#crashed-down-in-a-hurricane

[zenaidamacrouras1]

It's not that I have trauma but every time I go to clean up the stacks of math worksheets and half finished drawings on the dining room table I remember cleaning after my brother died and finding my brothers 3rd grade journal where he wrote about going to an airshow and seeing a hot air balloon and feeling happy.

then I picture my own children dead and that is why I have cupboards full of math worksheets and half finished drawings so anyway probably I'm fine.

[httpiastri]

Not the same anon but I BEG you for popstar! reader x paul

I feel like paul is a really cautious person?? Idk how to explain it but I don't see him as impulsive, he gives me the vibes that outside motorsport and sports in general he doesn't like to take risks. In Prema videos he's always more "contained " (idk if this is the word I'm looking for), while being playful and goofy.

But then miss popstar coming into his life like a hurricane, being the COMPLETE opposite!!! Impulsive, never ever thinking before speaking, that electric type of person and it driving him insaneeeeeeee

im loving this hype for the popstar!au, the anon who first suggested it should get a big forehead kiss 😚😚

but yes i agree!! like around certain people, when he's really comfortable, he seems like he can relax and let go a bit. like around dino he you know dances and stuff, and with karl he's always joking around. but even then, he's a lot more calm than most others !! and yes like you say, outside of racing, he seems more cautious. like if you watch videos of him on estonian shows, he's much more gentle. but he still has his personality, his playfulness and bubbly style shining through <33

i feel like he also would be cautious when meeting new people – especially if it's a girl, and especially if that girl happens to a popstar and also super cute. so around her, he's maybe not shy but more careful. and he even gets lowkey nervous when she's around, in a way where he just doesn't recognize himself? telling himself "mate get a grip???"

and then the reader being super extroverted, spontaneous, carefree… always saying exactly what she wants and not caring what anyone thinks. and god does he find it attractive!!!!

[jakemyboy]

Doing fine in the storm so far. The winds are the scary thing right now. Another huge band of rain is supposed to wallop us about 5:00am. Blu's loving it! He constantly wants to go outside, caught him lying on his outside cot in the wind and rain tonight. Weirdo! 😆

[sing-me-under]

Tbh, even though I enjoy writing, I don’t like writing stories. If I had to explain it, it’s that I don’t have a story I particularly want to tell. A story from A to Z doesn’t particularly appeal to me as a writer, although I do enjoy the concept of a Hero’s Journey and all the nuances of a character arc and symbolism and shit.

I’d prefer to just write scenes of a life. Maybe there is a story to this life, but I don’t want to be the one to tell it. I’d rather write about the mundane choices as the story goes on. I feel like this type of storytelling works best in visual short comics (especially on IG), but I don’t know. I just don’t particularly like drawing comics either? Sometimes I’m compelled to do so, and sometimes I have the inspiration to do so… But not usually.

[lilislegacy]

imagine being someone at new rome university and not knowing percy is the same guy as “percy jackson, son of poseidon, two-time hero of olympus, former praetor” because the thought doesn’t even cross your mind. like… he’s percy. he’s a total frat boy. on a normal night, he walks into a party, refers to everyone as bro or dude, socializes with every living (and not-living) person in the room, makes at least 50 sarcastic comments, plays 12 rounds of beer pong, drinks way too much, and then skates around campus on his skateboard yelling “I LOVE NEW YORK” (which makes no sense, because they’re in california) until someone calls his girlfriend to come get him.

and then one day there’s an attack, and frat boy percy is all of a sudden a fighting machine. he’s yelling battle cries alongside the praetors frank zhang and hazel levesque as they lead everyone into battle. (why is he with the praetors? and why…. why in the world do the praetors seem to be following his lead?) his sword slashes through armies of monsters faster than you’ve ever seen. he’s controlling the entire river surrounding the camp, creating huge waves as tall as skyscrapers that crash down all around him, wiping out monsters and causing mass destruction to his enemies’ ranks. the sky is suddenly dark above you, ice-cold water droplets are slashing through the air, and the wind is blowing so aggressively that it’s making it hard to stand up steadily. because he’s somehow created a hurricane.

and he looks terrifying. you can feel the power radiating off of him. he’s like a god. or maybe a monster. it’s hard to tell. you’re a little scared of him, to be honest. but also in total awe, because it’s extraordinary. he’s extraordinary.

frat boy percy is not who you thought he was.

[incendiorum]

tag dump #2

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Fourteen

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.1k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Discussion of child loss/miscarriage and domestic violence. Oral sex - fem receiving, face sitting, Johnny is a menace as usual, Simon talks you through it, dirty talk, brief daddy kink, pet names. Nurse!reader, medical inaccuracies, feelings of fear and anxiety, PTSD. Dialogue heavy. Bunny making progress. What's in a name?

When you were a child, you got caught in a storm.

Getting caught in a storm as an adult is a normal thing. It’s not frightening and foreign like it is when you’re young. When you’re a child, storms feel like hurricanes. They feel life altering, life ending. With no concept of larger, or smaller storms, it’s hard to understand how you’d make it through the to the other side.

You remember this one vividly. Your mother was on her way to work, her night job, and you were clicked into the backseat, barely awake, staring out the rain pelted window. The wind was so strong it shook the car, blew it all over the road, your mom’s fingers like rebar gripping the wheel. It was terrifying. It was like you’d never be safe, like the wind would pick your entire world up and send it crashing down into a farm field that stretched a million miles long.

It felt, somewhat, like this moment, and hundreds of moments before it. Small thorns in a life that no longer felt like your own. A far cry from the dreams you had when you were that little girl.

The thorns, the storms, had twisted you into this version of yourself, this stranger, and that’s how you feel as you stand in front of Simon, cold panic crackling through your bones.  

Your mouth opens and closes without sound coming out. You’re a fish out of water, lips parting just to swallow dry air, eyes wider than saucers.

Penny cries in your arms, but Simon doesn’t move. Johnny doesn’t breathe, and you stand alone in the silence, baby vomit on your clothes, trembling in fear.

They won’t understand. They’ll know you’re a liar. They won’t trust you. 

They won’t want you.  

“It’s not… I arranged it months ago.” You blurt, words strung together in a stream of consciousness. “It’s not like, you can just go out and buy a new passport. It takes a while, and connections, and lots of hoops and money and I-“ Simon holds his hand up.

A signal to stop.

“Give me the baby.” He says, stepping forward, arms out, and your hands shake as you pass her over, avoiding eye contact until he tips your chin back. “Take a deep breath, go upstairs, get cleaned up. When you come back down, we’ll talk. Okay?” He looks to Johnny, who nods, and then back to you, expectantly waiting on your answer.

“O-okay.”

Simon still has the passport.

It’s in front of his knee, on the coffee table, but within arm’s reach, close enough he could snatch it up in moment’s notice.

“Were ye goin’ to leave us?” Johnny whispers, and you shake your head.

“No, I… it takes a while. I arranged it months and months ago, before I even met you.” Simon frowns.

“This is not a fake, it’s a real passport. How did you get it?” Oh, fuck. Your throat is as dry as paper, scratchy and stiff, and you force yourself to spit out a coherent sentence.

“I bought it… from a guy.” Brilliant. You sneak a glance at Johnny, who’s watching with a pink sheen on his cheeks, knuckles white against the arm of the couch. He looks upset, and guilt swamps you, worry over making him feel worse in his state eating away inside your heart.

“You know a guy who can get his hands on government issued documents?” Simon holds himself very still. Nearly a statue, his eyes never leave your face, and you move your hands under your thighs to try to stop their trembling.

There’s a familiar feeling building in your chest. A twisted, gnarled root of fear, growing deep. “I… it’s… no, he’s… I was referred to him, by someone else. He doesn’t even know my real name, I’m careful, I’ve-“

“Done this before.” Simon finishes, and your heart stops in your chest.

“Yes.” You whisper. How are they going to feel when they realize you’ve been lying to them about your name? You spiral, imagining the hurt flashing across their faces, the disappointment from Simon, the sadness from Johnny. “I use a new identity, when I move around.”

“Your name…”

“Isn’t my real one.” The admission stings, but that person doesn’t exist anymore. You haven’t been that happy, fulfilled, carefree girl in too long. You don’t know her. You don’t remember her.

She’s dead.

She’s a ghost.

“Will ye tell us? Yer real name?” Simon is thoughtful from where he sits on the chair, focused, as Johnny looks hopeful. They’re both looking at you with trust heavy in their eyes, and it gnaws, burns in your bones all the way through until your real name is slipping free with a whisper.

“That’s beautiful, bun.” Johnny murmurs sweetly, and they exchange a look, something stern etching across Simon’s brow before it drifts away.

“Do you want us to use it?” You shake your head.

“N-no, I… I’m not that girl… anymore. She’s long gone.” The room is silent, and you mull it over, toss it back and forth in your mind. You’re so disconnected from the person you were when you last felt whole, when you last felt real. How will you ever feel that way again?

Something flickers in Simon’s gaze. Something severe and almost sad, a storm in the middle of a sea, a little boat with nowhere to hide, and you get lost in it, lost in him, a million lives and a million emotions clouding the space between your bodies.

He swallows, and it’s gone.

“How does that work with your nursing license?” You blink, but you’re not surprised he knows to ask the one question that will undoubtedly unravel the rest of the threads. The biggest piece of the puzzle.

“I…” Fuck. Are you really going to do this? Are you doing this? 

Do you trust them? 

It’s not a question now, you know the answer. Know why it is you’ve been sleeping in their bed, helping with their baby, living in their house.

It’s more than trust.

“I had a friend in college. Dean.” You’re really doing this. “He was really smart, and really kind, and going places. We were on different paths, but we stayed in touch. As best we could… my ex didn’t really like me talking to… anyone.” Johnny’s fingers slide across the couch, hesitantly brushing your thigh, and it grounds you, calms you. “He became a fancy, big time lawyer. Like, really big time. One of the best in Texas,” Simon’s eyes narrow, head tilted as he stares at you, before it all flits away, and he returns to stasis, “possibly the country. He… he helped me.” You pause, unsure, and Johnny nods encouragingly.

“Helped ye how?”

“I’ve been running, had been running, for a while. Years. At one point, Dean got a judge in a different state to agree to change my name, my identity, everything, and then seal the record. It gave me a chance to disappear, a fresh start to build from. Or, I thought it did, anyway. My ex is… very determined, it didn’t take long for him to catch up.”

“So, your license…”

“Whenever I get a new job, I refer the HR department to my big fancy lawyer in Texas, and he makes sure my license is accepted and they understand the circumstances. I manage the rest… on my own. The turning over of a new identity- identification documents, passports, housing, everything.”

“Do they know anything about this?”

“No. I think they probably think I’m in witness protection or something, and per the court order, they can’t discuss the discrepancy with the name on the license to anyone in the hospital. Dean makes sure of that.” You laugh weakly, but Simon doesn’t, he only studies you, laser focused. “I can’t really have contact with him anymore, because it leaves too much… out in the open, but he’s a really good friend. The best.” Tears blur your vision as you think about Dean, remembering the way he stared at you the night you turned up on his doorstep.

You were so young then. So stupid. But he gave you best chance he could, and you’d always be grateful.

Johnny reaches for where your hand is shoved beneath your thigh, and lightly tugs until it’s in his grasp, warm and safe.

“An’ ye change yer identity every time?” You nod, lips tucking in over your teeth.

“That’s what the passport is for. In most places, a passport counts for both a birth certificate and identification card, so they don’t ask for a secondary. It’s the easiest to use.”

“You were preparing to run.” Simon murmurs.

“Before Johnny became my patient, I was getting ready to, yeah.”

“Why?” You take a deep breath, but your chest feels too tight. Fear is still dripping down the back of your throat, making your stomach sick, your hands tremble.

“I knew he was here.” The words break apart into a sob, and your eyes slam shut.

The next thing you know, you’re breathing into Johnny’s warm chest, a hand running up and down your back slowly.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore.” You cry, gasping. “I.. I’m scared all the time. I run all the time. I d-don’t even know who I am, without it. I don’t know how to be here, or be a normal person, or have a normal conversation.”

“Shhh, yer alright, pretty girl. It’s okay.” Johnny hums, and you feel his diaphragm vibrate as he soothes you.

“I want to be with you… but I don’t know how. I’m terrified he’ll come here and- and hurt you, or Penny. That it will be my fault, like everything else has.” You cry harder, chest aching, Simon’s hands closing around your shoulders and pulling you back to tilt your face up to the two of them.

“It’s not your fault, bunny. None of it, ever, has been your fault. Do you understand?” You shake your head no, because you don’t. You’re good at running, at hiding. You’ve made a new life over and over again by doing it, and getting caught is your fault, no matter what they say.

You slipped up. It could happen again. 

“You don’t understand. I… I should have left, after he found me in my apartment. I should have left.” It sticks in your mind, playing over and over again. “I sh-should have left, I shouldn’t be here, I-“ your vision tunnels.

“Okay, okay. Easy, sweetheart.” Simon tries to settle you, but everything is bubbling up and you feel like you’re going to explode, like your skin is too tight, like you’re falling apart, all at once.

There’s nothing left inside of you, nothing left to do.

You break.

Millions of miles of denial and fear and agony splinter, shattering into shards that destroy you from the inside out.

“He’s going to kill me.” Johnny curses something thick as you sob, palm flat over your racing heart. “He t-took everything. He made me into… into this, and it’s only a matter of time. He’s going to find me again, and he… he’s-“ He cups your cheek.

“Shhh, bunny. We’re here, we’re right here.”

“No, he’s not. Listen-“ you try to pull away but Johnny stops you, holding you firm as Simon ducks into your line of sight. “Listen to me. He’s never going to touch you again, do you understand? We will never let him near you, ever again. We promise.”

“You can’t pr-promise that.”  

“We can,” Simon vows, “but… we need to know everything. What we’re looking for, who he is.”

No. You don’t know why, but there’s a barrier around Phillip’s name. Like you can’t force your tongue to make the sound, and you can’t tell them.

If they know, they’ll look for him. They’ll try to find him; you can already tell.

They’ll get hurt, or worse.

You can’t let that happen.

“I can’t.” You whisper. “I can’t.” Johnny pulls you back into his arms, and you curl up against him, his chin on top of your head. They look at one another, long glances you can’t interpret, before Simon takes a deep breath, his hand gentle on your knee.

“Bunny… do you have a child? Someone you’re trying to protect?” Your eyes slip shut, and despair grips your throat like a vice.

“No.” You croak. “No, there would have been one but…” you drag the truth into the light. “I lost it. He didn’t want it so… he got rid of it.” They both freeze.

“Sweetheart.” Simon whispers, Johnny’s arms going rigid, and you shrug, slipping away from this moment, from them.

“It was a long time ago.” You pause, keeping your eyes closed. “I’m fine.” Johnny scoffs.

“The hell ye are. And ye shouldnae be.” You shake between them, exhaustion settling into your bones like it belongs there, and they linger in silence with you, in the moment, letting it stretch long before Simon murmurs something and brushes his fingertips against your cheek.

“We’ll wait, until you’re ready.” You relax with a small sigh. “But if we don’t know who we’re dealing with, that means no more coming and going. I don’t want you outside this house without me, do you understand?”

“I’m going back to work.” You refute immediately.

“When you’re ready to go back, we’ll come up with a plan to keep you safe.” He says sternly, and you swallow, eyes wide.

“We jus’ want to keep ye safe, pretty girl.” Simon tugs your hand into his, and murmurs lowly.

“I know you’re independent, and you’re used to being on your own, but we’re here now. You don’t have to do this alone. We’ve got you.” Tears burn at the corner of your eyes.

You should tell them no, but you can’t.

You should be angry, or nervous, or even scared, but all you can feel is relief.

You don’t have to do this alone.

The house is quiet when you wake up the next morning.

It’s odd now, opening your eyes to an empty bed. All you’ve known for years, is being alone. All you’ve relied on for so long, was yourself.

But now, when your arms and legs spread wide between the sheets and you come up empty, panic flutters in your heart. “Johnny? Simon?” When there’s no answer, you stumble over the side, loping steps hauling you down the stairs and into the living room.

Johnny’s half-awake on the couch in his boxers, flipping idly through television programs. You breathe a little bit easier, and he cracks a smile. “Morning, pretty.”

“Morning.” You bend in front of him, swooping down to press your lips to his. “Where’s…”

“He took Pen to swim. She’s in classes and then has a playdate at a friend’s house after. Busy wee one, our Penny.” Fingers idly rub against the skin beneath his ear, tracing down to his collarbone.

“You eat breakfast?”

“Was waitin’ for ye.” Something dark and hungry glints in his eyes, and your knees go weak.

“Oh, w-well I can make you someth-“

“No.” He traces down the inside of your thigh, where he’s eye level, and then up, backs of his fingers stroking over the front of your panties, thumb skirting along the seam between your legs. “Not hungry for food, bun. Just for ye.”

“O-oh.” His thumb presses, just enough pressure brushing against your clit, and you gasp, hand shooting out to steady yourself on the arm of the sofa, where his head is.

His lips touch to the inside of your wrist, and he grins. “C’mere Bunny.”

“You’re still recovering.” Your fingers twist in the hem of the t shirt you grabbed off the floor, one of theirs.

“My face isn’t.” His hands wrap around the backs of your thighs, tugging you closer. “My face is the perfect seat for ye, pretty girl. Let me make ye feel good.” Everything tightens, your chest, your heart, each blood vessel stitched throughout your body. Your clit pulses, knot in your stomach tying so tight it makes you lightheaded, agony and arousal singing together in perfect harmony. It’s a song with perfect pitch, swirling around the two of you in euphoric polyphony.

You want this. Want him. Want to let it all go. 

“Johnny.”

“Got a seat for ye,” his fingers trace over his lip and down his neck, where his throat bobs with a swallow. You can’t pull your eyes away. “Right ‘ere.”

It doesn’t take more coaxing after he tucks his fingers into your underwear and rolls them down your thighs, giving you a light pat just under your ass, shifting and arranging until you’re perched across his shoulders.

“What if you can’t breathe?” Your voice hitches on a panicked note, and he rubs your legs soothingly.

“Then I’ll die a happy man.” You choke. “Just kiddin’ bunny. Ye cannae hurt me, I can breathe just fine.” His eyebrows crinkle and crease, soft expression puckering down to where his lips part.

Let go. You can do it. You want this. Just let go. 

“I- I’m not very good with…” You gulp, chest heaving. “With sex, I uh. I don’t have good memories of it, and I’ve never… I’ve never done this.” It’s the best you can explain, in this moment, and you pray it’s enough, that he’ll understand.

“We’ll go slow.” He promises, still rubbing circles into the backs of your legs, grabbing fistfuls of your ass and thighs, pressing long kisses into your skin. “Ye tell me to stop, if ye dinnae like it or ye want to stop, promise?” You nod. “Say it, pretty girl.”

“I’ll tell you… to stop.” He smiles, and urges you forward, palms still curved around your cheeks.

“Cannae wait to taste ye,” you move slowly, hesitantly, and he encourages gently, patting and rubbing patiently, eyes locked your face the entire time, “have been dreamin’ about it, since that day ye didnae wear any panties to work.”

“Johnny!” you hiss, playfully scandalized, heart trilling. He’s turned a miserable memory, a scary memory, into something not so bad, so easily. It means a lot, means more than you think he knows, and you’re just about to tell him when you feel heat slip across your skin, thumbs stroking down the seam of your cunt. He jerks you forward completely, until the bottom half of his face is missing, and all you can see beneath your legs is a crop of mohawk.

The first touch is heaven. He’s warm, and safe, and you melt onto him, indulging in the feeling of it all. His arms wrap around your hips, anchoring you in place, mouth sloppy against your pussy like he’s trying to devour you whole. You jerk, falling forward at the waist, one hand against the couch, the other fisted in his hair, trying to create space for him to breathe.

“No.” He growls, slamming you back down, nose bumping against your clit over and over as his tongue dives into you, curling up into your body.

You close your eyes. You need more friction, but you don’t know what to do, don’t know how to get it, and the longer you try to figure it out, the more you’re slipping away, kicking and fighting in darker waters.

Stay present. Stay here. With him. You’re safe. Let go. 

Your breath stutters in your chest. Two factions fight one another, one trying to catapult you towards an orgasm faster than you’ve ever gotten there in your life, and the other, trying and failing to stem the memories and anxiety that bleed freely from your brain. The pleasure is mixed with pain, with nightmares, and your muscles turn to rock, eyes slamming shut.

