#but it still adds up since my left is doing the brunt of the work strafing and backpedaling and weapon skill hitting

[vampiricsheep]

Currently still having to rest my hand from the artparty-notetaking combo strain injury, but a guildie has me buzzing in place wanting to play eso again

[zepskies]

Hi, how are you?

I was wondering if you could write something like "Dean reads you wrong" but with Sam Please

Hey, lovely!

I'm doing well, thank you. 💜 I hope you are too! Hmm, I'm still working through my current bank of requests, but since "Dean reads you wrong" is so fresh, it got me thinking about how Sam would go about this...

Pairing: Sam Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: It's hard for Sam to admit he wants you...when he thinks you might want his brother.

Song Inspo: "If You're Gone" by Matchbox Twenty

Word Count: 1,600 Tags/Warnings: Fluff, angst, fear of unrequited love, mutual pining

Imagine: Sam reads you wrong.

When Sam falls for someone, he's...well, what he would call self-aware.

But also cautious.

He knows his own track record with women. He knows the life he leads, and has resigned himself to giving up most kinds of normalcy or domesticity.

And maybe, a part deep in the back of his brain has given up on the idea of love.

That's why it's so damn confounding...how you've managed to take him by surprise.

He's always been able to rely on you. Whether it's sharing the brunt of the research with him when Dean loses focus, or staying up with Sam on late nights, sharing mugs of tea and quiet conversation, bonding over familiar tastes in books, and '90s grunge music, of all things.

You also confessed to him, late one night, that you have a growing collection of mugs, fuzzy socks, and vinyl records, despite the fact that your record player has collected more dust than the bunker's old storage room.

You're wonderfully weird.

And you're unfailingly loyal to who you consider "your people." And Sam thinks (knows) he's fortunate enough to be included in that small circle.

Sam also knows, deep in his gut, no matter how much he tries to "rationalize" it away, that you're special. And special to him.

You've managed to do more than just slip under his skin. When he thinks too hard on it, he can admit it (just to himself). You've infiltrated all four corners of his heart so deeply, he doesn't have a prayer of scooping you out.

Some days, it's all he can do not to reach out while you're chatting away, filling the silence.

He can picture it like a scene in his mind: of interrupting your mouth with a gentle hand on your cheek, tilting your face up to his and showing you, with or without words, that he wants you...

And yet.

He can't help but watch how you are with Dean.

You two tease each other, bicker and gripe over coffee grinds left in the coffee pot and who ate the last of the leftovers. You fight with Dean over the remote on movie night (once, damn near smothering him with a pillow).

But you also dote on him, making sure Dean has one of his favorite desserts every time you go out to buy groceries. You swap his beer out for water when he's not looking. (And though Dean frowns and grumbles, he doesn't argue with your raised brow and imploring look.)

It's not quite flirting, but it's not quite platonic either—at least in Sam's eyes. You and Dean seem to have something.

And sometimes, your playful banter with his brother makes Sam sick to his stomach.

Like today, when Sam’s sitting at the kitchen table reading while you're making a cup of tea. The silence between you two is amiable, like usual.

Sam steals a glance at you and has to smile.

"Going with purple polka dots today?" he asks.

You look over with knitted brows of confusion, until you follow his gaze. You laugh sheepishly and wiggle your toes through your fuzzy socks.

"The floor is cold as hell," you defend yourself.

Sam's smile deepens a fraction as he turns back to his book.

"They're cute," he adds.

You turn your face to hide your blush. The mild thunder of heavy boots announces Dean's presence as he pops into the kitchen.

"Oh good, you're cooking. What's for dinner?" he asks. You turn to give him a familiar narrowed look.

"Who says I'm cooking?" you counter.

"Well, you're doing something on the stove..." Dean peers over and catches a whiff of the concoction you're brewing. He grimaces. "Second thought, I'm good. That smells like ass, whatever it is."

You roll your eyes at him. "It's just green tea, Dean. You know, health?"

He levels a deadpan expression at you as he opens up the pantry.

"I see your 'health' and I raise you...Doritos," he says. He digs his hand into the bag he's just pilfered and crunches a mouthful in your face. You can't help but splutter a laugh and push Dean away.

"You're ridiculous. If you catch a heart attack at 50, don't come crying to me."

"Hey, at least I'll die happy."

"Oh, right. A silver lining there. I'd hate to see what your arteries look like," you tease.

"Has anyone told you that you're unsavory?" Dean asks, continuing to crunch with an open mouth.

You smirk. "Is that your way of calling me sweet?"

He snorts. "Sure, sweetheart. We'll call it that."

"You know, I'm not your sweetheart," you point out.

Dean discreetly glances his brother's way with a sly glint in his eyes. Sam doesn't see it; by now he's trying his damndest to keep his eyes in his book and ignore the way his stomach is clenching, chest tightening.

Dean shifts his attention back at you and reaches down to brush your chin with his thumb.

"Not yet, but you could be," he says, in a flirtatious edge that he's never quite taken with you.

You're wide-eyed for a moment. In the end, though, you choose to take it as teasing. You push his hand away and give him an annoyed look.

"God, you're such a clown. Order a pizza if you're that hungry," you rejoin, and you pour two mugs of freshly brewed tea. "I won't even bother offering you one."

"Nope," Dean says, popping the "p." He walks out of the kitchen, giving Sam a firm slap on the back. Sam coughs and shoots his brother a frown.

Dean has the gall to wink at him before he walks out. Like he's having his own little private joke.

Well, Sam isn't laughing. He stares down hard at his book. He tries to ignore everything he just heard and saw out of the corner of his eye.

It becomes too much. He takes up his book and heads out of the kitchen.

He just doesn't see the way you frown as he walks away. There you stand, left holding two mugs of tea for you and him.

Sam returns to his room for a while. He's not hiding. He's...reading.

There's a knock at his door, and if it's Dean, he swears he's going to open his mouth and tell his brother to leave him the hell alone, like he's some kind of moody teen.

But it's you.

"Hey," you greet, after the door creaks open. Sam softens.

"Hey," he says, clearing his throat. "What's up?"

"You," you reply. You bring him his hot mug of tea and set it down on the desk where he sits.

"Thanks," he says.

You nod and place your mug beside his (Lord of the Rings themed, of course), and cross your arms as you lean against his desk.

Sam turns toward you in his chair. His hands rest on his thighs. His gaze travels back up to your face as he tries to keep his neutral, but welcoming to whatever you want to ask him. (He buries his heart deep, as he instinctively does whenever you're near him.)

"You okay?" you ask. Your brows furrow the longer you gaze down at him. Just staring, like you know he's hiding something. Like you can see straight into him, into the shadows where he keeps most of his thoughts of you.

This is perhaps the only area of his life where he's a coward.

"Yeah, I'm good," Sam replies, in a tone that suggests, Why wouldn't I be?

You quirk a smile. "Why don't I believe you?"

Sam swallows. For once, he's not sure what to say to you.

"You know you can talk to me, right?" you say softly. You take a subtle step into his orbit, almost between his open legs. Your demeanor says that you'd gladly listen, do whatever he asked of you. Because you're just that kind.

Sam's mouth twitches upward. "I know. I'm fine, really."

"You're fine, or you're Winchester fine?" you raise a brow.

Sam chuckles then, showing a flash of his smile. It lightens you.

"Maybe a bit of the second one," he admits.

You smile and inch closer, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah? Tell me," you say. Your voice is soft, but not quite a whisper.

It leads Sam to sigh. He grasps your hand where it lies on his shoulder. For a moment, he debates internally. He realizes then that Dean's antics earlier might've been more than just teasing. Maybe it was a subtle nudge—to stop wasting time.

Damn it, just do something, Sam thinks.

When you squeeze his hand back, it's just the small push he needs. He glances up at you.

Then he takes your hand and holds it between both of his, with care. He tugs you forward, surprising you as you step forward between his legs. Your mouth parts in soft surprise when he reaches a hand up to your cheek.

You still look surprised, blushing up to your ears, but you're not pulling away. In fact, your widened gaze moves from his eyes to his lips.

Sam smiles. He tugs you down to him and enacts a living daydream, finally kissing you with everything he has. Everything he’s had locked inside.

You respond to his mouth in kind; the subtle gasp of breath against his lips sharply cuts off as you sink into his kiss. Your trembling hand comes to his cheek, grazing the dull prickle of stubble. When your fingers dive into his hair next, it’s his turn to take a deep breath.

With each new kiss, he explores more of you. His hands find your waist, and he gathers you against his chest. You find purchase on his strong shoulders and give into the opportunity to straddle his hips, sitting in his lap while he continues to make your heartbeat wild in your chest.

Sam slows the kiss, only because his brain is starting to catch up with his heart. He wants to see your face, to make sure this is what you want.

He finds that and more when he looks up at you.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, tenderly brushing his thumb against your cheek.

"Does that answer your question?" he asks, with a soft laugh. You join him and press your forehead against his.

"I don't know,” you tease. Your eyes are dancing, both with amusement and relief. Because your heart has wanted this for even longer than Sam's.

You lean back in to whisper close to his lips. “Maybe I need a little more clarity."

Sam takes you at your word.

AN: It's been a long time since I've written for Sam! 💜 I got in another request for him a while ago. I may dust that one off soon... Until then, let me know what you think of this!

(And don't worry. I didn't forget about the Soldier Boy imagine I promised. That will come out at the end of this week, most likely!)

Read Dean's version: "Dean reads you wrong."

Sam Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

SW Tag List:

@kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @brianochka @branj19 @globetrotter28 @charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @tipthejar

@deanwinchestersgirl87 @this-is-me19 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70 @clinicallydepresso @emily-winchester @xiphoidbones @skoveu @nyotamalfoy @kmc1989 @siampie @violetlilysunshine @nic-kolas @hobby27 @pizzagirlxnsfwx @malindacath @brujaporfavor @katherineann83 @torchbearerkyle

@sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @deans-daydream @adoringanakin @sanscas @pap3rtigers @kaleldobrev @nix-rose

[cookeybg]

Autumn's Loss of Petals - Chapter 6

Title: Autumn's Loss of Petals

Various POVs : Damian Wayne, Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Jay Nakamura

Tags: Angst, Loss of love, amnesia, brotherly love, familial love, will add more if relevant, Hanahaki Disease

WARNING - This chapter contains graphic depictions of death/suicide/murder. This might be a bit of a spoiler, but I rather not trigger anyone.

Obviously, I do not own any of the rights to any of the DC comics, animated cartoons or movies and I am not getting paid to write this. This is purely for my enjoyment :)

Note: I will be experimenting with different POV's for this fic, but they will all be Damian-centric.

Word Count: 2, 150

Table of Contents

Chapter 6 - Damian

Damian watched the strong back of his father typing on the Bat-computer, he wore gray slacks with a black turtleneck. If one looked closely Bruce’s muscled physique had grown more wiry, the fat associated with youth long gone, fine wrinkles had deepened and he had silver at the temples. Long years of fighting the never ending mission had left him with back pain and a weak heart which led him into retirement three years ago. These days he watched over Damian, Timothy, and Cassandra while they wore the Batman mantle on patrols, each taking turns when needed. He still sat in front of the giant monitors working on case files, the cave still filled with his presence, his shadow still soaked into the stone walls. Thankfully, Gotham had greatly improved in the the last near decade leaving the family to assemble when there were world ending threats or huge catastrophes that the Gotham police couldn't handle. Dick along with Barbara had nearly rooted all corruption out of the police force and with Dick's retirement of the Nightwing persona it gave him more time to focus on work and his family. At the moment Cass was off-world with the Justice League leaving Tim to do the brunt of the patrolling, with the added strain of being CEO for both Drake and Wayne enterprises, he had also temporarily moved back into the manor. Damian hated that Tim had taken over the mantle while he had been recovering, it was bad enough that they shared it (even though it was nice to have a life out of vigilantism). He squared his shoulders, clasped both hands behind his back and took a deep breath, in his periphery he noticed Tim walking up to them. "Father, I am ready to resume patrols." Damian announced. "Are you sure you are feeling well enough for it?" Bruce asked, his voice had become more gravely with age. "Yes, all my wounds are healed and I have already returned to school. I am ready to resume my duties." Bruce mulled over Damian's answer, he rubbed his chin feeling stubble already growing, "It's only been a month since your operation, I feel that you should take more time." "I am only asking out of respect, father." Damian's green eyes were steely. "I want to go home." Tim said. Both men turned to look at Tim, he was wearing baggy sweats and a shirt that looked like it had seen better days. His eyes were purple rimmed, his unwashed hair stood stiffly on end and he had what looked like drool staining his cheek. "Have some pride Timothy." Damian grimaced at his appearance, "I pity Bernard." “We both know you’re going to let him go on patrol.” Tim turned to Bruce, ignoring his little brother. Damian bristled at Tim’s blatant disrespect, but kept quiet since Tim had sided with him. He settled to glare at him. His glare deepened when he noticed Tim’s lip twitch in humor. "He will need back up." Bruce acquiesced. "I will be fine, I have not slacked off in training." Damian argued. "Do it for me then, it will set me at ease." Bruce said softly. He had learned that a softer touch worked best with Damian. Damian stared at his father for a couple seconds before he relaxed his shoulders, "tt, fine," he mumbled. "Not it," Tim raised his mug of coffee up in the air, "but I'll be on call if you need me. I'm going home." Bruce grabbed his chin in thought, Damian didn't care who met him for patrol, he had already walked away to get ready.

Damian balanced on the windowsill of the apartment he came to investigate, he took in his surroundings the only light coming from the hallway. The place looked well lived in, the remains of a meal on the table, dirty dishes in the sink, a blanket draped over the back of the couch, everything seemed normal. He hopped in, his landing soundless, he could hear the noise of a television coming from the hallway, the sound muffled. He stepped into the kitchen, a thin layer of dust covered the counter and table, and a half eaten piece of toast was green with mold. A heavy, familiar scent tinged the air. “It looks like she was planning to come back home.” Bruce’s voice sounded in his ear. “Possible kidnapping.” Damian murmured. He walked towards the lit hallway with silent careful steps, even though he doubted there was anyone that could hear him. To the left of him an open door showed him the bathroom, to the right the noise of the television grew clearer and so did the scent. He stopped before moving closer, this part was never easy, no matter how used to it he was. He took a deep breath, cringing from the thought of what he was breathing in. He reached a black gloved hand towards the door knob and twisted it, the sickly sweet stench of decay assaulted his senses causing him to pause at the entrance. The light of the television illuminated the bodies on the bed across from it. Reaching into his utility belt he took out a flashlight to investigate the room. The curtains from the only window in the room fluttered weakly which explained the mass of flies that swarmed the bodies of a man and a woman. The woman had been placed on her side, facing the man, if it wasn't for her severe state of decomposition she might have looked peaceful as if resting alongside the male. She was surrounded by a ring of wilted flowers. The man looked like he had died in pain, one arm splayed over the side of the bed, legs bent awkwardly, mouth wide open. He was facing the woman, his other hand extending towards her face but never touching her, never breaching the border of flowers. “I think we found Kelly.” Damian said. “She’s been dead longer than the male. Who is he?” Bruce asked. Damian stepped closer staring at the maggots that crawled under their skin, spilling from their noses, mouths, and eyes. He walked around to the side of the male, patting his pants and gingerly dug out his wallet. The movement jostled the flies, some too large to take flight, their black hairy engorged bodies flopping back down almost immediately. He looked at the ID, Noah Simon, it read. His straight nose and brown eyes were completely indistinguishable from the swollen, crawling mass in front of him. “Found one of our suspects.” Damian said. “Yes, he seems indisposed.” Bruce responded, his voice displeased, “most likely the murder and then committed suicide.” “Hrn.” Damian agreed. “Try to find any files Kelly could have hidden.” Bruce said. Damian put Noah’s wallet back in his pocket, setting the flies to buzz with the movement. He stepped back to survey the room for any indication of where a person absconding with blackmail would hide their proof. The crunch of something underfoot caught his attention. Crouching down he examined the crushed debris. It looked like plant matter, he moved the light towards the bed and noticed a trail of it leading to the man's dangling arm. On closer inspection, Noah had been clutching something. Taking out a pair of tweezers, he carefully plucked some of the plant matter from the loose grip. A small, wilted, bell shaped, six petaled flower came loose. The same type of flowers encircling Kelly.

“He was very particular about those flowers.” Bruce said. He nodded, took out a plastic bag from his utility belt, placed the flower within it, zipped it and stored it away for later inspection. His light caught on a disturbed floorboard, the files must be there, typical. Not wanting to touch the bodily fluid that dripped from the bed, he used a batarang to wedge it open. He reached in and took out a manila folder, the pages within stained and wet, but still legible. He slowly rifled through it making sure the cowl recorded every page thoroughly. Once done he placed everything back the way he found it so that police could properly investigate. “We found what we were looking for. Police ETA ten minutes, get out of there.” Bruce ordered, Damian stood, his light falling over the decomposing bodies, the maggots crawled, falling over and landing on the bed to continue moving to wherever led them to more food. He swallowed despite himself, he didn't mind death, it was what came after the body started to decompose that put him on edge. Noah's mouth was wide open, his face tilted to the side, Damian walked closer to see an object preventing the maggots from fully spilling out. There were more flowers in his mouth, a cluster of them. A hot prickling sensation crept up the back of his neck, his finger tips turned to ice and his chest felt incredibly empty regardless of the fact that his heart hammered against his chest as if it were trying to escape. He lifted the hand not holding the flashlight to his mouth and instantly regretted it, the sour scent of rotting fluid made him hyper aware of the situation he was in. He was going to have to disinfect his whole suit, he was going to have to bleach his skin, he should have known better than to do such a thing. He gagged, he gripped his light harder, a ringing in his ears robbed him of his sense of hearing. He backed away until he bumped into the windowsill. With shaky hands he lifted the window wide open his legs propelled him out without his volition. Flies bounced off him, hitting his face, enhancing the nausea he felt. He freefalled for a second before his grappling hook caught on the adjacent building and hauled himself over the lip of it. He landed heavily on his knees.

He vomited. He felt suffocated, he couldn't breathe. He avoided wiping his mouth with his gloved hand and used his forearm. Distantly he could hear his father's voice but it was overwhelming so he pulled the cowl off and threw it to the side. He bent forward until his head hit the cold gravel.

Hanahaki disease, the man had died from the same thing that had nearly killed him. Love. Love, the pain, had drove him to do the unspeakable. Had killed not only its host but the object of his obsession. That could have been Damian. He could have been in the same situation, could have done the same thing. With his already bloody hands he could have done much worse, been the type of monster to break what he loved, to force it to submit and then kill them both because it was not easy, if not impossible, to force another being to love you back. Especially someone like him. He stayed huddled on the gravel floor until the ringing of his ears subsided and his breathing settled. Damian forced himself to stand, shame replaced the panic, he needed to grab the cowl and tell his father he was fine. Before he could bend and pick up his cowl a gust of wind flapped his cape around him nearly throwing him off the rooftop. Strong hands grabbed his arms on either side, locking him in place. "Dami!" Jon cried, "what's wrong?" His eyes glowed blue as he scanned him, Jon was momentarily startled at being able to see through Damian’s suit, Batman normally wore the lead lined version, "You're heart rate skyrocketed and you puked!" "I'm fine." Damian choked out, struggling to free himself from the Kryptonian. "Your cowl is on the floor, Bruce sounds frantic," Jon looked at him with worry, "you are not fine!" "Let go of me Superman." Damian said weakly. Jon watched him a bit more, his eyes boring into him. Damian eyes were determined, tired, a bit watery but he masked the weakness well. Jon did not let go, instead he started to say something when a bullet hit the floor at Jon's feet. Jon moved further away and held Damian closer, enveloping him in a tight protective hug. Jon’s hold filled him with a sense of calm that surprised him. It felt good to be hugged, Jon was warm, the point where their chest touched, even through his armor, eased the painful beat of his heart. Damian went slightly limp in Jon’s arms, a small sigh escaped him. "He said, let go!" Redhood's modulated voice echoed. Jon looked in Jason's direction, red eyes glowing dangerously in the night. "No." Jon stated firmly. "Don't make me use my kryptonite bullets, dip shit." "No!" Jon took off, faster than anyone could stop him, still holding Damian in his arms. Damian briefly heard the sound of bullets, but he closed his eyes enjoying Jon’s strong arms wrapped around him. His chest warm.

Trying to improve my writing, so I hope this chapter is an improvement from the others. I am honestly not sure, but I do like it a bit more.

Edit: fixed the chapter discrepancy, changed it to chapter 6, how it should have been.

[amor-immortalem]

Welcome Home

A/N: I’ve been working on this since NB season 2 ended in January :/ I think I’ve finally got it to where I’m happy with it. And just before new lessons drop no less

・・・〆・・・

“Hold on tight!”

The ride back to her own timeline is rough and bumpy. Her landing? Not so great. Arella crash lands into the bushes just beside the House of Lamentation’s front doors. Who would have thought being launched out of a rift in space-time could hurt so much?

‘Things could have been worse, though…’ She thinks to herself as she sits up and climbs out of the now destroyed bush, ‘Where did Solomon-?!’

A soft, pain-filled groan from the direction Arella’d just come from catches her attention and suddenly the human realizes the reason she’s not more hurt save for a few bumps, cuts, and bruises is due to the fact that Solomon took the brunt of their horrific landing.

“Oh my god, did you break that fall?!” Arella scrambles to help her fellow sorcerer out of the wrecked foliage. “You idiot, you may be immortal but you’re not unkillable! Are you okay?”

“Never better!” Solomon’s response is breathless and strained as he holds his arms wrapped around his sides, “It’s only a few broken ribs- nothing a simple healing spell won’t mend.”

“You’re so full of shite your eyes are brown. How badly are you hurt?” She’s not amused by the way the silver-haired man tries to downplay his injuries.

“I think… I punctured a lung too but what kind of teacher would I have been if I let my adorable apprentice receive far worse injuries than I?” he finally admits. “I’ll take care of it as soon as I get my bearings.” and that’s enough for Arella to cast a healing spell or her own.

“Oh, that’s nonsense.” The freckled human grumbles as she shoves her hands in the space between his arms and torso.

“Hear me, spirit of light. In name of the sorcerer Arella, I command you: mend and reverse the damage done to the man in front of me.”

A warm golden glow emanates from her palms as her magic does its job. Solomon’s breathing turns less strained and labored as the glow dissipates, and he lets out a long sigh of relief.

“Thanks for that.” he smiles as he rises from what’s left of the bush, offering his hand to Arella which she takes.

With quick spell, Solomon is able to reverse the damage they caused with their fall and the pair of humans has all of two seconds before they find themselves nearly tackled back into the foliage as a pair of arm crushes them against their owner’s chest.

“Y…You’re back!” Asmo’s voice quivers with unshed tears as he pulls back. “Both of you… do you have any idea how worried I was- how worried the rest of us were?! You idiots! Where’ve you been!?”

“It’s a long story.” Arella smiles as her own tears start to well up in her eyes. “But I’m home… finally.”

・・・〆・・・

Just one simple text calls nearly the rest of the brothers home. There are many questions, many tears shed from the relief at seeing their pact master but one of them is still missing.

“Do we have any idea where Mammon is?” Arella asks as she bounces Cyrus on her hip- she’d been purposely waiting until everyone had arrived before she recounted the events of the last year to the group of demons.

There’s a look of concern splayed across their features that doesn’t sit well with Arella.

“Did… something happen to Mammon while we were gone?” Solomon asks as he sips from the teacup in his hand.

“Once we realized you were missing,” Satan starts, choosing his words to explain the situation carefully, “Mammon went on a rampage looking for you.”

“When he couldn’t find you anywhere here in the Devildom,” Lucifer adds, “he left for the human world in hopes of finding you there. He was going to take Cyrus with him, but I was able to convince him that was a bad idea.”

“That was six months ago,” Beel frowns. “No one’s heard from him since.”

The revelation leaves Arella quiet with concern. Guilt for not acting sooner when it came to reforming her pacts begins to eat at her as she thinks about how sick with worry her favorite demon must be consumed with.

“I’ll go look for him,” she declares boldly, “but first I owe the rest of you an explanation for the past year.”

・・・〆・・・

“It’s clear she’s not in this realm, Mammon.” Milli sits across the table from him as they eat breakfast. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll drive yourself insane over one small human life- not very befitting of such a powerful demon.”

“I know, Mill,” Mammon sighs tiredly as he runs a hand through his shaggy white hair, “I know, but I can’t give up on Arella. She’s out there somewhere, in trouble, and if the situation was reversed, I know she wouldn’t give up on me.”

“For all you know, she could be dead- you said you felt your connection through your pact waning, didn’t you?” The witch frowns as her daughter toddles up to her and climbs into her mother’s lap to snuggle. “I just don’t want to see you come out of this with a broken heart.”

“She’s not dead.” His blue and gold eyes bore holes in the table- refusing to believe in that possibility. “Yeah, it’s true that the strength of our pact was weakened at the start of all this, but in the last few weeks, it’s been gettin’ stronger and stronger. It won’t be much longer now- I can feel it.”

Milli only sighs as she gives her long-time friend a disbelieving look. “At least go home and take a break. I can’t imagine you have many funds left to keep up your little search I’m sure your little one misses you as well.”

The Avatar of Greed nods. Going home would give him time to recoup as well- let him touch base with his brothers and see if they’d managed to find anything more out in his absence.

“You’re right… I am almost out of grimm so I have to go home whether I want to or not. It’s just… I feel horrible goin’ home having made literally no progress. Everyone’s countin’ on me to bring ‘er back.”

“Then they’ll just have to be disappointed- you’re only one demon.” The witch huffs. “You can only do so much especially when you had literally nothing to go on.”

The solemn mood is interrupted abruptly as a bolt of golden light strikes the center of the kitchen floor, startling everyone in the house as Milli’s young daughter starts to cry. When the smoke clears, it reveals Thirteen, who looks more than a little frazzled.

“Thirteen?” The white-haired demon asks.

“No time to explain,” the reaper says as she takes a hold of Mammon’s hand. Before he can even get a word out, they teleport away.

・・・〆・・・

The brothers all sit in silence as Arella recounts the crazy year she’d just had. How she was forced to reestablish their pacts, the way their sins began to control their behaviour, the trip down to Cocytus to save Lucifer, how she’d even got to watch the planning and development of RAD and briefly attend its opening ceremony, and how alien everything all felt in the moment.

Now that she’s listening to herself speak, she realizes how truly terrified she was that she might never return home.

“But who would even do something like that?” Belphegor frowns, “And why take you back to that timeframe specifically?”

