. At least someone is having fun.

You wonder what human taught him to approximate a smile. You can't imagine his kingdom has many saints, but his handler must be one of them.

You'll try to enjoy yourself as well. After all, you're soon to be betrothed to your knight. You can't think of a better man to hand your future to. Ghost has never let you down, and you can't see him starting now.

That's how the first match goes.

Your knight swings his sword with such practiced precision that it sends his opponent's flying from his grip barely moments into the fight.

Not to be outdone the rival knight lunges for him, and you taste bitterness on your tongue when Ghost brings his sword down hard on his rival's helm. The poor fool is crushed, sent sprawling flat on the ground with the imprint of Ghost's hilt decorating the back of his helm. The cheers are as violent as the match-up as Ghost raises his fist to the crowd, his sword hung lazy at his side. You can almost feel the smug air radiating off of him. Similarly, you can feel your father's ire poisoning the air around you.

You care little for the other matches. Tournaments are only fun when you have someone to root for after all, and when it's your life hanging in the balance you find yourself looking away from the lecherous gazes of the other challenging knights. You can't find it in yourself to feign an interest in their matches.

If your mother is to believed you shouldn't have to.

Rumors of your attachment to Ghost are the very reason he was taken away from you. You're sure the other knights know all too well who you're rooting for. If it weren't clear from the banner on his belt, surely they'd know it from the gossip that floods the castle. It's only their own greed and lust for your crown that gives them any hope at all for taking your hand at the end of the day.

One thing is for sure. You've never seen a tournament so bloody.

The knights fight like rabid dogs. If they cannot disarm their opponent they will attempt to kill him, searching for the breaks in their armor and beating their sword into the bends. Men beat each other with their fists, they batter each other with maces, they claw for every scrape they can achieve until the priest yells for them to stop.

You watch Keegan dodge a particularly deadly blow from a larger knight, his eyes wild with bloodlust. It makes your skin crawl to think such a man might ever force his way into your bed. Your only saving grace is watching your knight swing his sword, twisting with the grace of a dancer to hold his blade against his opponent's throat.

You suppose it's good that Keegan has no dreams of the monarchy, content as he is to pull your lady-in-waiting's banner from his belt and press it to his helm. He could give your Ghost a run for his money.

One of the servants offers you lunch partway through. You bundle bread and sweet meat into your handkerchief, and pass it off to your lady-in-waiting to take to Ghost. You're sure he's resigned himself to hunger, and you'd rather he keep himself in fighting shape.

You smile when you catch your father's eye.

There is something pleasant about going against the man. Not pleasant enough to go so far as killing him, despite König's suggestion, but satisfying nonetheless. Your father has always seemed larger than life, untouchable in his judgement, but now you see him as exactly what he always has been: a man in a fancy hat. A man without half the strength that your Ghost has. A man that could crumble under the weight of a sword.

Your father has strength in his eyes, but straight backs can be broken as easily as hunched ones.

You hear the sickening crunch of yielding bones and catch the way Graves jerks and twists at his opponent's arm under the hollering jeers of onlookers. The man screams out in pain, and your father's knight releases him. Only to plant his foot against the knight's chest and kick him to the ground.

The priest calls the match, and Graves moseys to fetch his sword from where he threw it. He wears your father's --the monarchy's-- crest on his belt.

You look at your father, his smile proud beside your mother's wide eyed horror. He turns to look at you.

“A late entry,” the king tells you, “but quite impressive, don't you think?”

You don't think. Not on your life would you think your father's pick impressive. Not with the way he saunters towards your stand and leans against the banners. His blue eyes now black, swallowed by his pupils, look you up and down like a hog for slaughter.

“Y'know princess,” he smiles, “I always thought you were a pretty thing. Guess now I'll finally get to see you without the big guy staring me down.”

You shouldn't entertain that with a response. You keep your eyes firmly on the priest as he announces, silently, the next match. Your hearing rolls with the crashing of waves, the thrum of your blood circulating and rushing against your brain, trying to find purchase for some new brilliant plan. Trying to find reason against your faith in Ghost. You find nothing but your own affection.

“You will lose.” You assure Graves. He hums, his smile unwavering. Unnerving. He pushes away from the banner covered fence and pats the knight coming into the area on the shoulder. 

You won't let him or your father's bastard-airs dissuade you. Ghost has fought twenty men and come out unscathed. He's rescued you from far worse than Graves could throw at him. Besides, the only good Graves has done in his life is give you someone to root against in the tournament.

And root against him you do. When you aren't cheering for your Ghost(and Keegan, bless him) you're cheering on whatever poor soul is stuck facing your father's pick.

With each rung the knights climb towards your hand the matches grow bloodier. Men seem less afraid to go against the rules of combat, more willing to darken the dirt with their opponent's blood. You watch Keegan take a nasty blow to the face before managing to disarm his opponent. When he flips the visor of his helm up you're treated to crimson staining his brow, flooding his eye such that he has to call for a cloth to clear it. Your Ghost too, seems to grow harsher, his goal --your goal-- closer with each victory he achieves.

He batters one opponent with his sword still sheathed, beating the other knight into submission with a singular focus that you so rarely see. Still, he seems to be the only one to avoid spilling unnecessary blood on the field. Your sword raised carefully against your subjects, rot excised with surgical precision.

Graves holds none of the same delicacy.

Yet he turns to be sure you're watching with each man he injures. His hand raised to you --to your father more accurately-- as if to more openly show off his ruthlessness. Even the mutt king seems impressed with him.

"Scheiße," König hums, his smile still biting into his fingers, "What is it you English call it?" He asks your father, "Cutting the same clothes?"

"Yes I was rather brash at that age too," Your father agrees, so smug, the bastard.

"Oh no," König's smile, now at least, seems to fill with joy, perhaps he can only do that when faced with someone else's misery, "It is my clothes he cuts from."

It's the first you've seen your father hesitate. His eyes draw to Graves' grin, his helmet tossed and his cheek wearing the blood of his victory. It drags a path over his teeth, and you know you'll see the pink tinge of his spit in your nightmares. It's as if this is the first he's seen his personal guard without the blinders of stopping your betrayal.

And what can your father say? That he hopes Graves isn't? That König is the last kind of king he'd ever want to hand his kingdom over to?

He glances at you.

That he'd want to hand you over to?

He is still your father after all. It's the first time in years you've seen the same concern he held for you as a little girl. The first time you think he's looked at you as something other than a tool for his own political gains. You wonder if he's wondering: Can he really hand his daughter over to a man like König?

To a late entry?

You look away from him, and to the man your father had so cruelly put forth to win you. Not because he thought you were a particularly good match. Not because he had a particular fondness for Graves. But because he hated Ghost. You wonder if his own petty resentment is good enough reason to hand you to a man with blood in his teeth.

All the more reason to cheer for your own men.

You pay little attention to the rest of the matches. You gossip with your lady-in-waiting and do your best to ignore the rest of the world. You only know when Keegan has taken the field again when your friend stops talking. She looks so worried you'd think he was facing the devil himself. Serves you right for ignoring the matches, you suppose. You must have missed the dark lord's summoning.

Turning to the field you do see the problem. He's up against Ghost. If this were any other tournament you might feel bad rooting against the poor fellow, but as it stands you can't find it in yourself to hope Keegan wins. You have neither the desire to marry him, nor the desire to take him from your friend.