A big, warm hand settles between your shoulder blades.

You jolt away from it, but when your eyes snap open-

You see Simon.

He’s on his knees at your side, part of your thigh now pressed against his chest. He watches you intently, sweeping over your features and down to where you’re sitting on Johnny’s face, half relaxed, half coiled tense.

“You’re in control, sweetheart.” Even kneeling, he’s tall enough that he’s nearly eye level with you, and Johnny’s free hand searches for him when he hears his voice. Simon gives him a squeeze, and then lovingly strokes some of his hair from his forehead. “Our sweet boy just wants to make you feel good. Do you want that?”

“Y-yeah.. but I don’t… I don’t know how.” You squeak, burning with embarrassment, still clutching the couch. He pulls that hand free, into his, and rubs a thumb over the back of your knuckles, before placing it back against the armrest. It’s comforting, and reassuring, and he keeps the other one anchored at your back.

“Just relax.” He murmurs above your ear, now cradling your hips. “Hold onto the couch with both hands, like that- good girl.” His grip tightens, and then slowly, he starts to move you. “Find what feels good, take your time.” You roll your hips slowly, looking for the right amount of pressure, the friction you’re desperate for, and Johnny moans beneath you, his own hips flexing. “There you go, does that feel good?” Simon’s eyes are nearly black, and you nod hungrily. “Ride him just like that, don’t stop.”

“Oh my god.” You moan, tilting back. Each time Johnny’s nose or tongue rubs against your clit it’s like lightning striking in your blood, and warmth crackles around you like a blanket.

“Fuck,” Simon growls, palm pressing against your lower belly. “Look a’ the two of you, all mine.” The possession shivers across your skin and you moan, head heavy. Johnny’s tongue finds your rhythm, and then he’s flicking across your clit like he’s plucking a string, a perfect note.

“Johnny, ah…” He groans something in response, the vibration shooting straight to your brain. You tip to the side, face pressing into Simon’s neck, and he supports your weight, keeping a hand on your hip, now spread over where Johnny holds you. You're in a frenzy now, panting, chasing, rough pace only increasing with desperation.

“Good girl, rubbing your little pussy all over our sweet boy’s face. Is he going to make you cum? Can you show daddy how pretty you are when you cum?” Daddy. The word makes you dizzy, strikes you dumb. Simon’s lips press to the crown of your head, and all you can do is gasp and whine, hips jerking across Johnny’s nose and mouth, slick, lewd noises coming from between your legs.

“Oh, oh- fuck,” you gasp, fingers now tightening in Johnny’s hair, electricity sparking through your muscles like fireworks, “I’m gonna- I’m-“ You drag yourself across him, chasing the edge of oblivion, white light crackling behind your eyes as you clench them shut with a near shout. Your orgasm shoots through you, exploding every cell in your body into star light, everything heating together as your eyes roll backwards and your hips shake. Johnny grunts, still anchoring you down onto him, aftershocks rattling through your bones to your teeth. Simon pries him lose, keeping a hand on you, and him, as he pulls you back to reveal Johnny’s face.

He's soaked. Neck, chin, cheeks, stubble all coated in you, and your eyes goes wide, wicked pleasure at the sight curling in the pit of your stomach.

You did that. Your boy.

Simon chuckles like he’s reading your mind, tucking you into his chest before pulling you free and placing you in the space next to Johnny on the couch, laying down. He kisses him slowly, softly, running his tongue over his cheeks before returning to dip back into his mouth and pulling away. “Stay, ‘m gonna go get a towel to clean you both up.” He says quietly, kissing your nose before rising and slipping off into the kitchen. Johnny tries to tug you closer.

“How was that?” You can hear the smug smile and his face as he breaks the silence, and your cheeks burn.

“Really good.”

“Hmph, I was shooting for amazing, so I guess we’ll just have to try again.”

“That’s not… it was!” He laughs, and then gives you a half hug with his good arm.

“Ye were perfect, bunny. We’re so lucky to have ye.” Tears burn and threaten to spill.

“I’m the lucky one.” You whisper, and you don’t know if anything could be truer. It’s more than luck now, more than a chance meeting, a chance occurrence. It’s something bigger, something all consuming, something stronger than anything you’ve ever known.

Something bright, like the sun.

Something like… love. 

[nsk96]

I second this. I currently live in Florida (born and raised) and I'm aware that Florida often gets the hate it does because of it being a red state. But also, I think the people here in south Florida (especially Fort Lauderdale and Miami) also contribute to the bad reputation because of how rude we can be.

That said, ngl, sometimes it sucks here, being surrounded by people whose political beliefs go against my rights and my safety can be scary sometimes. However, I stand by the point that everyone is deserving of basic empathy and human decency.

Community down here looks a little different. We can argue with a neighbor one day but share food and supplies with each other the next. I've seen countless food drives, enough homeless-community outreach, and fundraising events to know that most people here do care. Their political beliefs shouldn't matter nor what community/tribe/neighborhood they're part of...Being compassionate, being stupid, happy, upset, being in pain, are all part of the human experience which we all have in common. "Human" is what I see when I look at them. If you wish death, destruction, and loss for people you don't like, then you are the awful person; you are no better. It's time to unlearn your hate.

The news about hurricane Milton is terrifying but I can’t deal with the Hurricane jokes or hounding on people who can’t evacuate or even going so far as to say “Florida deserves it”. I’m so worried about what this could mean for the Seminole tribe, which the White House has authorized FEMA for to help prevent catastrophe. Some of you are deeply evil and say all of this while you sit at home and watch on your phones as people die.

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ build-a-fic no. 2 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

➴ chose a scent, an item of clothing and a weather forecast (a number, letter, + creature), and write/request to your heart’s content my dears!

𓂃 ࣪˖ a smell

꒰ 1 ꒱ rich, incensed perfume

꒰ 2 ꒱ burnt coffee

꒰ 3 ꒱ resinous pine needles

꒰ 4 ꒱ steadily-baking bread

꒰ 5 ꒱ inescapably strong disinfectant

꒰ 6 ꒱ expensive, pungent red wine

꒰ 7 ꒱ cheap cologne

꒰ 8 ꒱ salty air rolling off of crashing sea waves

꒰ 9 ꒱ mouth-watering home cooking

꒰ 10 ꒱ a too-strong vanilla candle

꒰ 11 ꒱ fresh-cut, perfectly ripe stone fruits

꒰ 12 ꒱ overpowering tiger balm

꒰ 13 ꒱ smoke unfurling from a wood fire

꒰ 14 ꒱ spiced incense

꒰ 15 ꒱ all-too familiar coconut shampoo

꒰ 16 ꒱ strong herbal lavender

꒰ 17 ꒱ newly turned earth

꒰ 18 ꒱ motor oil

꒰ 19 ꒱ just-washed bedsheets

꒰ 20 ꒱ petrichor after a rainshower

𓂃 ࣪˖ a piece of clothing

꒰ A ꒱ a wrinkled black tie

꒰ B ꒱ mismatched socks

꒰ C ꒱ faded blue jeans

꒰ D ꒱ a hotel bathroom

꒰ E ꒱ a stolen hoodie

꒰ F ꒱ a crisp white button-down

꒰ G ꒱ an expensive, lush fur coat

꒰ H ꒱ a pair of beaten-up combat boots

꒰ I ꒱ plaid pajama pants

꒰ J ꒱ loose-fitting boxer shorts

꒰ K ꒱ a yellow football jersey

꒰ L ꒱ a papery hospital gown

꒰ M ꒱ a blue, lacy thong

꒰ N ꒱ a brown belt with a gold buckle

꒰ O ꒱ cheap swimming garb

꒰ P ꒱ six-inch high heels

꒰ Q ꒱ a dark-red evening gown

꒰ R ꒱ a thick knitted sweater

꒰ S ꒱ a chef’s white coat

꒰ T ꒱ a flimsily-made tourist t-shirt

𓂃 ࣪˖ a weather advisory

꒰ 𓆉 ꒱ hammering, unrelenting rain

꒰ 𓅨 ꒱ warm, golden sunshine

꒰ 𓆣 ꒱ hair-raising rolls of thunder

꒰ 𓃰 ꒱ thick, looming fog

꒰ 𓃗 ꒱ a clear, chilly evening

꒰ 𓃱 ꒱ blazing heat

꒰ 𓃟 ꒱ a nighttime lightning storm

꒰ 𓆟 ꒱ a grey sky laden with rainclouds

꒰ 𓆈 ꒱ cold, drizzly mist

꒰ 𓅫 ꒱ an unexpected snowstorm

꒰ 𓅟 ꒱ bone-chilling sleet

꒰ 𓃵 ꒱ breathless humidity

꒰ 𓃓 ꒱ blustery winds

꒰ 𓆌 ꒱ rain-induced floods

꒰ 𓆏 ꒱ spitting showers of hailstones

꒰ 𓅭 ꒱ a freezing, sudden drop in temperatures

꒰ 𓆗 ꒱ a hurricane warning

꒰ 𓃢 ꒱ a tropical storm

꒰ 𓆧 ꒱ a warm, temperate breeze

꒰ 𓃔 ꒱ road-closing landslides

[zzeraphilm]

Building Bridges

Regulus Black X Potter!F!Reader

Summary: After finding the note left behind R.A.B in the presumed Horcrux. The Golden Trio seek Sirius’ help in locating R.A.B, they end up finding him yet the reunion is not as expected. (Roughly set at the beginning of DH)

Note: Sirius didn’t die in Order of the Phoenix and Regulus didn’t die in the cave he just run off abroad to hide :p

I haven’t written for Harry Potter (ever) so apologies for any thing that might be out of character! ;-; i kept thinking about this rough idea during work

——————————————————————————

Harry looked up and locked eyes with his Godfather, Sirius had been silent the entire time. They were perched neatly in a two by two formation, his two best friends behind him and his only remaining familial tie. They had taken a portkey to the Scottish highlands, the icy gusts of wind cutting threw Hermione’s ponytail so high it nearly smacked Ron on the back of his head.

“Sirius, are you sure this is the right place?” Harry’s fingers clutched his forearms, rubbing them vehemently to produce some warmth.

In front of them was a lonesome cabin, mere metres away from the vast forest line that dotted along the coastal shores. Crashing waves hit the jagged rocks like the sound of an applause.

Sirius clutched onto the note the Golden trio had given him.

“For years I had questioned by brother’s last found writings. I am certain this is what he meant.”

The quartet marched ahead, the uneven stone path dug into Ron’s trainers, nearly tripping him, thankfully Hermione caught him by the seams of his jacket.

The door beyond had its metal hinges rusted beyond repair, a faint shadow of the number plate ‘8’ was the only reminisce of the original oak. Cracks and blackened mould painted over the door, weirdly however, the door knocker was untouched, no sign of usage or age. Despite Sirius’ persistence to wait to check the area, Harry banged his first against the wood, the booming shakes forced the door knocker to tap in sync.

There was a faint shout from within the cabin, heavy footsteps and whispers. Then silence.

The door creaked open, a woman tight lipped and furrowed eyebrows, her E/C eyes shot daggers towards Harry. She glanced at Ron, then Hermione and finally she focused on Sirius.

With a swift push, the door flung open revealing herself and a disheveled man behind her aiming his wand towards them.

“Sirius! Oh My! You’re alive!” She threw her arms around Sirius, behind Ron was flabbergasted, yet Hermione had her wand matched with the man behind the woman.

“Y/N, what are you- Regulus?” Before Sirius could enjoy his reunion with his long lost friend, he could only focus on his brother.

“Regulus Arcturus Black.” Harry spoke softly.

“Do not call me that,”

Regulus’ grip on his wand tightened with a slight shake in his wrist, his fingernails dug into his palms. “How did you find this place?”

Y/N took a few steps back and held onto Regulus’ raised arm gently easing it lower and lower.

“Darling, put your wand down. Your brother has finally come home yet you show him such malice. It has been years may we talk about this over tea,” her whisper felt like a soft hug unlike any other. “Please?”

After guiding the four to their small dinning table, Y/N left to the kitchen to boil the kettle. With only two chairs at the table, Harry, Ron and Hermione insisted on standing behind Sirius, who sat opposite his scowl faced brother.

After years of believing his brother’s death, Sirius now was sat face to face with the little boy he used to love. But they were both no longer just boys, now they were men, in the eye of a hurricane waiting for things to come to a crash. Regulus’ hair had become unruly, his curls was as just as untameable as Sirius’. His previously porcelain face, had deeply settled in scars and frown lines that framed his lips. He was far from the young boy destined for power and prestige. He now slept under a rotting roof with walls that could barely hold its own weight. Sirius was torn between grasping his brother after years of separation or running away from everything all over again. But war was coming and time was of the essence. They must leave Scotland for London by nightfall, with everything Regulus knew of the Dark Lord.

“Here, it’s just my own blend of floral herbs and spices. It is quite hard to purchase any professionally made tea round here. It tastes better with a bit of honey, don’t worry.” Y/N laid out two teacups, three short glasses and one tall glass full of her freshly brewed tea. In the middle of the table was a pot of honey with a teaspoon lodged inside. “Please bare with the glassware, we only have enough for the two of us.”

Regulus sat in silence, eyes closed lightly sipping his tea that had two teaspoons of honey mixed in.

“Let’s cut to the chase.” said Harry, Regulus still not paying him any mind, whilst Y/N’s eyes softened when he spoke.

“Regulus, we found this note in this locket signed R.A.B, your initials.” Hermione chucked the locket by its chain onto the table, skidding across to meet Y/N’s fingers. “We know its a fake. We need to know where the real one is now. Voldem-“

“Do not speak his name.” Despite his stern tone, Regulus had delicately placed his teacup onto the table with no splash.

“Under my roof, my home. You do not say that wretched name.”

Sirius slams his hands onto the table, abruptly standing up.

“Regulus, first you fake your death and now I find you cozying up with Y/N Potter, of all people! You are to give these children that bloody locket now or I will show you how Azkaban has changed me!” Sirius’ voice boomed against the four walls, leading Regulus to look up with a scowl.

“Brother,” the younger Black rose from his chair and stepped towards Sirius, in a matter of seconds he had grabbed the elder Black by his collar and slammed him against the nearby wall. His tongue spewed venom targeted his brother.

“You still remain as ill-tempered as always. You have no right to stand in front of me and disrespect my family. Leave whilst I show you mercy!” Regulus already had wand digging deep into Sirius’ throat, in response Sirius had gripped his younger brother’s wrist, attempting to claw his fingers away.

“Regulus! Stop it this instant!” Y/N screeched, pulling her husband away from his brother. Sirius dropped to the floor coughing, Regulus looked down at his brother with a glare, spat on the top of Sirius’ head and left the room.

Harry was left stunned in place. His Godfather looked like a shell of a man the moment he locked eyes with his brother. Now, his estranged aunt was comforting his Godfather after everything. How strange.

“Come, let’s move to the living room and we can all talk calmly there, without my husband.”

Ron turned to Hermione and whispered ‘husband?’ With his eyes darting across the room to focus on the many framed photographs of Y/N and Regulus. Hermione, as shocked as Ron was, merely shrugged and followed the adults to the front room.

Like the rest of the house, the sofa was barely useable, the longer they sat the further they sunk into the cushions. Harry, Ron and Hermione shared the three seater, Y/N perched at the edge of her armchair. Whilst Sirius leaned against the wall by the door with his head down, he felt beyond ashamed at his reunion with his brother.

Hermione coughed trying to clear the air of any tension, “Sorry that we didn’t get to have your tea Miss Potter- or uhm Black-“

“Y/N’s fine dear.” Her E/C eyes softened at the teenagers, they reminded her so much of her brother’s friends in their younger years.

“Y/N, how are you related to me? Sirius hasn’t spoken about you until earlier today.”

She gasped comically, clutching her chest to add to the act.

“Pads, you traitor! You were supposed to be my best friend!” She fake cried but Sirius looked up pleading to her with a string of unintelligible excuses. With a light chuckle her demeanour changed.

“No, in all seriousness I’m not surprised. You were never supposed to know about me Harry. We may be related by name, but not by blood. I was adopted into the Potter family, almost like dear Padfoot here.” Sirius huffed in response.

“I basically was already part of the family when I join you guys.”

Y/N chuckled sincerely this time, her left hand covering her smile, a noticeable silver loop around her finger.

“Yes and you ate all of my hidden chocolates by the third day you were with us!”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at this family’s banter. He was so used to the bickering and squabbling of the Dursleys’, and he hadn’t seen Sirius so animated with anyone but him and Remus.

“Harry, I wish I could’ve been there for you. But before your birth I had responsibilities that called for me that I could not disobey.” Y/N stood up and began to rummage through a chest of draws in the corner of the dimly lit room. She turned around and knelt by Harry’s knees placing a little cardboard box onto his lap. She began to slowly take out its belongings. An enchanted photograph, a notebook and a rusted Snitch.

“After my brother and his friends left for the Order, I tried to join but was vehemently denied by Dumbledore.” She lifted up the tattered notebook, “It would be too long to go into details but to summarise - he did not see me fit to fight alongside James. Instead I was given a separate mission that meant relocation to France. I too was tasked by Dumbledore to find a Horcrux, more so, I was tasked on recovering Regulus. I found both, clearly.” She placed the notebook back in the box and picked up the photograph.

“This was the last time I saw your father, my brother. 1979, their wedding. Look at how young we were Sirius!” She looked up, smiling lightly at the man holding back her tears, he now was leaning over the sofa looking at the photograph in her hand. It was the entire Marauder’s pack alongside Lily who hand her arms linked with Y/N’s both laughing towards the camera. Sirius had his arm slung over James’ shoulders whose tie and top button were undone. Remus and Peter were behind the two, ruffling James’ hair and chanting a silent hoorah for their union.

“That was quite a night, if I remember correctly you couldn’t stop crying at the reception. Saying how you always dreamed of having a sister and Lily was the perfect woman for the role. You were so drunk!”

“I was not!” Y/N screeched, Sirius only laughed in response.

The teens laughed at Y/N’s outcry. Harry kept watching the photograph loop, his parents and their friends could forever enjoy an eternal happiness in this photograph. He only wished he could experience all of their joy and warmth together in person.

“Ahem. As I was saying,” Y/N sat herself down on the armrest beside Harry. “I loved your parents Harry, I truly wish I was there for your birth, for everything. Unfortunately after that night, I had to fulfil my duty as Dumbledore’s foreign agent. By the time news reached to me of James and Lily’s death and Sirius’ arrest, it was too late. I was ordered to not contact you. So I,” With a deep sigh Y/N looked towards the hanging photograph of her and Regulus.

“I threw myself at work, by my fifth year of scouring the neighbourhoods of Europe, I finally found Regulus. And well, you can guess that happened next.” She dangled her ringed left hand over her knee.

“I never meant to keep everything a secret for so long, it became life consuming. By the time I had realised nearly 18 years had pasted, I was a different woman. I’m so sorry Harry.” Y/N clung onto her nephew in a tight embrace, tears dampening his shirt. He gripped her back in response as if she were to disappear from his arms. As they parted, Y/N’s sombre gaze started to brighten.

“Regulus means no harm to you three,” she turns to Sirius “Of course, you know your own relationship with your brother better than anyone else. I know you don’t plan on staying here any longer than you must, so let me handle it. Just stay here for a bit, I’ll get you the locket.”

Then she left the room, leaving behind an ear piercing silence.

“Do you think we could grab some food from the kitchen whilst she’s gone?” Ron uttered.

“I’m sure she won’t mind. Knowing her, she has probably hidden her snacks behind some bowls.” Sirius chortled, he drifted into the hallway and entered the kitchen.

He opened the cupboards one by one until he found Y/N’s fine china. And just as he guessed, she had placed a packet of custard cremes behind a stack of bowls. Still using the same hiding spot, shame there’s no chocolates this time. Before he could shut the cupboard door, he heard shouting from the slightly opened backdoor to the right of him.

“You have no idea what they’ve probably been through to even get here Reg!” Y/N was stood next to Regulus, who was smoking a cigarette and tapping his foot against the grass.

“He shouldn’t be here. I don’t care for the young Potter, he can do what he pleases with that damned piece of shit. I just don’t want to see him for one more second!”

“Don’t you dare raise your voice at me! Don’t you dare speak ill about my nephew! And in case you forgot, you took my name! You’re a Potter now as well, he is your nephew! Don’t you care about your family? Your brother is here acting more of a father figure than anyone else could for that boy who has only known pain. You of all people should know what it’s like to live like that.” Y/N hand grabbed Regulus’ hand and lightly rubbed the back of his palm.

