#for their affection and they will never believe me . You��re pouring all your love into NOTHING. i’m not REAL. you can’t save me .

[rillils]

RILLLLLLSSSSSSSSS AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HKJFHSDKJ

i so terribly want to write but i dont know howwwwwww ughhhhhhhhhh hsdkfhasdhfjk i have one (1) singular blob of words that i think is amazing, one (1) convo between them. and youre telling me that i have to write a whole fic around it 😭😭😭 how do you do it rils 😭 the little thing i wrote is so soft and so pure, i dont wanna ruin it 😭 its just steve talking and all the actions are in my head, how on earth do i put it into words

not enough appreciation is being shown to writers istg, i owe them my life

honey, you're asking the big questions here 😭😭

I know, sweetheart, writing can be both a pleasure and a struggle - actually, sometimes it is both at once xD I never got the hang of it, myself, but all the writers in the world deserve an actual medal for every single line they write and put out there for us to enjoy!!

I don't think there is one fool-proof recipe for a smooth writing session, where the words simply come to you and it's like the fic just wrote itself without any bumps in the road (that's an extremely rare occurrence, if it ever happens at all); but I do think there are some things you can consider when you're writing:

if you already know what needs to happen in your fic (that is to say, if you know what the characters are going to say and/or do), that's a good thing!! amazing, actually! I know that, when you envision a certain scene, it can be hard to translate the characters' actions into words. try to picture that scene in your head: what do you see? are the characters talking? if they're talking, what's the tone of their conversation? are they whispering, are they chatting, are they arguing, yelling, laughing...? how do they feel: are they happy, anxious, angry, sad...? you can focus on their mannerism too, to convey their emotions: are they gesticulating? are they tense, maybe sitting up too straight? are they nervous, bouncing their leg, biting their lip? are they comforting someone? are they showing affection with their body language? leaning into the other character's space, or touching them, or snuggling up to them, hugging/kissing/sharing meaningful looks? there are so many things you can try and explore with your writing! which, maybe that makes it feel even more scary sometimes, but you don't have to explore everything all at once. you don't have to already have everything set clearly in your mind from the get go: you can build your fic (or your scene) little by little, line by line. one step at a time, honey <3 and if you don't like the first draft, don't worry! first drafts are made to be edited and changed and even taken apart, that's perfectly normal!

you won't ruin your fic, honey, trust me on that <3 now you have the foundations: all you're going to do is, you'll keep building on those foundations, and around them, bit by bit, without hurry, because there is no hurry. you'll pour all your love into it, and you'll watch it grow, until you feel that it has reached its natural end.

the thing about completing a story is, the finished product won't always look like what you had in mind originally. it's so very common for a writer's plans to be completely derailed, and that's okay! the writing experience is unpredictable, but that's half the fun of it <3 the finished fic might look a bit different than what you set out to write in the first place, but that doesn't make it bad, believe me.

you're the one writing this fic. which means that you're probably going to be reading, and re-reading, and editing and tweaking it over and over again. the reader has the privilege of looking at the finished product, without seeing the struggle and labour that went into it; but you, you've seen every stage of it, from when your fic was just a couple of snippets with a big hole in the middle, that you weren't sure how to fill in just yet, to when it finally looked like a whole story. you've re-read every line and wondered if that was the right phrasing, the right rhythm, if the character's voice felt right or if it was off. you took it apart and put it back together over and over. which is why, your own writing is never going to look perfect to you, especially when you're still in the process of writing your story. but more often than not, when you leave it alone and come back to it after a little while, you'll find yourself thinking: "hey, actually this wasn't half as bad as I thought it was!"

I don't know if any of this is going to help at all, but... if you're struggling with your writing, please know that you're not alone <3 That being said, I hope you do finish the fic you're writing, and I'm looking forward to reading it, because you're amazing and I just know that you're doing a fantastic job, darling <3 Happy writing, my dear!!

[ruminate88]

Cody The Narc.