It's probably best that he puts up a lackluster fight. His grip is loose when Ghost's sword swings, and much like the knight in the first round Keegan's sword goes flying.

The two men stand facing each other before Keegan lets out a long breath.

"Oh no!" He yells, "Not my sword! God not my sword!" He makes an exaggerated showing of shrugging, "Oh well, I suppose the match is yours."

You snort. It's good that he has his knighthood to fall back on, he certainly has no future in acting if that performance is to be believed. Still, your lady-in-waiting cheers loudly for him as he exits the field. You cheer as well, falling into your friend's laughter even through the nerves that grip your stomach.

You look at the tournament board and watch your crest move to the final round. The tree finally reaching its inevitable conclusion. Ghost is going to win just like you told him to.

Your eyes flick to the other side and land on the royal seal just as Graves is announced in his own semi-final round.

You know in your heart that he'll win with the same understanding that you know fire will burn you and the sea will swallow you whole if you let it. It is a fact that cruelty like his rarely goes punished.

You stand from your seat, you can't watch this match. No matter how short it may be, you can't watch. You can't see that man win again.

You go to find Ghost.

There's a page fussing over him when you make your way to the knight's rest area. You don't recognize them, but you don't spend much time at the training grounds. Ghost spots you immediately and waves off the boy to greet you.

"Go back to your seat," He advises, though there's no push behind his words.

"I wanted to congratulate you." You grin and see his shoulders lower slightly, softening beneath the armor.

"Thank me after, my lady," You can hear the smile in his voice even behind that horrible helm, "I'm only following orders."

"You're following them beautifully." You reach to fix the drape of your banner on his belt, and see him tilt his head in your periphery. His hand raises and he brushes the steel knuckle of his glove against your cheek. Soft despite the cold, unyielding material.

"The other knights think you've fixed the tournament." He mumbles.

"I have," You tip your head back to look at him, trying to find the warm copper of his eyes through the slits in his helm, "I put you in it."

The huff of breath Ghost lets out is as close to laughter as you'll get from him, but it warms you all the same. He turns his head away from you, surveying the field of defeated knights. All men he'll be commanding as king soon, men who must envy and revere him in equal measure. You're sure how it must look to them, but perhaps it's better they think they lost due to some predestination rather than their own inability.

"You should head back," He turns back to you, "No need to hear what your father's man has been saying about you."

Your stomach churns, "What's he saying?"

"Nothing he won't pay for." Again you can hear Ghost's smile, and it settles your nerves. You nod, gathering your strength around you.

"Then I'll be waiting for you," You assure him.

"You'll never have to wait again when this is over."

You push up onto your toes, and press your forehead against his. The bend of his back must be painful under the layers of steel, but you're sure he'd agree it's worth it for a small parting comfort before you turn to hurry to your seat.

You're only too happy to see the field bare when you make it back. Your lady-in-waiting is beaming in a way that makes you think perhaps she paid her own knight a visit.

Your father's crest has been moved to face your own. An inevitability, but one that you find your confidence bolstered on. You have Ghost's assurance, what else could matter?

König leans forward in his seat, his eyes sparking with excitement next to your father. There's a tightness on your father's lips, nerves in his eyes. You've never known him as a man who shows fear, but perhaps that's just because he's never been on the losing side. You're sure to cheer particularly loud when Ghost takes the field once again. Your father doesn't even stand for Graves.

The priest gives his spiel, the knights bow before the king, and you stand to smile at the crowd when the prize is reaffirmed. Your hand in marriage, and the whole kingdom as a result. You're not surprised when the priest nearly runs from the area, not when both knights draw their sword as soon as they raise their heads.

You can't say who swings first, only that the clash of their swords is deafening. Both knights hold the other back before Ghost squares his shoulders and swings again.

Graves deflects.

Ghost swings.

Graves deflects. Swings.

Ghost deflects.

They trade blows that make your ears ring. Their swords swung with such force you can almost see the flex of muscle under their armor. You can see why your father has kept Graves close, he's a talented swordsman, but he isn't Ghost. Graves is fast, following the momentum of his swings. It's flashy compared to Ghost's technical perfection, hollow with wasted movement.

Ghost takes a step back and you watch him switch his grip. In all the years you've known him you've never seen him change hands, but when he twirls the blade you see an ease of movement that seems supernatural. It's enough of a display to make Graves lunge forward.

You remember Ghost telling you once that the only true rule of combat is to win at all costs. That chivalry is for those that can afford a loss. There's no weakness in the way Ghost moves, and you have no doubt in his ability to win.

He side steps Graves' attack, his sword raised to bring the hilt down hard on Graves' shoulder, and stops as his armor's straps pull tight

and snap.

You watch with the rest of the helpless audience as Graves flips his grip and plunges his blade deep into Ghost's side. Slicing the metal clean through through the back of him dark with the sheen of blood spattering onto the dirt like a waterfall.

It's not the cling of swords the rings in your ears as you leap to your feet, but your own shrieking. It follows Ghost to the ground as he settles hard onto one knee. The shouting of the crowd is a deafening cacophony of "Blood! Blood! Blood!"

And your world crumbles into a single point as Ghost's helm tips to stare up at your father's victory.

[novaursa]

I have a request. Rhaenyra has an older brother and they always thought they would marry. But after persuasion from Otto, Viserys betroths his son to Alicent. Him and Alicent do their duty and have children. Alicent loves him but his heart still belongs to Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra marries Laenor but her children suspiciously look very much like her brother. Alicent suspects he's been having an affair with her and an argument ensues. To keep the fic short like you want, the main focus of the story can just be their argument.

Bound by Duty

- Summary: When your father married you to Alicent, your heart remained with your sister.

- Paring: Rhaenyra Targaryen/male!reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: The reader is the eldest child of Viserys I Targaryen and Aemma Arynn, and the older brother of Rhaenyra.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

The scent of burning wax mingles with the faint breeze from the open window, but the room is heavy with something far more tangible than just night air—the weight of unspoken accusations. You stand by the hearth, hands clasped behind your back, the heat from the flames licking at your skin, but it is not the fire that makes your chest tight.

Alicent’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade, trembling with restrained emotion, yet firm in her accusation. 

"How long has this gone on?" she asks, her brown eyes piercing into yours, her hands clenched at her sides. There’s no hesitation in her tone, only years of repressed suspicion finally breaking free. “How long have you and Rhaenyra been carrying on behind my back?”

You inhale slowly, feeling the weight of her words press against your chest. Her accusation isn't unexpected, but it still stings. It feels as though the walls are closing in, every inch of this chamber suddenly suffocating. You have always known this moment would come—Alicent has always been sharp, her eyes always watching, searching for cracks in the facade you’ve built.

"I don’t know what you mean," you reply, though the words taste bitter on your tongue. You avoid her gaze, looking instead at the flickering flames. It’s easier to face the fire than the truth in her eyes.

Alicent scoffs, her breath hitching with something that might be laughter if it weren’t so full of pain. “Do not lie to me. I am not a fool, nor am I blind.” She steps closer, her green gown swishing with every step, her hands trembling now as they reach out, grasping your forearm. “Her children... Rhaenyra’s sons. They look nothing like Laenor. But they look like you.”