“…so he can be there for Harry but not me. Y/N, I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. I can’t just let him back into my life like nothing happened. We left that world behind because of how much it has failed me. You. Us. I only planned my life with you in mind, not once did I consider my brother and now Harry to be there. It’s all too much. I just want things to go back to how it was. Back when it was just you and me.”

Regulus began to softly whimper, Sirius could see from the crack of the door Regulus’ shaking head of hair against Y/N’s shoulder, he saw his brother’s shoulders shake whilst he clung onto Y/N’s waist. Y/N lightly rubbed Regulus’ back with her right hand and patted his hair softly with her left. Just as he did when the two were children.

“I know darling, I know. But we’ll take it slowly. One step at a time. For now,” The two pulled back from each other, their foreheads pressed against one another. “We give them the Horcrux, and once it’s all over. We’ll invite them round for a proper meal. And we can finally clean up the place, yeah?” Regulus hummed a light tune and nodded, he closed his eyes and kissed Y/N’s lips delicately.

��—————————————————————————

“Exactly as I suspected! Right behind the bowls,” Sirius returned to the front room before he could see the couple be affectionate to each other. The thought of his best friend’s sister and his brother together was still alien to him. He drew a biscuit from the packet and kept it between his teeth, then threw the whole packet at Ron who gladly caught it in his arms.

It was nearing sunset, they would’ve ideally made their way back to London by now. Harry couldn’t help but sit in silence admiring the photograph in his hands, clutching to it like a prayer.

Y/N and Regulus walk into the room, hand in hand. Before Sirius could utter an apology to his brother, the younger Black pushed his fisted hand towards him, then revealing Slytherin’s Locket in the palm of his hand.

“Take it. Take it and destroy it. Once you’re done with it. Y/N wants you back for a proper dinner.” Sirius slowly takes the chain of the locket, once the weight had been freed from Regulus’ hand, he unlocked his fingers from Y/N’s and disappeared back into the halls of their cabin. Y/N only looked towards them with a glint of hope.

“He’ll come round eventually, you know. He’s changed over the years.”

Whilst Hermione and Ron were nibbling at the biscuits, Harry turned around and stood to face his aunt.

“Y/N can I, can I keep this? Just for now, I’ll give it back once I come back to visit. I just, I really-“

Y/N only chuckled at her nephew’s nervous demeanour, “Of course love. Just make sure you look after it okay? Plus I’ll need you back here with your uncle here so we can take more photos to put up on my walls!”

Sirius, who was still chewing half of his biscuit interrupts “Actually I’m his Godfather,”

The H/C haired woman flipped her head around, “Since when? Why would James- Are those my custard cremes?”

——————————————————————————

“Goodbye Y/N! Goodbye Mr Regulus!” Ron waved as they walked down the stone path back to where they left the port key. He turned to Hermione, “You know maybe living out in the wild seems alright, you know? Pretty nice don’t you think?”

“You think you could make your own food and drink from just the bare essentials like Y/N?” The curly-haired girl retorted with a smile.

“Oh well no, maybe I could just conjure up something!” The two continued to bicker and laugh till the end of the path. Behind them Harry and Sirius stuck a few seconds longer to speak with Y/N.

“I’m sorry for the state of our cabin, my dear. I’ll make sure Regulus repairs all of the broken furniture before your return!”

A faint “I heard that!” echoed from the hallway. Y/N laughed and drew Harry into a hug, lightly patting his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll see you soon.” Harry squeezed her tightly and thanked her again softly, promising to return the moment he is finished with his goal. He turns back and rushes to his friends.

Y/N steps back and turned to Sirius. “Pads, tell me who else is left from us lot?”

“Ah well, Moony’s still kicking, still part of the Order.” The two laugh at the thought of their shared memories. A light sigh trails the end of their joy.

“Merlin, things really have changed so much now. I heard that it was Peter, yes?”

Sirius nodded, still resentful towards his traitorous friend yet his eyes gleamed with sorrow. Y/N rubbed his forearm in response to comfort him.

“You’ve got us now. Reggie will take a while, but you’ve got Harry and me. We’re family now. So, don’t be a stranger okay?”

After a lifetime apart, the two friends hug as if it was their last day at Hogwarts all over again. As Sirius walked back to the teenagers ready to go back to London, he took one last look at the cabin behind him. From an upstairs window, he saw his brother. The two nodded at each other, either out of pure politeness or an unconscious agreement to meet again, to rebuild what was lost.

[pricegouge]

Haul

Part Three MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

chapter cw: noncon nudity, noncon touching, graphic depiction of injuries

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure.   If you survive this indeed, though.

You count distance in the taste of fabric on your tongue. As hours and miles pass, the cotton fades from heavy copper, to salt-lick piquant. The trailer heats with the rising sun, metal hull hotboxing you in. The tight space you're kept in is padded, probably for sound proofing though you're almost grateful for it, given how it prevents you from burning yourself on the corrugated siding.

It's hard to guess how much time passes. It feels like days, but the trailer does not go through a cooling cycle, nor do you die of dehydration, so you assume only a handful of hours pass. You spend them drifting in and out of consciousness, wishing you had enough wherewithal to try escaping. Unfortunately, with the heat and the dark comes exhaustion, and with the adrenaline crash comes intense pain so you do little more than catalog injuries when you can concentrate enough to do so. 

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure.  

If you survive this indeed, though.

Poor Ash. She may have been a pain in the ass, but no one deserves to go out like that. It's hard to stop the tears when you think of her but you try anyway, knowing full well that further inflaming your face isn't going to do anyone any good. You wonder why they kept you alive - why Ash didn't make the cut. Or, did, you suppose. Maybe they felt two victims would have been too difficult to deal with. Maybe they thought Ash, who was still able to get around quite well, would've been too much of a handful. 

Maybe you're trying to reason with hurricane season, as it were, find rationality where there was none. These men were motivated by something you'd never understand and perhaps it was best not to waste your efforts on it. Still, it's hard to move past Simon and Gaz's brief exchange. 

'For cap?'

'For all of us.'

The thought of being shared by them made your stomach turn, but the thought that there was another one - one they evidently often brought victims back home to - that was even worse.

'Captain,' you sneer. You can't help but picture some old geezer who couldn't pull his own victims anymore; real Texas Chainsaw shit. The boys would probably have to hold you down so he could wax poetic at you about what a good hauler he used to be, help him lift a tire iron so he could get his rocks off. It would be enough to make you laugh, if it didn't feel like the tire iron was already whaling on you.

Still, you suppose knowing your fate lies with an old man and his lackeys is better than the alternative; even in your current state you know a truck with a soundproofed false back generally spells human trafficking for anyone with the misfortune to find themselves stuck in one. Your prospect doesn't make you happy by any means, but you suppose the enemy you know is better. Even if that enemy is a group of known killers. 

It's not too long after the trailer starts to cool that the quality of the roads changes; long, smooth interstate giving way to potholed, winding highway. You grit your teeth each time you're jostled, groan every time you remember your jaw is actually your biggest source of pain. 

The passiveness with which you wonder about our whereabouts surprises you, but you're so exhausted you don't hold yourself too accountable for that. It's not until the truck slows to a stop that you sit up straighter, heartbeat hammering when the back up alarm confirms your fears that you have arrived at your destination. They let you sit for a while after. Long enough to get cold. There's the occasional sound of air brakes firing and you figure you're in some sort of lot. You try yelling for help a few times, but between the gag in your mouth and the soundproofing around you, your cries go unanswered.

At least you hope that's the reason. Otherwise this entire lot is filled with people who are in on this potential trafficking ring and Simon's words echo even more ominously in your ears. 

A quiet rattling form the end of the trailer tells you when they open the doors hours later. The truck engine roars to life seconds after, backing up the final few feet necessary to slam into the loading dock hard enough to make a gruff voice from within yell. 

It's unfamiliar, makes you steady yourself harder against the unknown quality of it. You figure this must be Cap, feel some small sense of satisfaction when the old, ragged voice matches what you'd pictured. You listen intently as pallets are cleared away, the loud clatter of the jack ringing even through your soundproofing. There's a lower murmur of laughter, the boys regaling the older man with a story you can't quite hear but can definitely infer. When the truck is fully unloaded, their heavy boots tread the short runway - Johnny's truck, then; you'd wondered who you'd been riding with -, their voices coming clearer as they draw near. 

"- banged up, but mostly from the crash," you hear Simon rumble. 

Johnny's next, his grating brogue echoing within the trailer, "Well, except her nose. We can thank Gaz for that one."

"She can thank herself for it," Gaz snarks back, and you would bite your tongue if you could. There's a beat of silence. You can almost feel the heavy gaze their silent captain turns on Gaz, prompting him to elaborate, "She ran. Not very fast. When I caught up, she tried bite me so I headbutted her a little."

"A little!?" Johnny cries, but is cut off by a gruff scoff.

"No way to treat our new guest, Kyle. Go on, make it up to her. Bring her out here."

You expect something dramatic, like a flood of blinding light or strong hands reaching in to yank you out. Instead, when the panel is pulled back, the indirect light from the building is mostly blocked by the row of bodies in front of you, and Gaz squats off to the side, body language friendly and inviting despite the coldness you can feel radiating from him. This man hates you, you can feel it. You remember how he wanted to kill you, wish you could tell him the feeling was mutual. Rather, you stare at him loathingly until he tires of your inaction, leans in to grab you by the zip ties that bind your feet and cuts them with a knife you didn't even see him pull. When he grabs your wrists and pulls, you resist as much as you're able but in the end you're no match and he pulls you from your hideaway with little more than a grunt of pain and annoyance when you elbow him in the ribs.

"Feisty one, is she?" the captain's low growl observes and you turn to the newcomer with fury in your eyes which stalls out when you take him in properly for the first time.

You're disappointed to discover he's not as old as you'd been expecting. Nowhere near, in fact. Mid forties most likely, early fifties at absolute most. And densely built enough to speak of a physicality far younger. None of them were small, but the captain still managed to look big among them - nearly as tall as Simon and just as broad as Johnny, though it looked a little leaner on him given his height. You think the worst part about him is how genial he looks. Like Gaz, he's a brand of handsome that comes with charm and approachability, and you wonder how long it will take for that facade to crack like Gaz's did. Worse, if it ever will.

Certainly, his voice is disarmingly sweet when he greets you, coos and calls you a dove. "Weren't lying were they, love? Did a number on the poor girl, Ghost."

Simon - Ghost? - grunts in acknowledgement, motions for you to step closer. You don't, of course, and get a sharp shove from Gaz which sends you stumbling toward the larger men, caught by a firm hand on your bad shoulder. You yelp, breath heaving behind your gag as Cap adjusts his grip, studying you by your hip instead as his eyes dart to Simon.

"Shoulder. Maybe collar bone. Happened when she flipped her car." When you flipped it. Right.

The older man tuts dissapprovingly. You try to swat his hands away but stumble without his support. He ignores you anyway, hand returning easily while the other reaches up to carefully grip the edge of the duct tape. "Can't be easy to breathe in there, can it doll? Not with that poor nose. Let's get this off, shall we? Easy," he soothes, voice a low pur. His task hurts like hell anyway, the sticky strip pulling your tender, swollen skin. He's gentle about it at least, murmuring sympathetically when you can't contain your whimpers. You don't judge yourself too harshly when a few tears slip through, but do very much so when his thumbing them away twists your stomach unexpectedly. 

It's just because you haven't seen tenderness all night, you reason, and resolve yourself against him, even as he removes the gag with utmost delicacy.

"That better, dove?" he asks when your breaths come quicker, deeper. It's like resurfacing after being submerged for too long, clarity coming to you like a cold breeze on soaked skin: this is a calm meant to put you at ease, but you will die here if you become complacent.

So when Cap tells you to call him John and asks what your name is, you spit at him, blood and mucus staining his shoes.

The boys go quiet, like a record scratch moment in an old b-movie. You stare up at John defiantly, waiting for him to scream at you, hit you - anything.

Instead, he just pulls a pocket knife from his pants, grabs your bindings when you go to flinch away. "You've had a long day, love," he starts as he slips the thin blade between your wrists. Your skin is tender there, rubbed raw from the tight binds. The cool blade feels sharp despite the care he takes to aim the edge away from you, never once letting it touch your skin. "You've had a long day, so I'm going to let you get away with that this time." When he pulls against the zip ties, they cut into your skin briefly before giving with a sharp twang. He pulls one of your wrists into his free hand, rubs the raw skin there with a calloused palm before taking the other wrist in his grasp and giving it the same treatment. "But the next time you misbehave will not go well for you. Understood?"

Of course, you don't listen. Fuck this guy for real, you figure. What's the worst he can do? Kill you?

This time, when you go to spit at him, he catches it against his palm, wide hand slapping over your mouth so hard you're breifly concerned for your good cheek. You gasp in shock and pain, nearly choking on your own spit. John steps closer, one boot knocking your foot wide to let himself between your legs. He's so close, if he moved his palm you'd be breathing the same air.

As it stands, you can barely breathe at all, nose flush against the fat side of his hand. His own breath fans across your skin, heavy and hot as a bellows. The quality of it is thick, humid. You're glad you can't smell anything because it feels like it reeks. 

"Simon, she give you a name?"

Ghost's uncomfortable movement is obvious in its silence. "Took to calling 'er Betty."

"Betty," John repeats, lips curling in amusement. "Like an old timey, proper little wife. That you, pet?" You wanna shake your head, fear for your sinus cavity if you do. "Not yet, eh? Gonna have to train you up first. Ease you into it." As if in demonstration, his body sags into your own, presence oppressive. "That's okay, pet. We'll start you off easy. Get you nice and clean, get you fed. In the morning, Kyle will help with your injuries and when you feel more like a proper lady, we'll try again, hm?"

You can't say anything, so you don't.

"But in the meantime, I can't let that kind of behavior go unchecked. Boys," he calls, eyes still boring into you. "Which one of you wants to help our guest clean up?"

The general din of excitement makes you flinch, eyes going wide as if pleading with the man who holds you so cruelly will do any good. When Johnny suggests they play rock paper scissors to decide who gets the honors, it's suddenly, belatedly clear to you that your murder would almost be a kindness. No, the worst thing this man could do for you would be to keep you. John sees it the moment you realize this. His grip eases, eyes softening in some gross perversion of kindness. He strokes your cheek soothingly when Simon goes out in the first round, smiles condescendingly when you flinch at Johnny's crow of victory. John tuts at you, but says no more as he turns you toward the Scot.

"All yours, Soap," he rumbles, pushing you not ungently toward the other man. "Spic and span, you hear?"

"Aye, sir. Thank ye, sir." Johnny's hands are much harsher than John's when he guides you from the trailer, giving you no sympathy when you flinch under the harsh warehouse lighting. You try to take stock of your surroundings as you're pulled along: spare, dusty racking; a forklift in need of repair. There are multiple loading docks, most of the viewports obscured by backed up trucks. One sits vacant and you briefly wonder if there's even more of these monsters waiting in the wings before you're pulled past a dank little office. You catch sight of outdated equipment - a rolodex, a CB - but it's the shadow boxes full of military honors that your eyes lock on the longest.

Of fucking course.

The door Johnny leads you out through is tucked off the side of the building. You stumble when he pulls you down through the door, feet unsteady where they kick up dirt. It's cold outside, colder than it had been in the dankness of the trailer. You can't help but shiver, bite your tongue as best you can when your companion takes that as invitation to draw you in close and rub a big, solid hand up your arm. 

"We'll have ye warmed up in no time, lass," he promises, but you can hear the amusement in his voice. This man murdered your friend with a crowbar and dragged her around like a slaughtered animal. You expect no kindness from him. 

He orders you to strip before turning to a small station built into the side of the warehouse. You do not strip, electing instead to take off running in the opposite direction, cursing as the gravel churns loudly under your shoes. Soap swears, his own heavy boots following at a pace you didn't think his burly body capable of. Your breaths burn your chest, each pull coming labored in your blind panic but you refuse to slow or relent, ignoring the flaming pain in your shoulder every time you swing your arm forward for propulsion.

Well, you ignore it until the ground comes tilting up to meet you, your body crushed beneath the considerable weight of one grunting, cursing Scot. You sob at the pain, or maybe the fear - hard to tell. When he levers himself off you, he wastes no time grabbing your ankle as he stands up, towering over you. If you were capable of stringing two thoughts together, you'd wonder if this was the last thing Ash saw: pale blue eyes gleaming in the low light, the cruelty that twists his face. Instead you wonder how likely your arm is to maintain full mobility after a night like this. 

Not very, you decide, sobbing in pain as he drags you back to the warehouse. He's muttering something above you, but you can't hear him over your own cries. When you kick at him futilely, he yanks on your ankle until you fear for it and you don't try it again. Not even when he gets you where he wants you, back under the wan outdoor lighting of the station he'd turned to before, crouching down next to you to rip at your shoelaces.

"Please, don't," you murmur instead, fear churning in your belly as he continues to strip you. You'd known it would come to this, known the moment the captain had mentioned something about a wife. It doesn't make it easier, doesn't make the prospect of the gritty sand underneath you any more comfortable, or your repulsion for the man above you any less sharp. "Please, please, please let me go. I could -."

"What? Suck me off?" Soap laughs harshly, "Think ah'm gonnae ge' tha' anyway, hen."

You were going to say keep your mouth shut, but you suppose that never works anyway.

The sound you make when he pulls your pants off is wretched, but the shriek he earns when he pulls a knife on you is worse. His laugh is mean, reveling in your fear for a moment before cutting your shirt from you with one deft movement. He's pulling you to your feet before you can really process why and shoving you against the metal siding of the warehouse.

"Stay there," he warns and you're unsure if his tone or the throb in your shoulder is a more effective threat. When he walks back toward the station he'd been after earlier, your gaze turns to follow until you catch sight of your own shoulder at the bottom of your field of view and you draw short, taking in the severe swelling there. You prod at the edges of the mottling, wincing at your own ministrations. 

Absorbed in your own injuries, you don't notice when Soap turns on the spigot, or when he aims the nozzle of the high pressure hose at you. He calls for you to hold your breath, but gives you no more time than that which is necessary to look up, confused, before he's spraying you down.

It's freezing, the flow hard enough to bruise where it jets against the fatty bits of you; feels like it might sheer straight through hide where your skin thins around joints. You gasp, get a mouthful of aerated hose water. Spluttering, you try blocking the stream with your hands despite it feeling like your palms are being struck by a thousand rulers.

"S'wha' we use tae wash the trucks!" Soap calls, cackling loud enough to be heard over the spray that engulfs you. You can't get away from it no matter how much you fold into yourself, catching the jet alternatingly on your hip, your ribs, your ass. It does a better job of indexing your injuries than you did, the blooms of pain where you accidentally turn a bruise toward it letting you know that the hip which took the brunt of the collision is sore, that there's a spot on your good shoulder where Gaz tackled you which smarts. Your knees and elbows are all scuffed up, dirt grinding in before being stripped away. You feel like you're being sandpapered down; buffed until you're gleaming despite knowing how the dirt he kicks up clings to your skin wherever the hose isn't actively being pointed.

Soap keeps it up for another minute or so, only turning it off when your shaking gets so bad you think you're like to fall apart. "Quit yer whinging," he warns, creeping closer as he adjusts the nozzle to another setting. "Jes' havin' a laugh, bonnie, no need tae get all bent outta shape."

You want to tell him you're not laughing, but a small voice in your head says you should be grateful he didn't turn that hose on your face, so you keep quiet to prevent him getting any ideas.

When he's close enough to touch, Soap reaches out and grabs your wrist, spraying your pebbled skin down with a softer shower of water that would set you at ease, if not for how cold it is. From your arm, the stream moves up over your head, mussing your hair beyond recognition before trickling down your battered face. Here, the cold water feels good against heated skin and despite yourself, you heave a sigh of relief, tilting slightly into the unexpected relief. 

"Like tha' hen?" he asks, and you hesitate briefly, wondering how much satisfaction you want to give him. He doesn't give you a chance to decide, ruining your brief moment of reprieve by reaching out and tweaking one hard nipple.

You squawk, swatting at him. Johnny laughs long and loud, letting the stream from the hose fall dead as he watches you fume, shaking.

"Look like one ah them wee doggies, lass," he chuckles, "angry cause ye cannae even bite properly." The bastard flicks your cheek, feigning a sympathetic coo when you flinch away. "Tha's righ', bonnie, nothin' ye can do tae fight back," he murmurs, gliding his fingertips against your cheek in a move he probably thinks is soothing. "Ye jes' remember tha', eh? Might keep you alive."