January 2013; I had been very suicidal and I posted a suicide note on Instagram and it was linked to my Twitter so it automatically posted on Twitter too. Not many days later I was contacted on Twitter by Cody and that tornado rushed into my life like a whirlwind.

Things to know about “Cody”. He’s a fragile, wounded and broken man. Just one thought of him makes me sad. However, Cody is also the most selfish, spoiled and egotistical man. An only child to his divorced and wounded mother but the forgotten child to his rotten father who re-married and created a separate family without Cody and his mother. Sad.

Cody admittedly warned me that he was a narcissist, among other personality disorders but me, being so ignorant and naive, did not understand him and his disorders. I blindly lied to myself about Cody and believed wholeheartedly that I could be the one to help fix “broken Cody”.

In order to fix such a person, they have to want to become different and be willing to change their ways. I feel as Cody knew of his issues and just felt that’s who he is and nothing needs to change. One can not truly know a person deeply as people can keep stuff inside themselves and never speak of it or let someone in to help.

Cody was also a very jealous man. Not jealous of me having anyone but him… just jealous of “me” in general. He could never be like me, having empathy for anyone. Cody also only knows how to disappear out of your life, same way his dad did to him. At the end of “tornado Cody”, he ghosted me…..

I recall during the first love-bombing, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. I just didn’t know what the feeling was but I knew it wasn’t right and yet, I was becoming so obsessed with Cody, I just ignored that feeling and pushed through with him.

I don’t know why narcissists build you up, tare you down, build you up again and tare you back down. I only know Cody was either all in with me or pushing me completely away. There was never a steady or even playing field with him. It was up or down. High or low. Hot or cold.

I just now finally understand what happened to me and why Cody treated me the way he did. Cody could be so “obsessed” with me one moment and then criticize me the next but never truly care about me or show me the same level of admiration. At one point after the first discard, I spent a summer apart from him so confused and heartbroken. I wrote many sad songs for him, one was titled “Rain Inside Of Me” a song of me only singing and playing my piano and I truly poured out my truest feelings and emotions. Whenever Cody had let me back in, I shared this song with him and the only true feedback he could give me was he didn’t like the background noise of my fish tank… Never acknowledged the fact it was so sad and that I had poured out my feelings for him. I realize now it was simply because he could not feel what I feel or have empathy for the fact he had broken my heart and made me so upset.

After Cody ghosted me, I was truly traumatized and affected by it. At first I was so angry towards him. I wanted to punch his face out!! Took me years carrying a burden of “no closure” but I’ve learned we create our own closure and I’ve had much compassion for Cody, as I remind myself of the endless disorders and issues he claimed he had. Maybe he told me the truth, maybe he lied. I know the narcissist wear a false face upon meeting you but my gut has always told me Cody is so broken and wounded and fragile. That kind of mind set keeps me feeling sorry for him and allows me to be more forgiving, rather than angry. It doesn’t change the past though!!

Moving forward, I’ve taken being ghosted by Cody as a learning experience and as a way to understand people more and I have even more empathy now towards people and their feelings. I would never want others to experience my pain but I also see through Cody’s eyes that people like him really are suffering and do not know how to “say their truth” or “say goodbye”. It’s easier for someone like Cody just to block people out of their lives and pretend it never happened. Cody knew he hurt me. He knew the pain he inflicted on me but he’ll never be able to understand it because he himself can’t feel it. He’s made of stone and I’m sure he learned not to feel anything because of the amount of trauma he faced as a child…. 😣

I posted “cough syrup” because I was obsessed with this song when I was last with Cody…. 🥺🥺🥺

[some-kindofgnome]

now everything is easy

do not interact with this post if you are under 18.

Katsuki wakes next to you the morning after your heat reaches its peak.

c: katsuki bakugou x reader

wc: 3.7k

cw: smut (18+), morning sex, subtle alpha/beta/omega dynamics (knotting, heat cycles,  descriptions of scent & slick), vaginal & oral sex, aftercare if you squint, katsuki is like lovingly disgruntled through most of this but he adores you i promise

notes: Bakugou lovers, what’s up? It’s been a minute... 😅I can’t BELIEVE how long it’s been since I’ve written about Bakugou. But I signed up to write him for a few collabs over the summer, so here’s my warmup. I think I did this trope wrong but he goes down on u so like that’s fun, right? 👀

(MASTERLIST)

Morning comes hot and sticky, drizzling like honey into Katsuki’s slowly waking mind.