“They called themselves ‘Nightbringer’. Arella responds, staring down at her messages- specifically at the unlisted number that sent her the text that started this nonsense- as she allowed her adoptive son to play with her fingers. “I’ve still got no clue as to who they even are, but they seemed to know the eight of us well enough…”

“The father of demons?” Lucifer has a puzzled expression on his face. “What would a being as old as that want with you?”

“I don’t know…” she sighs, “but I’ve got the nagging feeling we’re far from done with them yet…”

・・・〆・・・

“Thirteen what is goin’ on.” Mammon’s lost track of the amount of times he’s nearly tripped over his own two feet as the reaper pulls him along after her.

“It’s Arella.” Her response is blunt. “She’s back. An hour ago, she and that shitty sorcerer just appeared out of nowhere right in front of the House of Lamentation.”

Those words freeze the demon in his tracks. Arella. His human. She was back. Was she safe? Hurt? Where the hell has she been that not even a tracking spell could find her? And why the hell was she with Solomon of all people?

Deciding not to waste any more time, the demon books it for the House of Lamentation leaving Thirteen in his dust. It takes him no time to get home, throwing the door open as he kicks off his boots. When he sees her, his breath catches in his throat.

His presence is given away when Cyrus looks back and excitedly calls for him.

“Mammon…” Arella smiles, her voice sounds so relieved as she crosses the room, wrapping her free arm around his neck.

Mammon returns the embrace, arms winding around his human and son tightly as he buries his face in her hair. He can’t believe it- all that time spent searching in vain only for her to reappear out of nowhere. A sense of happiness, of relief, washes over him in tidal waves.

“Where the hell have you been?” His voice breaks as he tries miserably to hold back his tears. “I was so fucking worried about you.”

“I know I’m sorry.” Arella says as she presses her forehead to his, “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

Her thumb moves to brush away the falling tears from his cheeks as Mammon nods, opting just to rest his head in the crook of her neck where her scent is strongest instead- it always was grounding for him.

Things are further interrupted when Thirteen finally manages to catch up, barging into the House of Lamentation like she owns the place.

She joins Mammon in crushing Arella with a tight hug- one that never lessens even as she starts laying into Solomon about having disappeared for so long with her favorite human.

・・・〆・・・

Hours later, after everyone has gone to bed for the night, Arella and Mammon are still awake. The demon is restless and tense, body not seeming to know how to relax anymore and it leaves the human in much the same shape.

“Mammon, Love, come here.” Her voice is soft as she holds her arms out for him. “You’ll never get to sleep if you’re up pacing like that all night.”

“Sorry, Treasure.” Mammon sighs as he runs a hand through his hair before complying with her request. “I’m just- I don’t mean to keep ya up.”

“I know you don’t, dear. I just wish I could help you relax more- nothing seems to be working.” She runs her hands through his mop of snowy hair, “Seems like you’re in dire need of a haircut too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you keep it this long.”

“Is it? I hadn’t really noticed…”

“It is…” she hums, “I could probably tie it back in a small ponytail if I really wanted to.”

“Where did you go? I couldn’t find ya, Thirteen couldn’t find ya- We thought you were…”

“The past…” she answers softly, “Back to just a little bit after you all had fallen… I couldn’t let anyone know about my predicament- Solomon told me it might cause problems in the present if anyone were to know. I had to masquerade as a demon for a period of time before Diavolo eventually found me out with his lie detecting ability. It was so… weird and heartbreaking in a way. I knew who you all were, but you didn’t have a clue who I was… I felt like I was reliving my first year as an exchange student…”

Silence falls over them like a weighted blanket as Arella keeps carding her fingers through Mammon’s hair.

“Why didn’t you come back sooner?”

“I wanted to- believe me, I did- but the power of my pacts had diminished to practically nothing- not even my stay commands had as much of a kick to them at that point. I was forced to reforge everything if I wanted to return to this time. It was hard. The hardest part was not being able to seek you out when I needed comfort. I had to keep reminding myself that you weren’t my version of you. That no matter how much it may feel like my version of you, you were a different demon from the one I love.”

By this point, the human had tears tumbling down her cheeks. Over the past year, she’d been compartmentalizing all of her fear and anxiety that came with the prospect of being stuck in the past and she’d never taken the time to actually confront and deal with those emotions. Now that she was home though…

“I just…” a sob quakes her voice, “There were so many nights where I just wanted you to hold me, tell me it would all be okay in the end but…”

Mammon just tightens his hold on her, maneuvering Arella down so she’s on his level as he allows her to cry it out.

The rest of their night is spent wrapped up in their blankets with kisses and cuddles aplenty. The rest of their reunion and all the struggles that may come in its wake can wait for another day. For now, the pair just simply bask in each other’s company, just grateful to have each other once more.

・・・〆・・・

End

[schrijverr]

I Found Myself a Cheerleader 5

Chapter 5 out of 28

Bumped to the lowest step on the social ladder after his fight with Billy, Steve gets roped in with the cheer team. What starts as a favor to help them out when one member breaks her leg in turn for protection from the brunt of the bullying, sets the universe on a different path.

In this chapter, the school year ends and Steve’s parents come back to town for graduation. The experience is anything but pleasant. And when Billy heckles Steve after the ceremony it turns into a nightmare as he is thrown out of the house after a fight with his father.

On AO3.

Ships: eventual steddie & buckingham

Warnings: child abuse, f-slur, homophobia, hate-crime, internalized homophobia

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 5: The End of the Year

Spring break rolls around and, while Steve still has a bruised nose, which hadn’t been fun to explain to Joyce, who fussed over him when he came to pick up Will. But with spring break also comes the news that the Hagen family is moving out of town.

Tommy is nearing the end of his senior year, but it is looking like he’s going to have to repeat it and his father has gotten better business opportunities elsewhere. They’re moving to a bigger city, so Tommy can go to a private school, because according to his dad it’s because Hawkins High employs imbeciles.

In all honesty, Steve doesn’t care what Tommy’s dad thinks of Hawkins High and its teachers, all he cares about is that they will not be in Hawkins should his parents return.

His parents are not made for Hawkins, Steve has long since learned that. The small business his father inherited grew quickly and is now too big for the respectability of Hawkins. He has more important people to brush elbows with than the high class of a small Indiana town. And his mother has always loved the glamour of Europe more than her son.

The only people they talk to when they are in town are the Hagens. This is because Tommy has been Steve’s friend since kindergarten and contact was thus required. His parents keep it up out of politeness, but they won’t put in the effort of finding their new address.

This all means that they only source that could tell them of Steve’s new hobby has just left town. It feels like a weight has lifted of his shoulders.

He spends most of his spring break allowance in the arcade on the kids and even takes them to a movie, managing to convince Hopper to let El come too.

The cheer squad still practices throughout the break, since competitions are coming up. Afterwards, he takes Lisa and Chrissy out for milkshakes. Lisa is excitedly talking about next year when she’ll be attending Yale. Apparently she is a legacy.

“What about you?” Chrissy asks, when Lisa is done. “Where are you going?”

“Uhm,” Steve pauses, unsure of what to say. He’s been ignoring the steadily growing pile of rejection letters on his desk, imagining the wrath of his father when he returns. “I-” he starts, then lets out a deep sigh. “I don’t think it’s happening for me, honestly. Seems I’m too stupid for college,” he chuckles humorlessly.

It’s quiet for a second. Steve doesn’t look up from where he’s playing with his straw. He doesn’t want to face their pitying faces. He knows that it’s not exactly great.

“Well, I’ll be happy to have my friend if you’re staying,” Chrissy tells him, bumping her shoulder against his.

He finally looks up and she is giving him a soft smile. There isn’t anything pitying in her face and he can manage a smile back. “Yeah, that’s good,” he agrees.

“And college isn’t everything,” Lisa adds.

“Nah, I can probably just work for my father,” Steve agrees, though the idea of having to work for his father for the rest of his life sounds worse than prison,

“See, plenty of silver linings,” Chrissy tells him, before finishing her milkshake and shamelessly sticking her straw in Steve’s drink. She’s been doing much better, which Steve is glad for. Her mother still hangs over her like a shadow, but she tries as best she can when she’s outside of the house.

Steve honestly doesn’t care if he goes to college or not. School has never really been his thing and the thought of it doing it for four more years sounds terrible, but his father is pretty adamant about it being part of his development.

He doesn’t want to imagine how the conversation about him not making it into college will go. Of course they have to be home in order for them to have that conversation, but that’s not the point right now.

The point is that college might not happen for him and he’s both terrified and a bit relieved. He doesn’t want to fight with his father, but he also doesn’t want to leave the kids behind. A part of him is still afraid the Upside Down will come back and if it does he needs to be here to protect them. To keep them safe.

Just thinking about the Upside Down makes him shudder, so he quickly shakes his head and tries to put it out of his mind. El closed the portals, he reminds himself, he should focus on surviving high school first. What are the chances of it coming back? No, he should focus on the now. Focus on staking his claim on his milkshake before Chrissy takes it all and focus on teaming up with Lisa as elders when Chrissy tries to start shit about it.

And so spring break passes them by and changes into the last leg of the school year, the last year of Steve’s high school career.

It’s the busiest Steve has ever been. He flits between classes, cheer practice, study sessions with both Sofia and Lisa and housework. However, all those things to do, keep his brain from the fact that no college accepted him. Not one.

Molly is running all of them into the ground along with coach Miller, but it’s paying off. Steve hasn’t been with the cheer squad for long, but he can feel how good this is turning out.

A moment of awkwardness emerges when it’s the cheerleaders turn to be photographed for the yearbook and Nancy shows up with Jonathan in tow. He hasn’t really spoken with either of them since he broke up with Nancy. It hurt, even if he never loved her like that, he had convinced himself that he had and for her to reject him? To blame him for Barb’s death? That hurt. However, he’s over it, but that doesn’t make it less uncomfortable.

None of them really know what to say to each other and Steve tries to stay in the background as much as he can.

He tried to get out of being in the picture, but Molly wouldn't hear of it. He was planning on skipping it all together, but then Chrissy had pouted: “Come on, it’ll be the only chance for us to be in the yearbook together. It’ll be fun.”

And because Steve has no spine, he is here, sandwiched between Chrissy and Lisa, the three of them smiling broadly.

Nancy wants a few quotes for in the book, but Steve makes sure to be as far away from her as he can. Better not to open that can of worms again and just grow apart naturally. He doesn’t really want to know what she has to say about the new crowd he runs with.

A few weeks later and they’re all at school on an early Saturday morning to go to the last competition of the season. They’ve made it quite far with their routine and Molly claims she can smell victory on the horizon once more.

She has mellowed out a bit in her competitiveness ever since she got her scholarship, but such drive isn’t snuffed out easily and she is nothing if not a perfectionist. So, Steve still finds himself with muscle aches after practice. Sometimes he’ll look back on his basketball days and ever wonder why he thought cheerleading looked easy.

It is a big competition and as they stretch, he spots the purple and white school from his first competition. With them is the boy. He is giving a girl a piggyback ride and talking animatedly with other team members.

“You could go up there and say hi,” Chrissy says, snapping him out of his thoughts as he realizes she caught him staring.

Fear creeps into his veins as his heartbeat quickens. Maybe a bit too quickly to be believable, he asks: “Why would I want to do that?”

Chrissy frowns for second, then lets the expression melt of her face as she shrugs: “I don’t know, I thought maybe some bro solidarity. It’s not like there are many guys walking about.”

Of course, Steve is an idiot, why would she think he would want to talk to the attractive guy otherwise. She doesn’t know. He blushes a bit and looks to his toes, now at a point where he can easily touch them. “Ah, yeah, course. But no, he’s the enemy here.”

He winks at her and Chrissy giggles, shoving him lightly. “You’re such an idiot, Stevie.”

“Why is he an idiot now?” Lisa asks as she sits down with them, handing both of them a juice pouch that coach Miller was handing out.

They take it as Chrissy explains that Steve’s machismo has dubbed the purple and white guy as the enemy, which makes Lisa laugh too. Fuck, he’s going to miss Lisa when she moves away to college in a few months.

Soon after their group is called to perform. They do their cheer, before getting into start position. He has gotten better at this, but there are always jitters right before they start. He used to have this with basketball as well.

Then the music starts and it all melts away in making sure he keep smiling and keeps his eyes on Chrissy as he sends her up into the air.

He catches her smiling face in the middle of a flip and remembers that day when they were practicing in his yard. Remembers Chrissy telling the kids: ‘Stevie makes me fly’. She looks like an angel now, flying through the air.

Before he knows it, it’s over.

They all stand there, breathing heavily, sweat coating their backs and smiles on their faces. They have done their routine and done it well. Now all they have to do is wait for what the judges say. It is crazy, Steve suddenly realizes, his life as cheerleader is over now.

He hasn’t been a cheerleader for long, only a few months. Yet it has become such a big and important part of him, that it feels kind of unreal that it is over now. He gained friends from this, a better school life, more comfort in his own skin. And now it’s done.

By the look of it, he is not the only one, who realizes this. Many of the senior girls on the team are crying. Heather and Molly are practically glued together with how tightly they are holding onto the other.

Lisa is not crying, but she does look emotional as she pulls Chrissy and Steve into a hug, something she rarely does. Steve hugs her back tightly, not letting himself cry as he basks in the closeness and understanding. Chrissy has no such limitations and is openly weeping about how much she’ll miss them and how cheerleading won’t be the same without them.

“I’ll stunt with you whenever you want, Chris,” Steve hears himself promise her. “You just gotta come visit.”

“Deal, so hard. Yes,” Chrissy cries, her hand buried in the back of his shirt.

They don’t win that day, but they come in second. No one is bitter about it, they’re all too busy celebrating what they do have and their history on the team. Even coach Miller isn’t too much on their ass in the bus to behave.

After that win, it is a race against his own brain as he crams for their finals and tries to make it through the last few weeks of high school.

Luckily everyone is. Even Billy is less of a dick, also trying to make it out of this shithole town like all of them want to.

Eddie isn’t around as much either. Steve heard he is getting held back again and has given up on the year, choosing to get high and skip school. Steve is both glad and sad about that fact.

His crush on the boy hasn’t waned in the slightest and he really wants to see those beautiful eyes and dramatic gestures for as long as he can, before he leaves school and he might not see Eddie ever again. However, he is also a bit relieved that he doesn’t have to feel those eyes on his constantly. It makes the hairs on the back of his head stand on edge and he’s anxious enough about the tests alone.

In the end, after all he’s been through in the past few years, the last bit of high school passes like any other person for Steve.

The week before his graduation his parents come back into town. While Steve knows they couldn't care less about him, he also knows that image means everything to them. Not showing up to watch him walk the stage is unthinkable. Steve mostly hopes they won’t stick around to talk to people who could tell them what he’s been up to.

Of course in order for that to happen, he has to live to his graduation, which isn’t looking likely right now.

It’s his own fault too, he forgot to throw out his rejection letters, having kept them on a pile as a form of self-flagellation. However, his father has stumbled upon them and discovered that his son isn’t going to college.

“You are such a disappointment, Steven,” his father hisses at him, the stack a crumbled mess in his hands. “I asked one thing of you to accomplish, just one. And that was to get into college. One of them would have been enough. You can’t even manage that.”

Poison drips of his every word, hitting Steve in his chest. He wants to cry, but he knows doing so will only invite more anger. So he swallows down the lump in his throat and says: “I’m sorry, sir,” knowing that an explanation won’t be welcome.

“Yes, you should be,” his father informs him coldly. “What will the town think, huh? When you’re still walking around here next year. A failure of a son.”

Fuck, if his father only knew what the town thinks of him now. If he only knew what they say about him when they think he can’t hear.

“I’ll do better,” Steve promises in vain, hoping it will quell some of his father’s wrath.

“I don’t think you can,” his father says. It’s so flippantly too, like it is just a fact to be stated and not a stab through Steve’s heart that his father has resigned himself to Steve being a failure.

It’s as if with the statement, resignation takes the place of anger. His father drops the letters to the floor and walks away. He stops in the doorway and turns around. “Your mother and I will watch you graduate, but we’re cutting off your allowance after that. We’ll come back if you prove you can be more than you are now.”

Then he is gone and Steve feels like he can’t breathe. He crumbles to the floor of his bedroom, around him are the scattered rejection letters. It feels as if he is being choked by the stiff clothes his mother had forced him into upon her return, telling him he looked like a slob. His bed next to him is perfectly made, every inch of his room clean.

But it isn’t enough.

It never is enough.

Tears start to fall and he can’t stop them, even if he knows he isn’t supposed to cry. So, he tries to muffle his sobs and hope his parents will keep up the trend of not caring enough about him to come close to hearing it.

Forty minutes later he finds himself in his bathroom, desperately scrubbing his face in an attempt to hide the fact that he cried. He needs to be down for dinner soon and he knows he’ll be in trouble if he doesn’t look presentable. However, the puffiness of his eyes is refusing to disappear and he’s getting water everywhere.

He changes clothes, before he can have a break down about it and goes downstairs. His mother has barely spoken to him since she got here. She gives him a disdainful one over, but doesn’t say anything, instead she huffs and goes back to plating the food.

The first thing she tells him that evening is: “Steven, it’s like you were raised in a barn. The food won’t just disappear. Have some dignity when you eat.”

Privately Steve thinks he might as well been raised in a barn with how much effort they put into his childhood, but he stays quiet and slows his eating pace. There is enough tension in the house that he doesn’t want to do anything that could upset the delicate balance that has been reached.

A few moments later, his mother huffs again. “No need to be dramatic, Steven. I said slow down, not turn it into a play. Behave and eat normally.”

Steve honestly doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong now, but eats a little quicker, trying to do anything to please her. She still doesn’t seem entirely happy – she never does – but it’s enough not to earn a comment again during dinner.

He does the dishes without being asked, which goes unremarked, before fleeing to his room, wishing the week could be over.

The next day he gets dragged to a fancy tailor, where he gets hoisted into suit after suit until his mother seems pleased. His opinion isn’t asked, but he didn’t expect it to. At this point the only way to please his mother is by being her little doll and he honestly just wants to make her happy and get it over with.

After hours of being dressed up his mother is finally happy with how he looks. The suit she picked is incredibly uncomfortable, but Steve is sure he can grit his teeth for a few hours tomorrow and survive his graduation.

His parents have an event to go to after, so they won’t be in town for long. It’s just two more days and then he’ll be blessedly alone again. A part of him wonders when he stopped minding the abandonment.

He drives his own car to graduation, not needing the last minute nitpicking that will make his nerves feel even more flayed. So, he won’t see his parents until after the ceremony. A fact he’s quite glad for as he joins his friends.

Steve isn’t standing close to anyone from the cheer team, instead stuck behind Billy, who is radiating murder vibes. Right now Steve hopes that because Billy will go before him, nothing bad can happen to him as he walks the stage. Though that doesn’t help the anxiety go away.

To distract himself, he looks into the crowd. He doesn’t search for his parents, instead scanning the crowd for red hair, because Chrissy promised she’d come. He hasn’t seen her all week, unable to get out of the house with his parents there. Luckily she understands that, but he still missed her.

She is in the middle somewhere, along with the rest of the cheer team, who aren’t graduating. They cheer for all their team members and most of the others too.

His own name is called and he hurries to the stage, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Still, he ensures he walks at a dignified pace, knowing his mother’s eagle eyes are on him. He smiles to the crowd, ignoring how the cheers are less than they’d been for Billy. Fortunately, the cheer squad is loudly calling out his name, which evens it out a bit. He prays his father will take a crowd of girls cheering for him as a sign and get off his case about a girlfriend.

And just like that Steve Harrington is a high school graduate.

He can’t believe how well that went. He walked the stage, got his diploma and no one died and nothing exploded. All in all, Steve is a free man and that is all he cares about right now.

Naturally such optimism must be crushed by the universe, because Steve can never fully leave a place unscathed.

He is walking with his parents, who have congratulated him as good parents are supposed to do, when Billy shows up at the other end of the parking. He is surrounded by friends and Steve is pretty sure his dad didn’t show up. It’s clear he’s angry about it, looking for a target to take it out on and Steve is right there.

Steve notices him before his parents and tries to hustle them along, but it doesn’t work. He cringes as Billy calls out: “I can’t believe your parents would want to be seen with you, fag.”

At the words, Steve freezes, feeling his father’s eyes burn into the back of his skull. He swallows thickly and yells back: “I’m not a fag. And it’s not like I see your parents around. What? They don’t want to be seen with you? Curious.”

“How fucking dare you, you fucking pussy,” Billy seethes. “Now you’re talking back? Huh, got daddy to protect you? Does he even know what a queer his son is?”

Oh god, no, Steve thinks, heart beating in his throat. He has to say something, has to stand his ground, or this won’t end well. He spits: “I’m not a fucking queer, Hargrove.”

“Yeah?” Billy laughs, knowing by his posture that he has him cornered. “Tell that to your picture in the year book. At this point I’m surprised they didn’t hoist you into a little skirt. You ruined a lot of wanking material by joining the cheerleaders.”

And there it is, out in the open. No matter Steve does, his father won’t let anyone say such things about him without finding out why. This is it. Life over.

He catches Chrissy’s eyes from the crowd. Her brows are pinched and she looks angry. Angry enough to do something stupid. He can’t let her do something stupid for him. So when their eyes meet, he shakes his head and hopes she’ll listen.

Chrissy deflates and it is the only bit of relief he gets, before his father snatches his yearbook out of his hands and flips it open. Steve is already backing away, before his father can reach the page, hoping he’ll be able to escape on time.

However, he isn’t fast enough. He knows his father has found the page, because rage overtakes his features as he throws the yearbook to the ground. Then, like the boxer he’d been in his youth, his fist flies out and hits Steve in the face.

He stumbles back form the force and the shock. In all these years, his father hasn’t hit him before, not ever. There has always been the threat of violence and a light spanking, but proper hitting? Never. Not once. Not until now.

Before he can recover, his father has grabbed his hair and is dragging him towards their car. Under the watchful gazes of the rest of the school, he is pushed in the backseat. The Harringtons have an image, they cannot let their son behave like that. They showed the public they don’t agree and are now taking him for punishment in private. It isn’t proper to do that on the streets.

Steve looks down in shame, cheeks burning. He chances one glance out of the window to the staring crowd. Most of them look like they agree and they’re glad something is done about it, but right there in the middle is Chrissy, looking horrified and guilty.

At home his father is completely silent, stony and cold. Steve is honestly terrified, his cheek is still throbbing from the hit and he is waiting for the shitshow that is about to come.

He watches as his father paces back and forth in the living room. Until he stops and turns to Steve, ice in his eyes as he demands: “How long has this been going on?”

“Not long. Couple of weeks,” Steve answers, wanting to shrink into himself and disappear. “I swear it was nothing, just something stupid. It was just a joke.”

“A joke?” his father repeats. “Do you know what is a joke? You. A Harrington, running around like some fag. Some dirty queer.”

“I’m not a fag,” Steve lies, hoping to save himself.

“You better not be, boy,” his father says, pushing into his personal space.

“I swear, I’m not,” Steve says again, as if it will make his case stronger. “I was trying to get this girl to like me. They needed someone. I thought it would get me in her good graces.”

His father scans his face, brow stern as he inspects Steve’s face. For a moment, Steve thinks this is the worst it is going to get. Then he’s hit in the face again and goes sprawling onto the floor. His father spits: “Don’t lie to me, boy.”

Tears well up. He has tried his entire life to be perfect for them, to be good enough. And he never was and he never will be. He can’t do anything right. He didn’t even choose this. He doesn’t want this either. He wishes he could settle down with a pretty girl and have a family like everyone wants him to.

He gets kicked in the side by his father, who screams: “You are nothing, but a worthless piece of shit and I don’t want you sullying the family name.”

Steve curls into himself, the uncomfortable suit he’s wearing making it difficult to do so. His father lands another kick and Steve lets out a whimper.

“Richard,” he hears his mother say and his father stops. They both look up at her. She is standing, glass of wine in her hand, looking quite unaffected by the spectacle before her. “All this noise is giving me a headache.”

A headache, Steve thinks shrilly, his world collapsing around him. He has always knows that his mother doesn’t care, but he always thought there would be at least some affection for him. But it seems not and it feels like his ribs are collapsing in his chest.

His father looks back down to Steve. He spits on him, right in his face, and snarls: “No son of mine will be a queer under my roof. You have five minutes to pack your stuff and get out.”

I didn’t even kiss a boy, Steve thinks wildly as he scrambles up to his room, throwing as many of his clothes into a bag and snatching the few mementos he has of the kids and Chrissy.

He stumbles off the stairs and out of the house. His mother has already wandered off again, but his father is standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “We’re having the locks changed, don’t think of coming back until you’re married and have a grandson for us.”

Then the door is slammed in his face.

Steve stands there for a few seconds, just staring up to the house that has been his home for eighteen years now. He’s still in the stupid monkey suit, bag at his feet and bruise on his face. Officially homeless.

It hits him all over again and tears well up. He lets them slide down his cheek and turns away. He doesn’t want anyone seeing him there. He doesn’t want this to be the new talk of the town.

He still has his car keys in his pocket. He saved a bunch of money in there, something he’s glad for now. The car is in his name, so they can’t take it from him. He shoulders his bag and starts walking to the school where he’d left it. Time to start planning what he should do now.

Everyone in Hawkins is at a graduation party, hundreds are held tonight. But Steve doesn’t care for any of them. He is just glad people are too busy to see him walk around.

His ribs ache with every step and he feels humiliated. He hates himself, he hates his parents, he hates Billy and he hates the world that made him so. He just wants to be normal. He just wants his parents to care. He didn’t ask for this.

When he finally gets to the school, his car is the only one in the parking lot. It’s completely covered in shaving cream and toilet paper. On the hood is painted fag mobile. Next to it lies his crumpled yearbook.

He picks it up, the smiling faces of the cheer squad stare up at him accusingly, his own among them as some sort of mockery of when he was still happy and his world hadn’t collapsed yet.

Steve is beyond crying at this point, so he throws his yearbook into the bushes, before staring at his car in defeat. Standing there in the parking lot by himself.

After giving himself a moment, he starts plucking off the toilet paper, before using his suit jacket to wipe away the shaving cream. He hates that suit anyway. It takes him awhile, but it’s mindless work that keep him busy, keeps him distracted.

Only the words on the front of his car remain. They stare at him judgmentally. He knows he should be lucky they didn’t break his windows, but it still doesn’t feel nice. He feels backed into a corner, watched, policed. It makes him feel terrified.

The suit jacket is already ruined and the paint is still drying, so he scrubs until his fingers hurt to get it off. He’s only half successful, but at least the words aren’t legible anymore. He vows to go through a car wash tomorrow, before driving a town over to trade his car. It’s a fancy one, he’s sure he can get a good price for it. Then he can drive something without people knowing it’s his. Without being a target.