You close your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of her touch and the accusation that lingers in the air between you both. You want to deny it, to turn from the truth that burns in your chest, but how could you? You have always known the children’s resemblance would betray you, just as your love for Rhaenyra has always betrayed your marriage to Alicent.

Alicent’s grip tightens. “Do not insult me with more lies. I have seen the way you look at her, how you speak to her. It was always her, wasn’t it? Even when Viserys ordered our marriage, your heart was never mine.”

Her words are a dagger, twisting deep into your chest. You can hear the hurt in her voice, the years of loyalty, duty, and sacrifice she made for a man who could never truly belong to her. You force yourself to meet her gaze, seeing the unshed tears that make her brown eyes glisten.

“I did my duty,” you say quietly, but the words are hollow. “I married you. I fathered our children. I have been the husband I was expected to be.”

She lets go of your arm as if burned, stepping back with a sharp intake of breath, her expression one of betrayal, as though you had slapped her. “But you were never mine,” she whispers, the hurt cracking through her voice. “Not truly. Your body may have been here, but your heart… your heart was always hers.”

Silence falls between you both, thick and oppressive. The truth you’ve tried so long to avoid now lies bare before you, and there is no more hiding. 

“I loved her long before I loved you,” you admit, the confession heavy on your lips, each word like a stone thrown into a pond, creating ripples in the fragile peace that once existed. “When we were children, we thought—hoped—we would marry one day. But Viserys listened to your father, to Otto, and instead, I was wed to you.”

Alicent’s face hardens at the mention of her father’s name, but the pain in her eyes does not fade. “And you have resented me for it ever since.”

You shake your head. “No. I have never resented you, Alicent. You have been a good wife, a good mother to our children. But my heart…” You trail off, unable to finish, because the truth is too much to bear even for you.

“Your heart belongs to her,” Alicent finishes for you, her voice barely a whisper. She turns away from you, walking toward the window, her back rigid, her hands clenched at her sides. “You think I do not see the way she looks at you? The way she covets you? I may have married you, but she owns you.”

You can hear the bitterness in her voice, the deep-seated jealousy that has festered for years. It is the same bitterness that has always existed between Rhaenyra and Alicent, ever since your father took Alicent to wife. And though you wish to comfort her, to tell her that none of this was meant to hurt her, you know the truth would only be another wound.

“I never wanted to hurt you, Alicent,” you say, your voice low, strained with the weight of your guilt. “But Rhaenyra… she is part of me. She always has been.”

Alicent whirls to face you, her eyes blazing now, her composure finally shattering. “And what of our children?” she demands. “What of them? You have given me sons, a daughter—and yet, all this time, your mind, your soul, has been with her. What am I, then? Just a toy in your game?”

“No,” you say, stepping toward her, but she holds up a hand to stop you, her expression one of sorrow now, not anger.

“Do not come closer,” she says, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I have borne enough of this pain. The worst part of it all is that I believed… I believed for so long that if I tried hard enough, you would see me. That I could win your love.”

Her words twist something inside you, guilt sinking deeper, because despite everything, Alicent had always deserved more than what you could give. You stand there, unable to offer her anything but the truth, a truth that has always been both your burden and hers.

“I wish things were different,” you murmur, but the words are empty, and you both know it.

Alicent wipes away a tear, her face hardening once more. “So do I,” she whispers, turning away from you again, her gaze fixed on the dark sky beyond the window. “But wishes change nothing.”

As the silence stretches, you know this moment is a turning point, a fracture in the fragile peace you’ve maintained for so long. You have done your duty to her, to the realm, but in doing so, you have wounded the woman who now stands before you, a woman who will never truly have your heart.

And as you look at her, the weight of your choices pressing down upon you, you realize that no matter how much you have tried to balance duty and love, something—someone—was always going to be left in the shadows.

[golden-ebony]

Man Eater (3) 𓆩♡𓆪

♡ series masterlist ♡ previous part ♡

♡ Pairing: Logan Howlett/Fem!Vigilante!Reader

♡ Word Count: 3.0k

♡ Rating: Mature (but any additional parts may be explicit)

♡ Warning/Tags: fighting but by no means violent

♡ Summary: Leaving your past behind is never easy; teasing Logan makes it tolerable

♡ Note: i FINALLY have a proper vision for the series and i'm so so so excited!

It didn’t take you long to move into the X-mansion. You typically kept most of your things in storage, preferring to live out of a suitcase as you traveled from place to place. It always made it easier to leave on short notice if needed.

But you promised yourself you’d try to make it work at the school, hence moving all your belongings in. Leaving in the cover of night would be significantly harder now—unless you were willing to part with more than a few possessions.

In just a month, you’d settled into a permanent room and reacquainted yourself with your newfound teammates. Like Charles, they treated you with kindness and respect whenever your paths crossed. Occasionally, you even assisted them if it aligned with your own self-interest.

You had more interactions with Logan than anyone else. Despite knowing him for only a few weeks, you two were definitely getting closer. Friends? Maybe. True friendships were rare for you. Most of your relationships were transactional, impersonal. But with Logan, words weren’t always necessary to convey what the other was thinking or feeling. There was a mutual understanding between you.

Still, he loved finding new ways to get under your skin. And you were more than happy to return the favor. It was a brazen, tenacious dance that raised the tension in any room you were in, even when others were around.

Bantering with him was the only exciting part of your days. You itched to do something—anything besides train. The thrill of a mission was what you craved. Waiting for that “something good” Charles and Logan had mentioned felt like torture.

You saw the others come and go on missions a few times over the month. They’d be gone for only a few hours or a day, but that was exactly what you wanted. Your requests, however, were falling on deaf ears.

“I think I’m ready,” you reaffirmed to Storm as you finished a set in the gym. “I did great in the Danger Room, I train on my own, I’ve read some rather boring files. I’m ready!”

“You survived the Danger Room,” Storm corrected. “You’d do better if you actually worked with us instead of next to us.”

You huffed, hands on your hips. “I’m trying, alright? And I have been doing better!”

“You have,” Storm nodded. She glanced over, noticing Logan entering the gym with a group of students, and a sly smile crossed her face. “If bickering and flirting with Logan were a measure of improvement, I’d say you’re more than ready for a mission.”

Looking over your shoulder, you saw Logan talking with some students. You’d bet his training shirt was a size too small, hugging every ridge of his toned physique. You quickly turned away, not wanting to give him any ammunition for later teasing.

You shook your head, a smile creeping onto your lips. “Well, he’s annoying, and it’s something to do until I can actually go on a mission.”

Storm noticed Logan catching sight of the two of you and saw the tension between you thicken. Around the students, you both were more restrained, but that didn’t stop Logan from eyeing you across the room.

“Patience is a virtue,” Storm remarked as she passed you, knowing it was best to leave you and Logan to your own devices.

Turning, you watched as Storm said something to Logan before leaving the gym. An idea sparked in your mind as Logan’s gaze settled on you. You gave him a nod toward the wall, signaling for him to follow. He obliged, moving out of the students’ earshot.

Noticing the sweat-soaked collar of your shirt, Logan couldn’t help himself. “Already hot and bothered just by me being here, sweetheart?”

Your face remained serious, ignoring his comment. “Can you do me a favor?” You crossed your arms, your tone sincere.