For a long time, waking slowly like this seemed little more than a far-off dream, for the man who could never be caught off guard. Most days his eyes still spring open, fully alert to the sound of his six o’clock alarm. But when she needs him, he loses himself easily to her.

To you.

He’s not sure what time it is exactly, only that midmorning sun splashes obscenely across the mussed bedclothes, lighting up the soft green of the worn linen and the buttery eggshell-painted wall beyond. His muscles settle into a dutiful ache. His thighs are still a little stuck together. He kind of needs to piss.

But you, fragile and perfect with the dew of your leftover heat drying on your spine, are worth lingering for.

You’re still fast asleep as he rolls onto one hip, fresh scratches pulling and stinging in the muscles of his back. The sheet’s tucked haphazardly over the curve of your hip, but you’re sprawled on your side with your torso left carelessly bare.

He can’t help himself, leaning forward to bury his nose against your scent glands, pulling the strong reek of you into his head. Your scent is so easy to read- maple-sweet, fragrant like orange blossom and deliciously mingled with his own. Last night, he fucked you both into sheer exhaustion, and the sheets still waft puffs of your mingled scents with every shift of his body.

Still, you’ll be wanting more soon. He gives your petal-soft skin a devilish little nip, rolling away to stretch yesterday’s exertion from his tendons.

Before he can even shift to climb out of bed for the bathroom, you’re squirming beside him.

Too late.

Those long, peaceful breaths of sleepy silence quickly give way to strained little whimpers as your senses come back to you. Last night, your heat cycle had reached its peak. But after a full measure of sleep- and eight hours without the fill of your alpha- he knew this was coming.

“Alpha,” you keen, struggling with even one coherent word. Katsuki’s instincts flare to life while you wake up, fresh waves of your needy scent filling his head and bringing his alpha to the surface. His cock stirs greedily against one thigh, stiffening traitorously in response to your voice.

He sighs harshly, flopping back against the pillows. His jaw ticks, letting firm throbs of desire swell in his gut.

“Couldn’t even wait for me to take a piss, could you?” He growls, no shortage of affection in his rough tone. You’re already rolling over, tangling clumsy, slick thighs in the soiled sheets.

“Please,” you sigh. “One more. I need one more.”

“C’mere,” he grunts, palming your ass to bring you close. “Let me see you.”

Your flesh is hot and sticky beneath his touch, and he knows how badly you need him but he can’t help indulging. Not now, when you’re so pliable and needy for him. It’s cruel to think so, but he loves you most when you’re desperate like this. His mean streak doesn’t come for you very often, but he can’t help it. You’re so easy to tease, and so much cuter when you want something.

He slips between your thighs to quell your squirming, letting you settle onto your back. You spread your legs as far as they’ll go, staring up at him with that wide, vulnerable, irresistible expression you always get at this time in your cycle. It’s how can tell your heat’s coming, far before the changes to your scent. The first time you look up at him like this every season, he knows it’s all over.

Your thighs are still crusted with last night’s slick and dried remnants of cum, but when you spread them, long strings of fresh fluid break and drip onto the mattress. The warm slip of your sex is glistening already.

Katsuki decides in that moment that he’s going to take his time with you, whether you’re ready to wait for it or not.

“You feeling patient?” he chuckles, lip curling as he flicks his eyes back to yours. You’re still staring up at him like that, an extra flash of panic lighting your eyes when the word patient reaches your ears.

“W-what,” you plead. “N-no, please, just- now, just do it now…”

Your voice trails into a strangled little squeak of pleasure when he dips his head between your thighs and seals his mouth to your dripping cunt. The familiar sweet musk of you pours into his mouth, cocktailed with the overwhelmingly heady flavor of your heat slick. The tightness in his balls is getting blurry now, half-full-bladder, half-swelling desire. But he can hold it, if it means he gets to pull more of those little cries from your needy throat.