But for now this is good enough.

He burns his suit, changing into a polo and some jeans in the back of his car. His radio goes off with Will saying: “Please, Steve, just reply. Jonathan said you got in a fight with your dad. He sounded concerned. Are you okay? Please, Steve, respond. Please.”

His heart aches to reach out. He wants to click that button and lie and tell Will he’s fine. Or maybe tell him he’s not and if he can come over to their house. To sink into the care of Joyce, who has always accepted her two boys, no matter how weird the town thought them to be. He aches to not be alone right now.

However, he doesn’t want the kids to see him like this. He is their strong protector and he doesn’t want them to know he got kicked out. He doesn’t want them to hate him. So, he turns the radio off with a decisive click.

Steve contemplates going over to the pay phone the school has and calling Chrissy. But she doesn’t have her own line and he doesn’t think Mrs. Cunningham will let him come close to her precious daughter if she knew who Stevie really was.

In short, he has no one to turn to.

So, he sits in the driver’s seat of his car and plays one of the tapes Chrissy left there when he drove her around last time. The music is way too upbeat for his melancholic mood, but it makes him smile and he needs that right now.

Once he has gathered himself again, he puts the car in drive and pulls away from the school. He hasn’t decided where he’s going yet, but he needs to move right now.

He finds himself passing the Hawkins sign, leaving the town. He hadn’t even realized where he was until he sees it. For a moment he contemplates driving on. To be the queer that ran in the eyes of his town. To go to a place where no one knows who he is and start again.

But he can’t. He can’t leave Chrissy behind. He can’t leave the kids without any defenses. He can’t leave Max with Billy as her only older brother. He can’t leave Dustin like his father did. He just can’t abandon them.

With reluctance he does a U-turn and drives back. Hawkins isn’t willing to let him go yet. There is something still keeping him there.

Steve thinks about going to Lovers Lake. The nature has always brought him peace and he can use some tranquility right about now. He is already driving in the direction when he realizes he made his favorite hang out place into a make out spot.

There will be dozens of couples in their cars trying to get it on there and equally as many cops looking into said cars to catch them doing it. The last thing he needs is Hopper showing up and asking what he is doing out there.

Maybe he should just keep driving, he thinks, just wander about until the sun comes up.

But he doesn’t want to do that either. He is tired. His bones feel heavy and his entire body aches, all he wants is to sit and stare into nothing. To reflect on all the places he fucked up.

Besides, the cops that aren’t scouring the lakes for teenagers doing the dirty are stopping cars to check if the occupants aren’t drunk. It’s graduation night, they know the kids are partying. It’s what Steve would have imagined himself doing a year ago.

So, there is not really a place to go. Truly a theme of his evening.

He’s about to give up and pull over to the side of the road when he sees a sign for the quarry. Ever since Will’s fake body was found there people have been avoiding it. If there is one place he’ll find some rest tonight, it’s there.

Relief courses through him that he’ll have a place for peace tonight as he starts driving towards the quarry.

Later, he’ll have to figure out a plan for the long term, because he can’t keep living in his car. He has some savings, so he’ll be fine for a few days, after that he probably needs a job. And a place to stay.

But that is a worry for later. Now, he pulls up to the small outcrop overlooking the quarry and gets out of the car. The weather is nice out, summer closing in on Hawkins. It’s quite a lovely evening that Steve would appreciate, were it not for the day that preceded it.

He goes to sit on the roof of his car, looking over the quarry. It’s calm, like he wanted, but he also feels deathly alone, sitting next to the huge chasm all by himself. Without his permission tears start up again and he curls into himself.

It’s not like he wants to be crying. He hates crying. But he can’t stop either. He has always known that his parents don’t care, that they don’t love him, and yet he still kept trying. Sure, he held a whole speech to Chrissy about why she shouldn’t care and he knows that he shouldn’t either. But that’s easier said than done.

Steve still remembers when he was little, when he became obsessed with sports and the classes weren’t as confusing yet. How easy it was to make his father proud. How he still looked cute next to his mother, instead of serving as a reminder that she was getting old. How she would let him sit at her side as she did her makeup and let her do his hair.

A part of him still can’t believe that they would kick him out like that. It’s not like they walked in on him with a boy, they have no proof other than Billy’s word and a picture in the yearbook. That was all it took.

He has suppressed his feelings for other boys for years, planned to ignore it for the rest of his life, so that he could be who they wanted him to be. And that wasn’t enough. He as a person, would never be the son they want.

There is something innately wrong with him and they can pick it up even without seeing him for months. It hangs around him. He can’t hide it.

Steve used to be able to hide it. Used to play the part. King Steve, lady’s man, who always had a girl on his arm. Who was on the basketball team. Who drove the macho car. Who pushed those around him that looked gay.

But he couldn’t keep being King Steve. He couldn't.

In junior year he was offered a choice. To keep being an asshole for the rest of his life, or to be someone he could face in the mirror. Right now, though, he wonders that if he could have looked into the future, if he wouldn't have chosen safety over kindness. If he would have shown up on the door to apologize.

He wonders if he would have been happy if he had. He wonders if he would be at a party right now doing a keg stand with Billy. He wonders if Nancy and Jonathan would have still been alive.

“Fuck,” he curses out loud. He knows he made the right choice. That he likes being friends with the kids, that he likes that he was able to befriend Chrissy and Lisa. That he can allow himself to glance at Eddie from time to time.

“That’s not very proper,” a voice behind him shocks him out of his musing.

Steve whips his head around, not wanting to be caught by surprise if this is another ambush. Instead he finds Eddie, grinning up at him, having appeared as if summoned by his thoughts of him. “What are you doing out here?” he asks.

~~

A/N:

Ngl, this chapter was difficult to write. I am so glad I have never had to go through this and my heart goes out to all of my queer siblings who have. I hope the world treats you more kindly than it has, because you deserve all the care in the world <3

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

A/N: If there’s anything I learned from doing this, it’s that vampirerry is an utter WHORE. Good for him!!!! As for myself, I’m done with the semester and my term projects and finals left my singular brain cell fried, so this was a nice way to get back into writing again. I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thank you to the anon that suggested it, this was super fun to do! :D

read you’re someone i just want around here

word count: 6k

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Harry is very attentive when it comes to aftercare with Y/N. The sex they have is often rough and includes toys, degradation, and multiple rounds, so he believes aftercare is non-negotiable. Rough sex can be fun, but if it’s not followed by a lot of communication and post-performance support, it can take a hard emotional toll on a person. Even when intimacy isn’t meant to be inherently sentimental, there has to be a certain level of connection and etiquette surrounding it, or it could end badly for both parties involved. He always checks on her immediately after they finish, simply to gauge her headspace and how her body is responding, and after he’s made sure she’s alright, he goes into his usual routine of skin-to-skin contact and gentle coddling. Reassurance and praise is just as important afterwards as it is during, because it’s good to let a partner know that your appreciation runs deeper than just the physical need felt in the heat of the moment; everyone deserves to feel valued beyond their body. 

Harry proceeds to clean Y/N up after every session, because it’s the least he can do since she’s usually the one getting the brunt of the work. He’ll fetch a clean towel dampened under warm water to wipe her clean, or he’ll offer to help give her a bath or a shower— whichever route she prefers. Harry dresses her, and changes the sheets if need be, and tucks her into bed to ensure she’s nice and comfortable. If it’s been a particularly intense session, he’ll go the kitchen and bring back a snack and a drink— a granola bar and a Gatorade, or some chips and her favorite juice, or if she’s feeling especially hungry, he’ll happily go out of his way to prepare her an actual meal— and he insists on feeding it to her bit by bit until she’s come to enough to handle it on her own. If she’s not hungry, he at least brings her a glass of water and urges her to drink it; better to be safe than sorry. After that, more cuddling is the status quo, which normally ends in Y/N falling asleep in his arms, and Harry has absolutely no problem with that at all.  

B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Harry’s favorite body part of Y/N’s is probably her chest. Yes, he likes it for sexual reasons— obviously— but there are innocent reasons for his fascination, as well. He likes how responsive she gets when he touches her there— how he can get her going just by groping her the way she likes it, or by using his mouth to tongue across her nipples until she’s writhing in pleasure and whining for more. He loves leaving hickies all over her tits, probably more than she likes receiving them. It’s just so fucking hot seeing himself marked all over her, especially when she’s putting on a bra and he can see all of the dark bruises scattered across the cleavage spilling from the undergarment. Filth aside, he also enjoys loving all over her chest. Absentmindedly cupping them while they’re snuggling, nuzzling his head between them while they’re watching television, massaging them under her shirt with his large palms as she sits back against his chest, sipping a glass of wine and chatting away, unwinding after a long day. It’s a form of intimacy; it provides a type of closeness nothing else can. 

As for his own favorite body part, it’s a tie between two different areas. He loves his thighs— they’re one of his most prominent features. They’re thick and meaty and sensitive, so they’re the perfect sweet spot to touch when he wants to get riled up. Given his previous response, it can be easily deduced that he likes to get hickies there, as well. The marks look great peeking out from under his briefs (for the short amount of time they last, anyways) and they make a great accessory to the large tigerhead tattoo along his left thigh. It’s artwork, really; a proper Picasso. 

His other favorite body part...well, take a lucky guess. It’s likely not that far off— literally, considering it hangs right between his thighs. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Harry’s personal preference is cumming inside. He adores feeling the way Y/N tightens around him when he finally orgasms (she’s just so warm and soft and unbelievably tight; it’s like she was made for him), almost as much as he loves seeing her reaction. Her body will immediately start to wriggle and her back will arch as she releases broken little whimpers, clinging to his shoulders with her nails and begging him to fill her until he’s milked his worth. Hearing her ragged breathing and feeling her sweaty chest stutter against his is enough to do him in, but when she goes as far as to gnaw on his ear and whine a soft little, “Want it all, baby. Want you dripping out of me when we’re done.” Well, that’s enough to kill him all over again. 

Of course, there are times when Harry likes seeing himself all over her, too. On her outstretched tongue, or smeared across her pretty face and plush lips (she looks particularly cute when it ends up all over her eyelashes), or streaked over the valley of her tits, or pooled at the center of her tummy. If he’d been taking her from behind, then he likes seeing it run down the backs of her thighs, or splattered across the dip of her spine. And if she’d been giving him a handjob, then seeing himself dribbling down her fingers is just as good. Why? Because those fingers usually end up in her mouth, which means he ends up all over her tongue, and so the cycle comes full circle. How poetic. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Did Harry suggest wearing a matching set of a vibrating cock ring and buzzing bullet to do grocery shopping once? Yes. Did he drop three glass jars of peach preserves by accident as a result, causing them to have to book it out of the bread aisle while trying to look as unsuspicious as possible, which failed horribly because they were literally hobbling like a crippled elderly couple? Also yes. Did they end up fucking in a Target fitting room? Definitely. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

A lot of experience. Tons. Immense amounts. Insane amounts. Two hundred years of the same seven continents just means two hundred years worth of sex across every single one. And it gives you plenty of time to find the clitoris, as well as giving you a chance to learn the female anatomy like the back of your hand. That being said, Harry doesn’t doubt he could make Y/N cum with his wrists tied behind his back and a blindfold strapped to his face. In fact, he’s made her cum just by using his thigh, so that in itself is enough credibility to last him several more lifetimes. The toy chest in his closet and the fact that he’s well-endowed are bonuses— he knows more than enough tricks to keep her satisfied with just his tongue. Not to mention his fingers— they’re long for a reason.

F = Favorite position  

Funny enough, Harry doesn’t have one. He’s spent so many decades cycling through every possible position in existence, it’s gotten to where he can’t pin-point a preference; all positions are unique, and they each have their own appeal. Reverse cowgirl is nice because he likes watching the way he stretches Y/N open with every plunge of her hips, and it also gives him the luxury of marking his rings across her ass in the process. Regular cowgirl is nice, too— having her chest bouncing in his face is nothing short of a divine miracle, in his opinion. Doggy style is a staple, and there’s always different add-ons he can apply to spice it up; for example, taking her from behind with her wrists tied to her ankles, or bending her over the kitchen counter with her face pressed into the marble, or fucking her against his glass wall with her hands and chest flushed to the cool surface as their breaths fog the floor-to-ceiling window. 

Missionary is a tried and true option, and just like it’s prior counterpart, it can be enhanced with a variety of extra tricks. Bondage is a good condiment, against the wall is always a nice touch, spread-eagle never goes wrong, and just having her legs wrapped around his lower back is more than enough. However, he does have two favorite variations of the position. The first is when he mounts her legs onto his shoulders or along the inside of his elbows to open her up more, and then just ramming his hips down at a very specific angle that hits her g-spot just right, pounding her into the bed so hard she tears the sheets off the mattress. The second is a cowgirl-missionary hybrid: he sits back on his heels and uses the steep downward slope created by his thighs as elevation, pulling her ass onto his tilted lap and swinging her legs over either side of his hips. He gropes her waist with his palms and yanks her forward, bouncing her against his cock and watching her completely dismantle as he nudges all the right places with as much speed and force as she deems fit. 

And then there’s fucking from the side, but that’s a whole other extensive conversation he doesn’t have time for. 

Actually, maybe Harry will entertain it for a minute or so. He usually throws one of Y/N’s legs over his neck to get a deeper range, manhandling her roughly onto her side and yanking her closer to his body by her waist, grasping it with stern vigor and holding her down against the mattress, grunting out a gravelly, strict command along the lines of, “Stay fucking still.” He’ll drill into her at a brutal, consistent pace, staining his fingerprints along the curves of her torso and sponging damp kisses onto her ankle, smirking into her skin as he watches her fist at the duvet in a futile attempt at maintaining her bearings. It’s pretty evident that she can’t, though; the way her eyes lull around their sockets from his harsh stride does a terrible job at hiding her lack of self-control, alongside the fragmented curses she gasps out whenever he nudges her g-spot with the head of his cock. 

“Oh, that was such a pretty noise. Did I hit that little spot you like?”

Her response will be begrudging, as always, which he thinks is ridiculously useless considering he can see her burying her face into the pillow to hide how her jaw drops open in sheer rapture. “No.”

“No?” The vampire leans forward, stretching her leg towards the headboard and preening at the garbled squeak that escapes her gritted teeth, plunging deeper as he lowers himself to her level. He knots her hair around his knuckles, tugging sharply until her face is tilted back enough to meet his fiery gaze. “Then why are you starting to shake?

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It depends on the mood, honestly. There are definitely serious moments, but Harry enjoys the humorous ones just as much. He already adores making Y/N laugh and smile on a regular basis, and that desire only grows when he’s buried between her thighs, simply because she just looks so fucking cute laughing with her hair splayed around the pillows in a messy halo, her sounds of glee stuttering due to how sharply she’s jolting against the bed. He loves feeling her giggle into his mouth as he cracks sarcastic jokes and makes stupid witty comments that break the intensity in the air, especially because she’s usually clever enough to return them with some of her own. Then they both end up snickering like idiots as he tries to keep a solid pace, which eventually tapers to a messy, haphazard stride as their laughter drowns out their goal to the point where he has to take a genuine break to collect himself. There’s tons of examples— how could there not be? Sex is hardly ever perfect, so awkward moments are not only expected, but guaranteed. What better way to handle them than with a bit of humor?

There was an incident once where Harry accidentally knocked their foreheads together so hard, they both bruised (which he responded to with, “I’m pretty sure this isn’t what Cosmopolitan meant when they suggested matching couples tattoos.”). Another time, he got so into the moment he didn’t realize he was jack-hammering the top of her head into the backboard until she brought it to his attention (and made a comment saying it sounded like a sped up version of the beat to We Will Rock You). A bad case of the hiccups. Y/N burping right in his face halfway through his orgasm. A random leg cramp that made him think he was going to need amputation to survive. Accidentally rolling off the bed or couch onto the ground and nearly dislocating both of their spines in the process, getting his cross earring tangled in her hair and nearly ripping off his ear trying to get it out, and the unfortunate collapse of a pillow fort he’d spent over an hour building. He even sneezed in her face once, and when she instinctively went to shove him back, she wound up slamming her palm into his nose so hard he nearly passed out. Nose bleeds aren’t necessarily sexy, per se, but he just dug blindly through her nightstand until he found two new tampons somewhere in that black hole she calls a drawer, shoved them in his nostrils, and kept going. No one can ever accuse him of being unresourceful. 

Queefing. Lots and lots of queefing, which he usually starts mimicking with his mouth, and then she responds to that by whining and telling him to cut it out, and then he takes to mocking her whining instead. It normally finishes with them laughing so hard that Harry’s cheeks hurt from smiling so big, but it’s a good type of pain. The best type of pain. 

H = Hair (how do they groom?)

Harry likes keeping himself neat and orderly, but he doesn’t enjoy going bare, so trimming is his grooming preference. There’s just something so unappealing about a completely smooth dick— it looks like raw chicken and it’s fucking disgusting. He doesn’t have anything against a good bush, but it tends to get unruly and he’d rather not have to overcomplicate his shower routine. And honestly, he can’t trust himself because last time he had a full front yard going, he got shitfaced and tried to braid it on a dare. Keeping the hedges trimmed is the ideal landscaping option, and it just looks way hotter— a uniform dusting of hair is a good accessory and it just makes everything look more cohesive, given that he also fancies keeping his happy trail thick. It’s all about aesthetics, isn’t it? 

I = Intimacy (the romantic aspect)

It’s no secret that Harry’s been somewhat detached from intimacy for the last two hundred years or so. Intimacy is reserved for genuine romance, and that’s something he hadn’t entertained since before the lightbulb was invented. But now that he has Y/N, intimacy has crawled its way back out from the deepest recesses of his subconscious, where it had been shoved into a bottomless pit with the rest of his trauma. He likes it— he likes opening up to her in any way he can, because sharing those obsolete parts of himself with someone again is more fulfilling than he ever imagined. He likes kissing her randomly when she’s halfway through a sentence, just to feel her words die off abruptly in her throat as she gives into his gentle gesture, a delicate smile spreading across her satin lips. He likes whispering sweet phrases of encouragement into her hair when they’re tangled amidst sweaty limbs and rumpled sheets, reminding her of how much he cares for her and how beautiful she looks when she’s so far gone and how she makes him feel like his entire body has been set alight. He likes sponging soft pecks across the stretch marks along her thighs and across the dimples on her belly, her skin candy and velvet on his tongue as she releases a watery sigh that lets him know he’s doing all the right things in all the right places. He just likes letting her know she's special to him, in any and every way he can. 

Intimacy forges timeless bonds, and he reckons that assumption is unarguable, considering he knows a thing or two about eternity. 

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

Harry likes to jack off, obviously. Who doesn’t? It’s why he has an entire section of his toy chest dedicated to self-pleasuring tools. Vibrating cock rings, an array of lubes that range from temperature-changing to sensation sensitivity, and a few pocket vags that get the job done whenever Y/N is out of commission (usually because of work). His favorite one is an electronic sleek black model that is made of a premium silicone material and has a variety of massage settings, suction strengths, and internal textures. It’s designed to make the session feel more real, and yes, it was expensive, but self-love is always worth the splurge. 

The beauty of living on his own is that he can get off wherever and whenever he wants, without having to stress about someone interrupting an important step in his pampering routine. He usually does it in his room and on his bed, simply because Y/N’s pillow is close by and the experience is heightened when her scent is swimming around his hazy, bliss-drunken mind. If Harry is feeling particularly needy, he’ll ditch the toy all together and just hump one out against the mattress or cushion. If it’s a particularly restless day, he’ll take a toy downstairs and lazily play within himself on the couch while browsing through Netflix. Those instances usually average a few tamer orgasms rather than a single large one, but he’s not complaining; his stamina comes in unapologetic waves that stem from a never-ending supply, and he certainly has the time to kill. If Harry gets the sudden urge in the shower or while he’s relaxing in his jacuzzi, he won’t bother fetching a trinket; he’ll just stroke one out with his hand, using the cool metal of his trusty lionhead ring to tease the tip until he brings himself to orgasm. It turns out daylight crystals have more than one use. 

There is one common factor amongst all these different choices, though: Y/N is present in every fantasy. And if the vampire is feeling especially bold, he’ll grab his phone and take a video of whatever he’s doing to himself, and then she’ll have a nice little gift waiting for her once she gets out of the café for the day. That usually leads to him receiving a present in return later that evening, and then he’s dialing her contact before the clip is even done playing, and then what he does during his alone time doesn’t require him being so alone anymore. 

K = Kinks 

Harry has tons— in fact, he has so many, he can’t really keep track. And he also has the sneaking suspicion that if he were to ever jot all of them down, he’d end up locked in some type of sex addict rehabilitation center. Bondage is a big one, so he’ll start there. He’s great with ropes, given that he learned his way around them ages ago. Chains are nice, but they can be a pain to set up without the right equipment; he’s thinking of getting a reinforced metal hook installed into his ceiling, like the one in his storage closet, which he uses to keep his punching bag secure. Handcuffs, obviously— velvet-lined, straight metal, fuzzy coverings, he’s got it all. Dominance, degradation, Daddy, Sir, choking, brat-taming, spanking, flogging, slapping— impact play in general, to be honest— spitting, wax, praise, begging, masochism, branding (mild stuff, no molten metal shit), collaring, discipline, dirty talk, edging, exhibitionism, face-fucking, face-sitting (with him on the receiving end), giving oral (is that a kink? It is now.) gagging (both the action and using the actual object itself), breeding (he hates that term but that’s the official name, unfortunately), teasing, voyeurism, role play, and… he thinks that’s it. Oh, and blood, but that doesn’t really count for apparent reasons. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Y/N’s couch is sacred, at this point. Their entire relationship started on that lumpy, worn excuse of a sofa, and it’s seen them through their progression from strangers to friends with benefits to lovers to more. It’s comfortable enough, the dark color hides any explicit stains, and the cushions always smell of her signature mixture of honey and lavender combined with Snuggle fabric softener. It’s finicky, but irreplaceable. His kitchen counter is a close second. It’s provided a lot, taken a lot, been through a lot— through a lot of Lysol wipes, to be specific. If it wasn’t marble, it likely would have been reduced to chunks and rubble by now, courtesy of his enhanced strength gripping the edges as he slams her against the smooth surface. The backseat of his Cadillac is consecrated, as well; there’s just so much erotic appeal to fucking in a car with rock music blaring in the background, muffling the obscene sounds of bodies connecting and a mixture of fever-pitch moans. The couch, the counter, and the Cadillac— the Unholy Trinity. 

The jacuzzi is nice, too, but for the sake of his clever little “c” alliteration, he’ll leave that one as an implied token. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

As much as Harry claims he likes full submission in bed, he can’t deny that he loves being challenged. Delivering punishment and coaxing out an orgasm is so much more satisfying when he has to fight for it; it’s so fucking hot watching his girlfriend try to best him in a power struggle, especially when she finally— and undeniably, since he always wins— caves under his will and winds up begging him for what he otherwise would have gifted her freely. That’s where the brat-taming kink comes into play. He likes it when she mouths off and makes snarky digs, and he enjoys it even more when he tries to set her in place and she amps her disobedience as a result. There’s nothing more attractive than a battle of wits with someone who is a perfect match in every way. And when she channels her attitude into physical gestures, it riles him up beyond compare. For example, when she smirks and rolls her eyes, despite the fact that there’s trails of tears staining her cheeks and mascara smeared all over her waterline? Christ, he could go feral. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

No feet, no feces, no beastiality. There’s probably more, but those are the ones off the top of his head.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Receiving oral is great— he highly recommends it, solid ten out of ten— but giving it is so much better. Harry’s always been a giver, even when he was young and barely knew his way around a woman’s undergarments. The stereotypical expectation for a person who is beginning to explore their sexuality is that everything they do, they do for their own gain. It’s a selfish realization, yes, but it’s a primal type of selfishness that no one can truly be blamed for. It’s a simple concept: when you start having sex, you want as much personal benefit as possible. It’s only natural. But from the second Harry became sexually active, he came to find that providing release to his partner outweighed the bliss he could get from letting them pleasure him instead. It’s not direct pleasure, but rather cognitive, which more often than not translates itself physically. And when it comes to Y/N, that euphoria manifests tenfold. 

Nothing compares to having his face buried between her legs as she tugs and yanks at his hair desperately, her chest heaving and jaw falling open as he uses his tongue to unravel her from the inside out. Spitting sloppily onto her folds and hearing the raw gasp of aroused shock that escapes her sore throat, which causes his swollen lips to spread into a dirty grin as he latches onto the sensitive bud at the thick of her core, fiddling with it until her legs are trembling uncontrollably around his sturdy shoulders. Watching her features go slack as he bobs his neck fervently between her thighs, swiping the bridge of his nose across her clit over and over until the entire bottom half of his face is drenched in her excitement. Fucking his tongue into her and feeling her buck against his jaw as she holds him in place with her fingers tangled in his curls, whimpering his name repeatedly in a voice so shattered, he could probably build a mosaic with the fractures. Feeling her drip down his chin and into the collar of his shirt, savoring how sweet she tastes as he pins her hips down against the bed and groans feverishly into her cunt, his ego idolizing the image of her so disheveled under his influence. 

A measly blowjob is hardly any competition to that. Harry could very well cum just from eating Y/N out. In fact, he has, and that in itself is all the proof he needs. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

This is one of those other factors that depends on the mood. If Harry has been waiting all day for it, his impatience bleeds into his rhythm, which means he settles for fast and hard. It means he settles for bending her over the back of his couch with one palm around her throat and his other fingers in her mouth, pounding into her with so much force, the sofa starts shifting across the ground. If Y/N has been teasing him endlessly for a decent amount of time, it’ll be rough and deep, but not fast; he’ll drag it out for as long as possible, just to make her regret acting like such a spoiled brat. That’s when he brings out the paddle, or the crop, or just manhandles her across his lap and spanks her until she’s apologizing profusely through her whines. If he’s in a soft, romantic headspace, it’ll be slow and sensual, with lots of gentle caresses, giggly kisses dusted across eager lips and droopy eyelids, and penetrating strokes that make his toes curl and tummy clench. 

Pace is relative, but the message behind it is all the same: I want you more than anything, and I’m going to show you just how deeply I mean it. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies are fun, Harry will admit. They’re filthy and messy, and they show just how far gone two people are for each other to the point where they can’t wait to feel one another at a later time; that they need to be together now, or they’ll go absolutely insane. Quickies are saved for when the urge strikes at random times. For when he’s out with Y/N at a park, sitting under the shade with his head in her lap as she combs his curls out of his eyes and thumbs over his chin affectionately, and the sun filters through the tree canopy just right to where it illuminates her lashes and the suppleness of her cheeks in a manner he deems ethereal. For when they’re at the mall, walking hand in hand and licking at ice cream cones as they survey the shops, and she reaches over to wipe a bit of Rocky Road off the corner of his mouth, replacing the stain with a soft stipple of her lips instead. For when they’re out eating dinner and playing footsie under the table like immature teenagers, and she’s trying to steal a French fry from his plate but he keeps fighting her off with his fork because, “I told you to order your own, but you wanted those disgusting potato skins instead!” And she’s laughing so brightly and unapologetically, giving him a look that so obviously tells him she can’t wait to get him alone, and nothing seems quite as flawless as that fraction in time, then and there and nowhere else.