You swallow back the lump in your throat, eyes boring a hole into his shoulder because you can't stand to look him in his terribly cold eyes. When Johnny moves again, his touches are back to the easy, soft caresses from before as he hoses you down. He's surprisingly good at it, despite being armed with only a shammy and a gnarly looking bar of soap. At least he knows to avoid your hair once he realizes he'll need conditioner. That damage is already done, but you appreciate him not dragging his fucking fingers through it on top of everything else. You try taking the soap from him once but he just tuts at you warningly so you go back to shivering, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to preserve body heat and keep yourself marginally modest. You can't decide if he's being obstinately particular just to torment you longer or if he's genuinely just like this until he raises your good arm above your head and finds your armpit overgrown.

He grins, sending you a delightfully scandalized look. "See Ghost chose well. Cap's gonnae love ye," he chuckles, and you feel your panic heighten when you think of the threatening older man again. Soap notices. "No need tae worry, hen. You jes' keep bein' good fer us and Cap'll be good tae ye."

For some reason, you don't trust this man's definition of being treated well.

After getting you all washed up, Johnny marches you back into the warehouse where the other men gather around a small, dingy breakroom table pecking at microwaved burritos. They're laughing uproariously as you arrive, Gaz talking animatedly about a loading mishap back in Arizona. The noise drifts off when they spot you, eying you over like a scrap of meat. There's no covering everything and despite yourself, you're almost grateful when John stands, bringing you a blanket he had folded on the seat beside himself. 

"Feeling better, doll?" he asks, patting you dry with a gentleness you didn't expect from the big man. He frowns at the swelling of your shoulder, eyes darting between you and it with an exaggerated level of concern that makes you want to hurl.

You avoid his gaze, your own flickering around the room as you ignore John, trying to gather your resolve enough to appease him. It's a struggle until your eyes find Simon's, apathetic as always despite the disapproving set of his scarred mouth. 

"Yes, sir," you murmur, watching raptly as Simon disguises a quick nod as a glance at his plate. Your heart rate picks up, an impossible tendril of hope slithering up your aorta when John hums contentedly at your words.

"That's a girl, love," he starts, warm palm falling heavy on your back as he starts to guide you back through the warehouse. "Gaz, bring the soup. You're hungry, right pet?"

You are, but Gaz doesn't wait for confirmation, falling in stride as John guides you toward the quaint office you'd caught a glimpse of earlier.

"Now, one day, you'll be able to stay up here with us," John promises, gesturing magnanimously across the dingy warehouse as if it contained all the gold of El Dorado within its rickety racking. "But until then, we're going to have to keep you below." 

Gait faltering, you glance up at the older man fearfully but he pays you no mind at all. "Don't worry honey, only temporary. And I'll have the boys visit you daily to keep you nice and stimulated, hm? Gaz," he barks before you can reflect too much on his choice of words. Kyle, evidently knowing exactly what's expected of him, places the soup bowl he's been carrying on the cluttered desk before moving some chairs, rolling the rug back enough to reveal a cutaway door in the cement slab.

You still, every muscle in your body tensing up when John tries to coax you along. "'S'not so bad, sweetheart, I promise. Come look, yeah? Think you'll have a nice little time if you just give it a try."

Like hell you'll give it a try, knees locking up so tight you look like a GI Joe when John guides you first down the stairs. It's cool, the descent marked by the wet gradient of the cement slab as you pass further underground. It's deeper than you'd expect, the dug dirt bottom damp under your feet when you alight on the landing. There's a short hall ahead, braced by rotted-looking timber. A lone door on the opposite end, braced on one side with a long line of bolts and locks. A single light hangs from the short ceiling, low enough you could smack your forehead off of it if you're not careful. 

"Had Simon come down while you were out, get it nice and ready for you," John brags. You doubt the room on the other side of that door could be made live-in ready even if Simon had been given three years to work on it, but you know better than to say as much. 

This time, when John prods you forward, your legs don't obey. "CanIsleepwithyou?" you blurt, a last ditch effort you're not sure you want him to accept.

But John just chuckles. "Eager, eh pet? Don't worry, you'll earn that right soon enough. Now go on, I'm sure you'd like some nice new clothes to put on, hm?"

Damn him, but you do, so you slink forward, ducking under the hanging light as you pass. The door creaks when you pull it open, weight heavy despite how meager it looks. It feels solid, unbreakable, and you notice quickly that you won't be able to barricade it if you have to pull it open. John does not notice your hesitance, following you into the room with a proud little smirk on his mustached face.

"Well, what do you think?" 

Not much. The floor isn't finished, just cold tile pressed into the dirt. The walls and ceilings are, though, and you briefly feel grateful for it until the batting on the door registers and you realize it's for soundproofing purposes. There's a bed in the corner, larger than you need yourself and made up in cutesy sheets with a strawberry motif. A pile of heavy quilts sits folded at the foot and despite yourself, your fingers twitch eagerly at the prospect of sleeping soon, warm and snug under all that weight. 

"We've got some clothes for you here," John continues. You get the feeling he doesn't need a lot of input so you stand there quietly as he opens a foot locker for you, tattered and olive green. Inside sit two neat stacks of clothes, battered looking but approximately the right size. You remember Johnny's comment about the Captain liking your pits and wonder if they always bring him back a certain type.

And if so, where they are.

"G'on love, pick out something you like," John leers, and you realize you won't be able to get away with waiting until he and Kyle leave to get dressed. 

There's a marked efficiency to your movements. Grabbing the first top you see, you briefly check the tag before doing the same with the bottoms at the top of the pile. Close enough for rock and roll, you figure, dropping your blanket to the cold floor and pulling the clothes onto yourself as quickly as possible. Kyle's eyes are heavy, John's heavier. Your skin crawls, the goosebumps which never really went away after your little bath returning with a vengeance. To your immense displeasure, John has to help you pull your bad arm through the sleeve and he tuts sympathetically when you whine.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I'll bring you down some button ups tomorrow, yeah? You nod when he pauses too long, realizing you're not going to be let off the hook without a proper answer. You creep toward the bed when he hums in acknowledgement, but he tuts in warning again, nodding toward a little desk shoved off to the side of the room. You sit obediently, thanking him with a little murmur when he ferries the bowl of soup from Gaz to you. He hovers, watching raptly until you bring a spoonful of the room temperature meal to your mouth. 

"Good, right?" he asks, before you can even get a proper taste of it. 

You take your time swallowing, playing up the pain in your cheek as you try to suss out a good response. It's just microwaved soup as far as you can tell, but you figure saying as much won't garner you any favors. Instead, you hum appreciatively and shovel in another bite before John can ask you any more questions.

It works, mostly. John takes a quick lap around the room instead of standing over you, sighing now and again at whatever he finds while Gaz continues to stand in the doorway, evidently unamused. 

"It needs work, I'll give you that," John eventually concedes as you slurp at your meal. You hadn't realized how hungry you were until that sweet sweet MSG hit your tongue. "It needs work, but if you're good, we can spend some time down here fixing it up for you. Would you like that?"

You stall, spooning through some of the chunkier bits at the bottom of your bowl. It was kind of them to give you soup, you registered belatedly. Solid foods would have undoubtedly fucked up your mouth. Instead of answering, you ask John what would happen if you were to be bad and watch as his genial nature flips like a switch.

"Got a couple of news articles upstairs if you'd like to read 'em and find out."

Next>>

[artyandink]

that’s my man (and my woman)

Summary: Your kids are curious little buggers. Asking questions about everything and anything under the sun. So there comes the complications of when your kids ask you if you’ve fallen in love before. How will you explain everything? Time to put your imagination to use.

A/N - I’ve been putting out a lot of sexy fics recently. Why not some fluff?

Song Inspo: Style - Taylor Swift and Perfect - Ed Sheeran

It took so long just to get two human beings to eat breakfast.

“Charlie, Sam, breakfast!” You called up the stairs, sighing after you did. Your hands were on your hips in true mom fashion, and disbelief and faux-regret was your adrenaline high this time as you wondered why exactly you had kids. That you loved to death despite their poor eating schedule. “Come on, I made pancakes.”

The thundering of little feet on the stairs told you that you had two incoming hurricanes.

Your seven year old boy, Sam, and your five year old girl, Charlie, appeared at the bottom of the stairs with broad smiles, crashing into you for a bear hug that knocked the wind out of your sails. You laughed as you hugged them back, giving a few pats of their head each. “Hey, there. Ready for breakfast?”

“Is there syrup?” Charlie asked eagerly, running and hopping into a high chair, grabbing her plate of pancakes and bringing it to her with a familiar lick of her lips and happy, twitchy grin. Sam had gotten his father’s hair, while Charlie had gotten yours. But the eyes were swapped around, and it was always a point of laughing. Not one child could be more like one or the other.

Arguably, both kids had their father’s dimples and smile. So yes, he could stake his claim.

“And whipped cream?” Sam added with a toothy grin.

“Raspberries?”

“Blueberries?”

You shook your head with a chuckle; such chatterboxes. You opened the fridge and a cabinet, getting out the maple syrup, whipped cream and strawberries. “Not too much, ok?” You passed the toppings to them, and with a chorused ‘yes, mom’, they proceeded to completely disregard your orders. It made you shake your head again, huffing out a breath when all sense of scolding them disappeared once you saw the golden morning light hitting their little heads as they squealed and laughed.

Kids. You loved them to bits.

“Mom,” Charlie asked through a bite of pancake and whipped cream that smeared over her mouth, “have you ever loved someone before?”

The question startled you slightly, but you grabbed a kitchen towel, cleaning her lips with a soft smile as she shied away with a shriek of delight, little bunches waving about wildly. “Course I have, sweetie. But only once.”

“Ooh, tell me, tell me!” She giggled, while Sam cringed a little, muttering a small ‘gross’ that got a sharp glare and pout from Charlie. Out of care for his little sister, he shut himself up.

You took a slow breath in to give yourself time to think, leaning on the counter and putting down the paper towel. “Well, it started a long time ago. When I was twenty six, all young.”

“That’s old.” Sam wrinkled his nose in confusion. You scoffed lightly, because it damn wasn’t, but he was just a kid.

“Behave, Samuel.” You ruffled his hair with a laugh. “We met at my old job. 4th October, 2006. He had his brother with him. Now, I thought he was trouble. He had a leather jacket and one of those really fancy, loud cars and he was very popular with girls.” You reached out to tickle Charlie’s side, which had her squeaking. “But he was likeable, and charming, so I wanted to bump into him more often.”

“Was he cool?” Sam perked up, suddenly very interested. “He sounds cool.”

You pinched his chin affectionately. “The coolest. But our job was very tiring. We went through a lot of big stuff, like I told you in your bedtime stories. There would be vampires and werewolves and fairies of all kinds, but he and I would always save the day. And if we didn’t, we’d save the next day.”

“You saved the world!” Charlie exclaimed, making an aeroplane with a pancake bite on her fork. The action sent a flutter of warmth and love through your chest. For your family. Something you thought you’d never have.

You nodded, guiding the bite to her mouth gently before your hyperactive child sent the fork flying. “That’s right, gumdrop. We saved the world.” It was like telling a story, of you and your prince. “I couldn’t help but love him. He’d call me sweetheart and hold me tight. He’d look at me with a wide smile on his face, just for me. And he told me I was the one he was looking for.”

“That’s corny.” Sam piped up, but he also had a wide, goofy, dimpled grin on his face. He leaned forward. “So, where is he now? Did you two leave each other?”

“Well, he-” The sound of the door opening and closing echoed through the house, followed by soft padding steps and heavier ones not so far behind.

“Sweetheart, I’m home!” A familiar voice called, the deep one which always had your stomach doing flips. That you heard murmuring sweet nothings in your ear every damn day. “C’mon Miracle, stay still- attaboy. Such a good boy.”

“That would be your father.” You sighed, not in a disappointed way, but a lovesick teenager way because hearing the word ‘sweetheart’ from your husband’s mouth never got old.

Your husband. Damn, you didn’t think you’d make it to that point. Not when Chuck was still a threat. Or even that rebar that Jack saved him from.

Your kids shrieked happily and practically flew off their high chairs, sprinting towards their dad, who was busy taking off his jacket in the hallway.

Dean Winchester. All 6’ 1” of flannel and denim, but this time with burden-free smiles and lit up looks.

When he saw his two munchkins, the jacket was off in a flash and he’d bent to one knee in order to absorb the impact of two koala hugs. “Aw, hey, squirt number one and two. Hope you didn’t give your mom much trouble.”

It felt so much better than the impact of a punch. Indescribably better.

“Dad!” The two giggled at the same time, accepting two kisses on the forehead each while being smothered by their dad’s strong arms. Warm and comforting and no longer instruments of destruction.

They’d always be somewhat like that, Dean thought in the back of his mind. The seed of doubt sowing in again.

Then Dean saw you in the hallway, and his brain forgot to work, doubts forgot to sow and crept into the dark corner it came from. You, his wife (he never got tired of the way that word rolled off his tongue), Mrs Winchester, standing there all pretty looking at him with those eyes of yours that always saw through his crap and often jackassery.

Dressed up in his undershirt, your sweats with the last few winks of sleep yet to go from your eyes, but still working yourself to the bone to make sure your kids had a good meal. A far cry of the days where he’d look up, see you covered in blood that wasn’t yours, adrenaline-pumped with that sexy fire in your eyes, machete in hand instead of that ring he bought around your finger.

He preferred this look on you. It meant you were safe.

Dean watched as you gave Miracle an idle scratch before ushering the kids into the kitchen, then walking up to him and wrapping those gorgeous arms around his neck, gorgeous eyes twinkling and your gorgeous lips stretched into a smile.

The whole nine yards, apple pie and picket fence of gorgeous and it was all his. All his personal heaven.

“Mrs Winchester.” He murmured, nudging your nose with his as his arms circled your waist, drawing you in and gripping your hips with both underlying possessiveness and a tender glow in those emerald eyes. Your soul soaring and low, warm vibrations in your body increasing until it was at the frequency of his. Syncing you both.

“Mr Winchester.” You giggled softly as you let your lips meet his once, pulling back. Then you couldn’t help yourself, letting them meet in holy matrimony again. And again. And again, over and over until you were both mentally and physically restraining yourselves due to your children being in the next room.

“We have to stop.” Dean chuckled, his hand tangling in your hair as the other inched down from its place on your hip, taking yet another hit of your honeyed lips.

“We do.” You whispered back, meeting his ministrations with the slow massage of your thumb against his scalp from where your fingers ran through his hair, your other hand on his chest.

Over his heart.

“Hard to when y’looking so pretty, darlin’, and you know it.” He huffed, nuzzling your nose before dipping to press a slow, hot kiss to your jugular. “Wearin’ my shirt too, hardens the bargain. And these sweats, god, you know what they do for your ass.” As if to punctuate his point (and sentence), he gave a quick, firm slap to it. “Ain’t makin’ it easy for me here, baby.”

“Dean!” You squeaked, giggling. “Our kids are in the kitchen.”

“Lil’ buggers. My sex drive’s arch nemesis.” He groaned against your neck, but listened anyway, taking his hand off your ass and cupping your cheeks, pressing a loving kiss to your forehead, then hairline. “C’mon.” You two made your way to the kitchen, where Miracle then padded over, rearing on his hind legs to paw at Dean’s jeans for attention. He obliged, bending down to ruffle Miracle’s golden coat.

“Hey, boy.” He whispered, fingers doing good work to give Miracle the love he was whining for. “I love you a lot, ok? But I’ve got a wife, a very sweet, very sexy…” Dean gave you a once over with a lick of his lip and a quick bite of the bottom one, “wife. And I wanna get her in bed today, so don’t ruin this one for me. All respect given. Alright?”

A small whimper of affirmation.

“Attaboy.” Dean gave Miracle a quick scratch behind the ear before straightening up.

“C’mon, mom, tell us what happened to the cool guy!” Sam insisted, which had Dean raising an eyebrow at you in question. Cool guy? Who, what, when, where, how, why?

“Yeah, the one that stole your heart and put rainbows in your eyes!” Charlie added, making a heart with her tiny hands.

Dean smirked, leaning against the counter by his hip. “Oh? Who stole your heart and put rainbows in your eyes, honey? Do tell.”

“First of all, I did not say that.” You chuckled, raising a finger.

“You don’t have to. It’s all here.” Charlie pointed to her own eyes with an intense stare at her finger and a cute pout. It almost had you melting. “But tell us!”

“Oh, fine.” You rolled your eyes playfully with a laugh, then took Dean’s hand and kissed the battle-scarred knuckle.

The gesture making Dean internally melt and externally making his eyes fill up with hearts and his lips twitch into a warm smile.

“I married him.” You said softly, your eyes mirroring the same look.

“Damn right.” He chuckled, leaning forward and meeting your lips in a sweet, slow kiss. Free from the stress of an Apocalypse or a battle. That tasted like coffee and toothpaste rather than beer or whiskey and had no rush. His hand cradling your cheek while yours gently cupped the back of his head. Breathing in his body wash that wasn’t low grade anymore. You still had the unlimited credit cards, so you had more time for things like these. The little things.

You became absorbed in everything Dean, the kiss not as passionate as when he’d dipped you and took your breath away in front of a crowd of hunters on your wedding day but still had the same meaning. The whispers of the vows you two had choked out through tears. He became absorbed in you, in the sweet taste of a croissant on your tongue and your floral scent dizzying and overwhelming his senses in a good way. It was you he was feeling. It felt like you, so real, so safe. It felt like home.

“Ewwww!” You were interrupted by Sam and Charlie, and you broke apart, foreheads pressing together with a soft laugh coming from the both of you.

His hand on your waist, yours carding through his hair. Comfort, assurance, something you both had been deprived of for fifteen straight years. You wouldn’t let being Mrs Winchester go. Not now, not ever.

Mrs Winchester. Never got old.

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[grapejuicestyless]

The Things We Miss

JJ Maybank x fem!reader

Summery: There were only two rules between the Pogues. No Pogue on Pogue macking, and never mention the one we lost.

The chateau was littered with dry rot, and probably violated as many safety codes there were, hell, it probably created new guidelines just by standing, but it was home. It wasn’t legally anyones, no more did it belong to John B as it did to the rest of the Pogues. He could call it his childhood home, but so could JJ, right? If you spend all your time on the lap of another’s father, he becomes your dad too, right? He becomes more than the man who you wave to when you see to be polite. He teaches you how to fish, how to write, not to read cursive, he couldn’t even do that, but how to cook.

But maybe that was all just a perk, something to sweeten everything. Because truthfully it wasn’t the family, or his lack of family, or the house, or the food—though it was good, or the beer that kept JJ coming as often as he did.

It was her.

Y/n Routledge, a Pogue by heart, and a smile like gold.

Y/n was younger than John B, not by much. They didn’t even have a year separating them. They were irish twins, in the sense that their parents decided it would be best to try for kids as soon as possible after John B was born. Maybe it was the mother’s idea, maybe she knew she’d be leaving and she had to do everything she wanted as quickly as she could to escape faster. But John B figures it was just baby fever. So Y/n was ten months younger than John B, but never dumber, or slower, or calmer.

She was the center of everything. All things good, JJ believed happened because of her. Like she had a good luck charm that radiated onto the others. Though, she wouldn’t need it if she had, because JJ believed he was lucky enough to have her just breathing beside him anyway.

Maybe that’s why her passing was so hard for him, harder than it was for any of the other Pogues, even her own blood.

None of them would ever forget the night they lost her, John B had been suffering with the loss of his father, but Y/n seemed to power through like it was nothing. She hid the CPS documents from John B to keep him calm, payed the bills for him, and kept him fed and happy. She never cried. Never.

So imagine the surprise when they discovered the ghost of tears staining her face when the sun rose and they could finally see her, paled and cold.

They would never see her kind eyes again, or the smile that lit up every room. Her laugh wouldn’t echo through the chateau, and she wouldn’t rock the boat trying to wrestle Kiara for the last applesauce anymore. She was gone.

The hurricane was harsh. John B and Y/n had excitedly claimed it as a way to delay their CPS appointment, confident they would live another day on the island.

She didn’t want to surf the surge that night, she was scared. She begged her brother not to go, but when she saw the determination on his face, she grabbed her board and went with him. Because if anything were to happen, she’d pull him from the sea and drag him to shore if she had to.