He glides the flat of his tongue up between your folds, knowing that it makes you squeal without actually pushing you any closer to the edge. As he predicted, your thigh twitches by his left ear and your toes curl, but the whine that leaves you is not a satisfied one.

“K-katsuki,” you beg. The shape of his name on your lips comes as a surprise to him, and he glances up at you with a flinch of his brow. While there’s nothing quite like the way you shout “alpha” in the throes of your heat, when you’re all sleepy and sticky and half-conscious like this, his name feels good, too, hanging in the bleary air between you.

It sounds nice.

He rewards you with a lift of his chin, bringing the fat press of his tongue over your swollen clit just once. The sharp flick of it makes you yelp and flinch, slamming your hips into his face so hard he nearly bites his lip.

“Fuck,” he curses without pulling away, “cut it out.” He flattens one palm over the low plane of your pelvis, pressing weight into his wrist and pinning your wriggling hips to the mattress. The angle’s a little more awkward like this, but your toes are starting to twitch and he can tell you’re losing yourself to the pleasure.

He presses one finger to the weeping silk of your slippery folds, nudging it forward to find your needing hole and pushing smoothly inside.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he croons into your cunt, “y’re fuckin’ grabbing me already.”

Your walls flutter in near-instant reaction to his touch, closing down hard around his middle finger. You squeeze so tightly he can barely draw back out of you again, curling the pad of his finger to find the spongy flesh near your entrance. It’s the tenderest part of you, and when he rubs it just right, you’ll descend into the kind of shivers that’ll make it hard to hold back.

It’s worth it every time, though, to watch you lose your mind under his diligent hands.

Katsuki refreshes the weight in his palm, pinning you freshly down while he re-adjusts to the slick pull of your clutching depths. He cups his tongue against your clit, feeling the heat in its swollen ridge, and dips his ring finger into you, alongside the first. His cock’s fully hard now, drooling wet preek into the sheets and burning with bright, hot tension.

Fuck, it’s going to feel good to get you on his knot again.

He focuses once more on the task at hand, finished revelling in your taste and ready to focus on your pleasure. You like it when he flutters his tongue quick and sharp against your clit, and your cunt’s most sensitive in the shallow parts near your slit. He curls his fingers, rubbing all along the hottest planes. He can practically feel the spots where your nerves sit closest to your skin, making your body spasm when he pins them under his fingers.

“Kah!” The first syllable of his name flies from your lips. He knows you sense his intent now, and your body’s already beginning to stiffen with the promise of climax. He knows you have to tense up a little to make it happen, so when you tense your core beneath the press of his free hand, he knows you’re getting close.

“Close,” you pant anyway, slipping one hand between your thighs and raking your fingers into his hair. When you grab the longest strands at his crown and pull, it sends an unexpected little shock of pleasure to his dick that pulls the air from his chest.

You’re already starting to pitch and shake, but he knows better than to let up now. He keeps the pleasure coming steady and strong, pushing out out a solid rhythm between his tongue and his fingers as he feels you pass the point of no return.

“Right there,” comes your desperate voice, crawling into your upper register. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s it, y-you’re-“

It’s kind of beautiful, how easy to read you’ve become. He’s pretty sure he could satisfy you like this by feel alone at this point, blindfolded with his ears stuffed full of cotton.

A heartbeat and a half later you’re falling, tense muscles suddenly going slack as you dig your heels into the mattress and arch your back off the bed and contract so tight around his fingers he almost busts it right there, trying not to think about how maddening you’re going to feel around his cock in a few seconds. You let out one, long, hushed draw of his name, a “Katsuki,” that wafts by his ears like a fragrant breeze. Then you’re collapsing between his hands, fitful and whimpering and fighting him off.

“Better?” he grunts, sitting back on his heels. He wipes his mouth off with the back of one hand, dipping the pad of his thumb into the corners as he licks your heat-slick from his lips.