These simple but memorable moments cause him to get love boners, which he jokingly refers to as “sniffy stiffies,” where “sniffy” has to do with being sentimental, and “stiffy”...well, that one is pretty self-explanatory, no? It always ends with them shagging in the car, or in the family bathroom of a diner, and in the case of the park, in an obscure area of the forest that lines the jogging trail. 

Quickies are just that— fast, but meaningful nonetheless, because they come from a place of genuine emotion. They’re fleeting, but unforgettable. Sniffy stiffy quickies, if you will. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Taking risks is the norm in Harry’s life, especially when it comes to his sex habits. He’s proven time and time again that he has no problem riding along the seams of a dare and just barely making it out unscathed, so experimenting outside of the bedroom is just another day in the life. Fingering Y/N in a music room in an antique shop, getting road head during a two hour drive back to Los Angeles, ripping his girlfriend’s panties out from beneath her dress at one of California’s most prestigious restaurants— the list is endless, really. Harry likes to think he has a gift for coming up with inspirational quotes on the spot, so he’ll lend his expertise here and now: “A life without risks is a life that isn’t worth shit.” It even rhymes, so he knows sorority pledges will have a ball putting it in their Instagram bios. A bit of charity work for the bird-brained. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Endless stamina. Literally. Vampires don’t stay tired for long, so he could be ready to go again within seconds. And he can last long, as well; his stubbornness and pride depend on it, and he likes making his partner cum first as an ego boost. He can go as many rounds as Y/N can and more, though he won’t push it. He doesn’t want her to end up in the ER with a bruised cervix. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Harry could run a sex shop from his closet; Y/N doesn’t take the piss by calling him “Fifty Shades” for no reason. He uses them on himself, he uses them on her, and he got high once and tried to sword fight Y/N with a dildo, so it’s safe to say he definitely uses them quite a bit. If his Lovesense Lush 3 vibrator could talk, he’d be drawn and quartered for excessive debauchery. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Harry loves teasing, that’s no mystery. Winding people up is one of his most practiced skills, so of course that would channel into his intimate life. He’s mastered it, though it’s not like it’s hard. A drawn out blink here, or a feathery touch there. An inch of space between his and Y/N’s lips to establish some tension, or squeezing her inner thigh with his palm hard enough to draw a tiny squeak from her chest. Touching her through her clothes, or leaving a trail of wet kisses down her throat and stopping right at her cleavage. Biting the sensitive skin along the inside of her knee, or dragging the tip of his cold nose down the center of her twitching tummy. Lapping slowly at her nipples until they perk up, or sinking a single long digit inside her and keeping it there just to feel her clench around it needily. And once he gets a pattern going, teasing molds into edging, edging molds into begging, begging molds into praise, and before he knows it, he’s hit four of his kinks with one roll of the dice. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Harry is very vocal in bed, and he’s not ashamed of it. He knows for a fact that Y/N loves it, and if him being loud gets her worked up, then he’ll let his throat go out in the process. He’s noticed that in different situations, he has an arsenal of sounds for each. If he’s being rough and dominant, he tends to groan, grunt, and growl. If he’s being desperate and needy, he turns to whines and whimpers to communicate how he feels. If he’s too zoned into the moment to distinguish all his emotions, broken moans and stuttered mewls are his default. No matter the circumstance, they all take the same route: they start low and soft, and escalate in volume proportional to the intensity of the moment. So what if half the building is hearing him orgasm for the third time as he mocks his girlfriends sobbing pleads and calls her his “dirty fucking whore”? Let’s be honest, it’s probably the highlight of their week. He has a great voice— a sultry, deep baritone that compliments his English accent nicely— and anyone would be lucky to hear it spew the filth it does. He’s yet to get many complaints, so he doesn’t intend on stopping. 

W = Wildcard (random headcanon)

An honesty hour moment seems interesting, so he’ll confess a few tales from his past. The first time Harry ever went down on a girl, it was against a tree in a garden and he nearly asphyxiated under all the layers of her gown. A couple of years later, he ended up getting oral from a reverend’s daughter against a tree, too, for the morbid irony and associated religious revenge. And to drive the point home, oral was only the beginning of what she gave him. His first decade as a vampire was definitely his pettiest. 

X = X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

It’s not uncommon knowledge that Harry’s well-endowed. He remembers how insecure he was the first time he had sex— a shocker, he knows; he was insecure?— and how he knew barely anything regarding sizing and how to use his assets accordingly. But it’s been ages since then, and now he definitely knows his way around his own body (let alone his partner’s), and he most certainly knows that he’s above average not only as a person in general, but when it comes to what’s in his trousers, as well. Harry won’t specify inches— he loves how speculation drives others mad— but it was big enough to give Y/N a decent pause the first time she pulled down his pants, and it’s big enough to leave her absolutely fucked every single time, without a single miss. If that’s not credibility at its finest, then he doesn’t know what is.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Harry’s sex drive is insatiable, to say the least. His vampirism combined with his narcissistic tendencies makes the ideal cocktail— cocktail— for the constant fuse that’s always burning under his skin. He’s ready to go at all times; Y/N just has to say the word and he’s pulling on a pair of sweatpants as he grabs his keys, hopping down his complex’s corridor toward the elevator on one foot as he tries to get his last shoe on the other. Lazy morning sex is probably his favorite; he’s come to find it’s when he’s most pent up, usually after a sleepless night of feeling Y/N’s body heat radiating through all of his cold limbs. It also sets a great tone for the rest of the day, and he just loves seeing Y/N wake up to him lying on his side with his temple resting on his fist, his elbow propped against the mattress as he poses the other on his hip in a theatrical diva stance. He’ll smile at her giddily with all his pearly teeth, dimples twitching as his lashes flutter dramatically, dirty intentions written clear all over his face (“Good morning, hon—” “Wanna have sex?” “Harry, it’s ten in the morning.” “Is that a yes? Because it’s not a no.” “I haven’t even brushed my teeth!” “That’s fine, I’m gonna stick my dick in there anyways.”) 

All in all, his libido is insane, and he’s lucky that Y/N’s is up to par or else he would have worked her into an exhaustion-induced coma by now. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Harry just...doesn't. Maybe once every few weeks, but definitely more often now than before he had his girlfriend. Sleeping just comes way easier when he has someone he cares about resting beside him, their inherent warmth thawing the stiffness from his muscles and putting his racing mind at ease. He feels safe enough around Y/N to let his guard down— both literally and metaphorically— and that seems to help with his supernatural insomnia; it sedates that nocturnal hyper-instinct in his brain that demands he be aware at all times, muffling the animalistic part of him that has been manning the reins for the better half of the last two hundred years. He doesn’t need to be so on edge anymore when everything he needs is just an arm-length away. Especially when she’s usually willing to lend her chest as a pillow, and who is he to neglect her wishes.   

[atrial-ofhorror-if]

Hey Everyone!

Its been a quick minute since I’ve made an update. I actually took a lil break (and am still on that break) from Tumblr. I wanted to get my self together, but I also wanted to get back on here and give you guys a quick update!  

First, I want to thank everyone whose sent me kind words/wished me well in the ask box! Y’all are my rock, and I can’t even explain how much it means to have a support system when you’re going through something tough. So for that, I love y’all 🤎🤎🤎. 

Also, to the anons with the tea, y'all actually told me some things that I didn’t know was going on and happening within the IF community (I know, I live underneath a rock! 🥴🥴) so I feel like I know how to move accordingly from now on. Once again, thank yall so much! I feel like I should do something special for you all but I really don’t know what... If you have anything that you guys would want to see in the next update, or like lil spoilers or something like that let me know!

Secondly, my job is picking up once again, and we are EXTREMELY short staffed (Thats what happens when you work in local government ). I’m having to take the brunt of a lot of the work there, so I’ve found that I’m having to try and play catch-up with a lot of my scheduled writing. In lemans terms, everything is getting pushed back by a month... AGAIN.  I hate it too y'all, I wish this game would write itself!

Now onto the game updates.

For ‘A Trial of Horror’, I have like 25% left of content I need to add and then I’ll be ready to upload it into twine and start the editing process. Editing typically takes me like 2-3 weeks and then I send it off to the testers, and make even more adjusments from there. Depending on how big the update is, I think I should be able to upload something by the end of June 🤞🏿🤞🏿(fingers crossed). 

In case y’all didn’t know... I’m planning on creating a Naruto IF (no relation to Boruto PLEASE)!

As of right now I’m still ironing out general plot, setting, and clans that I’m including in the IF (Uchiha Clan and Hyuga Clan definetly). I’ll probably make another blog page or just use this one as my general IF one once I’m ready to make an introduction page. I’m not sure yet. Once I have more info, I'll make sure to give you guys the tea~~

Overall, I hope you all stay healthy, safe, and feel loved 🤎🤎

See ya soon 👋🏿👋🏿

[critical-goat]

no one asked for this. no one wants this, but, ever the disappointment, i’m writing this anyway. what am i writing that you’re all going to hate so much?

my headcanons about the order in which the brothers die in as well as general aging for demons, putting it under a read more because this is HEAVILY based on spoilers for season 3 plot. i do not advise reading if you want to go into season 3 without spoilers

content warning; mentions of death, hurt no comfort, angst

anything proceeded by an * is a new addition

(written while listening to this and this on repeat)

      i am making my assumption based on several things

1) to a certain degree, the amount of power a demon has affects their lifespan. a common demon will not live as long as the brothers but the brothers will not be outliving either Diavolo or Barbatos, the latter likely being immortal in a manner similar to Solomon based on the very nature of his powers. however, Lucifer will not be outliving any of his brothers just because he is the most powerful among them

2) Satan’s materialization as a full being put him at the start of his lifespan, rather than in the middle of it

3) on the other hand falling did not restart the others lifespans, whatever time they were alotted before is the time they’re still working with

4) in the cavern during the issue with the Grim Reaper, when MC uses their candle to restore their lifespans, I only ever saw it say that Beel”s was restored and not anyone else’s

5) assuming outside forces other than the ones previously mentioned play a factor into this and their lives aren’t cut short unnaturally

    Lucifer

 - as the physically oldest and the demon who put the most of his own life into trying to prolong Beel’s, Lucifer will most certainly be the one who passes first

 - his death will likely be the hardest to recover from, considering his role in the family as well as the fact he will die before the others have begun to feel the effects of their age and he is the first loss of their siblings since they lost Lilith during their fall

  Leviathan

 - his death is the one that causes a different kind of pain, because its the start of the loss of the rest, a reminder that they’re next and just how much time has passed

  Asmodeus

 - Asmo dreads his own death the most, worried he hasn’t left a lasting impact, especially after seeing how quickly the Devildom as a whole moved on after the others (how could a population that passed quicker than they did be expected to remember someone who was never apart of their own lives? someone who never directly touched their own life?) not that Diavolo in particular had, when he had clung to their memories so desperately

  Mammon

- with the loss of Lucifer, Mammon tries his best to hold on for his brothers, refusing to add to their loss and struggles, and while he manages to outlive Leviathan and Asmodeus, he passes shortly after the loss of 4th born

  Belphegor

 - the only loss that will strike Beel more than the loss of the eldest, is the loss of his literal other half

  Beel

- assuming the loss of Belphie doesn’t cause him to die of heartbreak, Beel will become an entirely different person and just about the only thing keeping him from losing himself to grief will be the need to keep going for Satan

- even with his own lifespan restored, Satan hadn’t given enough of his own to change the fact that he will end up outliving the brothers plus the idea of Beel outliving literally all of his brothers upsets me beyond words, considering what that would do to him

Satan

 - he reluctantly allows himself to become a monument of his brothers lives, keeping their memories alive as long as he can, long after their immediate influences have faded from the Devildom

 *- after Lucifer’s death, he takes over the mantle as head of the household, as neither Levi or Mammon are willing or capable of keeping the others stable through it

 *- it was an accident, mostly; the position unintentionally defaulting to him when Mammon fell into a depressive episode and Levi being too self concious to even think of taking charge of the house hold

   +

bonus (because I must)

Diavolo

 - although he does outlive the brothers, he does not outlive Barbatos or a possibly turned MC, putting the brunt of their losses on someone who was originally expected to die long before their own times were up

 *- despite being similar in age to Lucifer, Diavolo’s own lifespan is at least thrice as long as the Avatars own

 - he clings to each and every memory of every one of the brothers to an unhealthy point and it hurts him to appoint new demons in their place, both as the Avatars and his advisors, neither of which happen until the last of them are gone and he gives himself a grieving period

 - once he comes out of his grieving, he tries to put the thought of them behind him, but not before making sure their influences are written into Devildom history books

MC

 - in the event MC becomes a demon, given that they started out as human, they effectively are starting out with a full lifespan ahead of them, similarly to Satan

 - given just how powerful they are as a human, they no doubt rival the brothers in power as a demon, giving them a lifespan similar to the Avatars, if not one closer to Diavolo’s

 - it is Solomon and Barbatos who console them through the worst of their grief, having no doubt had their fair share of losses and it is likely that they will have to live through the loss of MC sometime after, too

[albertasunrise]

Unexpected

Summary: After the worst day at work you’ve ever had, you find release in a man that you meet in a bar. A tall dark stranger that gives you the best night of your life… but you also get more than you bargained for.

Warning/Content: Explicit, Angst, Bathroom Sex, Swearing 

Paring: Javier Peña / Female Reader 

Masterlist

~

Downing your drink, you groan into your palm as you try to calm your frayed nerves. Today had been hell. You knew that coming to Columbia to work at the Embassy was not going to be easy. You'd volunteered on a whim, how many Executive Assistants had the chance to assist the Ambassador to Columbia? Today though, shit had hit the fan and you were the one to take the brunt of the crap that flew. You were the assistant, unfortunately, it came with the territory. So you had decided to go home, put on your best jeans and a nice top and go to the bar your colleagues had been raving about, alone. You motion to the barman to fetch you another drink, thanking him as he gives it to you and you hold out the money you owe.

‘It’s on him.’ The barman states, motioning to someone sat a few stools down from you.

He had dark hair that curled at the end and a moustache that surprisingly suited him, you’d never liked them on men before. His eyes were dark, cocoa brown and twinkled in the yellow artificial light, crinkling at the corners as he smiled at you.

‘Thank you.’ You say to him, nodding your appreciation before taking a large swig.

‘Bad day?’ He asks, noting the tension in your shoulders.

‘The worst.’ You reply, downing the last of your drink.

~

His lips were delicious against your skin, nibbling and sucking at your neck as he hoists you up so that you're perched on the edge of the sink. It was chaotic. Fingers fumbling to unbutton his jeans as his thrust and curl inside you, driving that coil tighter and tighter. You manage to free his length, kissing him hard as your hands grab his waist and pull him flush against you.

‘Fuck me, Peña.’ You growl, pumping his length ‘Now.’

You don’t need to ask him twice, pushing himself into your heat with one swift motion that has you moaning loudly into his mouth. He's ruthless, pounding you as your brace yourself against the mirror. It didn’t take long for you to climax, throwing your head back and your mouth falling open in a silent scream as he continues to hit that spot inside that makes your toes curl. His lips latched to your pulse point, fingers sliding between you and rubbing circular motions on your clit as he growls in your ear.

‘One more for me Hermosa.’ He whispers, his low baritone sending you over the edge again and your walls clamp hard around him, pulling his own orgasm from him seconds later.

‘Fuck.’ You breathe as you slump back against the mirror at your rear ‘Thanks… I needed that.’

‘Glad I could be of service.’ He grinned, helping you down and running his hand through his sweat-slick hair.

‘See you around Peña.’ You wink, leaving him speechless in your wake.

~

You hadn’t expected that you’d see him so soon, the both of you sharing a wide-eyed gaze as he approached the Ambassador's office. The blonde man at his side studied the two of you for a moment before rolling his eyes and letting out an audible huff.

‘You fucked her didn’t you.’ He growled, your face heating up as you return your attention to your paperwork.

‘She’s ready when you are.’ You state, your eyes not leaving the piece of paper in your hands.

You quickly dove for the ladies the moment they disappeared through the door, letting out a shaky breath as you splashed your face with water. Of course, the man you’d casually fucked last night was a DEA agent here to catch Escobar. You’d been here exactly 2 weeks so had not had the pleasure of meeting the two American pain in the asses that the Ambassador complained about so much but now you knew one intimately. You knew he had given you the best fuck of your life. You straightened your makeup and returned to your desk, fighting to keep your mind quiet as the minutes ticked by.

‘Can I speak to you a moment?’ You jumped, not even seeing Javier walk up to your desk.

‘I uh-‘

‘It won't take a minute.’

You nod, following him to the empty communal kitchen and lean against the counter, arms crossed as you wait for him to speak. He’s silent initially, scratching the back of his neck nervously as he thinks carefully about what to say to you.

‘I’m sorry about Steve.’ He says finally, resting one hand on his hip as the other scrubs over his face.

‘It’s fine Peña.’ You reply ‘We did fuck so he was right.’

‘Right…’ He replies, looking at you a moment before continuing ‘I guess he is.’

‘Was that all you wanted to say?’ You asked curtly, eyes glancing at the clock to your left.

‘No. I uh-‘ He pauses, carefully thinking about his next words ‘I wondered if perhaps I could take you out for dinner?’

‘Javi you don’t have to do that.’

‘Do what?’ You sigh, shaking your head at him.

‘Protect my dignity or whatever.’

‘No thats-‘

‘I’d had a bad day and needed a fuck. You kindly provided me with that service.’ You state, noting the slightly wounded expression that crosses his face ‘You were great but it was a one-time thing. Don’t need to make a thing out of it.’

‘Oh.’ His voice cracks a little, taking a step towards the door he nods and looks around at anything but you ‘Right yeah of course. See you around.’

~

You don’t see much of Peña after that. He doesn’t speak to you when he meets the ambassador, barely looks at you when he announces that he’s there. You’d learned about his reputation from office gossip. The playboy DEA agent, screwing hookers for information and bedding most of the assistants in the office, you were just another to add to the pile. You notice that he doesn’t blank the other assistants, he subtly flirts with them as he passes by but when he sees you the air changes and you shiver. You couldn’t possibly have hurt him? He didn’t do relationships and he was the king of one night stands so why was he treating you like this? You’d almost called in sick this morning. You’d been feeling nauseous since you woke up and when your colleague had offered you a mug of coffee you'd almost thrown up on their shoes. A familiar voice filled the air and you looked up to see Peña and his partner Murphy approaching, catching Javi’s eye you decide that you don't need his shit and will avoid it altogether. You push yourself to your feet, grabbing your desk as a wave of dizziness hits you.

‘You okay.’ Asks Sophie as she gives you a concerned glance.

‘Yeah.’ You reply, nodding weakly ‘Just got up too quickly.’

You start walking towards the kitchen, your eye catching Peña’s again as your paths get closer and closer. Then everything goes back. Javier manages to catch you just as your eyes roll back and your legs give way, his heart hammering in his chest as he tries to rouse you.

‘She okay?’ Asks Steve as he looks down at you with concern.

Peña doesn’t answer, just strokes your cheek as your eyes start to flutter ‘Hey you with me?’

You can only nod, your brain a fuzzy mess as you try to make sense of everything. When your eyes finally find the strength to open, you’re greeted by familiar brown eyes staring down at you, brow furrowed with worry. Suddenly you get a surge of energy and you push yourself up and out of his arms.

‘Thanks.’ You grumble, placing your palm against your forehead before getting to your feet.

‘You should go see a doctor.’ He states, placing a friendly hand on your arm.

‘Yeah. I will.’ You reply plainly, leaving his presence as quickly as you can.

Javier watches you leave, his stomach twisting again as he felt that all familiar hurt creep in again. It wasn’t something he was used to, having feelings but ever since that night, he’d not been able to get you out of his head. You clearly weren't interested in him though. You got what you wanted and that was it.

~

Sophie drove you to a clinic that afternoon, the only person that spoke English there being a lady called Connie who was American also. After explaining your symptoms she decided to run a few tests, informing you that you’d most likely get the results later that week. You gave her your number and left, not wanting to dwell on the multitude of possible things that could be wrong with you. It was stress. Pure and simple. As the days went on you grew more and more nervous. You were still struggling with nausea but you’d thankfully not had a repeat of your fainting spell so when your phone rang you felt your heart thunder in your chest, picking up the receiver you answer with your name and listen as Connie spoke.

‘Are you able to come down here?’ She asks, her soft voice doing nothing to quell your nerves.

‘Sure, when?’

‘Would half an hour work for you?’ She asks.

‘Yes.’ You reply, grabbing your keys ‘See you then.’

You make it to the clinic 10 minutes early, your hands shaking as you sit and wait for your name to be called. Connie’s smiling face calms you a little when it comes into view and she ushers for you to follow her, motioning at the chair beside her desk as she closes the door behind her.

‘How are you feeling?’ She asks, placing a kind hand on your forearm as she sits in the chair across from yours.

‘Still been struggling the last few days but no more fainting spells thank goodness.’ You reply, your voice shaking,

‘Okay.’ She says softly, pulling a piece of paper out.

‘So what’s wrong with me?’ You ask, smiling awkwardly as you try to lighten the situation.

‘You are pregnant.’ She replies plainly, looking up at you to gauge your reaction ‘About 6 weeks along.’

‘Fuck.’ You groan, throwing your face into your hands.

‘According to the medical record that you supplied you have an IUD but it appears that you are late getting it changed.’

‘Yeah, I uh…’ You groan again, cursing yourself inwardly ‘I haven't had a chance.’

‘Well, we’ll get you booked in to get it removed and for a scan.’ She states, her tone calm and professional ‘I’m guessing that you’re not with the father.’

‘Fuck, the father.’ You exclaim, throwing your hands up to your head ‘What am I going to tell him? Oh hey, remember that time we fucked in the bathroom of that bar… well you got me pregnant.’

Connie sits there with her mouth hanging open as she listens to your tirade.

‘God, what do I do Connie? Do I keep it?’ You start to panic, a million scenarios flying through your head.

‘Have you got someone that can come get you?’ She asks.

‘I moved here 2 months ago.’ You reply, tears finally falling ‘I have literally no one.’

‘Hey.’ She grabs your hand, grounding you ‘Why don’t you come back to mine this evening? I don’t have many friends either and I know that I wouldn’t want to be alone after receiving unexpected news like this. My husband can drop you home after. I bought a tone of food to cook for us and his friend so there will be plenty for you too.’

You think about it for a moment, finding that her presence was instantly soothing, like a balm and so you find yourself nodding. You offer to drive her back, the conversation in the car flowing easily as you drive through the busy streets to her apartment building. You help her cook, finding the action helps calm you as you stir the sauce as she chops some veg.

‘So what do you think you’ll do?’ She asks, sipping on her wine as she turns to look at you.

‘Well, I need to tell the father. Whether he wants to raise this baby with me or not he deserves to be given the choice’ You reply, sipping on the decaf coffee she’d made you ‘I’ve always wanted kids but I thought perhaps I had a few more years left yet before it happened.’

‘So you want to keep it?’ She asked and you nod 'Do you think he'll want to be involved?'

‘Honestly? I don’t know.’ You reply, shrugging your shoulders ‘Like he asked me out to dinner and I said no, I assumed that he was just trying to protect my dignity or whatever but then he’s been so cold to me since. Thinking about it now, I think he might have asked because he actually wanted to go on a date with me. When I fainted he was so attentive and I practically ran away from him. Ugh.’

‘We’re back.’ Came a familiar voice, your blood went cold.

What were the chances that Connie Murphy was Steve Murphy’s wife?

‘Who’s this?’

You turn around and his head jumps back in surprise.

‘Oh, Hey.’

‘You know each other?’ Asks Connie, confusion crossing her face.

‘Yeah we work together’ He replies ‘Sort of. How do you know each other?’

‘She came to the clinic. She got some unexpected news today and I thought she'd appreciate a home-cooked meal and good company to take her mind off of it.’

‘I hope everything’s okay?’ He asks as he gives you a concerned look.

‘Yeah.’ You reply, your eyes locking with Javier as he slips out of the shadows ‘Everything’s fine.’

Javier is silent most of the night, the tension between the two of you so thick that it was almost tangible. When Connie and Steve got up to clean the plates you were left alone and you knew that this was your chance. You had to tell him.

‘I uh…- You pause, your heart in your throat ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

‘Do you?’ His tone is cutting and you wince, you deserve it.

You are interrupted by Steve offering you both a nightcap which you decline in unison. You leave together, hugging Connie goodbye and thanking her for a lovely evening before practically chasing Peña down the stairs.

‘Javier wait. Please!’

‘Can’t this wait until tomorrow? I have somewhere to be.’ He growls as he pushes his key into the lock on his door.

‘I’m pregnant.’ You blurt out, stopping him in his tracks ‘My IUD failed and well… I’m 6 weeks pregnant.’

He turns to face you but he doesn’t say anything, just listens as you continue to ramble.

‘I’m not telling you because I want anything from you. I think I’m going to keep it but I just wanted to give you the option to be a part of its life but I get that you probably want nothing to do with me.’ You pause, wiping a stray tear with the back of your hand ‘I have a scan booked in for two weeks from now. You can come if you want. It's at 3 pm on the 25th at Connie’s clinic.’

He still says nothing, just stares at you and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze.

‘Anyway… I thought you should know.’ You state before darting out the door, your tears streaming as you get in your car and drive away.

~

Once again you were early. You stare at the clock and watch each minute painfully tick by, a hand resting on your belly.

‘Hey.’ It’s a voice you hadn’t expected to hear.

You look up to see Javier standing across from you, his expression surprisingly soft considering the circumstances. He takes a seat beside you and you lock eyes with him, smiling when he takes your free hand in an attempt to calm your nerves.

‘You came.’ You state, so quietly it’s almost a whisper.

‘Yeah well... Despite the fact I asked you on a date which you rejected and the fact you ran away from me when I tried to care for you after you fainted you seem to have some sort of hold on me,’ He states, tilting his head to one side ‘Kids were never a part of my plan but then... neither were you.’