The waves were restless, crashing onto the shore and knocking back anything littered behind. Y/n’s gut said don’t do it, but her best interest for her brother, and her JJ forced her feet into the waves.

It was fun at first, catching waves she never had before, laughing with JJ and John B, but soon it became too much, and when she wiped out, she went silently, her head coming down on a rock hard, and her board drifting away as she sunk into the soft sand below, the dark waters thrashing at her body, hiding the crimson that swirled around her.

She was scared, she was scared when the day started, and she was scared when she went. When the boys decided to call it quits, also unable to keep their balance, they called for her, but she was nowhere to be found.

“Y/n/n?” JJ had called out, wading back into the water quickly, only knowing the vague position where you had last been. “Y/n, come on, it’s not funny, seriously!” But the jokes had always been JJ’s thing, so only part of him held out hope she was only joking.

“I see her!” John B had called out, catching a glimpse of her hand underneath a softer wave, but maybe he wouldn’t have tried so hard, wasted so much energy, and carried her to shore if he knew just how late he was.

“Come on bird, come on.” He called her the nickname his father gave him, seeing lines of her paled face through the teary vision covering his eyes.

They preformed CPR, and JJ’s mouth met hers in a desperate attempt to wake her, he nearly broke her rib trying to restart her heart. He could feel the burning in his eyes, but he refused to cry over someone he believed he could save. When he dreamed of their first kiss, he never thought it would happen this way.

Y/n sputtered to life with a cough, rolling over to breathe, and the boys felt relief for the first time. They thought they knew the feeling, but now they truly did.

Y/n had a lot of fight in her, maybe that’s why she came back. But the darkness made it hard to see the blood staining her hair red, or how it dripped down the side of her neck as rain poured down on them. She laughed at something JJ had said, and she told him that she loved him as they limped along the path, and this time she seemed different about the way she was saying it. They didn’t know it just then that they hadn’t saved her, because she walked with her brother’s arm around her, but she fell into JJ’s when she collapsed.

“Y/n/n?” He asked, in a panic. He stumbled, but held her up, trying to brush the hair out of her face so he could see her. His palms came up red, wet with more than the salt water that consumed her. He swore as he sat on his knees, holding her head between his legs while John B kneeled above her.

“Come on, hold out a little longer okay?” He tapped his sister’s cheek, his fingers lined with the red that poured from her head. He silently prayed she was okay, that she was just weak from nearly drowning.

They whispered sweet nothings to her, because even with her eyes closed and her breathing shallow, they could feel it in the way she was tense that she was scared, scared even as she slipped away, as the life she cared for so much was ripped from her cruelly.

They cradled her close and lifted her head to press soft kisses to her cold skin. The boys hands were sticky with copious amounts of blood that didn’t belong to them. But still, they cradled her like their warmth was enough to undo what was done.

They laid her in bed when they got home. John B tucked her in like he had the first week their mother left, and like she had the first week after their father’s death. In the morning, her white pillow was stained red, and her body was unmoving, not even the faint rising of her chest from her breath could be seen. She was gone, and her red skin and streaky face told them that at some point as they laid her to rest, she had accepted it, she had cried and she had gone because it would be less painful than trying to stay.

JJ found her first in the morning. He screamed, and he punched a hole in the wall before crying on her lap. He positioned her arms to hold him one last time as he wept, John B rushing in only to break a lamp in grief, the weight of her death on his shoulders.

She was gone, and he blamed himself for dragging her out to a place she never wanted to go.

John B was left with the absence of his other half, and JJ was left with the regret of not holding onto her a little tighter before she passed. A sister, and the love of another’s life ripped from their hands under their noses. It made them equally sick.

“No, hell no!” JJ yelled, storming out of the sunroom in the chateau. The wood creaked under his heavy boots, which were caked in dust and stained from rain. There was a droplet of blood near one of the toes that he often focused on, a stain from a memory he wishes he didn’t have.

“JJ she can help us!” Pope called out for him, but his voice fell flat against the revving of his dirt bike.

“I don’t give a damn if she held up the sky with her pinky!” JJ yelled, tossing his bike in the dirt carelessly.

It wasn’t that JJ had a problem with the blond kook, like he had some personal vendetta against the Cameron girl, no, it was the way his best friend was looking at her.

He held a love in his eyes he hadn’t seen since the incident. A few weeks ago, it would have made him happy, he would have clapped a palm over his spine and laughed at how he hoped he would be next, but he would only half mean it because JJ was certain he had already found something to compare John B’s love sick stare to.

But now that was gone, and John B was looking at another girl like the most important person in their lives wasn’t gone. Like the red that still stained the sheets in a faint pink color wasn’t haunting the guest room that was once hers. The same room that John B had torn apart and made unrecognizable just hours after they took her away.

JJ kept her things though, selfishly, in a box under the bed. Her pictures and her stuffed animals, the bear that JJ had spent his first paycheck winning for her.

He slept in that room religiously now, clinging to the mattress like if he laid in it long enough, his body would find the indentation where her body used to curl up, like if he held onto her sheets for long enough, he could still smell her, and if he played her favorite CD’s, ones he used to tease her for liking because it was all girlish pop music mixed in with some dad rock and acid, he would hear her fading laughter one last time.

John B didn’t give a damn, he couldn’t care less, and that’s what made him mad. That someone he would have traded places for in an instant was gone and her own brother didn’t seem to care.

“JJ, calm down!” Kiara shouted aimlessly, scooting back when the screen door slammed open again and JJ’s boots slapped against the wood loudly.

“Do you not care?” He asked, venom on his tongue, and John B simply shot him a glare.

“Of course I care! I want this gold more than anything. Sarah can help us, I can’t help that love just…walked through the door!” John B spoke like there was nothing else that could possibly be getting under JJ’s skin.

He threw the ashtray that sat on one of the dusty tables outside, watching it shatter like his heart had. The pain was still fresh, and the loss even fresher. He still had her blood underneath his finger nails, and maybe thats what made him feel so sick.

“Who cares about the fucking gold!” JJ shouted, exasperated. “What about Y/n?”

His words earned gasps and loud silence from the group, his best friend’s mouth hung open in quiet understanding and also a deep grief that had a lingering anger.

“JJ, we said we wouldn’t talk about it.” Kiara warned quietly, eyes flickering between the boys.

“Y/n is dead, John B. Shes gone and shes never coming back, don’t you understand that?” JJ’s hands fisted at the collar of John B’s shirt, only letting go when Popes hands rested on his shoulders, yanking him back so hard they both stumbled backwards.

“Of course I understand that! She’s my sister, I loved her!” John B argued back, shoving JJ hard, but not getting much leverage as Pope had already pulled them apart.

“But you have no problem replacing her!”

The world seemed to fall quiet, even Sarah had nothing to say, though everyone around could tell she was trying to sympathize for a death of a girl she barely knew, someone she could only grieve through the stories she would eventually hear.

“None of you do!” JJ’s shouting died down into a pathetic cry, his lip wobbling and his eyes red. They all watched his nose scrunching to help with the stinging he felt travel down his face into the back of his throat. It only made it feel more real because if she had been there, she would have known how to make him feel better. But none of them did, and that was the hard truth.

“It’s like you don’t even care about her! You can’t even fucking say her name, it’s like…like it’s some poison for you guys. Y/n Routledge.” JJ sputtered on in an endless word vomit. “That’s her name and don’t ever forget it.”

JJ turned on his heels, pushing past Pope and brushing his shoulder hard. His boots kicked up the dirt behind them, but just like he always did, he had more to say.

“She was gonna be something great.” He declared, spinning on his feet, holding his hat she bought him in middle school between his clenched hands. “She said she wanted to make a difference, and I believed her. She was gonna be the one to make it out of here. She was gonna be something to someone!” He wanted to throw his hat down, but the thought of tarnishing something that she had once held made him sick.

“But that doesn’t matter, right? She’s dead. She’s dead because she was too busy saving all of our asses that she didn’t have time to save her own.”

He looked at his hands, the sight of the dried blood making him sick all over again. He sped off before anyone could say anything else, before they could see the way he turned green with grief and fought the urge to choke his vomit down just to see if it might work and he might see her again.

Instead, he sat on the beach. Between the grains of sand, there were some red blotches left on the ground. He kicked them around with his boot, not wanting to stare at the crime scene any longer. It was enough that a droplet was forever stained on his boots, and that it was tattooed into his skin.

When the tide was low, you could see the top of the rock that took her. It felt eerie because he had memories of her standing on that rock as a child. Pretending to be the little mermaid as the waves hit the shore, and promising her that one day he would get rich and buy her a real mermaid tail.

This was her favorite beach. The waves, the soft sand and the shady spots by the trees that hung over the edges of the land. Overtime, it grew to be JJ’s favorite beach too.

He knew he shouldn’t talk about her so soon from the accident. That John B was already torn up about the fact that he couldn’t afford a proper funeral, that Kiara’s parents had to buy her ashes so they could spread her in the sea, in the same waves that took her.

But not talking about it felt like failing her to JJ. To him, she was everything good in the world. A pure sweetness he wished he good have greedily taken more of. Because the truth is, JJ found love a hard thing to accept. He knew he loved his friends, even if he could never express it verbally, but he always knew he loved her. Part of him was glad that he had told her once that he did, love her.

Maybe she always knew, but he was glad he got it off his chest before she went, because at least that didn’t haunt him.

JJ swore he could feel her arms cradling him as the sun set, and he swore her laughter carried out through the winds that swept over the waves. She was as warm as the sun and as luminescent as the moon to JJ, and funny enough, as wild as the ocean.

In some ways, it made him feel a little more at peace that even if he physically couldn’t have her, they would always be a part of the same stars. He was just a little bit further away from reaching them as she was.

[ticktokrobotsnot]

Hurricane

This is part 1. You can read part 2 here.

Pairing: Carmen Berzatto x fem!reader 

Summary: The upcoming bachelor party that Carmen has to cater causes some tension between him and y/n. 

Word Count: 9.5k 

warning: alcohol, mentions of throwing up out of nervousness but no one actually does, or even comes close, fighting, smoking

--

Three hundred thousand dollars, what kind of fucking moron takes out three hundred thousand dollars just to blow his brains out and let his younger brother foot the bill. What kind of cosmic douche does that to another person? Y/n would never say something like that out loud but she certainly was thinking it after Carmen told her about the debts that he apparently owes on top of the bills he had yet to pay. In fact, Carmen was barely scraping by, he cut his pay check till all he had was enough to cover rent and the bare bones necessities. Rather than cut anyone’s pay, or cheaping out on ingredients, he sacrificed almost everything for this restaurant, for his brother. And what did his brother leave him? A three hundred thousand dollar bill. Once again, what a dick. 

“It’s not-” Carmen started. “It’s fixable.”

Y/n didn’t say anything, she continued to scrub the stop top and kept her face neutral when in reality her blood was boiling. It’s not her debt and she is completely free to run away before this ship sinks but she couldn’t help but stay. She had convinced herself that the reason she stayed was because this horrible and completely fucked restaurant was like a train wreak, you can't help but stand and watch it crash and burn. Definitely not because of any other personal reasons. 

“We just have to keep our heads down and get through the year and we can get some money off of our tab.” 

More silence.

They both knew it was a pipe dream, no matter what they did at the restaurant, they could only make an insignificant dent towards the impending debt. Y/n didn’t want to be negative when Carmen was doing his best to not crumble under the pressure so she looked up with a small smile. She wondered if the smile translated as an optimistic smile or a pity smile.

Carmen sighed, leaned against the wall and rubbed his face with his palms in an effort to wipe away some tension. Looks like it translated as a pity smile. 

“Tell me something good, y/n.”  Carmen mumbled through his hands.

It was like the words were lost in her mouth. What could she possibly say? What collection of words makes this shitty situation any better? The answer is none, sometimes words mean nothing. No amount of consoling or baseless optimism could make this situation look good. If you can’t make a shitty situation look good then you should at least make a shitty solution look good. 

“At least you have those bachelor parties, you can knock off a few grand.” Y/n offered.

“Yeah,” Carmen agreed half-heartedly. Looks like she couldn’t make the shitty solution look good either. Y/n gave herself one more attempt to lighten the mood before she sewed her mouth shut, crawled into a hole and died. 

“And let's not forget that your “loan shark” is your uncle and he won’t smash your kneecaps.” Y/n jokingly muttered, “Probably?”

Y/n heard Carmen exhale through his nose. Y/n lives to speak and live another day. After testing the waters for the past few months, y/n realized that in order to get Carmen to stop going into crisis mode she had to either talk about a solution or completely distract him. 

“What's the payment situation going to be like? …What is the interest?”

“No …no interest, just a clean 300k.”

“That's fair, adding interest on a loan like that would be like throwing shit in a septic tank. When is the bachelor party?”

“Uncle Jimmy is coming by tomorrow to give the details for that stupid fucking party.”

One quality that has persisted through out the years was y/n ability to not know when to shut the fuck up. The trait was helpful when filling the silence between the both of them. Carmen liked to listen more than talk, he didn't have anything to talk about except depressing shit. So when the air was filled with anxiety and tension y/n did what she did best, make a damn fool of herself.

“You think there's going to be strippers?”

Carmen looked up from his hands and gave out a laugh out of shock and it sounded like music to y/n ears. She wished she could record it, he really did have a nice smile and she wished he smiled more. Good god, he looked so… so…

“There will be at least strippers.” Carmen snickered while hiding his smirk behind his hands. It's like he knew she was waiting for it and was depriving her on purpose. This was a good learning moment for y/n though, shock humor lands well with Carmen. 

Y/n moved on to scrubbing the floor because she wasn’t able to look Carmen in the eyes after asking, “Have you ever been to a strip club?” 

She didn’t even have to look up to know what kind of look she was getting. She heard a bewildered laugh and looked up and was met with  an amazing view. His head was thrown back and his hand was running through his hair. 

For a brief moment, y/n tried to convince herself that all of the embarrassment she put herself through wasn’t worth it but after stealing a few glimpses of him she could confidently say it most definitely was.

“No I haven’t. You?” He then straightened his head and grabbed a towel and started scrubbing too.

“Of course, I've been. I used to work in one, you know?” Carmen’s head shot up.

“Yeah, but I needed a career change.”

“You worked in one? As a… dancer?” Carmen asked not quite being able to tell if this was a joke or not.

“You call strippers “dancers”? What are you, 90? No, I was not a “dancer.” I was a bartender.”

“Hmm” Carmen pondered before adding, “I knew you couldn't be one, I saw you slip on air this morning.” 

“My lack of coordination aside,” y/n rolled her eyes jokingly, “I spent a lot of time seeing the routines and stuff and I could never, I can barely run a mile let alone swing around on a pole. Those strippers are stronger and braver than the Marines.” 

“I have a cousin in the Marines,” Carmen added while scrubbing a particularly tough stain.

“Tell him that he’s a little bitch.”

Carmen stopped scrubbing and gwaffed into his fist. On the outside she looked normal but inside she was scratching the skin off her face in joy. She really wanted to seal the deal.

“Would you ever be a stripper?”

3-0 favoring y/n because Carmen looked up at her and laughed, and not a reserved one. A full one with an open mouth and red face. 

Holy fuck… what the fuck was she doing? She could be home right now rewatching a nature documentary to unwind.  She should be asleep right now. It's 12am and here she is sitting with her boss on the floor counting how many times she can make him feel good. And the worst part?  She was enjoying herself. 

“I don’t think I would make a good one.” He said as he moved closer to y/n and scrubbed at another scuff mark. 

He would make a great one, y/n thought. He has huge arms, a quiet but powerful persona, a sculpted face, and beautiful eyes. Y/n had to resist the impulse to say that she would throw all her money at him right this second. 

“It's your eyes.” Y/n humorously pondered, “They’re too intense, am I going to get a lap dance or am I going to get into a long and meaningful relationship?” 

Carmen's gaze lifted towards y/n, and she wrestled the urge to lock her gaze with his mesmerizing cerulean eyes. She wanted to etch into her memory the way the yellowing lights danced upon his irises, as they transitioned shades, but the flutters in her stomach were making her woozy. 

Y/n was a coward, so unsurprisingly she looked away, but not before stupidly adding, “You could add a blindfold to your act, I bet that would make the girls go wild.” 

What in the flying fuck was she talking about, y/n screamed in her head. Y/n had some nerve calling The Beef a train wreck when she was watching herself crash and burn and not being able to stop herself. It felt like an out of body experience, like she was watching someone else fuck up her life. 

Carmen looked like he was thinking about something and y/n wondered if she would have the courage to pick up her last check after she got her ass fired. 

“Judging by the amount of shit I have to deal with in this stupid fucking place, being a stripper is starting to look more and more…” Carmen stared at y/n for a split moment,  “tempting.” 

Y/n was glad that he had inadvertently stopped her from saying something really stupid but she needed a quiet place all to herself so she could squeal like a teenage girl.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, y/n was starting to notice how close they were and in order to stop herself from getting a sued for sexual harassment she forced herself to call it a night, and that was a tough call to make. Y/n smiled at Carmen before softly mummering, “Carmy, you’ve got a big day tomorrow why don’t we get you home?”

Carmen's posture straightened, and a slight haze seemed to veil his eyes. Rising to his feet, he extended a hand towards y/n. In the instant their palms met, a surge of thoughts flooded y/n's mind, realizing how deeply she would miss this touch once they released. The fleeting moment barely allowed her to relish the sensation, leaving her with only a passing recollection of his hand—warm, calloused, and undeniably strong.

After grabbing their stuff from the lockers, y/n glanced at her phone that showed 12:14am. The walk home was going to be a real bitch. Carmen did one last walk through before leaving. Y/n could have left after she got her stuff but she stayed for a bit longer. She leaned against the windows of The Beef watching Carmen leave the restaurant and lock the door. He didn't look a bit surprised at her still waiting for him, he knew she would always be there waiting. It was a tradition, they would close up and he would walk y/n to her car. He would wait till y/n car was completely out of sight before he climbed into his car and drove to his place. 

“Where did you park your car?” Carmen asked while shuffling through his bag to find his own car keys. 

“My car is at the shop, I'm going to walk home.” 

“You're going to walk home after dark? It's like 1 in the morning?”

“It's 12:30 and it's not that big of a deal, and if I get tired I'll just uber the rest of the way home.”

“That's how people get kidnapped, y/n”

“Don't worry, even if I do get kidnapped, I'll still miraculously make it to work on time tomorrow, and I'll have an epic tale to share for years to come." Y/n joked. "Why don’t I walk you to your car for a change? Where did you park?"

Carmen hesitated, not because he didn't want to offer a ride but because he didn’t want to overstep any boundaries. It's just a ride home, it's not like ridesharing amongst coworkers is something new. 

“Let me drive you home. This is not a great neighborhood.”

“My place is opposite from your place, I'm not going to hold you hostage. Go home, you have a big day tomorrow.” Y/n pulled up Google maps to see how long the walk would take, 35 minutes wasn't too bad. 

“It's fine, I wasn't going to sleep right away anyways.”

Y/n shot a disapproving look. "Do you honestly think I was born yesterday? I mean, come on. You're planning to stay up late after a long day at work today and another one tomorrow?"

“Let me do this for you…Please.”

Y/n was contemplating beating his ass with one of the 2x4s lying around, how fucking dare he look at her like that when she is already holding her self back from jumping his bones. It was maddening. In that moment, the streetlight cast an ethereal glow upon his hair, transforming it into strands of pure gold. She couldn't deny the captivating effect it had on her. And that infuriating expression he wore, as if he had the power to make her surrender to his every whim, was driving her wild. If he had asked for her kidney with that look, she might have found herself on her knees, desperately clawing at her own abdomen to fulfill his request.

“Ok, thank you so much Carmen. You really are…kind.” Y/n tried not to look at his eye because she knew that she would feel another flutter and now she had an audience watch her throw up from overstimulation. 

“It’s the least I can do.” Carmen didn’t have the courage to thank her for making him feel better about the restaurant’s financial situation so this was the best he could do. 

They both walked to Carmen’s car in silence. Y/n had an unstoppable itch to fill the silence with some asinine conversation but she resisted. She knew as soon as she got home she would scream into her pillow for bringing up strippers and blindfolds to her boss, and she didn’t want to add more things to cringe about. They could be 85 and she would still pucker her face when remembering this night.  

They finally walked up to Carmen’s car, and Carmen opened y/n’s door for her. Y/n had to keep from fainting right then and there, she was a grown woman and Carmen was doing the bare minimum by helping out an employee and here she was fighting a blush. He walked over to the driver side and started the car. 