The look you give him suggests everything he intended. Better after a peak, perhaps, but there’s only one thing that’s going to satisfy you enough to function today.

Fuck, his knot’s already starting to swell a little when he closes his fingers around himself. He grits his teeth, ignoring the flush of heat that creeps down the back of his neck and willing it to stay small enough to fuck you properly.

He looks up at you again, and your scent crashes into his mind, filling every hollow of his blurry mind. You’re already gushing fresh slick, reaching for him to grab him by the face and pull him back down to your level.

He probably shouldn’t have teased you so long.

He lets you tug him against you, bracing his hands at either side of your head to drop his mouth to yours. He laves his tongue affectionately across your teeth, tasting notes of his scent in the lingering flavour of you. The hint of his own musk serves as a pleasant memory from the night before, when he’d poured his scent into every hollow of your body, claiming you as wholly as you’d given yourself to him.

You’re already humping your hips down against his, with his cock pressing up into the crook of your thigh. Katsuki groans long and low into your mouth, fitting one hand between you to bring his weeping tip to the hot gush of your cunt.

“That’s what you want?” He grunts, dipping his mouth from yours, tucking it against the shell of your ear.

“Katsuki, hmmm,” you whine, dragging your hard nipples against his chest. When he doesn’t move right away you whine again, clutching at his back and trying to rock yourself down onto him.

“Alpha, plea-hah!”

Katsuki delights in the way he can still startle you, after all this time. He cuts off your begging by snapping his hips sharply forward, bottoming out in one clean thrust. He’s never pretended to have the biggest cock in the world. But he’ll be damned if you’re not satisfied by it anyway.

“That’s right,” he pants, closing his eyes against the crook of your neck. “I got what you need.”

He pets a hand down your sternum as he straightens up a little, thumbing the tender swell of one nipple. He slides his fingers into the dip of your waist to brace at the curve of your hip, digging the pads of his fingers into your flesh as he rolls smoothly in and out of your clingy heat.

He closes his eyes again, overcome by the feelings he swallowed to tease you earlier. You are still tender and gooey from last night, molded perfectly to the size of him and sucking him forward every time he tries to pull away. Your slick leaks out around the edges of his cock with every push of his hips, and the quiet, satisfied cries from beneath him send pulses of deep affection into the hollows of his chest.

There’s nothing quite like this, the physical manifestation of the intimacy that lies between you. He is the only one who can do this for you anymore, the only person in the world who can quell the trembling tides of your heat.

He’s not gonna last long at all, getting sweet on you in his head like this.

Determined to make use of the time that he has, he slides his fingers into the back of your knee, pushing your thigh up toward your torso until he can reach up and grab you by the ankle. Slowly, deftly, he straightens your leg, gliding his palm down the length of your shin and guiding the curve of your heel into the crook of his shoulder.

“Pretty like this,” he croons without thinking, turning his head and feathering a quiet little kiss to the inside of your ankle. He spies your reaction out of the corner of his eye, a blissful little sleepy smile that paints your warmed features. Affection clutches low and hot in his belly, a feeling he’s only now grown used to embracing. Tenderly, he wraps his arm around your leg, braces it against his chest, and begins to thrust.

He takes up a slow, heady pace, pulling slowly out of you and then slamming forward with a harsh snap of his hips, revelling in the way your body jerks every time. He can feel the breath rattle against his palate as he sucks it in through his clenched teeth, losing himself in the maddening grip of you. It’s woven into the very fabric of him, loving you. He doesn’t have to say it anymore, not when he can practically read it out of your skin. But he’s promised himself, more fiercely than anything, to take care of you.

He promises you in the way he fucks you through this, muscles stretched thin, balls aching. Worn out on a weeknight’s worth of sleep, calling out of work for the second day in a row, undoubtedly leaving you in bed to put together a decent meal from the fridge he’d stocked this time last week, when you started looking at him Like That and he couldn’t even bring himself to dread it.