Logan huffed, realizing he wasn’t going to get a rise out of you. He nodded, mirroring your stance. “Yeah, what’s up?”

You felt silly about your request. “Can you talk to Charles for me? I want to start going on missions, but no one thinks I’m ready.”

Logan shook his head, surprised. “Probably because you’re not ready.” You’d heard it from Charles, Scott, and Storm, but hearing it from Logan felt like a betrayal, even personal.

“You know better than anyone I can handle myself!” Your voice was louder than intended. “I’ve been doing this longer than any of you—well, except you.”

Logan raised a hand, signaling you to ease up. “Easy, sweetheart, you’ve only been here a month.”

“And it’s agonizing!” you snapped. “I know I’m still learning this whole team thing, but you said I could do something good here.”

“Then do something!” Logan shot back, as if it was obvious. Before you could retort, he continued, “Look, Charles has me teaching self-defense to these boys without their abilities. Offer to do the same for the girls.”

For the first time, Logan had managed to shut you up. You looked over his shoulder, watching the boys practice without his supervision.

“Yeah, we have missions, but this is a school. Helping these kids—that’s the original mission.”

You glanced back at him, huffing. “You sound like Charles.”

“Because he has to remind me of that sometimes.” He placed a hand on your shoulder. “And now I get to remind you.”

His firm grasp was oddly calming. Weeks ago, you would’ve swatted his hand away with a scold, but now his touch felt sincere.

You nodded. “Alright, I’ll talk to Charles about training some students. But will you talk to him for me?”

Logan playfully hummed as if he was weighing his options, “I’ll vouch for you when the time comes,” Logan decided, shooting you a smile. He turned back to the boys, seeing them get a bit more rowdy under no current supervision. “I’d invite you to watch, but I think you’d distract the boys” he teased as he squeezed your shoulder. The look in his eyes was more mischievous than anything.

You picked his arm off your shoulder, sensing the bait, “Distract them or distract you?”

Logan eyed your leggings and cropped shirt. Your partially exposed abdomen and arms were dried with sweat, but Logan couldn’t get your smell out of his head. It was almost dizzying. It had been getting worse over the last few weeks. Your smell was all over the mansion on every goddamn surface in every goddamn room. He only found refuge in his own room. However, Logan was nothing but honest.

“Mainly the boys, but…” Logan stepped a little closer, taking a proper deep breath to inhale your scent, “I ain’t above your charms either.”

You deeply inhaled, your exhale resulting in a chuckle, “For a man that’s seen my case files, you have to know where that charm can lead you.”

Logan shrugged at your point, “For a woman who claimed she couldn’t possibly be a part of a team, you’re sure itchin’ to go on a mission.”

“So?”

He shrugged again, taking a few steps back with a playful gleam in his eyes. “First impressions aren’t everything.”

You watched as Logan went back to the students, immediately getting their attention when he spoke up. As you walked past the group to leave the gym, you noticed how attentive the male students were actually being, focusing on every word Logan was saying. And whether Logan wanted to say Charles made him do this or not, you could tell that he enjoyed it. If he said no, it wasn’t sincere. You knew a liar when you saw one.

After your conversation with Logan, you spoke with Charles. He was excited to see you take initiative in assisting the children. You didn’t have the heart to tell him it was Logan’s idea, but if Charles really wanted to know, he had his ways of figuring that out. You didn’t push the idea of going on missions to him again. That was your idea.

It only took Charles a day to find groupings of female students that were interested in your lessons. At this point, you didn’t interact with the students much. You were more of a lingering figure in the hallways. This was the students’ opportunity to size you up as well.

As you stood there in the gym with 12 girls staring at you with their judgemental eyes, you felt a bit exposed, a little vulnerable. You had grabbed their attention, and now you were slightly regretting it.

“Uhm, so, self-defense is important…your abilities won’t always save you. It may not be safe to use your abilities.” You nodded as if you were convincing yourself. Some of the girls nodded as well, giving you some semblance of confidence. 

“I’m not…” a curly haired girl began as she looked at you. Her brown eyes were wide with hesitation, “I’m not a fighter.” A few of the other girls muttered in agreement. 

“And you don’t have to be.” You tried to reassure them with a soft smile. “I’m not asking you guys to pick fights or…even like to fight. It’s just important to the Professor…important to me that you guys know how to protect yourselves. No matter where you go in life.”

Pride was a feeling you were familiar with. Usually that pride stemmed from your own work. And these girls were right; they definitely weren’t fighters. However, watching these girls take your advice, follow your movements, even laugh when they made a mistake, you felt pride outside of yourself. Even over the course of an hour, you saw the improvement. Their movements were more fluid as they learned to strike and block.

You could see that the hour was winding down. It flew by as you watched the paired up teens practice these simple moves on each other. Your mind was already racing with ideas on what to teach next. Sighing with contentment, you clapped to grab their attention.

“Alright, that’s gonna be all for today!” you told them, only holding some of the girls’ attention. The others were still playfully fighting at this point. “Same time next week? Yeah?”

A number of the girls nodded as they began to grab their things. When your eyes turned toward the door, you spotted Logan leaned against the doorframe with his large forearms crossed. You looked smitten with himself as he watched you interact with the students. You playfully narrowed your eyes with a soft smile.

You turned your attention back to the girls who were grabbing their bags, “And if you don’t remember anything from today, just remember to never pull your punches. What you lack in experience, you can make up for in ferocity, alright?”

The giddy girls all were quick to say their thank yous and goodbyes as they passed you. Some said bye to Logan, too, as he moved out of their way. 

With hands shoved in his jean pockets, he approached, “They don’t look half-bad,” he remarked, referring to the students. “And you look pleased with yourself, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip to hold back a smile, knowing Logan was going to use this as ammunition on why he’s always right. But a part of you didn’t care. “You were right; these are good kids. And I may have had fun,” you admitted as you grabbed the spray bottle and pushed the mop to clean down the mats. Logan walked beside you with raised brows as you began to clean up.

“Oh, I was right? That sounds good coming off your lips,” Logan teased, lightly shoving your shoulder.

“Don’t get used to it, Wolvie.” You eyed him as you turned around with the mop around to toward the other end. Noticing his sweats and t-shirt–that damn tight t-shirt again–you motioned to the equipment toward the end of the gym. “Are you here to work out or bother me? Because the weights are down there, brute.”

Logan's mouth quirked into a wry smile at your question. Walking next to you, he could smell your scent, a mix of sweat and your own natural scent. It made him feel oddly relaxed yet infuriated. He let his eyes drift down to your body as you pushed the mop.

 “I was, but,” His eyes lingered on your form before taking the mop from you, tossing it against the wall, “now I wanna see if what you’re teaching these girls are any good.”

Logan backed up, giving ample space between the two of you. You cocked your head, interested in the dare but still hesitant. The tension was already stiff in the gym with anticipation at the mere mention of a fight.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” you shot back, already beginning to stretch your arms, “but if you wanted a personal lesson, all you had to do was ask, Wolvie.” Your tone teased him, bringing a gleam of challenge in his features.

In the empty gym, you both took your stances across from each other, sizing the other up. The thrill of anticipation and adrenaline began to flood your bloodstream as you mentally refamiliarized with how Logan fought during the Danger Room. Brutish is how you’d described it.