“You good?” 

“Sorry.” Y/n hands were shaking from the nerves.

“I can't find the seat belt connector thing, it's too dark." 

Carmen wordlessly grabbed the seatbelt from the base and trailed down the belt, softly grazing his knuckle on her collarbone before gently taking the buckle from y/n's hands and guiding it to the right place. 

Y/n mumbled a soft thanks. They both looked away for a second, both of them completely floored by Carmen’s boldness. Y/n couldn’t take this anymore she needed to get out of here before she became a stuttering mess, “Let me look up the directions, I’m geographically blind so I need Google to tell me where to go. I've been working here for months and I still need someone to tell me to get home.” Carmen pushed his tongue against his cheek to stifle another laugh. 

“Geographical blind”, who says that? That's literally the lamest fucking thing you could possibly say. Y/n was going to go home and watch a few meditation videos in the hope that she learns how to shut the fuck up. 

The ride back was nice and quiet. Y/n was too tired to talk and she was starting to feel guilty for making Carmen drive her home, he should be even more tired than her. They finally pulled over to y/n’s place, and she sat in the car for a few seconds to ground herself before she looked over to Carmen who was looking straight through the windshield. 

“Thanks again Carmen.” 

“Will your car be back tomorrow?” 

“The day after.” 

“I’ll drop you off tomorrow then.”

“That's too much Carmen, You aren’t obligated to do this. I’ll just leave a little earlier so I can catch a train.” Carmen looked like he was not satisfied with that response. Y/n didn’t want to leave early because she liked her time alone with Carmen but she couldn’t keep imposing. 

“I’ll drop you off, it's not a big deal.” He left no room for negotiation. 

Y/n smiled at him before grabbing her purse. Carmen got out of the car and walked around to y/n’s side to open her door. Y/n got out with as much grace as a toddler, she really needed to go to bed. 

“Carmen, you really are too… you're just too…” Y/n struggled to find a good enough word before mindlessly blurting out, “Good.” 

Y/n couldn’t see his face because the streetlamp was too far to illuminate his face so she didn’t know if she made him uncomfortable. 

“Thanks again, I’ll see you tomorrow Carm.” Y/n softly mumbled before walking into her building and while waiting for the elevator she saw that Carmen was still leaning against the car door. She gave him a small smile not seeing if she got one back. The elevator ride up was filled with y/n jumping, dry heaving, and overall panic induced mayhem. The second hand embarrassment was too much. The elevator dinged and she went into her place and looked out the window to really burn the memory into her brain. This is the exact date and location where Carmen dropped her off. 

She was surprised to see that he was still there. Everyone at work knew what apartment building she lived in because she invited them over for dinner recently, so it wasn’t a surprise that he knew the general area on where to look for her apartment. 

She flicked on the lights and picked up her phone to dial him and watched as his silhouette fumble around to  find his phone. 

Carmen spoke first, “I just wanted to make sure you…”

“I got home safe.” Y/n opened her window before giving him a wave from five stories. 

Y/n continued, “Go home, chef, I want to see you bright and early tomorrow.” She saw a blur of what she deciphered as a wave. 

“Night y/n”

And with that y/n closed her window and Carmen drove off. It was 1 in the morning so she didn’t jump or scream into her pillow like she intended to because her neighbors would kill her. So she settled for a shower and eventually passed out. 

Y/n was not a morning person my all means and told Carmen as an off handed comment a few months back. He offered her later hours so she didn’t need to come in super early for prep but she could stay to clean up. She got ready and got to the restaurant at around 11:30 am, where she found Carmen, Richie and an older man seated on a table at the far corner of the restaurant.

 Before she could slip away to make herself busy in the kitchen, she was called over by the older gentlemen with a finger curl. Y/n turned around assuming that he was indicating someone else only to find that no one else was there but her. She looked over again and pointed at herself and Richie rolled his eyes before kicking the chair next to him to indicate that she was to sit. Y/n took off her headphones and sat across from the old guy and in between the cousins. Carmen looked up and wordlessly gave her a polite greeting. 

If this was money problems why is this old fart calling me over? 

Awkward silence.

“Good morning.” Y/n started.

“Morning, did Carmen fill you in?” Carmen’s “uncle” asked.

"I'd be delighted to put a name to your face. I'm y/n," she said with a warm smile.

“I'm Cicero…” Y/n pretended to look a bit puzzled, “Uncle Jimmy, yes, yes, Carmen told me you were coming today”

No one filled the silence so y/n stepped in. 

“As much as I love the mystery, I do have work to do…so…why am I here?” 

Cicero spoke up, “Carmy’s got that catering gig at that bachelor party on Friday and we were wondering if you would like to help.”

“Catering to a bunch of drunks on Friday night, seems like exhilarating” Y/n said sarcastically.  “I'll be there. I’ve got to the kitchen, I shouldn’t leave Tina alone with my prep-” 

“Look, I'm going to be honest with you…” Cicero continued, Y/n glanced sideways at both Richie and Carmen but they looked as confused as she did. 

“Did you work out front a week ago?” Cicero asked.

“I covered for Richie on Tuesday?”

“One of the guys, the groom, saw you and thought you…looked…” It looked like he was embarrassed to finish what he wanted to say. “They want you to be there.” Cicero finished.

“This is what you were holding off on, we’ve been sitting here for 20 minutes in fucking silence so you could solicit a fucking chef?” Richie said in confusion before laughing and leaning back to glance at Carmen on the far right who was visibly livid, which caused him to laugh even more obnoxiously. 

“Be there and do what?” Y/n pondered, a flicker of concern crossing her mind. She couldn't help but wonder if this was how human trafficking stories began. She wasn’t really paying attention to either Carmen or Richie, but she could feel that it was getting tense on her right, where Carmen was seated.

“I'm just going to rip off the bandaid. They want you there to serve drinks.” Y/n couldn’t hide the look of bewilderment and relief. 

“Jesus, you were making it seem like I was going to have to sleep with them…Yes I can serve drinks. I’ll be there” Y/n got up from her chair and Cicero added.

“Do you know what a Hurricane Shot is, y/n?” 

Y/n immediately sat right back down, she let out a laugh and she was in decent company because Richie was also dying right next to her.

“They want that…” Cicero finished awkwardly. 

Carmen looked up after trying to burn a hole into his table. “What the fuc-” Carmen fumed. 

“What’s the pay like?” Y/n asked.

“Without you 5k, with 10k”. That made Richie stop laughing. 

“Let me think about it.” 

Y/n got up and walked out back. She stole a quick glance at Carmen who was sharing some choice words with his “uncle.” Y/n thought that she might as well get back to work. She was going to serve drinks no matter what but she had a feeling that she would get some resistance. 

The rest of the shift was relatively slow and Carmen was in his office for most of the day. Around 8, it looked like there weren't going to be any more customers so Carmen finally got out of his cave and let everyone leave early. He stood with his back straight and arms crossed in front of his office, his eyes narrowed at y/n. Y/n thought she could not deal with the brunt of this confrontation by herself, so she looked at Richie trying to nonverbally communicate for him to stay. Luckily, Richie understood and stayed and it was just the three of them alone at the restaurant. 

Carmen went inside and it was implied that the both of them should follow. 

“I'm going to serve at that party.” Y/n whispered.

“Yeah, no shit you are.” Richie agreed while whispering a lot less quietly. 

“It's 10 grand.” Y/n reasoned

“Who says no to 10 fucking grand?” Richie exclaimed.

They both walked over to the office. Y/n stood against the wall, it felt like she was being sent to the principal's office. 

The silence was killing y/n so she started, “It's just one day.”

“Only a few hours” Richie offered

“Which is basically just a few minutes.” Y/n reasoned. 

“Which is really just a few seconds.” Richie added.

More silence. 

“It's a lot of money cousin, and y/n is up for it.”

“Yeah, 10k in a few hours. I mean it would be totally crazy to say no.” Y/n remarked.

“You would be fucking crazy to say no.” 

“Yeah, Carmen, it would be pure idiocy to say no.” Y/n chimed in.

Carmen rubbed his temple and then looked up. “That is not happening. You aren’t doing this.” 

“It's 10k, Carmen, and all I have to do is pour some drinks. It's like money is just falling on our laps, we have to take advantage of this golden opportunity.” Y/n added, “God helps those who help themselves.” 

“You're religious?” Richie questioned

“No, but he’s Italian and they're religious, right? I thought it might help my case.” Y/n whispered.

“I can fucking hear the both of you.” Carmen was annoyed and y/n realized she didn’t really know how to convince him to let her help him. 

“What specific issue do you have with me bartending at this party?” If she got to the root of the problem she could find a solution that helped ease his worries. 

Carmen brooded in his corner. People didn’t give Richie enough credit, he was pretty good at reading a room and he knew that it would be better if he left Carmen to y/n. 

“I got something tonight.” Richie spewed out before turning around to get the hell out of there. As he was about to leave he mouthed You got this? Y/n gave him a subtle thumbs up.

They both stood in silence hearing the sounds of Richie walking around the kitchen to grab his keys and get his charger in the front, and eventually the door chimed meaning that it was now just Carmen and y/n. 

“Tell me what the issue is. Do you have safety concerns?” 

“That's one of many concerns.” Carmen knew he was being difficult but he couldn’t let this happen. 

“I'm just pouring drinks, I'm not going to be doing anything super dangerous.” 

“You are going to be pouring drinks for coked out dickheads. How is that not dangerous?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t done before. Besides, your uncle told me that I'm going to be giving hurricane shots, if anything I'm the dangerous one.”

Carmen looked up and furrowed his eyebrows. “Do I even want to know what that is?”

“You don’t know what it is?” Y/n had to resist snickering. “So basically, you would take a shot, then I would splash water on you and slap you…Do you want to see a video?” Y/n ushered Carmen to the only chair in the office.

Carmen didn’t know why he was humoring this and he didn’t want to admit it but he was wondering what the appeal of getting slapped was. If it's just slapping a few guys then maybe it wasn’t too bad…

Y/n pulled up a video and any bit of him that could have been convinced to let this happen shriveled up and died. It was a video of a woman in a very revealing dress sitting on a table splashing and slapping horny middled aged fucks. Absolutely not.  

Y/n looked up from the video and saw that she made it worse. Carmen was sitting silently in his worn out chair, not even looking at the video just staring at the floor. 

Carmen felt a hand on his shoulder and felt y/n come closer, he could feel her breath on his neck and it was making it hard to breathe. Softly, y/n whispered, “Carmen, you are being perfectly reasonable and very respectful but this is a once in a lifetime situation.” 

A soft pause passed while y/n was trying to formulate the right words.

“You do so much for me so let me take care of you, Carmy.” Y/n rarely called him that and the name slid down his spine causing him to shiver. 

Without even having time to think about what just came out his mouth, he mumbled a soft “yeah”. Carmen looked just as shocked as y/n. Neither of them were expecting that, y/n was expecting to have to postpone convincing him till tomorrow. 

Now the next hurdle was making sure that Carmen didn’t change his mind. “Why don’t you stay with me during the party? That way if anything happens you'll be there. Will you be my designated bodyguard for the night, Carmen?" Y/n playfully feigned a pout, allowing Carmen to remain silent, sensing that he might need some space to process the request

She slipped out before taking a deep breath, Jesus that was stressful. People killed each other for 10k and he was just going to throw it away. Y/n wasn’t going to let that happen, even if he said no she would have snuck into that party and got Carmen his 10k. 

She surveyed the kitchen, it was spotless. There really wasn’t much to do because the other chefs had done most of it but she had a feeling that if she left Carman alone, he would change his mind. So, she did what she did every single day, scrub these stupid floors.  

A few minutes had passed and y/n was wondering about what she should wear to an event like that? A small dress was a necessity but she only had a small black one from her college years. Would it even fit, it's been years since she last put it on? She needed to find her old pair of black pumps from college too, she knew they were deep in her closet. And while she scrubbed and planned her outfit for Friday, Carmen came out of his office and joined her wordlessly, taking the towel from y/n’s hands and scrubbing for her. 

He finally looked up, “I will be by your side the entire time. You can’t go anywhere unless I can see you-”

“What if I have to use the bathroom?” 

“No.” 

“No?”

“What if some sleazy fucker is waiting in the bathroom?”

“I doubt it. But ok, I'll hold it.”

“You can't cross the counter.” Y/n wasn’t going to anyways. 

“And I have to drive you home.” That stupefied y/n. 

“What? Why?” 

”What if one of those limp dicked pervs follows you home?”

“Carmen, you’re thinking too much. You don’t need to worry about me.” 

“I’m not letting you do this unless-” 

“Alright Carmen. We will do this your way.” Y/n gave him a smile to show that they were good. 

Carmen quickly glanced down and continued scrubbing the floor. The rest of the night was spent cleaning the floor and eventually neither of them could come up with any other excuses to stay together. There is only so much time you can spend scrubbing and organizing an already spotless kitchen.

They both went back to the lockers, grabbed their stuff, did a final walk through, and locked up. Carmen drove her home, y/n said goodbye through the phone and waved out the window. Y/n knew that this routine couldn’t last because she would pick up her car tomorrow morning but she was debating slashing a few tires just to make this last a bit longer. 

The next day y/n came in at 11:30 and was pulled aside by Richie. 

“Is it handled?”

“It's a bartending gig not an assassination. And yes.”

“That bastard said yes?” Shocked didn’t really cover what Richie felt.

Y/n shrugged her shoulders, “I know you wanna crack a few jokes but he is tethering and I don't want him to-”

“No wise cracks.”

“Also, the crew thinks I'm catering, could you keep the bartending underwraps.”

“Sure thing princess.”

“Do not-”

They were cut off by Fak and y/n took that as her sign to leave. Other than that, the day was exactly the same. The only other difference was that at the end of the night she had to walk to her car with Carmen. 

“You can back out, you know. This debt is my brother's… and now it's mine. You shouldn't get involved in this shit show.”

“Do you feel like you're taking advantage of me?” Carmen didn’t say anything. 

“How about you give me the day off tomorrow and we'll call it even. Paid leave.” 

Carmen smirked, “That's not really even.” 

“I'm giving you less than 24 hours notice and don’t even have a good reason to miss work tomorrow, I'm being a bad employee and you're going to let me get away with it. It seems plenty even to me.” They had ended their night relatively early, it was only 11pm and y/n wanted a few more minutes with Carmen, so she took a few wrong turns. Was that a selfish thing to do?  Yes. But did it feel right? Also, yes. 

They finally “found" her car. Carmen opened the door for her after she unlocked it. Y/n pulled out her parking spot and then drove off. But she didn’t forget to wave out the window and in the rear view window she could see that he was waving back. Y/n drove for a few minutes before double parking in an open street to rest her forehead on the steering wheel. She rolled up her windows and squealed. It felt good to be able to do that after holding it in for the last few days. She composed herself and drove home. 

The next morning was brutal because she had to completely gut her closet to find that black dress and heels. After a few hours she found them in the same box that held her cap and gown. She laid them on her bed and then went to get a haircut. On her way back she saw a tattoo parlor and walked in and asked if they had any temporary tattoos lying around. They found one wedged between some binders, it was a large rose. 

The night was quickly approaching and she had to leave soon. She had finished getting ready and right as she was about to leave she remembered the rose tattoo. Y/n ran to the skin, and peeled her dress up leaving her thigh exposed and placed the rose tattoo there. She grabbed a long black jacket and then she called an uber to take her to The Beef. The jacket covered up her cleavage but her legs were mostly bare and she regretted not wearing a pair of sweats for the commute. 

The restaurant was closed slightly early but it still was pitch black when she got there. Richie and Carmen were finishing up moving chairs and tables. Y/n walked in and the chime alerted them that y/n had arrived. 

“Hey guys. When does the party start? Am I too early?”

Carmen’s face betrayed nothing so she couldn’t really tell what he was thinking. Richie smirked, “The band of dickheads are coming in about 20 minutes.” 

“Can I see what the booze situation looks like?” She got a short tour of what the food and drinks situation was going to look like. She hadn’t taken off her jacket because it was still a bit chilly.

“Carmen, can you turn up the heat?” Carmen walked over to the thermostat in his office to adjust it to y/n comfort. With only 5 minutes before the party was supposed to start, y/n thought she might as well take the jacket off.

“I feel a bit out of place, I'm the only one dressed up.” 

Richie gwaffed,” Don’t worry you’ll be in good company with the strippers. Honestly, who's going to know the difference.” Y/n raised a cup of iced water to chuck at Richie.

“Hey, save that for our esteemed guests.” Richie said as he walked as far as possible to avoid getting splashed. 

Just as y/n was about to tell Riche to fuck off, Carmen walked in. He took one look at y/n and spent the next few seconds trying to generate a coherent thought. The first wave of guests came in and Carmen lost his chance to say something but it's not like he could come up with anything marginally comprehensible anyways. In a few hours the party was in full swing. Richie was sitting in the kitchen but the thumping music, the smell of booze, the reverberating sound of obnoxious drunk laughter was giving him a migraine so he went outside for an hours long smoke break, he wondered how Carmen was doing.

Carmen was not doing fine, he was doing horrible. The lights, music, and dancing were making him nauseous. But the thing that really tested his patience was the guys ogling at you. Y/n wasn’t really paying attention to any of the guys but they were getting more and more drunk. 

The room was lit with purple and blue lights and it was difficult to tell what was happening, and even though he knew it was wrong that didn’t stop Carmen from taking a few peeks at y/n back side throughout the night. If the back was rendering him speechless he could only imagine what the front looked like. The thought that these piss pots were seeing her would send him into a blind rage but the fact that each one of them would get hit in the face made it a bit more digestible. 

A guy came up to y/n, and Carmen walked right up to them to know why this fuckhead was talking to her. The groom had asked for the first hurricane shot. Y/n sent him away for a few minutes to give her time to set up. She turned to Carmen and gave him a mischievous smirk. 

“Payback time.” 

Even though they were in a very crowded room, y/n smirk made him forget it. It was a small and private gesture and no one else would be privy to see it. It was just for Carmen and no one else. That made him feel a bit better. 

Y/n and Carmen filled up cups with very cold water just to make it hurt even more. Carmen started to put ice in the water and when y/n saw what he was doing she threw her head back to laugh. The laugh made his heart flutter but the feeling of her hand grasping him to ground herself sent a shiver down his back and it wasn't because both their hands were ice cold now. 

The room was so loud that they needed to come close to the other’s ear just to hear each other.

“You gotta put a bit more ice in this one, Carmen ”

“Who’s getting this special order?” Carmen smirked, he was having fun. 

“The groom of course. Why are you asking a stranger you meet once to slap you across the face when you have a fiancée at home? Also, what kind of sick fuck gets drunk, high, and a hand job from a stripper the week before his wedding? That level of dickbaggary deserves a face full of welts.” Carmen covers his mouth to hide his smirk. 

“It's so tacky and…and…yuck. Hard pass.” 

Carmen took that information and stored it in his vault; no drinking, drugs, or girls of any kind during his future bachelor party. He wasn’t going to do the last two anyways, but he never wanted y/n to feel “yuck” about him so he would sacrifice the alcohol for his own bachelor party. 

“Have you seen the women here? Very pretty.” Y/n teased.

Y/n didn’t really know why she even brought it up, She spent the entire night facing the crowd and got an eye full of many tits and she knows Carmen’s witnessing the same scene.  Being surrounded by a sea of stunning and jaw dropping women had triggered a sense of insecurity within her. Yet, she reminded herself that those women were there to captivate with their beauty, while her role was to serve food and drinks. And to be fair, some of her customers have dropped their jaws after eating her food, balancing the scales of admiration. As such, any lingering immaturity or jealousy dissipated into the air.

The source of unease wasn't the presence of other women, but rather Carmen himself.  Y/n had previously worked at a strip club and hadn't experienced this level of jealousy before. But now, with Carmen by her side, she found herself questioning whether he was comparing her to the other women at the party. Did she even register on his radar amidst the crowd? While their relationship remained strictly that of coworkers and friends, she appreciated that Carmen hadn't abandoned her. However, she couldn't help but feel conflicted about his presence, as she didn't want him to witness the spectacle of beautiful women giving drunk idiots lap dances.

Carmen looked up at her while his head was still bent down filling cups with ice, “Uhh, I haven’t really taken a look.” 

Y/n doubted that but she didn’t want to protest, so she hid her insecurity behind jokes. 

“You should, Mrs. Berzatto could be in this crowd.” 

“I can guarantee you that they are not.” Carmen pushed. Y/n chuckled and Carmen could swear he saw her eyes glow.