You go to speak but are interrupted by your name being called and you look up together to see a short, dark-haired woman motioning for you to come. You both follow her into a small room where she hands you a robe and instructs you to change in the toilet. When you return she motions for you to lay down and warns that the ultrasound gel will probably be cold, you still jump when it touches your skin. You lay there as she fires up the scanner and places the probe on your stomach and you suddenly feel unbelievable nervous. You stare up at Javier who was giving you a look you couldn’t make out. Was it nerves? Excitement? The silence is cut by a constant beat and Javier’s hand grabs hold of yours as you both look at the nurse.

‘Heartbeat is good.’ She states, pointing at a small white shape on the screen ‘Everything look good.’ She continues in her broken English 'I print some pictures for you.’

You nod then look at Javier again. He’s staring at the screen with wide, tear brimmed eyes and you feel your heart jump at the sight. You return your attention to the nurse who hands you the print-outs and excuses herself, leaving the two of you alone with the frozen image of your baby on the screen.

‘You okay?’ You ask, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

‘Yeah.’ He replies, looking at you with pure, unadulterated joy ‘More than okay.’

Then he kisses you but this time it’s different. It’s not hungry or desperate, it’s soft and caring and you melt into it, smiling as he cups your cheeks. Breaking away he kisses your forehead and looks at you with his hypnotising eyes.

‘Shall we try this again?’ He asks, smirking at you ‘Can I take you to dinner?’

‘Well, Agent Peña I think that’s the least you can do considering I’m having your baby.’ You joke, kissing him again as he chuckles.

‘Yes.’ He replies, kissing you again ‘Yes you are.'

~

[guiltysecretpasttime]

Untitled Linzin fanfic

(Yet again?)

This came to me while staying at home one day (one day of many, mind you). Am I okay with starting another multi-chapter Linzin story? Maybe. Will I push through with it? Absolutely. Should this be taken seriously? No, please don’t. Am I abandoning my other work? Of course not.

Don’t take this plot seriously since it’s just something that I felt like I want to write down and share. But… let’s see. Consider this a crackfic /trope centric fic eh haha. Consider this my contribution to this teeny tiny space in the fandom.

Please leave a comment or a reply as to what you think about this. I’m gauging this to be like 3 to 4 chapters long only though.

I think this will keep as untitled for now – until I figure out the right title. And summary / overview.

---

Untitled

Overview

Legend of Korra fanfic – Linzin endgame AU

1 of 3 (or 4?) chapters (or more, if I decide to post them in chunks) – I really haven’t thought this out (shrugs and looks around shiftily)

Pre-canon AU (prior to Book 1)

--

The airbender gently slid the door closed, careful not to disturb any of its sleeping occupants. He knew he was late but as with everything – his children always came first.

He looked up at the moon, peeking from behind gray clouds. The rain did not let up at all during the day.

It was a pity. It was, after all, the first time that his children found themselves on an Ember Island vacation. It was to celebrate Jinora’s birthday – at least that was what the press release was.

He hurried across the courtyard, ignoring the squelching sounds that his sandals made on the mud and puddles.  Passing no one on his way, Tenzin finally reached the right hall.

He quickly dried himself before entering what everyone knew as the Fire Lord’s family hall, which was precisely why they selected it. He crept into the dimly lit hall, shadows were wavering across the pillars and the walls. Nonetheless, the pretense of a nightcap among the grownups was well executed with the spread on the long table.

He sat down immediately beside his mother, who inclined her head in acknowledgment.

Fire Lord Izumi cleared her throat and the soft buzzing of conversation silenced.

“Now that we’re complete – let’s get right to it.”

The airbender’s eyes wandered across the room, to everyone sitting at the long table of the Fire Lord.

Everyone who was anyone to his late father was present. Everyone alive, that is. The lack of guards or security personnel was nothing new in this situation though – in a room of bending masters, it was almost foolish to expect guards to be standing in attention, alert for any disturbance.

“As we know the Red Lotus is back at its game.” Lord Zuko now presided the meeting and went straight to the heart of the clandestine gathering. “There has been reliable intelligence that they are gaining traction on the ground and there are rumors of freeing their known members.”

To their credit, no one in the room gasped or expressed their incredulity of such a claim.

Bumi began to share all the pertinent information from the report (Tenzin idly thought that being a commander suited his brother’s temperament). It was alarming to hear of pockets of violent incidents across the nations and the United Republic that can be traced back to the Red Lotus.

Chief Tonraq took the action to inform his brother Unalaq to strengthen the guards at the North as one of the prisoners were being held there.

Katara said that the White Lotus has already been informed of the case and she had personally requested to have the number of Zaheer’s guards increased. Bumi spoke of fortifying the defenses in all the other security prisons.

“Well, if everything is secured, why even call for us?” The gruff voice of Toph Beifong finally joined the foray.

Suyin fidgeted from Toph’s side, clearly uncomfortable with the discourse.

Truth be told, he did wonder at Suyin’s presence.

When Lord Zuko issued the invitation to Ember Island, he was surprised at the arrival of the Zaofu Beifong family, knowing that they have been estranged from some time. He thought that maybe it was just in keeping up with the ruse of a family reunion. Nonetheless, here they are now and Su was found to be in their midst. She was the youngest child of their generation and had been, more often than not, shielded by her mother when it came to serious and bordering dangerous matters. It had always been the eldest Beifong daughter who shouldered the brunt of the situation.

But then again, no one called attention to the empty seat at the other side of Toph Beifong tonight. Tenzin was sure it was not allotted for Baatar (who had stayed behind to see to the bedtime of the children).

Despite her stature, Toph still managed to command the room. “The Avatar is currently far from Republic City and I don’t think her parents will be taking her on a trip to Zaofu anytime soon. I don’t see the need for us,” Her emphasis heavily implying her family. “To even be here.”

All of a sudden, Tenzin realized the former Fire Lord looked all of his age as he drew in a breath. “While that may be true, Toph, the Red Lotus is looking for a gateway to the spirit world. They think true power and equality will only be brought about by uniting our world with the spirit world. Or barring that, a way to force the Avatar’s hand.”

“But she’s a child!” The Avatar’s father choked out.

“We are well aware that never stopped them.” There was a slight pause in remembrance on what had happened the first time the Red Lotus attacked the Avatar’s family. There had been losses.

Kya spoke up, trying to figure out what that could mean. “If the prisons are heavily guarded and all the leaders of the nations have their own security detail, what else are they looking to? What is in Republic City? What are they targeting?”

“The airbenders.”

All heads turned to a figure who had been leaning in the shadows of one of the pillars. Tenzin wondered how he could have missed her.

Lin Beifong pushed herself off the pillar and grudgingly took a seat beside her mother. “Is it the airbenders then, Lord Zuko?”

All of a sudden, Tenzin realized Lord Zuko looked all of his age as he nodded solemnly. “They knew they need to lure the Avatar or in its place, use a master airbender to their bidding.”

Said master airbender’s eyes flashed. “I would never -!”

“They could use Jinora as leverage.” Understanding was visible on Bumi’s face. “Everyone knows Jinora can already airbend.”

“That’s sick.” Su managed to murmur, sinking further into her seat. “Using kids in their nefarious plans…”

“They’re not known for their mercy, sweetheart.” Bumi shrugged, years of being in the military hardening him some.

“We can add more protection for the children.” Katara threw a concerned glance at her youngest child.

Toph scowled. “So, what are you suggesting? Aside from the White Lotus, Republic City police would need to pull funds to provide bodyguards at Air Temple Island? Mind you – it would be hard to get this funding for a civilian.”

“I’m sure the White Lotus would be enough.” Fire Lord Izumi attempted to mediate what was rapidly about to become a heated discussion.

“Maybe not,” Tonraq disagreed, already shaking his head.  “If we pull in resources across the nations for the high security prisons and the sentries for Korra, I don’t think we would have any to spare for Air Temple Island at this period. Recruiting and training more could jeopardize the quality of the White Lotus.”

As the people around him continued to toss around arguments and recommendations, Tenzin could feel everything closing in.

When his wife passed a little over a year ago due to a stomach bug that had gone untreated for so long, Tenzin had stepped down from his role as part of the city council and instead turned to raising his two daughters and rebuilding the Air Nation (or what was left of it). The transition of public figure to private citizen was a welcome balm to him and his young family. His mother and sister had stayed on the island for a couple of weeks during Pema’s illness and subsequent passing, but they did have lives to go back to in the South Pole.

Tenzin thought he managed okay – training acolytes, tending to his daughters’ needs, documenting what was available of the Air Nomad culture… His visits to Republic City were now less frequent compared to his council days. He had developed a routine and he thought they were coping well.

But now, with the tenuous peace that he finally thought he attained was now at the risk of crumbling, he was at a loss on what to do. It had been a while since he felt like this – back when his father passed, and even then there was someone he had with him to support him.

“We need to send them away then.” Iroh’s voice drew Tenzin’s attention back to the discussion. “They’ll be sitting ducks at the island.”

Toph snorted and Izumi glared at the blind woman’s reaction to her son. “Yeah? Then what – they join the Fire Lady’s entourage? Or maybe head on to the tundra with the Avatar? The Red Lotus would probably be grateful that you placed all their targets in one area.”

Izumi countered. “That would solve the issue of spread out resources – if we concentrate them in a location, that may work.”

“On the other hand, what sort of excuse would you give for Master Airbender here to be away from his temples that long?” Lin asked with a tone so casual, you would have thought they were discussing the weather. “It would not do for the Red Lotus to know that we are unto them so soon when we have yet to strategize how to take them down.”

Tenzin found himself silently agreeing. Lin always was the pragmatic one.

Zuko stroked his beard in thought. “We could have them over – extended vacation maybe? Or we go around on vacation to the temples? That way we can use the Fire Nation’s security detail.”

“That would be a negative.” Iroh reddened as he realized he just spoke against his grandfather. At his encouraging nod, the younger firebender continued. “That would be a logistical nightmare. Too many variables to consider.”

Bumi suddenly perked up. “That’s it!” The shaggy-haired man stood up with a snap. “Variables – and what you all said.” He waved a hand across the table. “They can join the Fire Lady’s entourage -.”

“What!” The collective disbelief echoed in the hall.

He raised his hand in supplication. “Hear me out -what if he joins the Fire Nation Royal family as actual family? Surely questions won’t be raised.” Seeing that no one was getting his point, he decided to say it plainly. “I’m saying what if Tenzin marries Izumi?” There was a lot of disagreements to his pronouncement and so he raised his voice. “That way, it won’t be odd if he stayed there or if they become under protection of the Kyoshi Warriors.”

If Lin was the pragmatic one, Bumi always was the wild one.

And practically everyone had a say on that.

“That would never pass, Bumi.” Lin.

“You can’t pull the wool over the eyes of the public with that. What more the Red Lotus?” Kya.

“Sorry but I don’t think Master Tenzin here is my daughter’s type.” Zuko.

“Dad. Well, aside from that, the optics for that kind of union would not bode well for international peace.” Izumi.

“I don’t need a stepdad.” A beat. “Siblings would be welcome though.” Iroh.

“I agree with Izumi -this may come across as the Air Nation siding with the Fire Nation.” Tonraq.

“I doubt the Earth Queen will remain quiet too.” Su.

“Meh. I say just toss Junior here and his spawn to some remote resort (or here even) and just say he went on a vacation.” Toph.

A snort. “Now that won’t fly – Tenzin never goes on vacation.” Bumi.

“Bumi, it’s not nice to make fun of your brother’s troubles.” Katara.

Tenzin simply shook his head at his brother, who still did not look deterred at all even as the conversation around continued to dissect and put down his ludicrous suggestion.

The older man was frowning, walking around the table while partaking on the board of dried meat, fruits and cheese laid out for them.

From the other end of the table, Lin tossed grape into her mouth while Su said something that sounded like “manners!”.

At that moment, Tenzin made the mistake of catching his brother’s eye. He did not trust the gleam in Bumi's eyes.

“I got it!” Bumi once more got hold of everyone’s attention. “True, Izumi as a bride  might be to farfetched, but there are merits to the Tenzin gets married deal. No questions will be asked if he spends time with family, out of the public eye, you know – a regular honeymoon. As to the lovely bride, why not someone he has had history with – that would make the whirlwind romance and wedding more plausible, won’t it?”

Tenzin’s heart sank at who his brother was implying. 

Oh no. Surely he didn’t mean…

“Why not marry Lin Beifong?”

---

Note: Why not indeed? 🤔 where am I going with this? You shall find out real soon. Lemme know whatchuthink.

[childrenofthenightt]

heart of gold (chapter four)

pairing: robert plant x florence bennett (oc)

warnings: allen being a weirdo as usual, fluff, angst and friendship :’)

words: 4.3k

summary: trapped in a loveless marriage to a powerful man, florence bennett lives every day in despair. after a chance encounter with a golden-haired actor, florence finds that her life will never be the same again.

author’s note: folks!! this took a lot longer to write for a number of different reasons but hey!! it’s here now :) not much to say in this one cause i don’t wanna spoil, but if anyone has any theories, feedback or suggestions please let me know! hope you enjoy <333

chapters: 1 | 2 | 3

masterlist

playlist

------

“Dear angel, I hope you are faring well. This note, unlike the rest, is rather short. I felt I should be quick, and frank, too. If you happen to find yourself at the Bennett manor for the upcoming ball, I will be present as well. Perhaps, if fate allows it, we may meet, finally. I will be wearing a silver gown, with chiffon detailing. Look for me, and I will do the same. Forever yours, stranger.”

Stunned silence fills the elegant dressing room as Robert reads the short letter over once more, his fingers tracing the letters as though the action would reveal a devastating brand of trickery. For all intents and purposes, however, the letter seemed to be perfectly earnest; a fact that Bonzo, sitting next to him with a cigarette dangling from his lips, enjoyed reminding him of.

“Robert, she wants to meet with you. You want to meet with her. We must go to the ball. I’ll even help you pick out a suit,” he drawls, lazily throwing his head back against the plush cushioned chair as he gazes over at Robert. “I am convinced this is the longest you’ve gone without talking, to be quite honest.”

The blond sat unmoving, eyes never straying from the slip of paper clenched in his hands. He hasn’t spoken a word since reading it, and his eyes roam over each line as though he was unable to fully take in the words that flow across the page. Slowly, the man's eyes raise from the letter, meeting Bonzo’s as shock swims in the cerulean pools.

“Bonzo.”

“Ah, he speaks!”

“She wants to…”

“Meet you? Yes, she does,” Bonzo finishes the man’s sentence with a hearty chuckle, and his arm raises to pat Robert on the arm. The chestnut-haired man continues, shaking his head at the blond’s nervous antics. “We need to find you a suit; an expensive one, at that. The Bennett’s are just short of nobility after all. We might have to cut your hair, too.”

“What? Why would we do that?” The blond’s hands fly towards the tips of his golden ringlets almost unconsciously, and he cards long fingers through them. Uncertainty is painted upon his handsome face, and Bonzo smirks, a chuckle leaving his mouth.

“Just because you’re an actor, Robert, does not mean you need to look like one. Long hair signifies that you’re loose. Easy, if you will. Even if it does have a kernel of truth to it…”

“And you’re definitely sought after, are you not, Bonzo? Quite suave, if memory serves.”

Bonzo huffs out a laugh, and gazes over at Robert, as he blows a gauzy cloud of smoke into the air. A smirk graces his features as his lips twitch in an attempt to hide it, and he shoves Robert’s arm amicably. “All in due time, my friend. All in due time.”

“I’m sure.”

“Regardless of how I am faring in that particular department, we were talking about you, were we not?” Bonzo replies, locking eyes with Robert, earnest now, as he searches the man’s face. Seemingly not finding what he was looking for, his dark brows furrow. “Why are you so nervous in the first place? Women almost flock to you, yet you’re quivering at the possibility of meeting this one.”

Robert sighs, shifting uncomfortably under Bonzo’s penetrating gaze. He was as nervous as he is, because this woman… it’s as if she had known him all his life. She was charming, and intelligent, talking of wonderful novels and intricate poems. To Robert, whenever he read a letter she had written, he could almost hear her twinkling laughter, and see her smile that sparkled in his mind. Her soul was utterly beautiful, and it seemed to have entwined with his. Robert can only hope, however, that she feels the same.

“I… I do not know what she looks like, or how she is in person. That’s all,” Unable to let those thoughts linger in the tense air of the dressing room, Robert comes up with the best excuse he could muster under the circumstances. “I do think it is a cause for concern, is it not?”

“Well, Plant,” Stilling the shaking of one hand with the other, Robert returns Bonzo’s stare, until the moustachioed man smirks once more. He had obviously seen through the ruse, and it was only a matter of time before Robert became the laughing stock of the entire theatre. The two are locked still in a staring match, without a single movement from either. Oddly enough, though, Bonzo looks away first. The smirk still dangling from his lips proves that the conversation will be continued eventually. “I wish you luck, then. Truly, I do hope it goes well tonight.”

“Thank you, Bonzo. I appreciate your support. Truly I do.”

“I’m sure. Now,” Bonzo stands with a huff, stretching an arm out towards Robert. The blond takes it and raises from the comfortable chaise, and the two friends saunter out of the room, laughter following them. “How about we get ready for the ball? You must look put-together, and oftentimes, you’re not exactly the picture of elegance…”  Bonzo’s voice trickles out past the crack left in the door, and Robert’s squawk of offense rings across the empty room.

-----

Florence steps in front of the floor-length mirror that decorates her room, and she feels beautiful, for what may very well be the first time in years. In the beginning, Allen had showered her with compliments, and made her feel truly loved. His words soured, eventually, and she bore the brunt of his treatment ever since. Finally, though, she was doing something for herself. To make herself happy. If you ask anyone that truly knows her, they would point out that Florence was altruistic, almost to the point of self-effacement. She had lived much of her adult life playing an impossible role. Tonight, she meets her beloved actor.

Appearing suddenly behind her in the mirror, almost like a mirage, Emma takes in the way her friend is fiddling with the dress they had picked out together. It was a beautiful silver that gleamed in the dusky moonlight, with accents of soft chiffon that could only add to the ethereal quality. Dressed in her own gown, a canary yellow that made her eyes gleam like gemstones, Emma dares a smile of her own.

“Florence, you look lovely. Are you excited?”

“Oh!” Florence turns, dress swaying with the motion, as she finally notices Emma standing behind her. A fair blush rises on her freckled cheeks, and a carefree giggle leaves her cherry-red lips. “You look wonderful, Emma! James will not be able to tear his eyes away, I reckon. As for your question, I’m… incredibly nervous. I will be honest with you.”

“Nervous? Florence, this could be an incredible night. It will work out.” says Emma, purposefully not touching on the first half of Florence’s sentence. She didn’t want to think about James at the moment, or she would get distracted.

“I can’t help my nerves, because… what if this is all for nothing? What if he isn’t nearly as kind as he seems, and I am trapped once more? Emma, I do not know if I could bear it.”

“Ever the pessimist,” Emma sighs, a smile growing on her tanned cheeks. She grasps the other woman’s arm, thumb rubbing circles into covered skin, bringing Florence much-needed comfort. As soon as she lets the arm fall, Florence begins to pace around the room. Emma sighs and moves closer in an attempt to still the woman’s frayed nerves.  “Luckily for us, I am quite the optimist. Florence, he cares for you, and that is plain to see. You proposed that he wouldn't be quite what you imagined, but what if he’s more? In addition, if he is treating you unkindly at any point, you have the right to leave.”

“I… suppose you are right, Emma.”

“As always,” Emma scoffs jokingly, as she saunters closer. Her hand brushes a tendril of hair, which had fallen in Florence’s face in the midst of her panic, back into the sleek bun of golden brown. “Now, as much as I hate to subject you to this, Allen is waiting in the main hall. He needs you for the grand entrance, after all.”

“Oh, goody.”

“Ah, some sarcasm to start off the night.”

The women chuckle softly as they make last-minute adjustments in the clear surface of the mirror. Satisfied, they lock eyes, and arm in arm, they walk out the door and down the winding staircase to the main floor. Allen is leaning against a carved column, and, detecting the disruption, he scoffs and pushes to stand straight.

“Finally. I thought you would never be finished. Come, Florence,” Allen, seemingly for the first time, notices his wife’s companion, and the sneer that was almost permanently etched onto his face appears yet again. “Always a pleasure, Ms. Weston.”

“Likewise, Mr, Bennett.”

A tense silence permeates the room, until Allen clears his throat rather impolitely, and whisks Florence away with a final smrk drowning derision, and they’re gone. In the stillness of the room, Emma whispers, “Good luck, Florence.”

The woman reckons that she’ll need it.

-------

As Florence steps into the ballroom, her mouth falls open, a gasp tumbling past her lips. Flowers of every shape and tint decorate the gold-gilded walls, and lanterns pour faint yellow light across the room. The magnificent chandelier, crystals twinkling like stars, casts faint shadows across the faces of the guests, who promenade across the dance floor, mingling and laughing. Sets of double doors lead out onto a beautiful, moonlit balcony, the glow of bright starlight filtering in through the windows.

Stopping at the entrance, arm in arm with Allen and Emma at her side, she marvels as she takes in the sights. The ballroom, of course, was always as elegant and luxurious without the celebrations taking place, yet it seemed that Allen had wanted to go the extra mile. For what he lacked in kindness, Florence thinks, he makes up for in his apparent prowess regarding interior design. A quiet laugh flutters involuntarily past her lips, and Allen looks down at her, confusion drawing his dark eyebrows together.

“Florence, dear, what is it now?”

Caught, she shakes her head, a pliant smile gracing her features. Apparently satisfied, Allen looks back to the crowd that had gathered to celebrate him, propelling her forward with a hand that sits dangerously low on her lower back. Disgust souring her expression for a split second, she recovers, and plasters on that ever-present smile that feels like a lie.

“Welcome all. I am truly grateful that we could all gather, to celebrate…” Allen’s words seem to simply evaporate before they could reach Florence’s ear, as the woman’s gaze roams around the ballroom, searching for a head of perfect golden curls. Unable to spot the man she’s been writing to for the better part of a month, she sighs quietly, holding onto the sliver of hope that he had really come. Wrenched out of her thoughts by the hand at her back slipping perilously lower, she registers how Allen coaxes her to move, and she steps forward, staring at the scowl full of irritation on his lips. Locking eyes with Emma, who had moved further into the crowd, she is greeted by a comforting smile, and Florence nods her head in gratitude.

Allen, his hold firm, almost bruising on her arm, leads her around the room. She greets guests, many immersed in the same secret lifestyle as Allen, and Florence knows that she will forget their names completely come morning. Their smiles always seem to be too wide, and their eyes hold an intense look that Florence has spent years trying to decipher. She’s used to her role by now, pasting on a beaming grin that almost hurts the longer she holds it, and curtsying at every man they greet. Oftentimes they are ‘dear’ friends of Allen’s, no doubt just as sycophantic as her husband.

An hour or so passes, though it feels like an eternity to Florence, as Allen pulls her off to an unoccupied corner of the room. His hand slithers to land at her shoulder in what was possibly meant to be a loving gesture, though it sends chills down her back. Tilting her head up with a thick finger, Allen leans closer to her, his hot breath fanning across her face.

“I must go speak to a very important friend of mine. Roam around the ball, if you wish, but Florence, dear?”

“Y-yes, dear?”

“One wrong move, and this night could be ruined. Do try and be careful. I do hope you haven’t forgotten our previous conversation.”

With the thinly veiled threat hanging heavy in the air, he is gone, navy waistcoat fluttering behind him. Florence, shoulders falling from their tensed position around her ears, gazes out at the sea of faces, amusement and glee etched onto their features as they twirl around the room. The atmosphere is suffocating, and the woman glances back at the festivities, shaking her head solemnly as she slips out of the ornate French doors. Safe under the soft, starry cover of moonlight, Florence allows herself a deep, almost world-weary sigh, as her eyes sweep across the immaculately-tended gardens that decorate the back of the manor.

She’d lost Emma around the time Allen had paraded her around like a prize, and, come to think of it, she hadn’t seen James for quite some time, as well. He and John had busied themselves with serving beverages and appetizers on shining silver trays, but it seemed as though James had slipped away. She hopes Emma and James are together, finally working out the feelings they so clearly have for each other.

The clipped sound of footsteps against the cobbled floor of the balcony brings Florence out of her thoughts, and with another heavy sigh, she addresses the intruder, face still turned upwards to gaze at the glowing crescent moon.

“I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid that I am simply not in the mood to—” The sentence trails off, words dying in her throat as she finally turns around. Familiar golden curls sway in the light evening breeze, and cerulean eyes send ice water pooling in her veins. The slight smirk that sits elegantly on thin lips seems to waver slightly, as though the man was nervous, though he seems to recover quickly. He takes a step closer, and Florence can smell the soft, irresistible scent of sandalwood.

“I’m… It’s… It’s you.”

“Astute observation, love. You did tell me to look for a certain silver gown, did you not?” The smirk that her actor is sporting only serves to set every nerve on fire, and Florence sputters, all semblance of confidence leaving her, already lacking as it was. Her indignant expression only serves to make the man chuckle and shake his head fondly, silken ringlets swaying with the movement. His hair is much, much longer than what was thought to be socially appropriate, yet the man does not seem to care. He looks comfortable, rather easy-going, and his relaxed smile sends her stomach aflutter.

“It seems you take instruction well. That is certainly good to know.” Florence recovers enough to reply, her smile growing as she takes in the amused look on the tanned, handsome face of the man in front of her. Somehow, he was even more attractive, almost magnetic, to her the closer she looked.

“One of my many talents, I assure you,” Robert chuckles, eyes gleaming like jewels in the dim evening light. The stars were reflected in those deep blue depths, and if Florence stepped any closer, she swore that she would drown. “That is a lovely gown you’re wearing. The colour, especially, is remarkable. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you, inside.”

“You… noticed me?”

“You act as if that is difficult to do. If I’m honest, I was waiting for the right moment to steal you away. When you stepped out, I knew it was my only chance.”

“I-I must say,” Florence starts, chancing a look up at him through her eyelashes. She, hesitance clear on her face, steps closer to him, finally, and the beaming grin that lights up his face is the reward. “I’m glad you took that chance, then.”

The music that filtered, muffled as it was, through the doors seemed to swell and grow louder. Robert’s hand raises, ghosting his knuckles across her cheek as though he were afraid of breaking her, and he smiles, charming as ever.

“May I have this dance, love?”

Florence can only nod, as her hands slip into his, the friction caused by the warm, calloused feel of his palm somehow exhilarating to the young woman. He pulls her closer, placing his free hand on her hip. He was tall, much taller than Florence, and he gazes down at her as they sway together. Being here, in the arms of this stranger that she swears she had known her entire life, she feels content.

Hopeful.

Robert, subtle control in the way he leads Florence through the dance, is graceful in his movements, and perfectly respectful. His hand never strays from its place on her hip, and with a light squeeze to the hand in his, he spins her around, perfect synchronicity in their movements.