“You gonna keep your claws to yourself?”

“Gonna keep your knives to yourself?”

You dramatically rolled your eyes. You unsheathed your knives, darting them to a nearby board in a show of faith.

Logan cracked his knuckles, a smirk playing on his lips. “You sure you want to do this? I wouldn’t want to hurt you, princess.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting into a defensive stance. “The only thing delicate around here is your ego.”

With a sudden burst, Logan lunged forward, aiming for your midsection. You ducked, the rush of air from his punch sending a thrill down your spine. You pivoted swiftly, landing a sharp kick to his side. Logan staggered but quickly regained his stance, admiration creeping on his lips.

“Not bad,” he admitted, his tone teasing, “but you’ll need to do better than that to impress me.”

You couldn’t help but grin, “I already know I impress you.”

You darted in again, your movements a blur. A quick jab here, a feint there—Logan parried some strikes but let one slip through, catching him right on the cheek. The surprise on his face was priceless, and you took a moment to bask in it. If Logan could bruise, he was sure he would have.

You winced, a playful lilt in your voice, “I don’t pull my punches, Wolvie.”

Logan dryly chuckled, rubbing his cheek, “Alright, sweetheart.”

With a mock glare, he lunged again, relying on his size and strength. You ducked low, narrowly avoiding his grasp, and then executed a spinning kick that nearly knocked him off balance. He stumbled, caught between frustration and admiration. 

“Gotta say, I like the way you move for me,” he remarked, genuine awe shining through.

“You wanted an up close show,” you shot back, grinning as you moved in again, launching a series of rapid jabs. Logan blocked a few but let one slip, landing solidly on his jaw again. He staggered, a laugh escaping his lips. “And I aim to please.”

As they exchanged blows, the gym echoed with their banter and laughter. You weren’t even exclusively on the mats anymore. You were moving around the equipment, against the wall. Logan tried to pin you against the wall, but you slipped out of his grasp, executing a swift spin that brought you behind him once more.

With a burst of speed, you locked him in a tight hold, your bodies inches apart. Logan struggled, muscles flexing beneath their grip, but you had the upper hand. “You’re not getting away that easily,” you teased, leaning closer, their breath brushing against his ear. You felt Logan ease up.

“Don’t know if I want to,” Logan shot back, breathless yet exhilarated. 

Feeling your cheeks reddened, you pushed Logan down, pinning him to the padded floor in a swift maneuver with knee and forearm. You positioned yourself over him, yours faces inches apart. Logan didn’t appear defeated; he looked pleased with himself despite the pressure on his abdomen and chest.

You were pleased with yourself, too…for more reasons than one.

“I won,” you breathlessly stated, a small smile on your lips.

Logan’s eyes darted between your eyes and your lips. He unconsciously licked his lips before another smile grew on his face, “Then why do I feel so damn lucky?”

You would’ve expected your heart to slow at this point, yet it stayed elevated as you looked down at Logan. His hazel eyes were now a dark green. It was over. You could release him, but you didn’t. Against your better judgment, you nuzzled yourself close to his ear, hearing his breath hitch.

“Because most men barely make it out with their lives when I get ‘em like this.”

It took everything in Logan not to groan as lips grazed against his ear. Yet, he couldn’t help the hand that partially gripped your waist, feeling the warmth radiating from your body.

“Not the worst view to take in before the slaughter.”

Your mind was fuzzy being this close to Logan. It only worsened when Logan gripped you. Your entire body was buzzing, screaming to pull away. Still, you stayed, only slightly shifting your weight off his chest. The competitive gleam in Logan’s eyes was replaced with something softer, sensual even. Your breathing slowed, but your heart was racing a mile a minute. 

Even Logan couldn’t seem to piece together another quip, a retort. All his thoughts had been stripped away, replaced with only you. You were consuming every ounce of his senses except the very one he craved the most. As close as you were, it wouldn’t be difficult to obtain. Yet, Logan was reluctant because even in the tenderness of your eyes, he saw a flash of something–he almost missed it—that he hadn’t seen in you before.

Fear.

“I gotta talk to Charles,” you quickly stammered as you lifted yourself off of Logan, not even thinking about facing him again. As quick as you said it, you were heading for the door. Logan could only muster the faint call of your name from the floor. He wasn’t surprised when it didn’t stop you.

After slowly standing, Logan noticed your knives still jammed into the wall. Your favorites, no less. Pulling them from the wall, Logan took the knives with him. 

You’d be looking for them eventually.

He couldn’t wait until you did.

note: love hearing y'all's thoughts or if you wanna be tagged ♡

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[cheapshrimpysheep]

Falling Asleep on Them 2

SUMMARY: How would they react to you falling asleep on them?

CHARACTERS: Side Characters (Diavolo; Barbatos; Luke (platonic); Simeon & Solomon)

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; Bullet Points

WORD COUNT: An average of 290 words per character.

COMMENTS: Initially I was going to make this post theme just for the Demon Brothers, but I like to give all the characters the same rights, so I wrote this one. Just a little bullet points' list. But I hope you enjoy. ⭐️

⭐️ Falling Asleep on Them - Demon Brothers

CONTEXT: This takes place in the original time-line of Obey Me! One master to rule them all! So you were living with the Brothers in the House of Lamentation, but they asked you to go to the Castle/Purgatory Hall.

Except for Solomon’s part that takes place in the Nightbringer time-line because it's easier if you live with him. 😅

Diavolo asked you to go to the Castle because he needed some information about the human world for his paperwork, or whatever plan he wanted to keep for a surprise.

He ended up entertaining himself talking to you to the point that it got late and he hadn't finished his work yet.

So you ended up giving in to his puppy dog eyes and helping him with the paperwork before Barbatos found out and got upset.

You two made it! And to thank you, he asked Barbatos to make your favourite tea and your cake to accompany it.

The tea made you even more sleepy and you ended up laying your head on the Diavolo's arm. He let you rest until he realized, by your slow breathing, that you had fallen asleep.

He couldn't help but smile, you were so cute. He asked Barbatos to inform the brothers that it was better for you to sleep in the castle that night.

But when Barbatos asked if he wanted him to take you to the guest bedroom, Diavolo said it wasn't necessary because he wanted to be the one to take you.

He took you to the bedroom carefully, but without worrying about it. He knew he could get you safely to bed.

He laid you on the bed as if you were more royalty than himself.

He enjoys the sight of you sleeping for a moment before kissing your forehead.

He wishes he could take you to his bed, which is the most comfortable in the castle, but of course he doesn't want to do that without your permission. So he leaves a note next to you saying that if you wanted, you would be more than welcome to sleep with him.

If you do, Barbatos will pretend he didn't see you, and Diavolo will wake up to your presence and welcome you with open arms.

Barbatos noticed that you have been tired. He's even seen you run your hand over the back of your neck and shoulders as if you had muscle pain.

So, one day, he invited you to the Demon Lord's Castle and offered to give you a massage. You deserved it after all your work.

Diavolo had gone to the human world with Lucifer, something to do with the Hotel Corvo. So, Barbatos was in the castle to serve only you. You couldn't feel more like royalty.

Needless to say, the massage Barbatos gave your shoulders and back, plus the relaxing environment he provided had you falling asleep in no time.