“Hey, today has probably been really stressful. You can let go for a bit. You know, blow off some steam. There are plenty of women who would love to give you a lap dance. You know that pretty blond has been eyeing you since she came in.” Y/n pointed in some general direction with a straw but Carmen didn’t even look up from the water cups. 

Carmen looked into y/n’s eyes and was trying to decipher this puzzle she had put in front of him. She was telling him to go and talk to other women and even though her tone, face, and behavior was exactly the same as before, he couldn't shake off a faint undercurrent of tension emanating from her

“I like it here.”

“So you like to watch.” Y/n smirked while turning around to fill a styrofoam cup with sprite from the soda dispenser to cool herself. She was trying to be cool but it was coming off as vaguely threatening, she needed to get her shit together. 

Carmen turned around so he was facing her direction then placed his elbows on the counter and looked up at her with those killer eyes, “Yeah I do.”

“Mr. Berzatto, have you been drinking you’ve gotten, dare I say, bold?”

Carmen raised his eyebrows in a joking manner and y/n could swear that she saw stars glisten in his irises. God, was he handsome or what? 

“I think it's time to get this show on the road.” Y/n turned around to walk around the counter so she could hop on top, she couldn't do it from behind the counter because it was filled with liquor and cups and she would knock everything over. Just as y/n was going to walk out the counter, a muscular arm blocked her from leaving. She furrowed her eyebrows, and looked up at his eyes. 

“You promised, you wouldn’t.”

“I can't get to the counter from here…why don’t you walk me over there, so that no one bothers me. Earn your keep bodyguard” Y/n softened her eyes to convince Carmen, and to her surprise he let out a sigh before removing his arm and leading her to the other side of the counter glaring at anyone who even thought about looking at y/n. Y/n’s dress was so tight and short that she couldn’t really get up without flashing everyone. She looked up at Carmen and told him about the situation she was in and how she needed a chair or something. 

Carmen brought his face close to y/n so she could clearly hear, “Can I touch you?”

Holy…mother…of…fuck. Y/n’s brain flat lines and she stumbles out a quick and breathy “yes”. 

Carmen put his hands on her waist and y/n linked her hands behind his neck and just as y/n was about to close the gap, she let out a yelp as she was hoisted onto the counter. She is starstruck, her heart is beating fast and she is resisting the urge to kiss him from up here. She had to remind herself that he was just being helpful. 

"Tattoo?"

Y/n was a mess and she needed a few seconds to understand what he was saying, "It's fake, so that if anyone takes any pictures I can pretend it's not me." It took all of y/n's will power to connect these words together. It was getting hard to think.

Carmen took one more look at y/n stradling the counter before reaching over the counter to grab the same straw y/n used to point at some other women, and lighty dragged it across her knee. 

“Your past the counter, chef” 

Y/n was in a daze, her knee felt like it was on fire and that was just from a straw. She wordlessly got up on her knees and kneeled on the counter. 

Carmen walked right back to behind the counter and passed her a heavy cup.

“For our guest of honor.” Carmen grinned. He was making her lose her breath,  y/n was going to pass out and fall off this counter. 

Y/n took the cup of water and a shot of tequila from Carmen. Their pinkies brushed each other and sent an electric shock up her arm. 

“Make it hurt.” 

Y/n gleamed. She turned towards the crowd and shouted out a short introduction before calling over the groom. She passed him the shot which he downed in record time, y/n shot a quick glance at Carmen, before splashing the water right on his face and just and he slightly relaxed his face from the original impact of the icy water, y/n gave him a loud and painful slap. The sound echoed through the restaurant, and it became silent for a brief second before cheers erupted from the crowd. The noise makes Richie peek his head inside to see what the commotion was about. The groom's face was already bright red from the alcohol and the ice and somehow the right side of his cheek looks like someone painted it scarlet, y/n gave a thumbs up to Carmen, who to her surprise returned one back. A line began to form and while y/n was making everyone pay for being annoying dicks, Carmen called over Richie. 

“Its fucking boiling in here” Carmen commented, “Can you go into my office and turn the thermostat down to like 60-65 and grab my jacket.” Richie looked like he wanted to make some smart comment but the sound of another slap echoing derailed his train of thought.  Richie took one look at y/n, and Carmen wanted to curse him out and punch him across the face, but he refrained. “Richie, the fucking thermostat.”

Richie complained but Carmen wasn’t paying attention and so he left and turned the thermostat down and threw the jacket over the counter.

“When is this shit show supposed to end?” Richie asked while judging the guests in the most unsubtle way possible. 

“Two more hours.” Carmen said while looking at y/n. Richie rolled his eyes and left and Carmen was starting to feel the cold air coming from the air vent on top of them. Y/n was starting to feel chilly too and looked over at Carmen who was already handing her a nice wool jacket, his wool jacket. She slipped it on and Carmen felt like he could finally breathe. He was beating himself for not coming up with something like this sooner. The stupid shots were finished and y/n was ready to come down from the counter. 

“My ass and thighs are numb.” Y/n said while rubbing them. Just as she looked up towards the crowd she saw that Carmen was right next to her ready to help her come down. Y/n was feeling bold, almost invincible from spending the last 30 minutes slapping men. 

“Would you like a shot?” She asked with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve seen a million guys take it, aren’t you curious?” 

Carmen was struggling to come up with something to say, he didn’t even know how to react. “I have to drive you home.” His stare was making y/n feel like she was burning from the inside. 

“A shot of water?” y/n offered. 

Carmen thought to himself, what would he regret more? Taking the shot or not taking it?

He extended his hand towards the water pitcher behind the counter to pour himself a shot of water. Y/n grabbed one of the ice cups and scooped the ice with her left hand and dumped half of the remaining water on the already flooded floor. She wanted to avoid making this as painful as possible. Y/n took off the jacket and set it down on the counter next to her. She tucked her right hand in between her thighs to keep them warm so it would sting a lot less. Carmen took one long look at where her right hand was settled and then locked onto her eyes, 

“Hit me with your best shot, chef.” 

Carmen downed the shot before locking eyes with y/n. Y/n splashed the water on his face and gave him a solid slap. Not as hard as the others were getting but not so soft that she would be accused of chickening out. Carmen’s face whipped to the left before coming back to his previous position. 

“How was that, chef?” 

It must have been the lights or the fatigue but y/n could have sworn that he glanced at her lips. Carmen’s hands circle around y/n waist to bring her down. He carried her a few feet away from where they previously were so that y/n wouldn’t step on the puddle, set her down and walked her back behind the counter. 

“I can understand the appeal.” Carmen murmured. Y/n looked at him incredulously before laughing in shock. 

Y/n was about to tease him a bit before she heard shouting from the crowd. “Do you want to step out? I think I need a break” 

Carmen welcomed a break. He handed y/n his jacket and ushered her outside where Richie was smoking. They had forgotten he was still there.

“It's nauseating in there.” Y/n exhaled. 

Carmen pulled out a cigarette in an effort to calm down. They were no longer in a party where they could pretend they had no outside obligations. He had pushed the bounds of their relationship and he wondered if the lights, music, alcohol, and seclusion together was only affecting him. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Y/n crouched down because her feet were killing her. She could feel the blisters forming but she was going to be a trooper. All she wanted to do was lay down. Carmen crouched down to match her height and raised his eyebrows to ask what was wrong. 

“I need to go to bed.” 

“20 minutes left. You can wait in the car and get some rest. I can cover for you.” 

“I need to see this place after it’s cleared out. I think I forgot what it looked like before we had it packed with drunk chodes.” That earned her a snicker from both Carmen and Richie. 

A sense of tranquil silence enveloped them, providing y/n with a much-needed opportunity to gather her thoughts. She realized that she had to prevent herself from getting lost in the overwhelming depth of Carmen's presence. It was becoming clear that she had two choices: either distance herself from him entirely or bridge the gap between them, instead of remaining in their current state of avoidance, where everything seemed to be ignored.

Just as she was about to turn over to Carmen to ask him if he was free tomorrow night, a loud thump was heard inside the restaurant followed by a crash. Next came the screaming. Y/n and Carmen stood up and looked inside the window to see what got Richie to rush inside.

“Shit” Carmen exclaimed before running inside to stop the groomsmen from fighting. A wave of women ran out. Y/n didn’t go inside till the noise died down, she knew she would just get in the way. She pushed the door open and saw some guy laying on the ground with a bloody head. She scrambled to find a towel from the counter and then applied pressure on his head. Carmen had already called 911 and Richie was just staring with his eyes wide and hand on his head. 

The next few hours were a blur. The ambulance picked up the guy that was knocked out. The police came and took Richie, and everyone else was either taken by police for questioning or they left for the cops to get there. 

Y/n and Carmen were the only ones left standing on the pavement with little to no energy left. It felt like their bones were the only things holding them upright. Y/n didn’t have the energy to fill the empty space. So the trick to shutting her mouth was being tired, she could save herself from a lifetime of embarrassment by working herself to the bone so she wouldn’t have the energy to make a fool of herself. 

She started snickering which slowly devolved to full laughter, she held on to Carmen’s arm to steady herself. Y/n from 5 hours ago would never have touched Carmen under any circumstances unless he initiated it first but she was losing it. She was starting to feel light, like this wasn’t real. Like she didn’t see Richie bash some fucker’s skull in. Or that she spent the last few hours flirting with her boss just for nothing to come from it. Carmen could only just watch. 

“Let's get you home.” Carmen slowly ushered her towards his car. 

Y/n laughter died down. “I can’t go home, not with Richie in jail.” 

“You need some sleep” 

“And you don’t? Where are you going after this? Visiting Richie?” Carmen didn’t reply or look up at her.

Y/n went back inside, grabbed her black jacket and ran as fast as her shitty heels and blisters would let her. 

"I'm ready," y/n exclaimed with determination, taking confident strides towards Carmen's car. Carmen watched, momentarily transfixed and still processing the whirlwind of the past few hours. Y/n had laughed heartily as a coping mechanism, but inside, Carmen felt a deep sense of anguish, fearing the possibility of losing yet another loved one. He yearned to join in the laughter, knowing he couldn't do it without y/n by his side. Shaking off his thoughts, he quickly jogged over to where y/n stood, matching her pace as they proceeded towards the car together.

The car ride was silent, as both of them were fighting the urge to sleep. They got to the police station and y/n was so out of it she barely understood what groomsman status was and what would happen to Richie when the police officer explained it to her and Carmen. They were led to a seating area where they had to wait. Carmen threw his body on the bench and y/n followed suit. It was chilly and Carmen was wearing a shirt, so she slowly slipped off the jacket to hand it over. She felt firm pressure on her shoulders preventing her from bringing the jacket down.

“Keep it on, it's cold here” Carmen muttered. 

“I have a jacket” 

“It's too light.” Carmen’s eyes were drooping. Y/n sat back on the bench and tried to sleep sitting down but it wasn’t working. Carmen’s eyes were already closed so she shifted on the bench and laid her head on his lap. 

Once Carmen had confirmed she was fully asleep, he draped her thin black jacket over her legs and floated into unconsciousness. 

Carmen was shaken awake and woke up in a jolt. He eye’s meet Richie’s and it felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. 

“Aggravated Assault.” 

Carmen let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

Carmen wanted to get up but he saw that y/n was laying on his lap. He gently slipped out from under her and carried her on his back to his car. He did his very best to ignore everytime that she dug her face deeper into his neck but he was still beet red when he gently placed her in the backseat and put her seatbelt on. 

Richie watched but didn’t have any motivation to say anything but a simple, “You got yourself a girlfriend, Carmy?”

“We’ll see when she wakes up.” 

--

Part 2

[starlight-bread-blog]

Ember Island Players and Zutara

Two approaches to analyzing literature are Doylist and Watsonian: Warsonian is about analyzing from an in-universe perspective, Doylist is about analyzing out-of-universe perspective.

For example: Why did the Gaang arrive at the swamp?

Watsonian: Because a hurricane made them crash.

Doylist: Because the writers wanted to explore the world & characters, foreshadow Toph, introduce plant benders, etc.

This analysis will be from a Doylist perspective. Meaning, I don't intend to prove Katara secretly canonically loved Zuko. She is a fictional character, she'll love whoever the writers want her to love. And the writers said she loved 𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀. What I do intend to do is to show how the writing alluded to Zuko standing in 𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀's way to being with Katara.

With that out of the way, let's dive right in!

At the beginning of the episode, when they sit down to watch the play, Zuko and 𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀 share this exchange:

If you didn't catch that, look at Katara:

This is a classic romance trope, typically used for female characters, to signify romantic feelings/a crush. But what is it doing here, when Zuko sits next to Katara instead of 𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀? What is this interaction doing here in the first place?

When an episode aims to explore an aspact of the characters, it will remind the audience of it in the beginning. In The Waterbending Scroll, Katara steals a waterbending scroll and gets insecure about her waterbending. The episode opens with the Katara teaching 𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀 waterbending and getting insecure. In this instance, they want you to keep in mind the dynamic where... Zuko is in the way of 𝖪𝖺𝗍𝖺𝖺𝗇𝗀? (That's without mentioning what Katara's doing with her hair). That is strange.

Moving on to the play – See the joke about Katara's characterization in the play:

The point of Ember Island Players is while the play is heavily distorted, it is somewhat based on reality. It's funny and even gets under the character's skin sometimes because it shows them a parody of themselves. (Further evidence).

When we get to the the scene between Zuko and Katara in the Crystal Catacombs, for some reason, it's portrayed as some romantic moment.

Acknowledging a fan pairing in canon from is always out of the blue/baity from the get-go. I cannot recall a time when another show that did this. Here however, it's under the premise of somewhat founded parody. Which begs the question:

(Side note: There's been debate over Katara and Zuko moving away from each other. It's common for eventual romantic leads to deny attraction. It could be contextualized that way later and audiences aren't trained to rule out the pairing. The meaning is dereminted by the outcome).

Despite that, Katara and Zuko aren't in love. Everyone knows this, right?

𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀 is jealous. Jealous to the point where he gets up and leaves the theater. The thing that kicks off the conflict of 𝖪𝖺𝗍𝖺𝖺𝗇𝗀 is... Zutara?

Speaking of the conflict, I won't dwell on it too much, but the events were the following: 𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀 adressed the kiss they shared in the invasion, a kiss that went unaddressed for 5 episodes. Katara is unable to commit to an answer. Her lines, isolated:

"𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀, I don't know" // "This isn't the right time" // "Right now, I'm just a little confused".

Until he kisses her once again.

And realistically, she doesn't take it well. Many girls use this language to reject gently. This is purposely written to suggest that they might not end up together. All of which is kicked off because of Zutara. Remember the beginning: Zuko is in the way of 𝖪𝖺𝗍𝖺𝖺𝗇𝗀.

When 𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀 is back in the theater, he's concerned about his future with Katara. It is showcased with this shot:

𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀 isn't angry at Zutara here, so why is Zuko in the shot? A director storyboarded this, it was planned. They could have easily leave him out of it and it would convey the message better. Leaving him here implies that he is somehow related to the conflict, That Aang is worried about them, while both of those things aren't true.

𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀 not being able to sit next to Katara isn't ship baiting. 𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀 getting angry at actress!Katara not returning his feelings isn't ship baiting. Katara herself being unable to immediately return his feelings isn't ship baiting. What is ship baiting is how all of this is caused by Zuko to a degree.

Zuko stealing 𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀's seat and Katara giving him a side glance is ship baiting. Zutara being canonically addressed in a play that's vaguely founded is ship baiting. The former causing 𝖠𝖺𝗇𝗀 feeling jealous, leaving, and starting the conflict over it is ship baiting. Zutara is imbedded in the foundations of the episode. Ember Island Players plays out as if there is something between Zuko and Katara, when there isn't. That's ship baiting.

[bumblesimagines]

When Fire Meets Fate

Part 13

Request: Yes or No

Summary: With war comes the death of innocents, and Luke was merely the first of many. Upon learning of Prince Jaehaerys demise, (Y/N) and Rhaenyra are forced to confront the man behind it.

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, spoilers for S2, mentions of the death of Jaehaerys,