Florence’s eyes lock on something behind the man, then, and her lips turn up in a subtle smile. From her place on the balcony, Florence could see the staircase in the grand hall, just out of view of the ballroom. Through the window, hidden behind a carefully-carved pillar, she spots Emma and James, locked in a dance of their own. Emma’s hand, resting on James’ shoulder, rises to trail across the man’s cheek. Traces of the bruising that had marred the man’s face still remain, and Emma’s face contorts in a look of sadness at the sight. James shakes his head, lips moving with no sound to follow, and Emma gazes earnestly back at him. Slowly lowering her head onto James’ shoulder, they continue to rock back and forth. A beautiful private moment, for sure.

“What is it, love?”

“It was nothing. You’re quite good at this, aren’t you?”

“This is but a perk of being an actor, I’m afraid,” says Robert, twirling her around once more. Moonbeams dance around them as the light fall wind whistles in harmony with the music. “You know, I must say that I was quite surprised, that a single performance of mine endeared you enough to send me a note. Was it truly that enjoyable?”

“You are a wonderful actor, but that smart mouth of yours might get you into trouble.” Florence replies, a giggle marking the end of her sentence. Her eyes light up in bliss as blue meets muddy hazel, and they are alone, everyone inside fading into the background; simply an array of colours in a painting.

“My smart mouth? You are not exactly innocent in that respect. Speaking of… your letters. They were incredibly poetic. I enjoyed each one, I will admit.”

“A childhood dream of mine, if you can believe it, was to be a poet, or perhaps an author.”

“I would read every volume.”

The blush that blooms on Florence’s freckled cheeks makes Robert smile, and the laugh that tumbles from his lips makes Florence wish she could simply stop time, and live in that moment forever.

“You know what they say, love.” The confusion clear on the woman’s face brings a satisfied smile to Robert’s face, which Florence frowns at. She had never enjoyed not knowing, and the man had taken full advantage of that.

“And what, pray tell, do they say?”

“The shortest poem is a name. May I have yours?”

“I-I don’t simply give my name out to strangers. Perhaps if I knew your name, however…” The smirk that plays across Florence’s rosy lips makes Robert laugh, and unconsciously, he pulls the woman even closer. The music continues, ebbing and flowing, and the couple continue their dance, both physically and verbally.

“Hm, you are very cunning.”

“One of my many talents, I assure you.”

“And witty, too. It’s quite refreshing,” Robert squeezes the woman’s hip lightly, playfully, and she smiles up at him innocently. As beautiful as she was, which, in Robert’s opinion, could not be overstated, the actor detected a hint of sadness that hung around the woman like a shroud. He could see the way her smile never lasted for as long as he’d like, and how her eyes seemed to dim, a faraway look replacing the gleeful expression he had put there. Despite this, she seemed to have an inner strength that often remained under lock and key. She had shown a glimpse tonight, and he longed for another. Shaking his head to rid himself of the thoughts clouding his mind, Robert continues, smiling easily. “My name, love, is Robert. Robert Plant.”

“Robert…” Florence repeats, almost testing the name out on her tongue. “It suits you.”

“Now that we are no longer strangers, may I put a name to that beautiful face?”

“O-okay, I suppose it’s only fair. My name is Florence… Bennett.” The moment of hesitation was long enough that confusion paints Robert’s features, until recognition, and not long after, shock, wipes it away.

“Bennett, as in…”

“Yes.”

The couple had stilled, now, though Robert’s hand still warmed the skin of her hip through the gown. Florence, gaze firmly on the ground, refuses to look at Robert, whose mouth opens and closes, stunned.

“Robert, I-I’m sure this has changed everything, and… maybe it is better if we leave this here. I—”

“Florence, it’s—”

“I should go.” As soon as the words leave Florence’s mouth, she disentangles herself from Robert, and moves to re-enter the ballroom. Almost to the door, she feels a warm hand settle on her wrist. It’s soft; the hold. She could easily slip out of it, if she had wanted to. But she hadn’t.

“What—Where are you going?” Florence is still facing away from him, but she didn’t pull away, and Robert counts this as a good sign. He takes a step closer, the hold on Florence’s hand never wavering, and she winces when she hears the tap of his pointed shoes drawing closer.

“This is not fair to you… I hurt everything I touch, it seems, and… I don’t want you to be caught in the crossfire, Robert. Please understand.”

“I don’t care.”

“Robert, I’m serious.”

“And you believe I’m not?”

“I will break your heart. Don’t do this to yourself… I’m not worth it. Please.”

Robert scoffs, then, and Florence doesn't have to look at him to see the determined line of his lips. She doesn't have to look at him to see how he is shaking his head almost bitterly. His thumb traces over the fine bones of her wrist like a feather, and as much as she wished with all her heart that it hadn’t, it brought her comfort.

“Break my heart, then. It would be worth the pain, being close to you. You, Florence, are worth everything. Anyone that says otherwise is delusional.”

At this, Florence turns around abruptly, and the storm swirling in her dark eyes is clear to see. A droplet of salty water trickles down her red cheeks, flushed with conviction, and she struts closer to Robert.

“You don’t know what Allen Bennett is like, and you do not deserve to. I will beg, if I must. Please, don’t do this.”

“Love, you will not sway me on this. I feel a genuine, special connection to you, and this month of writing to you has been… truly perfect. I am not giving up on you… on us, because I could get hurt.”

Florence knows that if he insists once more, she could not stop him. She wants Robert, and everything that comes with him; of course she does. She would be irrational not to. But she knows how Allen is. How possessive he is, even as he revels in the arms of another. Robert is an amalgamation of everything that is good in the world, it seems to her then, with a heart of gold to drive the point further. She could not forgive herself if anything changed that.

“Robert…”

The man in question slips into her space, a long finger lifting her chin to face him. A traitorous tear trickles down her cheeks, and Robert wipes it away with a thumb, looking into Florence’s eyes all the while. Enraptured with each other, they press closer, and Florence can feel Robert’s breath fan over her face. His hand caresses her cheek lightly, and her eyes flit down to his lips. Their noses touch, and then, as if divine intervention, the door opens. John steps onto the balcony, smirking into his hand as he watches the couple spring apart.

“Terribly sorry to interrupt. Florence, your… husband is looking for you.”

“T-thank you, John. I will be right in.”

John nods, and disappears back into the ballroom, with a private smile directed at the woman. Looking back at Robert, Florence takes in the hint of a flush on his own face, and knows that she must look the same. Tentatively taking his hand in hers, she interlocks their fingers in a loose hold, in case they are forced apart once again. That is as close as she’s willing to get in such a public area, now that she knows Allen is on the prowl, but Robert smiles at her all the same.

“When can I see you again, Florence?”

“Allen is… I believe he is out often, this coming week. I will write to you.”

Robert nods, and squeezes the hand resting in his, a smile playing about his lips. He pulls away, then, and moves to the door, when a hand curls around his once more.

“Robert?”

“Yes, love?”

“Be careful.”

With that, she slips around him, opening the door and stepping through. The scent of her perfume, something light and floral, dances around him as she passes.

------

taglist: @jimmys-zeppelin @salixfragilis @timetraveller4 @earthfire-75 @thatiloveyouso @jonesyjonesyjonesy @jimmypages @kyunisixx @sophiazeppelinchick @reincarnated70sbaby @grxtsch @rebel-without-a-zeppelin @thebeatlesuniverse @dreamersdrowse (let me know if you want to be added!)

[brutal-nemesis]

Saltwater Day 2021: Dinner Date with an Eel 💕

Feel that ocean breeze, baby! Cries in lives in a very landlocked area I hope y’all are having some fun in the salty spray ✨Today we finally get to see a Castys misadventure that I’ve talked about in the tags before: the big boy drowning incident! So sit back, relax, and enjoy the agony <3

Castys Masterlist

Ingredients: drowning, animal attack, self harm to escape danger, sort of self amputation, gore, broken bones, suicide for convenience (immortal)

Castys had jumped off of higher cliffs before. Granted, he had done it because he was too lazy to walk to the bottom, and he’d landed on solid rock, and it had been very painful for all of two seconds, so this didn’t make him any less terrified of being shoved off of this one. And yes, that’s right, he was going to be shoved off of this one, into the crashing waves below, which was certainly how he’d planned on spending the morning. Nothing better to start the day than a pointless execution!

Oh, but why are you being executed, Castys, you’re so good and noble and also immortal so this isn’t going to work is it. No, no it’s not going to work. And Castys was being “executed” because, well...turns out people don’t take too kindly to finding out you’re the dreaded Pirate King Ragnarok. As usual, he’d fought and tried to get away, and as usual he’d failed miserably. So here he was, wrists chained together behind his back, ankles chained to a stupidly large rock, and a cloth tied tightly around his mouth.

He tried not to think about having to deal with this arrangement once he was underwater, which was something he was less than excited for. There was already quite a large crowd gathered so, hey, at least he was popular. Actually, scratch that, based on the looks he was getting, he was definitely unpopular. He shifted a bit, causing the men gripping his arms to tighten their grasp. He huffed, wishing he had the ability to tell them to chill the fuck out.

“People of Meruna, we are gathered her today for the execution of the notorious-“ oh my FUCK nevermind just push him off already this whole thing was already bad enough without a speech about all his crimes and whatever. Not that he didn’t love hearing about his exploits, because fuck if he regretted any of it, but the sun was hot and he was tired of standing. That water was going to feel so good...until it was filling his lungs ugh nope don’t think about it like that he was just going for a nice swim that’s all. He was going to be in the nice, cool water without any of these assholes glaring at him, and he’d get out of these chains somehow and come back in ten years and release all their goats and that would show them.

All of a sudden, the hands on him started to push him towards the edge of the cliff, a third guard rolling the rock he was chained to along using her foot. Fuck, fuck the speech was over they were doing it he was going over the edge he’d just been joking earlier he really didn’t want to even if the water would feel good he’d rather stand out here all day because that sure as hell was better than drowning over and over and over the edge the air was rushing by the top of the cliff was getting farther and farther away any second now he-

Castys screamed into the gag as he slammed into the cold water, wasting his last breath of air like an idiot before he started to sink beneath the crashing waves, pulled down by the boulder attached to his ankles. He could only squirm uselessly as he sank deeper and deeper, the soaked-through gag filling his mouth with the taste of saltwater, just to make things even more unpleasant. His arms were killing him, and, you know what, they took the brunt of the impact with the water, so they were probably fucking broken, weren’t they? At least they would heal after...after he drowned for the first time. Already his lungs were starting to burn, but thankfully the rock had finally hit the bottom, so he wouldn’t sink any further and therefore the painful pressure on his ears wasn’t going to get any worse, at the very least. 

Positives, positives, since he was probably going to be here for a while...it wasn’t so stupidly hot anymore, instead it was stupidly cold, and already his fingers were starting to go numb-nope, nope, not a positive, let’s try again. It was rather pretty down here, despite the fact that black spots were starting to cloud his vision, and also things were starting to get kinda...woozy, a little bit, a little, hell-o and goodbye, wasn’t it time now? Yeah, yes, the burning was too much it hurt hurt hurt everything was black and black was good bec-

He didn’t bother counting how many times he drowned. Maybe it would have helped pass the time or something, but, let’s be real, there were better things to focus on than how many times he’d experienced the horrible burning in his lungs and that awful lightheadedness. His broken arms had healed up, so that was something, but they were still very much shackled behind his back. If they were free he could at least get that stupid gag out of his mouth and try to fuck with the chain connecting his ankles to that dumb rock. He settled for looking around the underwater landscape surrounding him, glad that sunset was still a ways off. As far as he could tell.

When he could see and think clearly, it was kind of cool to be down here, circumstances aside. All sorts of fish, many of them varieties that he knew what they tasted like, swam around between the wavy water plants. There was even a really big lookin’ boy off in the distance that he’d seen out of the corner of his eye a few times, though it was coming closer now, and he was just starting to be able to make out...wait-was that a-great. Absolutely fantastic, just what he needed. A fucking shreilian eel. How dare he drown over and over in peace, no, no let’s add a vicious man-eating monster to the mix! At least he wasn’t bleeding, so the creature wouldn’t be immediately drawn to him. He’d get to keep his limbs intact for a little longer-wait wait wait. Okay that was absolutely crazy and sounds entirely unfun, but...it might just work.

Castys mustered as much strength as he could, ignoring the ever-present burning of his lungs, and began to clumsily bash himself against the nearby wall of stone. It was coated in barnacles and the like, but their sharp edges were just what he was looking for. Soon enough, he felt the awful sting of saltwater in the many small cuts that were now littering his arm. Fuck, that was nowhere near enough blood to get that eel over here, and his vision was starting to go dark. If he didn’t get that damn thing over here now he’d die and heal and have to do this bullshit all over again no no no get over here you stupid thing fuck yeah that feels like a nice gash it burns to high hell but so does everything and look at all that bloody water or maybe it’s just getting too dark because it is dark and...so...hurt…

When he came back to life, there was a small cloud of blood swirling in the water around him, but it was dissipating more and more by the second. He couldn’t see the eel anywhere, and if that bastard disappeared on him after all that...Instinctively, he tried to take a deep breath and ended up sucking a bunch of water up his nose like an absolute idiot, his nostrils now burning just as much as his even more waterlogged lungs. His body tried to cough, but it was just painful and useless like everything else he’d done while stuck down here, and he just ended up thrashing around like an injured fish.

Just what the eel had been waiting for.

It felt like he’d suddenly been hit by a mace, slamming him into the rocks, his arm lighting up with the pain of a thousand hot spikes, almost too intense for him to even process, the salty water magnifying every little agony tenfold. Castys was certain he would have been screaming if he had the air, and as much as this was absolutely fucking terrible, he hoped the eel would do it again. It had bitten off a good chunk of his arm as far as he could tell, but not enough to completely sever it and free him from the restraints. And for once, his horrid luck regarding avoiding pain paid off. The eel rammed into him again, ripping off more of his arm with its razor-sharp teeth and causing the bones of his forearm to crack. 

Sensing his chance, Castys grabbed the manacled wrist of his shredded arm with his good hand, bit down on the gag, and pulled. He couldn’t give up, couldn’t stop, not after enduring this much, he could feel his flesh tearing, sending out sparks of agony unlike anything he’d ever known, and he had to keep pulling, pulling and jerking and tearing and twisting and praying, praying that he could rip it off before he drowned again, which, hey, kind of a weird thing to want, not that he hadn’t had to amputate his own limbs before, but weird that it was happening again, and honestly, this hurt way more than the other times, but wasn’t that always the case-and fuck there was no way he was going to be able to just snap his bones like this, and he needed it to be completely severed, and there was no time, wedge it against the rocks and pull pull pull until there was a snap and a burst of unholy agony, so intense it almost smothered the relief, so fierce it made him forget he was drowning up until the moment his oxygen-starved brain lost consciousness. 

Castys’s arms were free. Well, one was free, and the other one was still manacled, attached to...what was left over after all that. He ripped the gag out of his mouth, resisting the urge to suck in mouthfuls of air that were absolutely not there. Looking down at his ankles, he wasn’t sure if-his body exploded with pain as the eel rammed into him again, taking a chunk of flesh from his side, which was definitely not where he wanted to be bitten. Gritting his teeth against the anguish that almost consumed him, he grabbed the wrist of his severed arm and clumsily smeared blood around his ankles, hoping it would entice the monster to attack them and help set him free. 

It worked, and it didn’t. The eel attacked him again and again, no longer pausing in between bites to circle him. Castys wasn’t even sure where it was biting him anymore, he just knew that everything hurt, the saltwater in his wounds magnifying the pain so much that there was no discernible source. He didn’t try to fight the eel off, hoping it would just do enough damage to his legs that he could get free, but he wasn’t sure if he could have even tried to get it away from him if he wanted to. Things were getting so dizzy so fast, all of a sudden, there was nothing to do but wait and die and hurt…

When he came back to life, Castys was disappointed to find that he was not floating to the surface. In fact, one of his ankles felt kind of weird, like it wasn’t shackled anymore, but still...for fuck’s sake. One of his ankles had been freed, torn enough to shreds before he’d died that the manacle had come off, but the other one was...well the manacle wasn’t around his ankle so much as it was…in his ankle. How the fuck that had happened, he had no clue. He just knew he had to deal with it. Looking around, the eel wasn’t anywhere to be seen, probably full to bursting after its meal, and though his heart sank a little at the thought that he couldn’t rely on it anymore, he was also slightly relieved, because that thing had been vicious. It had, however, left a parting gift. He swam downwards and grabbed the smooth fang off of the sandy ocean bottom, gripping it tightly. Just a little bit more. 

He had endured so much already, felt pain more intense, experienced sensations more gruesome, but this...this was more active than everything else that had happened down here. More visible. He had to make every stab and slice deliberately, had to watch the tooth do its damage, it wasn’t mindless bashing or praying he’d get bitten in the right places, but an active choice to cut his flesh away, inviting burning seawater into a wound once again, and it was difficult. Part of him wanted to stop, take a break, please, I don’t want to have to do this anymore, I want to let go, just for a little bit, please, but he knew he couldn’t, because he had to get this done before he drowned again or he’d have to start the whole damn thing over. 

Relief like he’d never known washed over him as he finally managed to worm the manacle out of his shredded ankle and he felt himself start to rise. The lightheadedness was getting worse, and he wasn’t sure if he’d make it in time, so he wormed his finger into the pouch around his neck and let the death stone’s magic take him before the lack of air could. He was still rising when he came back to, and he propelled himself towards the surface with renewed strength, despite the pain of his ears popping and the odd ache in his joints. 

Finally, blessedly, he made it to the surface, and air had never tasted so fucking good. Not that it wasn’t salty, but it wasn’t as salty as saltwater, and he sucked as much of it as he could into his waterlogged lungs. He looked up at the cliff towering over him, now painted with the orange of sunset instead of the gold of sunrise. He...he had been down there all day just...downing. And getting eaten. Kinda fucked. Seeing a nearby rock, he swam over to it and scampered on top, collapsing on its damp surface as he coughed up far too much fucking seawater. Fuck, his head was spinning and his joints hurt, like they probably would have if he could grow old. Well, nothing that one last death can’t fix, now that he was finally on land again.

Castys opened his eyes and sat up, feeling perfectly fine besides the awful, salty taste in his mouth. He looked over at the cliff smugly. Those bastards had tried to get rid of him for good, and they’d failed miserably. He folded down his middle fingers and placed his thumbs over them, a rude gesture in this part of the world. Seeing the remnant of his arm dangling from the manacle still attached to his left wrist, he had a devilishly gruesome idea. 

The next morning, the whole town was awoken by the screams of a young couple who had gone out for a stroll.

Right there, in the middle of the town square, was part of a crudely severed arm, its fingers frozen in an obscene gesture, its skin slimy and already starting to slip off. A manacle was clamped around its wrist, attached by a short chain to the other one, which had been broken open. 

The execution had failed, and that heinous pirate had escaped.

Castys Cult: @as-a-matter-of-whump​ @blackrosesandwhump​ @fanmanga1357-blog​​ @thehopelessopus​ @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi​ @hearse-song​ @muddy-swamp-bitch @whumpasaurus101 @yet-another-heathen​​ @galaxywhump​ @starnight-whump​ @his-unspoken-words

[elizabeethan]

Spaces Between Us Chapter 10: Over Again

The hardships of real life separated them six years ago, and Emma has been struggling to put that fact behind her ever since. But then, only after she’s convinced herself that she’s moved on and that her new life is enough, Killian Jones comes back.

A Captain Swan Modern AU

A/N: Not much to say here. Mentions of what Emma went through in the previous chapter, as well as some minor medical stuff. Message me if you need more info!

Thank you, as usual, to my beta and friend @the-darkdragonfly, and to @donteattheappleshook and @xhookswenchx for listening to my ramblings and helping me figure out the plot to this <3

Read the Rest

Read on Ao3

Read my Other Stuff

~~~~

Emma is stuck. She knows what will make her happy, what will make things right for her, and she can’t get there. Any move she makes, someone suffers, and she can hardly stand it any longer. While she originally thought that a separation would lead to her potentially losing her son, she fears now that doing anything to inconvenience her husband could mean real, immediate threats to their physical safety, and she has no idea what to do. She’s feeling so hopeless that she can hardly get herself out of bed on time to walk Henry to school the next morning. 

 Walsh isn’t home when she wakes, although she isn’t sure when he left because she spent another night in the guest room. While she would normally text Killian minimally, she found that she felt so despondent last night that she couldn’t pick up her phone. While he normally makes her feel a sense of calm safety, her argument with her husband and the imminent threat of danger against her and Henry erased any feelings of positivity that she had. 

 Of course, it was foolish of her to use Killian as a means to feel good about her life when she knows how bad it is. Having him has been great, but it doesn’t address the root of her problems, and she’s starting to see that with more and more clarity. She can see now that, despite how soothing his presence has been over the last few months, things are as bad as ever-- worse-- and last night served as a wake up call to that fact. The depression that has plagued her for six years, the blackened shadow that she thought Killian had shown a light upon, has settled itself over her heart once again. 

 Henry’s quiet on their short walk to school, as if he can read her demeanor, and it makes the tears continue to flow from her eyes until they feel frozen on her cheeks. She can’t believe that she’s let this affect him so much that he can tell that she’s feeling this way. It only serves as another reminder of her shortcomings as a mother. 

 He hugs her so tight when they get to school that she dreads letting go, wishing she could steal him away and run as fast and as far as they can, but she knows that could never happen. Whatever she does, Walsh and his cohorts will find them, of that she’s certain. 

She’s on her way back to the house, unsure of how to spend her Friday and desiring not to see anyone who can tell her something she already knows. She doesn’t need to hear from her sister about how horrible her life has become. She doesn’t need to hear from Killian about how desperately he wants to get her away from her husband. 

 Of course, what she needs doesn’t seem to be on the universe’s radar, because before she can make it halfway home, the squad car is pulling up behind her and parking, the driver’s door swinging open violently. 

 “Emma!” he calls, jogging towards her and stopping short just in front of her. “Emma, what’s… I didn’t hear from you last night.”

 There’s nothing she can say or do, because his tone suggests that he’s upset with her, and she can’t handle that now. So she cries. 

 “Killian,” she sobs, flinching away from him when he reaches his arms out towards her. 

 “Love, talk to me. Come on, we can go somewhere safe.”

 “I’m not safe,” she shakes her head. “We aren’t--” 

 “Emma,” he says, trying hard to calm her panicked breathing by lightly holding the tops of her arms. “You’re safe right now. Henry’s at school and he’s safe too. Let’s go to the station and I can jump your car, aye? Or, my mate, Will, works at a garage. He can sort it out. Let’s just… let’s get off the street, alright?”

 She looks around, worried that someone may see her mid-breakdown, but there’s no one around so she follows him and gets into the car. 

 It takes longer than it should for her to realize that they aren’t going to the station. Instead, he parks in his usual spot in front of his apartment, turning towards her after he surveys the area and determines there to be no one around. With urgency, he gets out of the car and rounds to her door before she can even undo her seatbelt, opening the door and holding his hand out for her. 

 She squeezes his hand harder than she needs to, her knuckles going white as they walk up the stairs and inside the door. He says something when they get inside but she doesn’t hear him, the whole world sounding like she’s under water as she continues to realize just how bad things have gone for her. He says her name again and again, running his thumbs along her cheeks to wipe away her tears until she can finally meet his eyes with hers. It’s only once she recognizes the pure fear in his eyes that she’s able to snap herself out of it and focus on the sound of his voice. 

 “Killian,” she croaks, and he breathes a sigh of relief. 

 “Emma, please talk to me,” he practically begs her, his voice soft and gentle but filled with terror as he kisses her eyelids and her cheeks and the tip of her nose. “What’s going on? What did he do?”

 “He didn’t hurt me,” she promises. She finally allows herself to take in a deep breath and falls against his chest, practically collapsing against him and letting him support the full brunt of her weight. Before she can say anything else, she lets out a loud, painful sob. 

 He scoops her up easily, cradling her against his chest as he carries her to the couch and holding her in his lap, grabbing for a throw blanket and wrapping her up tightly and holding her together both literally and metaphorically. He whispers in her ear about how he’s here, she’s safe, he won’t let anything happen to her, but she knows he has little control over that. 

 “I’m so scared,” she cries against his neck, squeezing her thighs over his hips to try and get closer to him. 

 “Would you tell me what happened, my love?” he asks gently, and though she can tell that he’s still a ball of nerves, he tries to hide it in order to soothe her. “Why don’t we get in the bath, aye? A nice warm tub always makes you feel better.” 

 “Stay with me?” she asks, almost begging, and he nods. 

 “I’ll always, always be by your side, love.” 

 She nods, letting him help her off the couch, though she’s starting to think more clearly. He guides her into the bathroom, and although the tub isn’t too big, he always holds her close enough to keep her warm despite her shoulders and knees sticking out of the hot water. 

 He starts the tub, filling it with the soap he knows she likes the best and sitting her on the toilet gently and running his fingers through her hair. He takes the elastic from her wrist and starts delicately pulling it around her golden strands, lifting them into a high bun so that they can escape the water. Once her hair is taken care of, he starts at the zipper of her sweatshirt, trailing his fingers slowly as he opens it and pulls it off of her shoulders. He folds the garment carefully and places it on the counter before returning his hands to her back, unhooking her bra and placing it atop her shirt before he drops a tender, loving kiss to her forehead that silently tells her everything she needs to hear. 

 The act of him undressing her seems so simple, but it’s so incredibly personal and intimate. She’s finally able to breathe, to let her mind rest, to close her eyes and not see burning anger staring back at her. She knows she can’t rely on him to make everything better for her, but she can certainly appreciate how much he helps her. 

 He takes off her leggings too, pulling her underwear down with them, and folds each piece of clothing to add to the small pile. Once she’s undressed, he places her towel around her shoulders and begins to remove his own clothes, placing them next to hers, and she can’t help but long sadly over how good the two outfits look together on his bathroom counter. He plants another soft kiss to her forehead, then her eyelids, then her lips, before he turns and determines that the tub is full enough. 

 He instructs her to stand with a gentle, “come, love,” placing his hand on the small of her back and carefully guiding her to the tub. He holds her hand as she lets herself sink, feelings of panic and hopelessness melting into the hot water and dispersing further when he climbs in and settles against her back. She lets her head drop backwards against his shoulder and holds his forearms as they wrap tightly around her middle. 

 In the gentle silence of the tub, the only sounds filling the room their breathing and the steady drip from the faucet, she finally feels somewhat glued together. She can stop thinking about how her life is crumbling around her and allow herself to feel whole in his arms. It’s a reminder of how easy the last few months have been. How easy it’s been to ignore the weight of her situation and of her desperate depression in favor of focusing on the light and warmth he’s brought into her life. 

 She gives herself a few moments to feel at peace, safe and comforted in his arms, before she moves to turn around. It proves difficult in the small tub, his legs getting tangled in hers, but she’s eventually able to settle herself on his lap and face him, her fingers sliding into his hair and dampening it slightly. He rests his own on her waist, soothingly scratching her skin with his soft fingertips. “Love,” he murmurs in the quiet, and the soft word is enough to break her just enough. 

 Falling forward, she lets her lips envelop his and holds him to her as closely as she can possibly manage. He kisses her back easily, letting his tongue smooth over her bottom lip as she sighs into his mouth. She feels a sense of desperation to be as near to him as possible; to allow him to care for her and love her in the way that her husband would rather die than do. 

 “Emma,” he breathes against her mouth, and she whimpers at the loss of him as he pulls away to look at her. 

 “I need you,” she pleads in a whisper. “Please, I just… I need you to love me.” 

 “I do love you,” he promises, matching her tone. “More than anything. Nothing will ever change that.” 

 He can read her, of course. She knows because he takes her face in his hands and kisses her with hot ferocity that gives her exactly what she needs. He tells her again and again that he loves her as she desperately lifts her hips over his and slides him into her. She’s hot and tense and needy, and the feeling of him gliding into her brings her home. 

 She’s never cried during sex before. But the way he kisses her and cradles her in his arms and bends his knees to support her backside against his thighs makes her feel so solid. She feels the opposite of how she felt last night and the opposite of how she feels each time she’s with Walsh. She loves Killian so much, and it’s killing her to be so trapped in her marriage to another man. 

 Emma cries out her love for him while she comes hard around his cock, and he kisses away her tears and holds her as close to him as he can while he comes too. “Baby,” he chokes out as he bites her shoulder, the way he only does when he’s so emotional and he’s come so hard that he doesn’t have a filter. 

 Finally, when their breathing has quieted and they’ve loosened their grips on each other just slightly, he mumbles into her neck, “I just want what’s best for you and your boy, Emma.” 

 “It’s you,” she says without hesitation. “It is. But he--” she chokes on her words and lets her head fall against the warm firmness of his chest. 

 “Emma, please,” he begs. “Please talk to me. Let’s get you dried off and I’ll make you something to eat.”

 “I can’t eat,” she whispers. 

 “Please,” he says again, kissing her temple. “Just try for me, alright? I’m sure you’ve barely eaten since yesterday.”

 She nods, and when they finally make their way out of the water, he dries her tenderly with the towel he keeps for her and gives her the privacy she needs to get dressed. Being alone in his bathroom isn’t as bad as she was expecting, her feelings of anxiety and terror creeping back but not debilitatingly so. Just being in his home where she knows no one will find her is enough to soothe her aching heart. When she’s finally dressed, she creeps into the kitchen slowly, hugging her arms around her waist before he hoists her up onto the counter beside the stove and kisses her nose softly. 

 He cracks a second egg into a bowl and starts beating them quickly, reminding her where she got the recipe for Henry’s favorite scambied eggies in the first place as he splashes in some cream and dusts in some seasonings. He holds his hand over the pan to test the temperature and then pours the eggs in slowly, the mixture looking more perfect than anything she’s ever been able to duplicate. 

 “There we are,” he says as he plates them and places them on the small table, the very one they sat at months ago when they decided that they could never be apart from one another. She hops down from the counter and follows his lead, sitting at her usual seat and poking her fork into the perfect, fluffy eggs he’s prepared for her.  

 He jokes with her lightheartedly as she eats, and she feels herself smiling at him although her sordid mind tries to stop her. He tells her about the shenanigans his friend Will has gotten into while he’s been sheriff, and about his worries that he’s bending the rules by letting certain things slide. He tells her how much he enjoyed spending time with her son yesterday, and she’s reminded of how much his own father resents him. 

 “Okay,” she finally mumbles, fueled by how horribly her husband has wronged her son. She stands up, places the empty plate in his sink, and moves to sit on his lap.

 She recounts the evening as best she can, telling him about how Walsh had kissed her and taken it farther than she was comfortable the moment he touched her, although he didn’t stop right away. He tightens his grip on her, holding her close against his chest as she goes on about his fist colliding with the wall just beside her head. He runs his hand up and down her spine and kisses her temple as she tells him what her husband said about being a father. She tells him what Walsh said about her ruining his life and his desire to punish her, and she feels his breathing quicken. He listens to every word and stays silent long after she finishes her story. 

 “Emma,” he finally chokes, “I need to get you out of there.” She shakes her head forcefully against his chest. 

 “He said--”

 “Fuck what he said,” he says, cutting her off more forcefully than she thinks he meant to. “I’m the sheriff. What you’ve described is abuse. Physical threats. Unwanted sexual advances. Even punching the wall qualifies as interpersonal violence. All you have to do is make a report and--”

 “No, Killian, I can’t. He’ll know…”

 “Darling,” he insists, cupping her cheek and massaging his fingers against her scalp, “the law can keep you safe. I can keep you safe. I know I’m biased, but I have dealt with things like this in the past. I have experience supporting battered women.” 

 She gulps and takes a heavy breath, her lungs burning as she does so at the mention of her being battered. The title makes her cringe. She feels weak. “He has his… bodyguards. I’ve never seen them do anything, but I know they have a reputation. They’ll find me and Henry and they’ll… they'll make me pay.” 

 “So we leave, get you the protection you need. We can get you a safehouse, I have pull here, love.” she sighs. “I know it’s difficult to think of yourself as having fallen into this situation. A lot of women struggle to see themselves as a victim. But you are, my love, and the department can help you.”

 She sighs again and rests against his chest. Just as she’s about to formulate her thoughts, to try and put into words just how terrified she is of how wrong things can go, how scared she is to make any more waves, but how badly she wants to escape-- just as she’s about to agree with him and make a plan to get away-- her phone starts ringing and she jumps. Killian reaches for it and shows her the screen. 

 Storybrooke Elementary flashes across the screen, and her heart drops into her stomach as she slides her finger across to answer the phone. 

 It’s Henry, of course. They've called an ambulance; it’s five minutes away. His rescue inhaler isn’t working. 

 Killian has his coat on before she even finishes the call, ushering her towards the door and slamming the car into reverse before he throws the sirens on. 