He chuckles. He knew perfectly well what he was doing. That's why he suggested massaging you on one of the guests' beds.

He covers you with a blanket ready for this very event, kisses you on the cheek, and leaves a note on the bedside table next to you, saying that if you need anything, whatever it may be, you can go to his room and enter at will.

If you wake up in the middle of the night and do this, Barbatos will ask you what you need, as if he was already ready to receive you and was just waiting.

If you say you'd like to sleep with him, he'll chuckle with a smile. And tell you: “Of course, master. This will even make it easier for me to meet your needs whenever.” and he will chuckle again when he sees your reaction to calling you master.

After another tiring day sorting out the brothers' messes, Luke invites you to dinner at Purgatory Hall. He made a new dessert and he really wanted you to try it.

After dinner, Simeon had to continue a certain writing work he was working on. And Solomon had a new magical experiment that he wanted to keep working on. So you stayed with Luke in the living room playing some board games for two.

Meanwhile, the cooking show that Luke liked to watch started. so you stopped the games and watched it together. As you were tired and wanted to rest your head a little, Luke insisted that you lie down on the sofa while he would be fine in the armchair.

You ended up falling asleep, and he only notices when he says something to you and you don't respond.

He goes silent and turns down the sound on the TV.

He saw that you were a little shrunken, so he went to his room, brought a blanket and covered you carefully.

He went to talk to Simeon to ask what to do, whether to let you sleep or wake you up.

Simeon suggested that they let you sleep for a while and that when you woke up, which might not take long, they asked if you wanted to sleep there. Luke's bed was really big and the two of you could pretend it was a little slumber party.

If you accept, Luke will ask, slightly embarrassed, if you would like to sleep with a sheep plushie he had. You know, to sleep better. Not that he does the same, of course.

After another tiring day sorting out the brothers' messes, Luke invites you to dinner at Purgatory Hall. He's been practicing making one of your favourite dishes from the human world that you said you miss.

Dinner was wonderful! Luke even made a special dessert for you. After it, Solomon had a new magical experiment that he wanted to keep working on, and Luke had to write a report for Michael before going to sleep.

Simeon says there was a movie he wanted to watch with you and he needed your help to play it on the computer.

Lying comfortably in his bed, snuggling together, watching a movie without much action while you're already tired from the day you've had, you end up falling asleep on Simeon’s pretty shoulder.

He realized you had fallen asleep when he felt your head slightly heavier on his shoulder. He chuckles. He moves to close the computer which makes you wake up a little.

“If you are too tired, you can sleep here tonight.” He says in such a soft tone that it only makes you want to go back to sleep even more. “I can send a message to Lucifer to explain the situation. You looked very comfortable. And if you want to sleep alone, that's okay, my bed is yours. Ha ha.”

If you show that you want to sleep with him, he will smile, maybe make a little comment to himself about sins, and lay down next to you.

It wouldn't be unusual, when you live with Solomon in Cocytus Hall, for you to fall asleep on each other.

When it's you falling asleep on him, it would be very late at night. Either he would be teaching you something, or you would be helping him with some experiment.

You would be sitting next to him while he reviewed some papers. Being so sleepy and hearing him mumble sentences to himself, you end up falling asleep, laying your head on his shoulder.

In neither scenario would he be upset with you for not paying attention. He knows it's his fault, that he was demanding too much of you by robbing you of the hours of sleep you deserved. And he would feel a little bad about it.

He stops everything he was doing to focus only on you. He picks you up, being very careful not to wake you up, even if to do so he needs to cast a small, short-term spell until he can lay you down on the bed.

You were in his room, so he lays you down on his bed. It's all yours now.

He'll leave you sleeping while he goes back to work on his experiment. But before that, he kneels next to you, laying his head down to admire your sleeping face. How he wanted to drop everything to sleep with you right then and there. But he first needed to know if you wanted that too.

There's a good chance he'll take some pictures of you sleeping.

If you wake up in the middle of the night, you'll probably see Solomon sleeping at his desk.

If you get up to wake him up, he'll smile happy to see you before showing discomfort because his back hurts. But he would still be smiling at you anyway.

If you tell him that you would like him to sleep with you, he will be delighted! That's exactly what he most wanted to hear you say.

And he will return to bed with you, without being able to break his smile at any point, and pampering you until you fall asleep again in his arms.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[adelheidvonschicksal]

ᴄʜᴇʀʀʏ

Summary: You make for a good distraction when things get tough. Sukuna's fingers may be bitter, but your kisses are sweet.

Pairing: Itadori x GN!Reader

Tags: fluff, light angst, hurt and comfort, developing relationships, sfw

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The fingers of Sukuna are an ugly sight; burnt burgundy and twistedly decrepit, crowned with a pointed black nail that scratches at Itadori’s throat whenever he swallows one. The taste is even worse, akin to someone soaking an old cigar in cloudy mop water before clumsily preserving it in candle wax.

It takes all his strength to not pucker his face and dig his nails into the column of his neck whenever the soapy wax flavor hits his tongue. Every fiber of his body would react to reject the intrusion. The lingering aftertaste was another issue. He couldn’t erase it by scraping his tongue against his teeth; burying it with sweet or spicy foods after a mission only helped so much, leaving him to wait until it disappeared on its own as the hours past. He thought it would get easier every time; and for a while, it did.

Until it didn't.

He wanted to stop. But he couldn't stop, not after all this, not until he eats them all, not until he makes everyone's suffering mean something.

So, when he’s about to eat another finger after a grueling, emotionally draining late-evening mission, he braces himself.

As always, the flavor is waxxy, almost non-existent, then putrid when he accidentally bites down. His body knee jerks to react, gag reflex hiccuping and stomach bile rising to reject it, to tell him to spit it out. He closes his eyes tight and squeezes at his throat to loosen the straining muscles, begging his body to hurry up and accept it so it would end faster. Sukuna and everything that comes with eating these cursed objects. It doesn’t want to give in this time, and he squats as if it could help and also because he's so tired of this.

Suddenly, there’s a subtle sweetness, like fruit on the tongue, cutting through the taint. It’s an easy succor to chase and mold to while a comforting force travels up his neck and over his hands, gently forcing them to drop so it can replace them. This touch eventually settles under his bottom eyelids, smooth crescents drawing right along his cheekbones.

This taste is not exactly as strong as the sugar and spice that he normally uses to cover up the filthy flavor in his mouth but there’s something relaxing about the warmth that accompanies it and settles against his lips. Prayers answered, his clenching throat relaxes, allowing him to swallow, and his body quickly adapts to the new addition. 

When the sensation stops, Itadori can finally open his eyes.

It’s you.

You’re here, kneeling in front of him and glowing against the dark backdrop of the night that you’re a little blinding to his lagging mind. 

How could he forget that you came here with him?

There’s a soft silence flowing between you, and he only now notices that you’re holding his face. However, he doesn’t feel the need to make you let go as heat creeps up his skin and his heart begins to echo in his chest, temporarily numbing his mind from the sour aftereffects of eating Sukuna’s fingers.

“Better?” you ask with a small tilt of your head.

Itadori is caught off-guard by the question, feeling a bit dazed and more than a little confused.

“It’s…better,” he eventually mumbles so quietly that his voice gets buried under the breeze. “Thanks.”