You clench, shifting your foot against his shoulder and lifting your hips into his. The tight little ripple around the base of his cock shoots all the way to the base of his spine, and with a sharp little grunt Katsuki slips his free hand down your belly, stretching his thumb over your tender clit. He can already feel his knot beginning to swell again, pleasure spiking hard when he traps your clit under his thumb and starts to stroke, making you cry out and tense into him all over again.

“Kat…suki, I’m.. g-gonna,” you plead, like he can’t already feel it happening again. Even your scent fluctuates when you’re about to cum, rippled with a sharp little spice that peters into sweetness all over again when you bleed down from that high.

“I gotcha,” he promises gently, hooking his arm more firmly around your calf. “Come on, baby. I gotcha. Come on.”

He dips his hips as low as he can, paying extra attention to the beginning and end of every thrust, to overstimulate those tender spots that line your entrance. It works, because before long you’re digging your heel into the meat of his shoulder and convulsing around his pounding length and gushing hot slick that drips down his balls and coats his pelvis and smears across the low end of his stomach.

“Fuck.” The word hisses from his throat, his body taking the green light of your waning climax long before his brain clues in. He digs his fingers into your thigh and leans forward, stretching it up toward your chest and lets himself go, shoving his hips madly against yours and milking every cruel draw of pleasure from his own body until his thighs are shaking with the resistance of it. When the ecstasy finally boils over he slams his hips as far forward as they’ll go, squeezing his eyes shut and shooting long spurts of cum up into your belly. Your walls stretch eagerly around him as his knot expands completely, sealing his pelvis to yours.

Finally, he shrugs your ankle down his arm, gently straightening your leg out over his thigh as you catch your breath. He’s a little winded, too, never quite ready for the overwhelming sensations of taking you.

“That’s never gonna get old,” he mumbles, bowing over your supine form to rest his dewy forehead on yours.

You’re still panting hard, but you laugh airily, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. His eyes are closed again but he can feel you grinning and it’s too contagious not to crack a little smile. He ducks his forehead away from yours to nose against the shell of your ear, mouthing gently at your jaw and sliding both hands up and down either side of your torso.

“Better?” he asks, sincere this time. And, sincerely soothed this time, you nod.

“Much better.”

He knows you’re telling the truth, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s going to be on you all day. He can’t keep himself off of you when you’re coming down from the worst of it, all sweet and pliable and soft in a way that you most certainly are not for the other days in your cycle. You kick his ass without hesitation, and he loves you for it. But you’re irresistible like this.

“Now,” he grunts, still nosing his way down your neck, tonguing the sweet hollow of your scent glands, “hurry up and calm down. I gotta take a leak.”

That urge hasn’t gone anywhere fast, growing shallow and tight in the pit of his groin. But it’s not urgent. Not when he’s locked so sweetly (and securely) into your relaxing depths.

“You’re the one that needs to calm down,” you retort in good humour, glancing down for a heartbeat.

“Say that again and I might not bother waiting,” he threatens easily. The noise that escapes your throat is enough to make him snort, pillowing his head in the crook of your shoulder as you turn sharply to find his eyes.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

“You gonna stop me?” He regrets challenging you immediately when you flail instinctively beneath him, wrenching on the base of his knot and drawing a strangled, pained little wheeze from his chest.

“Fuck, I was kidding,” he scolds, pinning your shoulders to the mattress. “Jesus. Welcome back.”

You’re getting your fire back early. Maybe he’s kind of missed it, after all.  

He keeps himself curled over you like that until his knot’s gone down almost all the way, cock softening out of you and letting fresh drips of slick and cum leak onto his thighs. Finally he pulls himself away from you, padding blindly into the bathroom and flipping on the harsh fluorescent light.

He braces one hand on the wall over the toilet as he relieves himself, still half-hard and wavering on his overworked thighs. After he’s washed his hands he wagers a look in the mirror, turning his back and twisting to look over his shoulder and examine the damage.

He goes back to bed smirking, thinking of the long, angry scratches while the memory of their infliction is still fresh.