 ~~~~

 The world is a blur, and he’s never seen his Emma in such distress before. He thought he’d seen the worst of it earlier while she was recounting the way her husband had attacked her the night before, but when she watches helplessly as her son struggles for breath, clinging his hands to hers in fear, he goes white and feels nauseous. He’s never met someone stronger than Emma Swan, and right now, she’s breaking. 

 She cries into his chest while the doctors wheel him through the double doors through which she isn’t allowed to follow. The boy has lost consciousness, and they must act quickly. Her fingers dig into his neck and shoulders as she clings to him as if it’s the only thing keeping her from drowning in her sea of terror. If she loses her son, she loses everything. 

 Eventually, blessedly, after she’s caught her breath and exhausted herself to the point where she can no longer shed any tears, a doctor comes out to meet them and informs her that her son is alright. His asthma has gotten worse and they will need to begin more extensive treatments, but he’s sleeping soundly in bed and she can go and see him in a moment. But first, he asks to speak with her alone, and Killian steps away out of ear shot, only able to watch as her face falls and her shoulders sag. 

 ~~~~

 “Henry’s asthma is very severe, and it seems to be getting worse,” the on-call pulmonologist, Dr. Whale, says. “Is that from your’s or dad’s side of the family?” 

 Emma shrugs anxiously. “Neither of us have it in our family. He was premature.” 

 He raises a brow doubtfully and gives her a look that makes her feel small and incorrect. “Are you sure? What was his birth weight? Perhaps you got the date of conception wrong?” 

 “I didn’t,” she snaps sensitively. The judgement she’s receiving from him is setting her on edge, even more so than she has been all day. “I knew the exact date of conception, and he was a month early.” 

 He sighs, rubbing his hand over his face, and says, “Mrs. Oswald--” 

 “Emma.” 

 “Emma… Henry’s asthma is severe. It’s indicative of being genetically inherited. While four weeks is certainly early, being premature would not have led to this level of symptomatology.” 

 She screws her brows together and glares at him, her heart beating forcefully against her chest as she asks, “what are you implying?” 

 “What I’m implying, ma’am, is that your son’s condition is more than likely a genetic one. Meaning it was inherited from either yourself, or his father. If you don’t have asthma in your family, perhaps you missed something. Or your husband did. Or… I might suggest that Henry’s--”

 “That’s enough,” she demands, holding up her hand to silence him. Through her denial and her refusal to consider something that seems more and more possible, she lets her shoulders drop in defeat. 

 When Killian came to her months ago, she refused to hear his suggestion that he was actually Henry's father. It wasn’t because she didn’t want him to be, or because she was desperate for Walsh to be. It was because, if Killian truly is Henry’s father, that means she spent six years of her life with a man who hates her and her son. She put her child through emotional neglect for his entire life without meaning to at all. The last night they spent together, with the breakup sex and the crying, Emma was on the pill, but looking back, she hadn’t been taking it regularly enough in her stress as they considered ending their relationship. 

 When she found out she was pregnant, she couldn’t stand the idea of it being Killian’s because it would mean she made the wrong decision. She shouldn’t have given him that ultimatum and she should’ve swallowed her pride and gone with him to London because that’s what you do when you become a parent. You make sacrifices. And she didn’t do that. 

 So she unwittingly convinced herself for over half a decade that the man she spent one night with had impregnated her and went along with his charade of a happy, well adjusted family. It isn’t as if she ever truly knew that the baby was Killian’s, not really. She hardly noticed any pregnancy symptoms until a few weeks after she was with Walsh, and unknowingly allowed that to trick her mind into thinking it was his. Her denial was so strong, her heartbreak so painful, that she didn’t even allow herself the chance to consider another possibility. When she realized her terrible mistake soon after they were married, she realized she couldn’t undo what she’d done, so she let herself fall deeper into her denial and held her head up as she grinned and beared the treatment she now realizes she never deserved. The treatment she now realizes she never had to endure in the first place. 

 “What, um,” she starts nervously, gnawing at her bottom lip as she turns quickly towards Killian and then back at the judgemental face of Dr. Whale. “What sort of information would you need to determine whether… whether Henry is…” 

 “Do you have any inclination on who the father could be?” He asks, seemingly able to read her mind. Neither of them proposed the possibility of Henry not being Walsh’s son, but it seems as though this doctor senses the source of her internal struggle. “If we had information on the genetic factors of his condition, it could help us determine the best course of treatment.” 

 She nods immediately. “Yes, I do.”