His eyes drift lower on your face, finding your lips. He fights the blush threatening to overtake him as he takes in the reddish shine on your lips and pieces together what happened.

“Strawberry?” he hoarsely asks, half-jokingly and half because he feels as if he needs to say something, or else it would be awkward, wouldn’t it?

“Cherry, actually,” you correct with a tiny smile.

“Oh,” he exclaims, his cheeks still a pretty pink as he wonders if the kiss was something you wanted to do. He wonders why it made him feel so much better. He wonders if that would be something you do next time or if this was simply a one-off action thought of in the heat of the moment. He also wonders, for a moment, if he deserved it.

“Could you…” he begins then hesitates.

Is he even allowed to ask such a thing?

“Do that again?” He requests and shamefully palms at his chest for daring to ask for something so personal. “It’s uhm, the aftertaste.”

It’s partially the truth and partially because he wants to figure out why.

Nodding, you give in more readily than he expects and lean in to kiss him again. This time he dares to press the tip of his tongue against your lips, too nervous and confused to breach between them.

You’re right. It’s sweet, slightly tart, blatantly artificial, but so much better than anything else he can imagine right now. Yet he doesn't think it's the gloss causing his body to ease, if only a little.

When you pull away, he finds his mind finally catching up and blushes at the fact your lips are still so close to his. Exhaling slowly, he tries to ignore the dull ache still bubbling in his chest in exchange for thinking about the taste you left behind, the one that makes soft emotions emerge from his heart like a butterfly from its cocoon when he looks at you.

“Yeah…" he reinforces dreamily, letting the wind once again carry away his words, "It’s cherry.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Someone New 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include angst, pining, romcom tropes, and some darker elements later in the series. Some triggers may not be specifically tagged. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This fic will contain explicit content. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You've had a crush on your best friend for years, but you're slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Thor

Note: nice to see ya again!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Thor makes himself as permanent as the layers of sediment. Whether you’re in the dirt or looking over the charts and maps, making notes or sorting through your findings, he appears. Knowing he’ll be there keeps you coming yourself. Despite the short nights and long drives, thinking of him finding an empty site deters you from a day off, even against Sam’s pleas. 

The night before was filled with similar chiding from your friend. Sam is as persistent as ever. He always has a new account of his antics with Bucky and never forgets to tell you to take a break. You can’t stop though. You know if you do, you’ll have to think about everything you’re denying. 

The time away has given you time to breathe but it’s suffocated you in new ways. Along with that weight on your chest that has a name, there’s another you can’t quite understand. The one that sees you spending your spare hours alone and your working hours longing for anything but. You’re desperate to get out but terrified of the very same. 

When he arrives that day, you’re ready to give up. The tension in the air is giving you a headache and the dampness makes your skin feel sticky. You just feel gross. 

“Ah, I didn’t think you’d brave the weather today,” he muses as Thunder hops around his feet. You don’t look up, in a mood as grim as the sky. “You’d do well to stay in tomorrow. Trust me.” 

He’s always right about the weather. It must be the familiarity and yet it’s almost eerie how accurate he is. You might take his advice. You don’t like being wet and you’re starting to go cross-eyed from the hours and hours of concentration. 

Thunder yipes as you use your gloves to brush away clumps of dirt. Thor’s footsteps mulch patches of grass that sparsely carpet the dirt. He hums as his shadows looms in your peripheral. 

“Yes, my darling, I believe you’ve found the perfect spot,” he praises. 

You look over curiously. What is he talking about? You only notice then that he has more than the tiny dog with him. He has a basket on his elbow and a blanket under his arm. You sit up and watch him place down the former and shake out the latter.  

He spreads the blanket over the dirt and Thunder jumps onto it, rolling around on the fabric, digging her nose into the patched quilt as she wiggles across it. You clap off your hands and watch him as he gets down to his knees and flips open one side of the basket. He lays out several containers and two thermos’; one is the very same he brought you tea in.  

“I thought you could use a nice lunch before the weather turns,” he stands and nears the fence, “summer doesn’t last long here. You may as well enjoy it.” 

“Lunch?” You utter. 

“Brunch?” He suggest coyly. “Surely you can take a break. You are only human, you need to eat.” 

“You...” you lean to see around him, “you brought me lunch?” 

“I know it isn’t the most elaborate picnic but I thought it might be a pleasant surprise. I must confess I’ve been rather bored these days,” he admits, “so?” 

“Thor, that’s so... sweet,” you frown, “but...” 

“Work, work, work. Surely they can’t expect you to work yourself to the bone, pardon the pun,” he insists, “it will only be a bit.” 

“Yes, but...” you leave the sentence to hang. You don’t have a good excuse. You don’t know. It just makes you nervous. It’s a whole lot of effort for just you.  

“Oh, I don’t mind if you would rather stay over there. Only mean more for, eh, Thunder?” He asks the canine tramping around the blanket. “More than happy to sit here and enjoy my jelly cookies and hot coffee. 

“Coffee?” Your brows raise. 

“Freshly brewed. Promise, There’s nothing pickled. Though I don’t mind a nice herring,” he grins. 

Thunder bounces over and barks at you. She stands on her hind legs as she paws at the barrier between you. Now, how can you deny her? 

You stand and shed your gloves. You carry them over to the table beneath the tent and grab a wet wipe from the back. You come back under the open sky as you wipe your hands. 

“Sorry about all the dirt,” you scoff as you cross the dirt. 

“I don’t mind,” he assures you. He pulls apart the panels of the fence to let you through. It isn’t something you could ever forget but you can’t help but be stricken again by his sheer size. 

You bend to pet Thunder as she gets between your feet. She licks your fingers and you giggle. She’s cute. 

“Go on, pick her up,” Thor goads, “she loves it.” 

You scoop up the dog and stand. She squirms as she wags her tail incessantly. She swipes your chin with her tongue and you scrunch up your face. You carry her to the blanket and look over the spread. A leafy salad, pasta salad, sandwiches, cookies... There’s so much. Your protein bars and peanut butter and jelly can’t compare. 

“Oh gosh, this... a lot.” 

“Is it? Isn’t too much. We’re friends, yes?” 

“Friends?” You face him as you pet Thunder’s soft head. 

“Perhaps it is rather one-sided. You are obligated to be here, I just sort of haunt this place,” he chuckles. 

“No, no, friends,” you smile, “that sounds about right.” 

You turn away and lower yourself onto the blanket, sure to keep your boots off of it, as you hide your face. There’s a tinge of disappointment. You hear a far off echo in your head. How many times did Steve say the same; we’re friends, just friends, you’re such a good friend. Well, that’s all this is. No need to be so sensitive. 

“Do you ever take time off?” He asks as he gets to his knees. 

You look at him as you put Thunder down. He barely keeps her from chomping down on a rye crust. He lifts her easily and she kicks her legs. 

“Eh, you beast,” he points a finger at her snout, “be good.” 

He sets her back on her paws and she obeys. He tells her to sit and she does so. Her eyes continue to hungrily rove over the food. How can he resist them? 

“Like you said, the weather won’t last. Should get done what I can before the ground gets cold.” 

“Ah, yes, that is a concern,” he tuts, “how would you deal with that?” 

“Heat lamps, tiger torch... jackhammer if I really need but I’d have to put in a request for that...” you hadn’t thought too much into the inevitability of winter.  