Had to deal with a hurricane, power outages, the ongoing process of moving, no wifi, and a sore knee before I could finish this part😭 the universe really said hold your horses but you know what? i thank it for making me wait cause i just got the book from libby this morning

~~~

The waves crashed against the rocky cliffs, droplets of salty water rising and falling with each continuous crash that filled the air with the comforting smell of the ocean. He listened to it, the heartbeat of the ocean, and felt his beat along with the rhythm as he swirled his ring around his finger. His thoughts refused to stop, refused to ease into something comprehensible. The Realm had been at peace for many decades under the rule of the Old King and King Viserys, flourishing and blissful; now like his mind, it was broken. War... such a frightening word. The very thought of it made his insides twist and his throat tighten. 

"My Lord," (Y/N) tore his eyes away from the dark water and pushed himself away from the balcony to face the troubled Ser Erryk. "The Small Council has called an urgent meeting with news from King's Landing." 

A multitude of things raced through his mind as he strode through the halls of the Stone Drum, his unease and confusion heightening when he noticed the grim looks on a few of the lords' faces. Rhaenyra appeared as puzzled as him, her eyes flickering to him questioningly, but she found no answer in his features. She watched him take his seat beside Rhaenys before she turned to Maester Gerardys, giving him a small nod to speak his piece. 

"Tragic news from King's Landing, Your Grace, My Lord," Maester Gerardys began shakily, his lips forming a grim line. "There was a funeral procession this morrow for the son of Aegon and Helaena Targaryen who was slain in the middle of the night. It is yet unclear how the Keep itself was breached. The boy's head was severed from his body. Thousands witnessed the procession."

(Y/N) felt the world still for a moment. The crashing of the waves ceased and the crackling of the fire grew muffled as the information settled into his bones. He inhaled deeply through his nose and held it, his eyes bouncing around the designs carved into the table. Helaena... sweet little Helaena, the very definition of innocence and curiosity. He bit his inner cheek when Alicent slipped into his mind and a dull ache in his stomach awakened. 

Rhaenyra stared forward, completely aghast by the revelation, by the underlying tone and unspoken words reinforced by the suspicion and accusatory glances around the table. "And.. they are accusing me of having a hand in this?"

Maester Gerardys's brows pulled into a sympathetic furrow. "It appears so." He confirmed softly, and (Y/N) resisted the urge to slump back into his seat, his mind still working on who would even think of bringing such harm to gentle Helaena, much less to a boy as young as her son. "There have been messages sent to that effect throughout the Realm."

"We must send our own messages, denying this vile allegation," Rhaenyra ordered swiftly as she stepped out from behind her chair to stand before it, her fingertips pressing into the Painted Table. There was a flicker in her eyes, one filled with worry, likely for the lives of their own young children.

"I will do so at once, but I am not sure they will be received in good faith." 

"And we must double our guard, here and in Driftmark," Rhaenyra added, smoothing out the back of her dress as she lowered herself down into her seat, prompting the rest of the lords to follow suit. She swallowed and lifted her head, sparing her husband a glance before observing her lords. "There will be swift retribution in one form or another-"

"I have seen to it, Your Grace." Lord Celtigar interrupted, drawing (Y/N)'s gaze away from his wife and onto the older man with a stern glare. The older man pointedly avoided looking in his direction as Jace strode into the room and stood at the end of the table, sharing an encouraging glance with Lord Celtigar.

"Let me fly out on Vermax." Jace offered and both of his parents snapped their heads toward him. Lucerys faint laughter echoed in his father's ears, the image of his eyes that so often reminded (Y/N) of Gwayne's flashed in his mind. The shaky breath Rhaenyra released was subtle but he picked it up nonetheless. "Rhaenys is needed in the Gullet and I can watch for moves from King's Landing."

The answer lacked hesitation: "No."

Lord Celtigar inhaled deeply and turned back the Rhaenyra, clearing his throat lightly to garner her attention once more. "It must be said that the damage to our position is immeasurable, at a time when we most need loyalty to our cause." He spoke carefully, clasping his hands behind his back with the accusation in his tone evident. 

"But it is a lie." Rhaenyra scoffed, her eyes wide as she looked amongst her council when none of the lords bothered to raise their disagreement of Lord Celtigar. "Having lost my own son, that I would inflict such a thing on Helaena, of all people. An innocent."

A moment of solemn silence passed over the room and (Y/N) pushed himself back further into his seat with a quiet sigh. His thumb pressed and rubbed against the ring of his index finger, tilting his head to look toward Jace once more only to notice the withering stare Rhaenys sent across the table toward the Targaryen sat opposite of him. He turned to the prince and felt his heart skip a beat at the look in Daemon's eyes. 

Seven fucking Hells.

Ser Alfred cleared his throat next, his eyes lingering on Lord Celtigar before sliding over to Rhaenyra. "The death of Prince Lucerys Velaryon was a shock and an insult. A mother so aggrieved might, naturally, seek relief in retribution-"

"Are you suggesting, Ser Alfred-" Rhaenyra shot up from her seat, the lilac of her eyes bright with offense and voice heavy with anger. "-that my grief drove me to order the decapitation of a child?" 

"I merely thought, perhaps, an action taken in haste-"

"Mind yourself," Rhaenys steely voice cut through the air for once, and the tone of the older princess proved enough to silence the men at the table.

With a quiet scoff and light shake of her head, Rhaenyra sat back down in her seat as (Y/N) rose from his. He met her eyes and she managed a smile, one that he could not return when he flickered his eyes between her and Daemon. Her brows furrowed and she turned to look at her uncle, studying his features until slowly but surely, the horror and realization dawned on her. Her brows softened then and her eyes widened, lips parting with a quiet inhale. 

"Let it be known that Her Grace nor I ordered the sickening murder of a child." (Y/N) began icily, his hands folding before him and vexed stare lingering on Daemon before it moved onto Ser Alfred and then Lord Celtigar. "Helaena is a gentle soul and she has never spoken ill of any of us despite whatever poison she has been fed throughout the years. To imply that Her Grace would purposefully bring harm upon her sister and nephew, that she would stoop as low as Aemond did, is a great offense and insult. It certainly says a lot of the men you are as well, to not only believe such a thing but to regardless defend it. I should not be standing here like a disappointed parent lecturing their children when many of you are men old enough to be my father. We expect better from the men of this council." 

When Rhaenyra rose from her seat once more, her steely gaze still locked on Daemon, the rest of the council did as well. (Y/N) offered her his arm and she took it, a quiet and tired sigh escaping her. "If that is all the news to be discussed this afternoon then this meeting is over. Thank you, Maester Gerardys, for informing us as soon as possible." The lords dipped their heads and bowed in return, waiting for the couple to leave before they returned to their previous tasks. 

Rhaenyra and (Y/N) strolled to their bedchambers, only stopping to have a servant summon Daemon and locate Baela. He arrived moments later, his attention on the floor until he found a seat and slumped down in it as if it were all a mere inconvenience. (Y/N) sighed heavily and placed his arms atop the nearest chair, his teeth grinding slightly as irritation swirled in his stomach like a storm waiting to reach land.

"Tell me it is not true." Rhaenyra stared at her uncle as her calm demeanor chipped away when he simply poured himself a cup of wine and took a sip from it. "Did you truly send assassins to murder children in their beds?"

"I sent the queen's vengeance for her son." He answered quietly, swirling the cup around as if it hadn't just admitted to being partial to the death of a child. (Y/N) rubbed his palm over his face in exasperation as Rhaenyra walked forward toward her uncle with purpose.

"What did you tell this vengeance? What did you say to him, Daemon, that a boy lies dead and I am accused of killing him?" Rhaenyra's hands slammed down against the table, her shoulders heaving and necklace jingling with her movements. (Y/N) studied her but remained silent. He'd be a fool to intervene between two dragons, even more so when they were Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen; perhaps the most stubborn and fiery of the family.

"Mysaria provided me with names and a subterfuge." Daemon started and raised the cup to his lips again, his adams apple bobbing with each swallow and lips growing tainted in a subtle red tint. (Y/N)'s memory flickered back to Ser Erryk and the stowaway, and his eyes fluttered shut. "I was clear in my instructions: Aemond, the brother of Aegon the Usurper. I cannot be responsible for a mista-"

"Cannot be responsible?!" Rhaenyra glowered, the disbelief and annoyance in her tone finally prompting Daemon to meet her eyes. She leaned back, wetting her lips and taking slow steps closer to the man before bracing her hand against the table once more and leaning toward him with barely contained anger. "If Aemond was not to be found, what were your instructions then?"

"They did not concern, in any way, that of a little child."

"You said that it was your aim to spill Hightower blood, and if not Aemond, then anyone would do."

"No."

"You have wounded me!" Rhaenyra exhaled weakly, leaning back with softened, near-watery eyes. "Weakened my claim to the throne, my ability to raise an army, my standing among my own council!"

"I said no." Daemon asserted more quietly, his own eyes softening ever so slightly at the emotion in her eyes before hardening again when she scoffed under her breath and leaned back. Rhaenyra stared at him, her fingers curling into fists before uncurling again, the loose strands of her hair swaying when she shook her head.

"I don't believe you." She told him, stalking away from him with a chest rapidly rising and falling. Rhaenyra's brows moved into a fixed furrow, her lips pulled down into a deep, disappointed frown. She returned to her husband's side, her lips parting to release the quickened breaths and eyes fluttering shut to calm herself. (Y/N)'s hand grazed hers and she took it, rubbing her thumb over his skin as if to soothe herself. 

With an inhale, she looked at Daemon. "And so we come to it, at long last." Her words came out quiet and hurt, the implication blatant enough for Daemon to lean back in his seat with narrowed eyes. "Cannot trust you, Daemon. I've never trusted you, wholly, much though I wished to, willed myself to. But now I have seen that your heart belongs only to you. And when I was a child, I took this as a challenge to prove myself worthy of being your equal. But I am older now. I have challenges enough." The more she spoke, the louder she got, the hold on (Y/N)'s hand growing tighter and tighter until she released him to begin pacing. 

"I have served you faithfully." Daemon managed out through gritted teeth, his fingers drumming along the armrest of his chair. 

"Have you?" Rhaenyra snapped. "Or have you used me as a tool with which to try and grasp at your stolen inheritance?"

Her words seemingly struck a nerve within the older prince; shooting up from his chair and smacking away his cup and pitcher. The items flew across the room, clattering against a candle holder and then onto the floor where wine and wax mixed. Rhaenyra flinched and staggered background, her movements combined with Daemon's outburst instinctively prompting (Y/N) into slotting himself between the two before the ill-tempered prince could reach his wife.

Daemon stopped before him, his nostrils flaring with each deep inhale he took and wild violet eyes piercing right into him. (Y/N)'s heart rammed in his ribcage and every nerve in his body demanded he get away from the prince but he remained rooted in his spot, shoulders squared and ears picking up each ragged breath from his wife behind him. His eyes flickered away when Daemon raised his hand and the prince hesitated, his features contorting as different emotions flickered through his eyes before he reached forward, his calloused hands pressing into (Y/N)'s cheeks and thumbs roughly rubbing over his cheekbones.

"It was I you entrusted with dealing with Vaemond Velaryon; it was I who drank and feasted with you all these years in Dragonstone; it was I who encouraged Rhaenyra time and time again to pursue her desire for you. I am not your enemy." Daemon spoke lowly and his head lifted to address Rhaenyra. "When Ser Erryk brought you the crown, did I not hand it to your husband so that he may place it upon your brow?"

"Yes," Rhaenyra breathed. "But before that, you sought to lead a council of war while I labored in my bedchamber without you once making an attempt to ensure my health and safety. And afterward, when I thought it meet to consider the terms our foes put before us-"

"A folly!" Daemon spat, releasing (Y/N) to whirl around and stalk away from them. Rhaenyra placed her hand on her husband's arm and swiftly checked his face for bruising before following after her uncle as he crossed the room. (Y/N) rubbed his tender flesh, feeling it tingle lightly under his fingertips. "A folly to give up my brother's throne to the traitorous lies of Otto Hightower!" 

"My throne, Daemon, mine!" Rhaenyra shouted and Daemon slowed down, his jaw visibly clenched as he turned to look at her. Rhaenyra's shoulders slumped, soft panting leaving her. "I think you used my words as an excuse to take your own revenge, to indulge the darkness you keep sheathed within you like a blade."

Daemon sneered, brushing past her to rest his arms across the chair behind her. "You think me some kind of monster-"

"I don't know what to think of you," Rhaenyra admitted. "I don't know what you are, or who it is you serve-"

Daemon laughed then in disbelief. "Am I not on my way, even now, to Harrenhal to raise an army in your name, Rhaenyra?! Yours!"

Rhaenyra shook her head again, more lightly, and tears glittered in her eyes, her body turning to take some steps away from him. Her shoulders trembled with an inhale and she faced him, the tears threatening to fall from her lashes. "Do you..." She began softly, quietly. (Y/N) pressed his lips together and retrieved the pitcher and cup Daemon knocked from the ground, setting them on the table and meeting the prince's eyes. "...accept me as your queen and ruler? Or do you cling, even now, to what you think you lost?" 

Daemon's gaze slowly drew away from the lord to look at her. "What I think I lost?" He echoed just as softly.

"You did not lose it." Rhaenyra chuckled despite her quivering lips, her dress kicking up the dust along the floor when it dragged as she walked toward them. "You gave it away because you thought ever and only of your own glory, and not of my father in his grief who needed you!"

"Your father was a coward who knew I was the stronger son, that I was the leader of men, and he was afraid to be seen in my shadow. Do you believe he made you heir because of your great wisdom? Because of your virtue?" Rhaenyra's lips rolled into her mouth and her arms raised, smacking against her sides and body twisting away from them again. "Or did he merely use you as a tool to put me in my place because he was afraid of me?"

"You were disinherited because you could not help yourself, Daemon." (Y/N) leaned forward slightly, bringing the attention of the two Targaryens onto him. Daemon's eyes narrowed again and he straightened up, his grip on the chair turning his knuckles pure white. "Your inability to keep your mouth shut disinherited you, Daemon. What do you think would have happened if King Viserys allowed you time and time again to get away with insulting the King of Westeros? A brotherly spat behind doors is one thing but to mock his dead child and by extension his dead wife before the smallfolk? They would think him weak, Daemon. You gave him no choice and proceeded to prove it as the right decision by throwing a tantrum like a child!" 

"You-"

"And more so, it is not an achievement to believe your own kin was afraid of you. The downfall of any house, of any family, begins when kin turns against kin. It has been said time and time again, why do you think Rhaenyra desires peace? If dragons dance, dragons will fall, and with them their riders; who will that leave if not ashes and bones? Parentless children? The Realm ripped apart and struggling? By slaughtering a child, you are no better than Aemond."

Daemon stared at him unblinking. "It was a mistake." He hissed lowly. 

"A mistake is making the wrong move during training... spilling the blood of an innocent is a choice; one that I, and everyone else who has come to meet you, knows you capable of making. You... you relish in fear and bloodshed... and that is how you will die if you do not accept change within yourself. How can we keep you close when we cannot be sure what you will do next?" (Y/N) watched him, exhaustion clinging to his body and seeping into his voice. 

Daemon peeled himself away from the chair and stormed past Rhaenyra, slamming the door leading into their bedchambers shut. Rhaenyra staggered forward and slumped down in the chair, bracing her arms on the table and resting her head on her hands. She sniffled quietly and sighed shakily, her head lifting when (Y/N) moved closer and ran his fingertips through her hair. 

"Daemon is... complicated." (Y/N) reminded her softly, lowering himself down to sit beside her. "But he may yet prove himself in Harrenhal, Rhaenyra." 

"One can only dream of such a thing." Rhaenyra sighed, her hand finding his and bringing it to her lips so she could press a soft kiss to the back of his hand. Despite the conversation sucking much energy and emotion of out them, he gave her a gentle smile."But for our sake... I hope you are right."

The doors creaked when they opened and Baela strolled inside, clasping her hands before her and dipping her head. "You wish to see me, Your Grace, My Lord?" Baela questioned softly, stepping further into the room. The splatter of wine and a candle Daemon knocked over in his outburst drawing her attention to the floor momentarily. She grimaced. 

Rhaenyra rose, offering her an exhausted smile. "When morning comes, take Moondancer and keep a watch on King's Landing. I need to know which course they take next. We depend on you, Baela. Stay high and keep your distance." She ordered gently, her hand still clinging to (Y/N)'s. Baela straightened up at her words, a familiar twinkle passing over her eyes that brought a small smile to (Y/N)'s face. "We can afford no further mistakes."

"I will be vigilant." The young girl assured, glancing toward the floor again. Her lips formed a few words, seemingly attempting to find the right ones to say before she cleared her throat and tilted her head slightly. "My father?" She pushed gently, her brows knitting together slightly and a flicker of concern passing over her face.

Rhaenyra pressed her lips firmly together, her shoulders lowering with a heavy exhale. "He must follow his own path." She said simply, and Baela's face fell with a harsh swallow and nod. 

"Baela," (Y/N) called softly when she turned and began making her way toward the door again. She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him questioningly. "You remind me of your mother more and more with each passing day. She'd be proud of you." Baela inhaled sharply, her eyes and features softening at his words. She gave him a thankful smile and turned away to leave the room. 

Once the door closed again, (Y/N) leaned back in the chair and gazed at their hands, watching the glimmer of her rings in the sunlight pouring through the window. "The woman he spoke of... Mysaria, the White Worm, was a stowaway onboard one of our ships. Ser Erryk claimed she wished to speak with me when she was taken but I allowed Daemon to see to her. She may have information for us, about King's Landing or possibly Daemon. But we mustn't hold her prisoner without knowing her intentions and what she may desire, Nyra." 

"I see." Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes downcast and tired. She brought a hand to her stomach, massaging her palm into the clothed flesh that still ached from the painful labor. "Let us speak to her, then, as soon as possible." 

(Y/N) studied her, taking in the watery glaze in her eyes and the tightness of her furrow. A semblance of guilt, perhaps? He couldn't be too sure. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze to draw her attention toward him and tilted his head questioningly. His wife exhaled shakily and released his hand, her back turned away from him and palms running over the skirt of her red dress. 

"I... I cannot help but be... relieved." Rhaenyra admitted quietly. "If Aegon were to die, the Greens would have turned to his child, to the boy. They would have rallied behind him, raised him up against me. My hand would have been forced, eventually, (Y/N). Just as it is now being forced."

"You cannot allow anyone else to hear those words, Rhaenyra. You have spoken of peace time and time again-"

"Yes, yes, I know," She exhaled shakily, her fingertips pushing back a strand of hair. "I... I do not want to be named a kinslayer. I do not wish to follow in the footsteps of Maegor the Cruel. Tales say he was cursed by the gods for slaying his nephew and bled on the throne for all to see. I cannot risk it. No one will follow a kinslaying Targaryen again."

(Y/N) set his hand upon her back and drew her into his chest, hooking his chin over her shoulder and feeling her sink back into him. Rhaenyra's eyes fluttered shut, her head tilting to lean her head against his. "It is admirable to search for peace when many believe bloodshed will solve all problems. A good ruler seeks what is best for their people. The Greens are led by those chasing after their own desires." He pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck and leaned back. 

"Let us speak with this White Worm."

"You barely touched your supper, Rhaenyra," 

In all the haste and preparations, (Y/N) had nearly forgotten what the scent of an old book smelled like, eager to be read after many ages. The gallery itself was ancient and filled with books and scrolls primarily used in teachings by maesters and septas but now they found use in providing ancient advice to Rhaenyra. Her ancestors, she reminded him, were no strangers to war and infighting. She sought out their knowledge and strategies with no older relative apart from Rhaenys to provide it. 

"I was not hungry," Rhaenyra responded, clutching a book to her chest and approaching the table covered in scrolls and candles. She set it down and flipped it open, sorting through the pages written in Valyrian and running her fingertips over the illustrations of ancestors long dead. She pursed her lips when he stuck a plate of sweets in her face, blocking her vision with sights of honey-covered biscuits. He lifted his brows and she rolled her eyes, lips threatening to tug up into a smile. Plucking one sweet from the plate, she stuffed it in her mouth and pushed aside the plate to resume her reading. 

 The clanking of metal brought their attention to the entryway where Ser Steffon entered with a woman following. He dipped his head in greeting before motioning to the woman. "The Lady Mysaria, Your Grace, My Lord." (Y/N) had expected an older woman deep into her later years but Mysaria seemed youthful in appearance. She was skinny, her cheekbones prominent against her tan skin, and her long dark hair was messy and falling over her shoulders. A former lover of Daemon, no doubt, given her history in Flea Bottom.

"Thank you, Ser Steffon." (Y/N) dismissed the knight and leaned back against the table, folding his arms over his stomach as he took in the White Worm. She shifted from foot to foot, uncertainty in her posture, even when she bowed her head. She hardly seemed like much of a threat, though most succumbed to nerves when presented to a Targaryen, he supposed.

Taking a seat at the table, Rhaenyra rested her arms upon the table, her fingers lacing together as she raked her eyes over the woman. "You're aware of yesterday's events in King's Landing? Tell me what part you played in their unfolding."

Mysaria glanced between the two of them, her brows slowly furrowing. "I had nothing to do with it." She answered quietly, voice heavy with an accent known to those with YiTish heritage.

At her response, Rhaenyra scoffed. "I know you are entwined with the usurpers, that you aided them in denying me my birthright."

"I took profits from an inevitability," Mysaria admitted with a slow nod, her dark eyes jumping away from them and cracked lips pursing. "I regret it now."

"I'm sure you do," Rhaenyra muttered, staring at her for a moment longer before rising from the chair. "Who are you?"

"A prisoner," Mysaria answered, eyes jumping toward (Y/N) when Rhaenyra drew closer with a widened plea. "I gave Daemon two names. That is the extent of it. And I did not wish to do that much. He said it was the price of my freedom." She seemed to grow unsettled when Rhaenyra remained silent and began circling her, visibly swallowing. "Does.. he say otherwise?"

"Daemon has left, Lady Mysaria. For Harrenhal, we presume, and we cannot say when he will be back." (Y/N) piped up, watching her face fall for the briefest of moments before she mustered a blank face, her jaw clenching. Rhaenyra stopped at her side and stared at her, eyes soaking up her features and brows slightly raising. 

"You remember me now," Mysaria mused with a hint of amusement, subtle enough to almost dismiss as nothing. Her head tilted toward the silver-haired queen, shoulders sagging slightly in some relief.

"He said he would marry you," Rhaenyra recalled with semi-widened eyes. "He said you carried his child-"

"Not everyone found the jest funny." Mysaria looked away with a scoff, her eyes rolling at the mention of Daemon's past doings. Ah, (Y/N) remembered then, the old memory of Rhaenyra having to fly out to fetch the egg Daemon had taken that'd once belonged to little Baelon. There'd been mentions of a woman but he hadn't been all too interested in the details. "And now it seems he's done it again, made a promise and then slipped away." 

"Is that why you desired to speak to me when you were found hidden within one of the ships?" (Y/N) piped up with a question, his eyes following Rhaenyra as she returned to his side and leaned against him. 

Mysaria nodded. "I heard of how the King Consort was... kinder than his kin. I had hoped you would listen to my pleas for freedom, my desire to escape from Flea Bottom and any chains Daemon Targaryen could wrap around me. Perhaps I should have refused him, lied, and pretended to know little, but you know how he can be. I can do nothing now to reverse what he has done... I can only ask you to honor his promise in his absence." Mysaria pleaded softly, her voice soaked in genuine exhaustion. 

"You trade in the secrets of the Red Keep. Your web runs unseen through King's Landing." Rhaenyra frowned. "It would not serve me to set you free. At best, I lose an asset to my cause. At worse, you betray me in some foul way." 

"I have no interest in betraying you, Your Grace. I was brought to Westeros with nothing. I toiled in service, I stole. I sold my own body for coin or bread. And I listened. I collected confidences. I made myself valuable to powerful men. Bit by bit, I made my living. A house, a household, a home... then, they set it all aflame." 

"Who did?" 

Her eyes flickered toward (Y/N). "The Hightowers, I assume. The Hand.. did not like it when I showed my teeth. But I thank him for it. For too long, I made it my aim to be of consequence. But now, I see that was the wish of a child. Daemon.. Otto Hightower. Makes no difference. They will never accept me." She gave a dry chuckle. "I may as well have remained a whore." 

The Hightowers had always been a noble family, but all noble families kept their statuses through secrets and skeletons hidden within the foundations of their homes. Quiet orders, spies, assassins, betrayals, bloodshed. He knew well the capabilities of nobles; he'd grown up listening to the drunken tales shared with laughter and smirks that most would consider to be horrid. His father ordering a flame be put out for threatening to grow brighter than him? He believed it, wholeheartedly. 

"You've given us much to think about, Lady Mysaria." (Y/N) told her. "You will hear of our decision soon."