~~~~

~~~~

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[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 31)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Hope you like this one! There’s a greek dress mentioned, and it is inspired by this one and this one

Thank you for reading lovelies, please lemme know what you think! Love ya!

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The sun is starting to leave way for the moon when the door to the shop is opened again. Words about being closed are leaving Valdís’ lips but she catches the figure of the Prince and saves them.

Hvitserk greets her and Freydis with murmured kindness, and turns to you with questions and also an apology in his eyes. Reminded of the last time you saw him, when he left you in the training fields after angering his brother, you think he may feel guilty, so you offer a smile as you approach him.

“What is the matter?”

He offers only a half-hearted shrug around his easy smile, “I will let you guess.”

“The King calls for me.” You say in a sigh. The Prince laughs quietly, nodding his head.

“Yeah,” Hvitserk says, offering you your cloak from the hanger by the door, “You didn’t need your premonition for that, did you?”

As you walk away from the shop with Hvitserk by your side, you cannot help but asking, “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, but…we must talk of war, and Ivar wants you to be there,” After a few moments of silence, you hear him speak again, pride shining through his tone, “My plan to avoid more losses than necessary when raiding Strepshire, it pulled through.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had contacts that had traveled to that city, some even that had been called to bring forth some of the Lord’s more…extravagant tastes.”

“Should I ask?” You ponder out loud, a small furrow of your nose. The Prince chuckles.

“No,” He sentences without hesitation. With a deep breath, he continues explaining, “Well, I discovered through these…merchants that the city has tunnels for the family, servants, and all the like.”

“Tunnels your brother can use. Tunnels Stithulf wants to use.” You breathe out, stopping dead in your tracks and facing Hvitserk with a growing smile on your face.

But he only shrugs in response, and explains, “You mentioned old stone, and it didn’t…make sense that the Saxons would depend so much on a fishing town.”

“You are brilliant.” You laugh, eyes wide.

Hvitserk shrugs, but you see him puff his chest at the praise. It is almost adorable.

With an arm going around your shoulders casually he offers,

“I had to be. Can’t have the Greek Priestess outsmarting all of us.” He teases with a smile, to which you roll your eyes. Hvitserk keeps his arm around your shoulders, and guides you all the way to the longhouse.

____

The Vikings prepare for a raid on Strepshire, with Hvitserk’s information being the last piece they were waiting for to take the city. A matter of two days, and they will set sail.

The brothers and their men are discussing war, and once again you are reminded, as the King speaks, of how brilliant Ivar is when it comes to battle and thinking like his enemy.

He discusses how to ambush them from their tunnels, how the ships should approach the city, how the brunt of the forces -the ones that will approach directly through the front gate- should ready for the attack; he talks about it all with a certainty and a glint in his eye that speaks of seeing the world differently than everyone else, and you find yourself enthralled.

Hvitserk calls out your name and you turn to him. He gestures with his hand,

“Do you have anything to say?”

You share a look with your husband, “Ivar already knows all I know of Stithulf’s army.”

Leaving the longhouse behind with certain steps, you eye the area around it for a small clearing of peace, Ivar trailing behind you. When you find it, you stop walking, turning around to meet Ivar’s eyes. After a moment of consideration, you smooth the ground underneath you with a sweep of your foot, and try imagining the formations in the earth.

“What are you doing?”

“You asked me to show you my people’s ways of war,” You reply without hesitation, not lifting your gaze of the ground, “I’m showing you.”

You feel his eyes on you, but eventually Ivar sighs and with a small sound of exertion lowers himself to a sitting position across from you.

“Narses always fought like a Byzantine, waged war like one too,” You recall the outskirts of Dublin with a small smile, and draw the first line, “But here he bent to Stithulf’s formations, he accommodated our people to fit his plans. It cost us everything.”

“You spoke of someone else, a man from the Mediterranean.”

“Acar, the mercenary. He’s commander of the Arab forces. They are going to be the first forces Stithulf will send to aid the city, I’m certain,” You start confidently, “They are the same men that have brought a large part of my homeland to heel.”

“How do you Greeks fight against them?” One of the Vikings asks, and you are forced to walk up to the map when an opening for you to do so is made, silently, between the warriors discussing.

You do not fail to notice you are made to stand on the other end of the table, across from Ivar. You meet his eyes for a moment, and he only bows his head, prompting you to go on. An encouragement, a promise you have a safe place to land, a reassurance he has your back.

You never realized how much you needed it, needed him; until the moment you had so many eyes on you, awaiting like beasts for the next move of the foreign witch, and found your heart settling its beat, your confidence strengthening, when he met your eyes and promised he trusted you, promised you he was listening, promised he was proud.

Resting one hand on the table and letting your eyes trace the letters of Strepshire’s name, you explain, “We don’t fight them in open fields. The cavalry will always push for flanking your formations, especially if you hold a shield wall, and if you hold a direct onslaught against them for too long, their infantry will make way for their cavalry to strike through no matter the cost. Avoid that, avoid…predictability.”

After a breath, you add, “There’s also warriors we called champions. They are precise and deadly; they were used in the Mediterranean to weaken an army’s morale, to disarm their plans.”

“How?”

You swallow past a dry throat before answering, “By killing the leaders, the heroes. They send their best not to thin the army’s numbers, but to cut off the army’s head.”

You find Ivar’s eyes and you realize now what the knot in the pit of your stomach that settled since you heard they were to raid Strepshire was. Fear.

Even the best fall in battle, even the best go to their Valhalla when their Gods cut off the thread of their fate. And you cannot help but fear Ivar will not return from that city, even if he survived Repton, York, and so much more.

You tell yourself you should feel shame at wanting to keep him alive, that you are believing his lies and your own by allowing yourself to care about him. You also know if he were to die, if Ivar weren’t to return, your status as a free woman -and your status as Queen, even if consort and nothing more- would be useful and you could leave Kattegat, return to the Greeks, never spend another day on this cold land. 

You know all this, and still you fear, still you know when time for battle comes both their Gods and yours will hear prayers for protection.

Returning your eyes to the map on the table, you suppress a sigh. You were never nothing other than hopelessly foolish, were you?

____

Ivar told you to go ahead and retire for bed without him, and from the room where they discuss war you two went on different directions.

While you were changing, you eyed the red dress Thora had helped you make a few days ago, while she’d not-so-subtly prodded at Hvitserk’s doings. It is a light and simple dress, certainly not made for the harsh cold of Kattegat, but confectioning it was familiar and nostalgic, and even if only as a keepsake of your home, you made it to resemble a Greek summer dress.

Instead of the night dress you usually wear, you chose the soft red fabric, and for a moment, with your feet bare and your hair loose, you felt closer to Gods you did even while standing in their temple.

You now sit on the ground by one of the larger windows of your bedroom, a collection of flowers and branches around you as you work on a wreath, not so different, even if life has proven to be so, from when you were a child in Eleusis, a healer in the Silk Roads, a Hiereia in Attica.

In your mind you go over what was discussed tonight, you go over all the certainties the Viking’s planning gives you that this will turn out in a victory.

You knew before this you trusted Ivar, his instinct, his intellect, his eyes that see beyond what others’ do. But Gods, to hear him speak of war and battle so surely, to see his eyes turn cold and calculating, the eyes of a strategist, to hear his voice imposing and certain, the voice of a leader…it is something else entirely.

He accepted your words about the Arab champions with surprising ease, and with his eyes on Hvitserk he asked about the dimensions of those tunnels under Strepshire.

In a matter of moments, Ivar turned the tide and decided to let Stithulf’s men have the tunnels, certain the Saxon would send through those tunnels the Arab champions to take out the sons of Ragnar and their higher-ranking men. With but a moment of consideration, he’d found a way to outsmart them.

You still hear his voice in your head, stating confidently that the Arabs haven’t faced enough Vikings, that the Saxons may be used to tricks but the foreigners aren’t. It still sends a thrill down your spine, remembering his voice lower when he stated the last steps of his plan, remembering his smile as he looked at the map on the table, certain of victory and hungry for it.

You don’t know how long you spend here, working on the wreath of flowers, with each intertwining of the stems a plea to the Goddess of Spring that she lets winter hold for a while longer, with each drop of blood you let the roses draw from your fingers an offering to the Queen of the Dead that she doesn’t take him from you just yet.

Ivar walks into the room, but don’t lift your gaze from your work, only greeting him with a hum.

“That dress is different, did you make it?”

“Greek peplos,” You tell him, nodding, “Or, my best attempt at it, anyways.”

“You look…”

“Cold? Yeah, I’m freezing.” You still stay there, your feet bare on the cold wood and your fingers carefully tracing over the crown of flowers.

“Beautiful,” He corrects, before taking his eyes off you with a slight twitch of what you could swear is embarrassment in his expression. Ivar acquiesces, “But…yes, also cold.”

You have to bite your lip to keep yourself from smiling like an idiot. Not even reminding yourself that you are Queen, that you are a grown woman, that you are married to him could keep the stupid flutter of your heart.

“T-Thank you,” Is what you settle for saying. “I’ve missed wearing familiar clothes, to be honest. I feel closer to my Gods in this.”

“Ah, so you’re praying.”

You lift your gaze from your work, eyes narrowed, “I was there at the sacrifice, I honored your Gods. That doesn’t mean I won’t honor my own.”

He doesn’t fight you on it, and a part of you wonders why.

Ivar chooses not to say anything, and with practiced ease starts working on the buckles and fastenings of the braces on his legs.

“What are you praying for?” He asks after a few moments.

Time.

You keep your gaze on the flowers in your hands, strikingly reminded of the last time he left you behind to chase after war and death.

Through gritted teeth, you bite out, “I hope you know that if you don’t return, if…if you leave me alone here, I’ll find a way to make you regret it. You won’t rest in your Valhalla while I have breath, Viking, so don’t…don’t die.”

Ivar only smiles, eyebrows lifted.

“Are you threatening me?”

You hold his gaze, and swallow past a tight throat. You only ask one thing, “Don’t leave me alone here.”

In this kingdom, in this world, in this life.

“You’re not…scared for me, are you?” You say nothing, only glare at him from the corner of your eye. “Are you saying you’d mourn me if I died?”

What kind of question is that? You resist the urge to let your fear become venom, you bite back accusations of how he continues to be so blind to how much he means to you.

“Ah, so you notice I care for the monster that took me captive?” You say, though there’s lightness, mirth, in your taunt, “You are either insulting me by implying I am weak enough to pray for the life of a man I supposedly hate, or…you are admitting you were wrong.”

Ivar accepts your words with a shrug, and crawls to one of the cushioned settees near the bed. After a few moments, with his hand by his mouth, he admits,

“I…realize you were right.”

“So you were wrong.”

He frowns, “I didn’t say that.”

“But you were.”

Ivar rolls his eyes, an exaggerated gesture that only manages to make your smug smile wider.

Still, when you’re close enough, he extends a hand, beckoning you to him. And it is as easy as breathing, for you to take it and sit next to him, drawing your legs up underneath you, as if to protect vulnerable feet from the cold of Kattegat.

“Gods, woman, you’re freezing.” Ivar frowns, warm fingers closing over your own.

“What happens if those ships don’t return, Ivar?” You ask, your voice wobbling. You feel your breath quicken, and you are once again a child looking over the horizon of Eleusis, waiting for a navy that was never to return. “What happens if you don’t return?”

“Then you are free. Free of me, free of-…”

“Ivar.” You interrupt him, and it is all you can say. His expression softens, and he sighs.

“Do you want me to promise you that I will survive?” He asks, an edge of incredulity, of levity in his tone. As if he is trying to make you see the madness in your request.

It is in the hands of the Gods, you know this. You know you should not fear, you know you should not worry, you know you should do and feel and be many things.

But you still offer the shrug of one shoulder, and Ivar almost smiles.

After a breath, he acquiesces, “Better men have tried to kill me and failed.”

You accept his words, his strange form of reassurance, with a smile and a sigh that trembles past your lips.

After a few beats if silence, you ask, “You will come back before winter, won’t you?”

“Yes,” He assures you, but Ivar spares you a glance out of the corner of his eye, and offers, “If I don’t…”

“You will,” You sentence, interrupting him. You don’t even hear whatever words he tried speaking, words that spoke of the possibility of a winter alone here, if not a lot longer than that. After a moment, you offer, “If you don’t, you’re easy pickings for the Saxons. Dublin cannot hold if Stithulf regains his strength.”

You know you’re right, and Ivar knows it too. Still, he offers you a smirk, and taunts you, “And you are certain of this, wife?”

“Your arrival, your support, spared Dublin of capture, you know this. We had the upper hand,” You motion towards him with your chin in a taunt, your lips pulled into a smile that dares him, “Even with your mighty army, Ivar the Boneless, us Greeks made you falter.”

“Arrogant.” He accuses, but he still smiles, dark and proud.

“We were hungry and cold, far from home,” You remind him, “But we made you change tactics a few times, didn’t we?”

“We weren’t going to lose.”

“No, I know that. It was Fated that it ended the way it did,” You shrug, “But we made you fight for it.”

You could swear Ivar’s smile turns softer, more secret. He lifts the hand he holds to his lips, and presses a soft kiss to your fingers.

“That you did.”

As he is to drop your hand back, his eyes focus on the small wounds you sport on your fingertips. A drop of blood trails slowly down your ring finger, and Ivar hesitates only for a moment before he brings your hand to his mouth again, only this time to lick off the offending drop.

Your breath catches in your throat, and in the hungry and proud smile he sends your way you see the faint stain of red. The only thought in your head for a moment is the need to taste that blood off his lips.

You quieten those thoughts, using that same hand to shove playfully at the side of his face. Ivar snorts a laugh, but you could swear his eyes are darker when he looks back at you.

Your own eyes are drawn to the slight smear of blood you leave on his pale skin and…Gods, what wouldn’t you do to be able to close the distance and lick it off.

But you force yourself to also let go of those thoughts, and you let your smile dim as silence reigns between you again. Your eyes trace the wreath of flowers that lays there near one of the windows, an evidence of your prayers, an evidence of your weakness and your fear.

An evidence that your heart isn’t yours anymore.

If it ever was.

You cannot keep yourself from remembering his words yesterday, his accusations that you were somehow playing with his head, with…

Before your thoughts get ahead of you, you ask, “Do you truly believe I’ve been playing with you?”

Ivar looks ahead as he considers his answer, leaves you to watch his profile and the way the dim lights of the room play with the angles of his face.

“If you’d been playing with me, you wouldn’t have fought the way you did.” He tells you finally, but there’s words he isn’t saying.

“And I’m not fighting anymore,” You offer, earning a half-hearted shrug from him, and nothing else. An exasperated yet fond smile curves at your lips, and you sigh, “I told you before, your own thoughts are what drives you mad most of the time.”

The smile Ivar offers is one purely for your benefit, tired and bitter and gone in an instant.

For a moment he lowers his gaze to your joined hands, distractedly brushes over a small cut on your finger. His gaze is enthralling even if his eyes still don’t meet yours, and there’s a fragile sort of vulnerability written into the way he holds himself that makes you pause.

“In all my life, nothing…nothing has come easy,” He explains quietly. After a moment, he offers another flickering smile, though this one does speak of softness, “You certainly didn’t either, but lately things are different, and I can’t help but think it a…a vision, a mirage, that once I get close enough to having will just…vanish.”

He finishes his sentence with a gesture of his hand, and your eyes follow the movement with a dull ache in your heart.

You’re suddenly a chained and wrathful Priestess again, sitting across the table from your captor and having him share very similar words, “Nothing has come easy in my life, and since I was a child I would always ask the Gods why.”

You still don’t have an answer, though you wish you did.

You do have the certainty that this isn’t a trick, that this isn’t something easily lost. Never could be.

And looking into his eyes, meeting your fear with his own, both so different from each other; you decide to let go of pretenses and masks, if only for a moment.

If only for a brief, stupid moment of courage.

It won’t vanish. I love you.

You let your hand cup the side of his face, your thumb caressing the scar you are so smitten by. Keeping your eyes on Ivar’s, you lean closer, silently begging that this is not wrong, that this is not another mistake.

His skin warms under your touch, and you watch with baited breath his lips part in innocent anticipation as you grow closer and closer. Ivar’s eyes travel to your own lips, before anxiously returning to meet your gaze again, looking more lost and vulnerable than you ever thought you would see him.

Deciding to listen to your heart, you press your lips softly against his, closing your eyes and letting the electricity and the warmth take control over your body.

Ivar’s sharp intake of breath through his nose, the way he tenses under your touch and almost freezes at the affection is not strange to you any longer, and it doesn’t deter you.

You move your mouth over his, the hand on the side of his face urging him close with as much tenderness as you can have when your heart beats like it wants to leave your chest and burrow into his.

When you pull back, his mouth chases after yours, and Ivar leans forward as if a thread tied you two together. You allow yourself a smile, tremulous and girlish as it is.

His eyes open slowly, as if awakening from a dream, and his breath leaves his parted lips quickly as he gazes back at you. A few moments go by, breaths shared and your heart beating fast and thrilled in your chest.

A challenge, really, to see who yields first, who admits to craving the touch of the other’s lips, who offers and who accepts or rejects.

The Gods may have made you arrogant but they didn’t make you stupid, and you’ve known for a while this is where you were headed, this is where you wanted to be.

Doesn’t mean you’ll admit it, at least not like this.

Surprisingly, it is Ivar who caves first.

“Kiss me.” He breathes out. A dare, a command, a plea.

And you do, with no hesitation this time.

Ivar kisses you back hungrily, deeply and desperately, demanding with teeth and tongue what you give freely.

His strong hand grabs onto your wrist tightly, keeping your caressing touch on his face, while the other finds a home in the back of your head, gripping onto the loose strands of your hair.

It feels like it is the first time you’ve kissed him -been kissed by him, been kissed at all- and yet it feels like the electrifying touch of his lips on yours is a dance as old as time itself.

There’s a tremble in your hand when you hold on to the fabric over his chest, there’s an urgency in his hands as he pulls you closer; but there’s an ease to the way you straddle him, there’s an intimacy in the way he breathes your name over your lips.

You lose track of time in the heady feeling of his lips on yours. One of his hands grabs at the side of your jaw, tilting your head to meet his kiss, the other settles roughly on your ass, bringing you down against him, drawing you closer, closer, closer.

You gasp his name against his lips, breaths labored when you rest your brow against his, heart beating wildly in your chest when you meet his eyes.

You smile, breathless and a little mad.

But Ivar looks at you like someone who just realized stands at the edge of a precipice. His eyes widen, and he pushes you off him, however shakily.

Rejection burns, it burns and scalds and your lips part but no words leave them. You can only stand there, cold and hesitant, and watch as he scrunches his face in reluctance, in hesitation, in anger.

Ivar lifts a hand to the back of his head, avoiding your eyes with a twitch of anger, of shame.

“You know I can’t…I can’t do this.”

You stare back at him, heart still beating fast and cold taking over you. However slighted you were by his abrupt rejection, however scared you are of your own feelings, however torn you are about the things you want; all of it pales when you see the expression in Ivar’s face.

When you learned Laconia was free, when Fate released you of the strings holding you by the throat and you threatened to break at the seams; you clung to Ivar like he was the one thing keeping you in this world, and past the unsteadiness of his legs that at the moment you couldn’t think of, maybe out of sheer will and strength alone, he stabbed the wooden floor and kept you upright, didn’t let you fall, didn’t let you break.

And the same certainty flows through you, the same steeled resolve, the same drive to grant safety and comfort and peace.

And so you don’t hesitate when you step closer again, one of your hands tentatively settling on his shoulder, the other, as if half of you was braver than the other, reaches for the side of his jaw, thumb going back and forth over the scar under his eye.

“This doesn’t have to be anything other than…this.”

You lean down and bring his mouth to yours, softly. It surprises you and delights you in equal measure, how easily Ivar surrenders to your kiss, how pliantly he leans to meet the touch of your mouth on his.

When you part, his eyes open slowly, and the absolutely enthralled expression on his face as he stares up at you sends a rush of heat through you.

But, after a moment the daze disappears. And he still grits his teeth, his eyes still jump from place to place, and he still insists, “I…can’t give you what you need, what you want.”

You shake your head, unwavering. You once again wonder which one of you is the bewitched one, when with but a look Ivar makes secrets spill from your lips, when with nothing but his touch he makes invisible bindings release you.

“What I need is you,” You whisper. Your hand on his shoulder lowers, presses softly over the center of his chest, and you lean your brow against his, never taking your eyes off his, “What I want is this.”

You wouldn’t have believed yourself to be brave enough to, even after the words leave your lips, and with the truth you tried ignoring is looking right at you; not falter, to not feel the instinct to pull back, to return to secrets and safety.

There’s no hiding you’ve wondered what the cost would be to give in, hoped maybe he would give in and so you would be able to have this without the guilt of having chosen it.

There’s no hiding you wished to just forget for a moment there’s a world past him and accept that maybe it was Fate after all, that maybe this borrowed time is a chance to live another life.

Your fingers digging into the wooden pillar of the home are the one thing that keeps you upright as you confess, the last breath of an already dead woman: “I wish I never returned here. I wish…I wish I had gone with you to Kattegat, like you said we could. I wish I could have lived another life, móðir.”

The life that should have been, maybe.

Maybe that is why it is so easy to accept his hands on your hips bringing you back to him with a gentleness that almost surprises you, maybe that is why it feels like home when you straddle him and put your arms over his shoulders, maybe that is why it feels like your heart beats in synch with another’s when Ivar leans his head against your chest and sighs.

Your hands trace over his back, his shoulders, you cannot help it. You find yourself almost giddy with the realization you can now touch as much as you want to, as much as he will let you.

A voice in the back of your mind reminds you that pretend as you wish, you are aware you could have had this, or something so much closer to this than the scraps you’ve been living off of, much earlier.

Ivar says something, but you do not hear it, and you ask him with a hum of question to speak again.

You feel his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, “You’re what I need too,” He breathes, before moving so that he presses a kiss right over your heart. Your breath catches in your throat and your hand moves to the back of his neck before you even realized you’ve moved. He smiles against the red fabric of your dress, and offers, “What I want, too.”

It is yours.

But you can’t say that. He will be taking your heart all the way to England with him, and you wish you could relent and let him know of that, if only to give him the task to bring it back to you.

You don’t make any attempt to move, and he doesn’t either. Your fingers tire of aimless wandering, and you silently take up the task of undoing his braids.

You could swear he leans more of his weight against you as you work your fingers through his hair.

You once prayed for the borrowed time you’re living on to last a lifetime, and as you sit there, his arms around your waist, his face pressed against your chest, you don’t see why it couldn’t be so. Why you couldn’t stretch time however you want it to. You have no doubt you could, as long as you can remain with him holding you like this, letting you hold him like this.

After a small lifetime, you whisper, “We should go to bed.”

Ivar hums an agreement, but it takes a few more breaths before he leans back. His hair falls loosely behind him, pliant and soft after you lost track of time running your fingers through it, and you find yourself smiling, lovesick and foolish, at the proof of your work.

That night you don’t sleep. You talk, and kiss, and touch, and discover. And you make out of the borrowed time you live on a small eternity.

____

Sooooooo...? :)

[thatsonemorbidcorvid]

“We don’t talk about maternal rage. I mean the kind that simmers under the surface of countless women; the kind that makes you dig your nails into your fists in an attempt to stop the fury from entering your hands, because if you don’t stop it now, it will turn to something shameful. Mothers dare not speak of it. We are afraid to admit to it, even to ourselves.

Before motherhood, we see images of pristine kitchens, sleeping babies, the perfect work–life balance. The drudgery that is the reality, the long list of unfinished tasks, the never-ending laundry, and the constant silent scream of the mental load, are kept from us. To some extent we play our own part in this, the pull of biology being so strong that we disregard the bits of motherhood we don’t want to see before we ourselves get there. But I’m not sure it is possible to fully understand the highs and lows of motherhood without having experienced them.

Pregnancy and motherhood left me raw, unable to process comment and criticism. I was lucky; I had a group of NCT friends who were all experiencing the same emotional rollercoaster.

However, I would approach the subject of my children tentatively, worried about judgement, not wanting to bore them, worrying the work of motherhood wasn’t exciting. Discussing the reality of motherhood requires vulnerability.

‘Buggies used to be invisible to me, and now I feel invisible,’ a new mum confides as I collect my son on the first day of nursery. This invisibility is the foundation on which my maternal rage stands. I’m a mother of three. I love family; not just the idea of it, but the messy reality.

Yet at the same time, the reality of motherhood has been viscerally brutal to me. I met my husband in my mid-thirties. He was 10 years older, and we both knew time was short. But children didn’t happen for us instantly, and after three years we gave up. And then it happened. And it wouldn’t stop happening. In our case, babies were like buses: they all seemed to come along at once.

Six years on, three little boys tear around our house. They are loud, their energy levels set permanently to high. They drag each other around the room on a blanket, as the baby crawls between them, narrowly avoiding death. “Darling, please don’t do that,” I say, over and over again.

“You wouldn’t tolerate this behaviour from anyone else,” says my husband. He’s right, I wouldn’t. His words echo around my head, mixing with the shouts from the boys and demands for food and toilet trips and toys, until I can’t bear it any longer and all I want to do is scream: ‘Will you just f**king stop trying to f**king kill each other, motherf**kers!’ But I can’t say that because I’m the adult.

I open the fridge and I eat my feelings. I make another cup of tea. I vacuum up more crumbs, push my rage further down as I pick up books with newly missing pages. I keep trudging on through the drudgery but the demands keep coming, and then I step barefoot on a piece of Lego.

I scream like a banshee, because it’s all I can do. Because I’ve tried everything to make them listen. Thinking steps, time out, taking away toys. They turn and look at me. The six-year-old with his worried face, the baby who’s surprised by the strange noise coming from mama, and the three-year-old who looks frightened. And all at once I feel I’ve failed. I am empty and I am awful.

I scoop them up and onto the sofa. We eat ice-cream and watch CBeebies, and I wonder why we couldn’t simply do this before. Why was I trying to hold it together with carrot sticks and educational games? I can see how the path to maternal rage – spewing into abuse – is incremental.

My husband comes home from work just around the time my cup of rage runneth over. He’s a good man. He scoops up our children, asks about their days, and takes them upstairs for bathtime as I stand muttering in a corner or shaking my head at the day I’ve had. I am aware that not everyone has this.

But I am also aware that he bears the brunt of, and exacerbates, my maternal rage. My position is so precarious that when he forgets my hatred of sweetcorn and adds it to our pizza, it tips me over the edge.

Because it’s the numerous times I have to tell my children to put their shoes on in the morning. It’s the swimming/PE/games kit, it’s the youngest demanding milk, and the middle child doing his best to be disruptive.

It’s my husband trying to pacify me when he’s just waltzed in from taking too long in the shower and is now heading out the door. It’s when I ask for help and he responds by requesting specific instructions on how to navigate the kids out of the house.

“You’re tired and lonely”, says another mother. She’s right, I am tired. I am tired of the patriarchy.

Maternal rage is about more than just the difficulty of raising small children. It’s a consequence of all the things that women have to endure throughout our lives. That we are expected to slot ourselves into a work system created for 1950s men; that, despite legislation, women still have to worry about telling employers they are pregnant, still struggle on maternity pay, and then still have to pay extortionate childcare costs in order to go back to work.

That, despite nods towards shared parental leave, the reality is that working mothers’ careers stall or go backwards while their male partners’ prospects might even improve.

And those of us who are stay-at-home mothers have another layer of disrespect heaped on us. Because motherhood is unpaid, and unpaid work is not valued. What is a writer when she’s not being paid to write? There are moments when I feel as though all I’m doing is failing.

“How did you get through raising kids?” I ask my friends. “I drank a lot of wine”, says one. I can’t help but wonder what kind of state we are in if the only way we survive motherhood is self-medication. Surely, if a man needed to drink every night to recover from his workday, the advice would be to find another job. Something is deeply broken here.

I have to find a better way through this, so I join a HITT class. I need to feel stronger. I need an outlet for my maternal rage. ‘Is it with other mums? With buggies?’ I’m asked by a relative, and I feel instantly diminished. The rage resurfaces.

My award-winning career, the publishing deal, the TV option, none of it means anything since I gave birth. Why wasn’t I warned that my worth and brain would fall out of my vagina with my babies? For all the demands on me, I am invisible.”

[euphoricsunflowers]

queen’s whore — lee hoseok/wonho

a/n: sorry to anyone named adrian, i just needed a name lol

a/n: hi welcome back to me getting so into a concept and writing out a complex story instead of just writing something sexual for this nsfw blog 😔✌️ i promise the next one will actually be horny

word count: 3.1k

content: only the last section is nsfw and it’s pretty soft, peasant!wonho, queen!fem!reader, kiki and kyun are in this too and honestly kyun in this is my icon, wonho is not treated well by the people so don’t read if that’s uncomfortable for you, like he mentions being called a whore but nobody directly says it to him in what’s written, riding le dick, aftercare i guess??? it’s vv soft at the end, the king is a sexist dick and i literally just looked up royal baby names and his is what came up so sorry to anyone named adrian

summary: hoseok, your secret lover, asks to become your consort so he’s not just seen as some peasant trying to get power by having an affair with the queen. kihyun, a royal advisor, and changkyun, a war strategist, help you do so against a king who is a really, really big asshole.

“oh my darling hoseok, why are you here so suddenly?” you mumble, allowing him into your chambers despite the absurd time. he trudges in, seemingly something disturbing his peace of mind, settling down on the bed, lying back with a miserable expression on his face that haunts your heart. it makes you want to do nothing more than absolve him of all this pain.

his eyes flutter close as he breathes in, taking in your words as if they are the only comfort he has left in the world, “i love you, you know.”

his bluntness startles you, “i do know, hoseok, i love you too.”

“no you do not understand, i really, really love you, i—” he stops, breaking down suddenly. Your heart shatters when he chuckles cathartically, covering his face with his arm out of embarrassment as he cries, “why do they have to say such cruel words? they say i’m fucking the queen so surely i must be trying to take advantage of her status or raise mine, but i am really not! i’m not just your whore!” he shouts, before looking over at you and remembering the situation. he, a common peasant, just cursed in front of you, the queen. Even if you did love him, he so desperately wished to go back and stop himself, “I apologize, my queen, for my words, i— please forgive me for tonight.”

“dear, please do not apologize tonight. you have every reason to be acting irrational right now,” you reach out to grab his hand, and he holds back with every last ounce of strength in his body, “the things people have said about you since the beginning of rumors concerning our… affair, have been vile and invasive. I wish that I could stop them, but I can only do so much without confirming them more. we both know my husband would not appreciate that.”

your husband. the king. not an ounce of love was shared between you two, and yet, even though he expected you to be fine with his constant affairs with other women, he would be livid if he knew you had a lover of your own. for that reason, the rumors concerning hoseok never made it to the king, because the people knew you would probably be in for hell. you were definitely the more well liked out of the two, and that meant that hoseok, a little nobody from a small fishing village in the kingdom, got the brunt of it, “does his opinion have… to matter so much?”

“hoseok...” you murmur with a warning tone, “sweetheart, i… i do not think��. it’s wise to talk about my husband in such a way—”

“you don’t love him! you sleep in separate rooms for god’s sake!” he shouts in a hushed tone, “make me your consort. i am not asking for political power, but i am sick of being called a whore.”

“and you expect me to take the brunt of my husband’s anger?”

“my queen, and more importantly, my love, please don’t imply such a thing. you have the support of the people, and many of your husband’s advisors would love to see him—” he says, and you place a finger over his lips.

“you speak far too loudly for someone trying to convince me to commit a crime.”

“i never said you had to kill him.”

“you were going to.”

“no i was not... because…” he takes a breath in, “i know you think he’ll have your head, but with the way the kingdom views you, and especially how the people view him, he would be a fool to lay a finger on you.”

silence fills the room, and hoseok wants to take it all back. it’s always felt like every time he opened his mouth to speak, nothing good would come of it. he sits up, but stays on the bed as you look away from him, “hoseok…”

he doesn’t answer when you call out his name, even though he knows he should. frankly, he should be on his knees in your presence, but in this room only he felt like you could be equals; he’s once again reminded that you are not, “my queen, i know what i’m asking of you is far too much, i know i’m overstepping and asking you to step into deadly dangerous territory, but… i’m so tired of being viewed like i’m using you, and i’m tired of the things they call me. i’m tired of being nothing to you outside these walls.”

“my dear,” you breathe, speechless at his words. it would be fatal to make one wrong move, but… would it be worth it?

“i’m not going to attempt to guilt trip you, you deserve better than that. if you don’t feel safe doing this, or just simply don’t wish to, i will accept that. and my love will be unwavering no matter what,” he raises your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles, falling to his knees, and resting his forehead against your thigh, “just, please think about me too when you make that decision.”

—

“kihyun,” you murmur, and he perks up hearing your voice as you reach out your hand for him to take, “come here, please. i require you for something.”

“of course, your highness,” he nods softly, letting you lead him to somewhere more quiet. kihyun was a royal advisor, but he was also a good friend to have on your side. he was too smart for you to allow to become an enemy, but he had a good heart. it didn’t take much effort from your husband to get kihyun to… not be fond of him, to put it mildly, “what is the matter?”

“i… i have a favor to ask,” you gulp, the full weight of what you were going to do hitting you hard in that moment, but you push through it. hoseok needed this, “have you heard the rumors about me?”

he bites his lip, but nods, “i— yes, your highness. my lips are sealed if you wish to speak about them.”

“they… are true. and i wish to make him my consort, but…”

“you’re worried about the king’s reaction to knowing you have… a lover,” he finishes the thought for you, and you’re both left to silence, until he speaks up with a chuckle, “forgive me, but you’re in a rough situation, my queen.”

“it’s… it’s not me who’s had to take the worst of it,” you shake your head, “i need to do this, kihyun.”

“i know you do. so tell me what you need me to be specifically, and i will do my best to be exactly that—” kihyun says, before getting interrupted.

“the king must understand the backlash he’ll get from punishing the queen, right?” you hear a voice say, cutting kihyun off.

your heart stops.

it’s all over isn’t it? the king found out about it before you even got the chance to try. you failed hoseok.

“i could attempt to help?” the voice adds on. you turn to see the face that the voice belongs to, and you breathe out a sigh of relief.

“changkyun,” you whisper, a hand over your heart, “you scared me.” *changkyun*. he was a war strategist that worked very closely with your father and now your husband, despite being a rather young strategist when your father was still on the throne. though he runs in the big political leagues, you trusted that kid with your life.

“i apologize, your highness, i seem to have that effect,” he winks, “anyway, i am sure we could convince the king to let it slide and allow the queen to appoint her mystery lover as a consort.”

though changkyun always seems to speak nonsense, his nonsense is giving you too much hope right now that you have to consciously hold yourself together and keep your expectations realistic, “tell me how, changkyun.”

“we could threaten to reveal information that, to be blunt, would ruin the king,” changkyun smirks, “i have been waiting for the chance to screw him over for years.”

“what information do you have?” kihyun speaks up, “and, no matter what it is, you know you’re painting a target on your back if you do this, right?”

changkyun, suddenly somber, nods, “of course i know that this would make me a target for the king, but��� i owe it to you, your highness. you’re the reason i am alive. i live to serve you, not the crown. and.. do you think exposing to the kingdom that the king wants to invade our northern allies because they wouldn’t give him their princess to fuck would work? let’s just say, the king is one incredibly unpleasant man.”

you glance over at kihyun, who is in turn, looking over at you, and you mumble, “what do you say we… pay a visit to my husband, just the four of us?” you raise an eyebrow at kihyun, and he just wants to laugh at the obvious death sentence.

“of course, my queen. let’s meet back here after dinner and say hello to him then.”

—

“my king,” kihyun says, entering first. he hears the disgruntled groan of the king before even daring to look up. he keeps his head down.

“what is it, yoo? this better be important,” he spits, and kihyun does his best to keep his cool. now that he’s really thinking about it, maybe they should have… not bothered the king during his personal time.

“the queen wishes to speak with you, your highness,” he mutters, hearing the scoff from the king, he can tell the attention is soon off of him because he hears your footsteps behind him.

“good evening, adrian,” your voice is cold and unwavering as you speak to the king, much different than the kindness and softness in your demeanor when you spoke to others. the difference is night and day.

“for what reason are you in my chambers this evening, y/n? i doubt you’re here for romance,” he chuckles half-heartedly, but you keep your glare pointed at him.

“you would be correct. i’m here to say i… i am appointing a consort.”

he laughs, actually bursts out into a fit of laughter, when you say that, “really?! you?! i hate to tell you, my wife, but that will not be happening.”

“actually, it will be,” kihyun stands up after kneeling, and meeting the king’s startled gaze, “she came here for a reason, and we’re not leaving until we do what we came to do.”

“who is this consort?!” the king doesn’t even spare kihyun more than a glance after he gathers himself together, “i feel bad for the poor thing, he’ll be dead before you even get the chance to do anything for him.”

the thought lingers in your head. that is definitely a possibility. hoseok was definitely physically strong, but there was a good chance he wouldn’t make it out of this alive. you have to remind yourself that this is what hoseok wanted, that he is fully aware of the danger, and that you’re doing this for him. you pull yourself back together, feeling kihyun’s hand on your shoulder, being a comforting and supporting presence, “you will allow it, adrian, i assure you that it’s in your best interest to let this happen.”

“and why is that?!” he shouts, making you flinch a bit, but you’re saved when changkyun comes in. it’s now three against one, and changkyun raises a piece of paper, with his signature smirk in place.

“take a look,” he murmurs, his voice deep and soft. it would be soothing if it wasn’t filling you with the same confident energy that he always has. it’s infectious, in the best way, “i’m sure the people would love to know how you tried to steal the princess of another kingdom away. that’s some real comic book supervillain stuff, my king.”

“and remember, public opinion heavily favors your wife, my king. sure, they’re terrified of you, but i doubt that is enough to stop them from rising up. we wouldn’t want a coup, would we?” kihyun seems to share the same sentiment, his usually respectful and reverent demeanor suddenly disappearing, “so how about settling this here and now?”

—

“hello, and good morning, my people. i hope you are managing well during these hard times. please know i am doing my absolute best to serve you all well and take care of each and every one of you. your needs are incredibly important to me and i wish i could be doing more to make your lives easier. i promise to do everything in my power to help you. please hold me to that if you feel i am lacking.

“today, i am here to confess and to ask that you hear me out. for over a year now, you may have heard rumors about affairs my husband and i have had. i am here to tell you, that at least on my end, the rumors hold true. i have… fallen for someone else. when my husband and i talked this over, we came to the conclusion that our titles mean we rule together, but neither of us have romantic or otherwise feelings for each other.

“as such, i am deciding to do something that… i should have done long ago. my lover— his name is lee hoseok— and i have let him be treated cruelly just to protect myself from rumors. that is something… i do not feel proud about. he is the kindest soul i have ever had the pleasure of loving, and i wish for him to only feel happy feelings for the rest of his existence. starting from today, he shall carry the title of ‘queen’s consort’. please treat him like you would any royalty. calling him what some have will not be tolerated any longer.

“thank you for your time, this has been queen y/n. i wish a kinder tomorrow for you all, take care.”

—

hoseok had been waiting in your chambers since you left to deliver your speech that morning, watching it from the tv in your room. he watched the heart-wrenching moments when he could see the fear and regret within you coming together in one big release. he thinks about all the things he needs to say to you when you get back, but once you’re walking through that door, he was at a loss for words.

“good morning, my hoseok,” you murmur softly, nudging him out of his dazed state, “how are you doing today?”

“i am… amazing. i am doing so well,” he finally breaks out into the brightest smile you’ve ever seen from him. he always gave lopsided grins or small smiles, all full of love, but he truly just seemed so happy, and the sight was incredibly endearing, “come kiss me, please.”

“of course, dear,” you mumble, pulling him by his collar to crash your lips on his. his hands cup your cheeks and yours find a home resting on his beautiful chest and shoulders. you kiss him feverishly, and he reciprocates with the same intensity. you pull back to kiss along his jaw, dropping down to kiss his neck as well, and the room is filled with the beautiful breathy moans he lets escape.

“i love you so, so much, y/n,” he whispers breathlessly, gasping when you bite down. his hands hold your waist, pulling you impossibly close, and god he never wants to let go.

“i know, bunny, i know, and i love you so much more,” you whisper as he whimpers out of need when your knee brushes his crotch, pushing him down on the bed, feeling all up on him under you. it’s exhilarating like always, a feeling he’ll never get used to no matter how much he tries, “tell me, bunny, today is about you, so tell me what you want.”

“c-could you—,” he stutters, always struggling with words when you touch him the way you do, “—please ride me?”

“of course, sweetie,” you giggle, of course he wants that. well, you’ve never been one to deny him what he wants, bunny’s so spoiled.

you both undress rather quickly, even as he struggles to get his shirt off. he pulls you back on top of him as soon as he has the chance, and you immediately kiss him with ferocity, hands massaging the skin of his waist, making him giggle slightly, “hah, that tickles!”

you smile at his cute reactions, before taking his hand and pulling it so his fingers barely graze over your sex, “feel that, angel? that’s all you, this is what you do to me” he groans as he feels the wetness on his fingertips, “now stay still, i promise i’ll make you feel really good.”

“you always do,” he breathes with a smile, meeting your soft gaze for a second before you lower yourself down on him and you both moan simultaneously, and he adds on, “o-oh my god!” you take a second to adjust, but you soon start rocking your hips slowly, gaining speed gradually. nothing else, and nobody else, existed in that moment other than you and him.

“bunny,” you murmur, and he tries to pay attention to your voice, but he’s losing himself in the pleasure, “touch me, will you?” he reaches out to rub your clit as you continue to ride him. god, it’s so easy to see stars, especially when there’s the prettiest one right in front of you. you grasp his hair as you start speeding up, feeling your orgasm coming, “cum with me, hoseok.” he attempts to nod, unable to speak from the warmth begging to burst in his body.

he cries out as you pull one last time, orgasming with the most pornographic moans and look on his face you’ve ever seen. you’re right there with him, and if sucks you don’t get a chance to admire him fully, but that can be saved for later.

once you’re done, having both hit your highs and come down, you take care of him like always. he reaches for the snacks you keep in the drawer of your nightstand. it seemed like the boy was always hungry, but especially so after his soul practically left his body from how good you make him feel. you run him a bath where he just plays with bubbles and asks for nose kisses, but he looks so happy that your heart just melts.

and then you tuck him into bed, warmly dressed with fluffy socks to top it off. sure, it’s only 11 in the morning, but you don’t have anything to do until evening, and he could always use some cuddles.

—

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