“Ah, that’s...” he smirks, “I’m sorry but the idea of you with a jackhammer,” he snorts. 

“Hey,” you pout. 

“It isn’t to be mean but... you’re so gentle. When you dig, you’re so delicate about it.” 

“Am I?” You wonder. 

“Mm, is it a bit weird to say so?” He wonders aloud. “Yes, you are very precise, very cautious.” He takes out a set of plates and offers you one, “please, help yourself.” 

“It must be boring watching. Really, I’m the one digging and it gets dull,” you accept and pluck out one of the sandwiches. Salmon, you think. 

“You make it interesting,” he muses. “You talk to the bones.” 

“I talk to the bones?” You repeat, “what?” 

“Yes, I suppose you’re not aware of it. But your lips move when you’re focused. As if you’re chatting up the dirt,” he chuckles, “sometimes a few words do slip out.” 

“They do?” You blanch before you can help yourself to the salad. 

“You don’t say much. Usually something about the dishes, I’m not too sure.” 

“You never mentioned,” you look away shyly. 

“It’s... cute,” he shrugs. 

“You mean crazy,” you shake your head. 

“I say what I mean,” he counters. “No use in not. We can’t be happy if we’re not honest, not least of all with ourselves.” 

You’re quiet as you turn your attention to your plate. His words feel sharp despite his placid tone. You know it’s only because they’re true, especially for you. If you’d just accepted everything sooner, if you hadn’t been so dumb, if you hadn’t been so emotional, it would never have gotten so bad. No, if you’d just been honest. 

“I hope... I hope that didn’t come off wrong,” he says. 

“No, no, I’m... this all looks so good and I’m starving,” you assure him as you sit back with your plate. “Thank you again. This is... great.” 

“Well, I was thinking, you must miss your friends. I might be a paltry substitute but I thought i might fill that gap, even just for an hour.” 

“It’s really...” your eyes tingle but you push away the tinge of sadness, “it’s really nice.” 

“So tell me,” he scoops up salad onto his plate, “tell me about home.” 

“I...” you begin, surprised by the prompt. “It’s just home. New York. It’s busy and loud. Not like here.” 

“No, not that. Your friends. I want to know all about them. If I’m ever going to come up standards, I’ve got to know the competition.” 

You laugh. He speaks as if he needs to impress you. It’s nice to be somewhere where no one knows you’re not that special. You take a bite of the sandwich and chew, thinking out your question.  

You swallow, “well, my friend Sam, he calls every night to bitch at me. He’s great. Supportive but pushy. He likes to terrorise Bucky. He’s the strong and silent type, you know? Grumpy to boot but they’re... they’re awesome.” You smile without thinking, “before I left, they took me to this cocktail bar...” you blow out between your lips and roll your eyes, “real girly stuff.” 

“Ooh, cocktails. I’ve been known to indulge. I love finding new recipes.” 

“Really?” 

“Oh, yes, I love the sweet ones. I’ve only just perfected my blueberry basil concoction. I’m afraid I can’t share the secret ingredient unfortunately.” 

“Blueberry?” You ponder the flavour, “sounds yummy.” 

“Perhaps one day you can try it,” he suggest. 

“Maybe,” you say evasively. “Anyway, yeah, Sam and Bucky are... characters.” 

“They sound like it. How’d you meet?” 

“Oh, it’s boring. What about you?” 

“It’s not my turn,” he deflects, “tell me.” 

You don’t know why he cares. It’s as confounding as everything else about him. You still don’t get why he’s here watching you sit in the dirt. It sounds as grueling as watching a golfing tournament, in your opinion. Yet here he is, a man who looks like that, staring at you in your mud-stained khakis. 

“College. We met through a mutual friend,” you explain vaguely. 

“Ah, so you’ve been friends for some time. Yes, I see, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” he hums thoughtfully as he toys with the braid that hangs loose by his face, the rest of his hair twisted back as always. 

“Steve,” you say without thinking, your eyes drifting off into the distance, “he was my best friend. We met in art history. We spent almost every day together. Studying, whatever. He was more of a partier than me but... fifteen years, more than, and we saw each other...” You choke on your words and scoff darkly, “sorry, that’s... I’m homesick, I think.” 

You bat away the glaze in your eyes and focus on your food. You take a few bites as he sits quietly. Thunder stands up cautiously and crosses the blanket. She settles against your leg, leaning her head on your thigh. It’s comforting. 

“Yes, I think I would be very homesick as well. I lived in the city for a while but mother and father, they need me. And I love this mountain. It’s home. There was nothing in Oslo for me. I can work from here.” 

“Work? What exactly do you do?” You ask, happy to divert from your own painful past. “Oo, are you like a farmer? Or a shepherd. There must be sheep up here or something.” 

He laughs, “there are some sheep, yes, but those are protected by the government. We’ve not much of a choice where they settle. No, I’m not so savvy as all that.” 

“Hm, you... oh, what could do you here?” You look around, “on a mountain... oh, tours? Do you give tours?” 

He laughs, “it’s not a bad idea, but no. I’m a business owner.” 

“A business. You must sell fitness or something.” 

“Must I?” He narrows his eyes, “and what else do you assume about me?” 

“Oh, it’s only you’re so...” you cringe as you eke out the word, “big?” 

“Genetics,” he affirms, “not that but close, in a matter of looking at it. You recall that tea I brought you, with the cloudberry?” 

“Uh, yeah, it was sweet. Yummy.” 

“I’m happy you enjoyed it,” he smiles proudly, “I make superblends. All Nordic ingredients. There is a demand for wellness and organic products. I found the right niche and I’ve not done too badly.” 

“Must not if you can live all the way up here,” you remark. 

“Yes, but... it’s a reason I moved back. Business is a lonely venture. Now I’ve got it all figured out, I have my managers and my business plan, I break even, I realise how much I put to the side,” he mulls his sandwich and takes a glum bite. It’s the first time you’ve seen him anything but bright and beaming, “I feel like I’ve fallen behind. Like I’m playing catch up.” 

His words sink in and storm inside of you. You crunch on the crisp lettuce and gulp. You wipe your mouth with a napkin and clear your throat. 

“I know exactly what you mean,” you say breathily. 

“Do you? You’re out here, on an adventure all you’re own, how brave,” his voice is wistful and his gray blue eyes reminds you of the clouds above. 

“Yes, I know,” you say, “better than you. Trust me.” 

You smile, a bittersweet tug in your cheeks, and he stares back at you. Your eyes cling to each other and you feel as if the world is moving around you. He smiles and a glimmer of something unfurls in your chest. You make yourself look away. 

“Well,” you push the salad around your plate, “what about you? You must have friends, aside from the girl in the dirt.” 

He hums and scrapes up a bite of the pasta salad. He takes his time chewing before he answers. You scratch Thunder’s nose as she sniffs at your plate. 

“Yes, if you ever come to sample my cocktails, you might meet a few,” he coaxes, “I think you’d get along. Hogan and Vol, and Fandy. All good company. Sif’s not around so often when my brother’s around but he’s as fleeting as the sun.” He tuts, “I would call Loki a friend as well but he does scowl at the very thought.” 

“Loki?” 

“My brother of course,” he explains with , “yes, he is quite the dour one. He might get along with that Bucky.”