You are already half-asleep again when he finds you, so he just pulls the sheets up around your shoulders and drops a kiss to your temple. You’re going to want coffee soon, and you’re going to need breakfast. Neither of you have had a proper meal in longer than he’d care to calculate.

When he steps into some undershorts and eases into the open space that makes up the rest of your apartment, he opens the kitchen windows, since you’ll want fresh air when you come out to join him. He’d stopped by the bagel shop on the corner by the agency the last time he was there, leaving work early to come home to you, because he knew you’d want fried eggs on your favourite sesame bagel when you were finally coherent enough to crave food again.

The routines that make up his devotion to you aren’t the things he learned about in health class. They weren’t written down in the books that were unceremoniously shoved at him after he’d presented, nor did the details of your post-heat care list appear on any neatly packaged powerpoint presentation.

He’s picked them up slowly, the hard way, by messing up over and over and over again. They’re things he never even realized he knew about you, until he looks down at his hands and he’s flipping his own egg every few seconds to keep it from browning but leaving yours in the pan to get crisp around the edges.

It feels good to know you so deeply. Even when, sometimes, the flipside is still a little too vulnerable and scary. Even when he’s still harsh and mean, when he still messes up, when he still catches himself on the edge of fury so often.

You picked him anyway, and he’ll be damned if he’s not going to let that mean something.

[willwriteforhugs]

just a sniffle!- hwang hyunjin

boyfriend! hyunjin x reader- one shot !

word count: 1.6k

genre: fluff, domestic scenario

synopsis: after your boyfriend comes home from a long day, you swear you can detect a scratch in his throat... but he insists he’s fine. fast forward 12 hours, and hyunjin is practically bed-ridden with fever. and now what...

warnings: sickness/a high fever (obviously), minor cursing

a/n: this prompt was requested by an anon!! i hope i didn’t take too long to put this out- it takes me forever to edit when the fic in question is a request, because i just want it to be perfect :’) anyways, to my lovely anon: thank you for the request, and i hope you enjoy!

- - -

earlier, when hyunjin had told you he’d be able to get off early, you’d been over the moon- it was a rare occurrence, after all. your boyfriend has- as many idols do- an extremely hectic schedule, with practices often going late into the night. so when he’d said the two of you would be able to spend the evening together, it had taken all your self-control not to start cheering right then and there. but you had managed to stay calm- and still devise a thorough, detailed plan of how the night would go.

you would make dinner, and it would be ready by the time hyunjin got to your place- because who doesn’t love being welcomed by a warm meal? then, after you eat, hyunjin can run and get cleaned up while you do dishes. when that’s all done, the two of you can get down to business by binge watching all the drama episodes you’d missed. (you never watched them without him, even though you usually fall way behind in the show, due to his lack of free time. he insists that you shouldn’t wait- but you love to watch them with him, so you always let them pile up...)

now, in the moment, you scurry aimlessly about your apartment. dinner is ready, waiting to be served in the kitchen, so you walk around your front room. you know that everything is clean- this is the fourth time you’ve checked. but still, this isn’t an everyday thing, and you want the place to be tidy for your boyfriend. (you also know he doesn’t really care all that much- but it’s the thought that counts, right?)

your train of thoughts ends abruptly when a knock sounds from the front door. already smiling, you rush to answer it- and sure enough, there he is.

hyunjin stands in your front entryway, tilting his head as he looks at you. a smile toys at his lips, and he extends an arm. fighting your own glee, you lean into his embrace, breathing in his familiar scent.

“hey,” you say into his chest. he hums in reply, and you stand there for a moment, simply appreciating each other. after a beat has passed, you speak up again. “let’s go inside.”

the two of you enter, hyunjin closing the door behind him. he’s wearing a casual outfit, made up of just black sweats and a hat. you assume he’s already showered, too, because, well- you won’t lie- he usually doesn’t smell that great after a long practice. but he seems clean, and all for the better- that just means the schedule gets sped up, and more time for the two of you! 

as he usually does, your boyfriend wanders into your bedroom to set down his things, not lingering. he meets you back in the kitchen as you begin to serve the food. you see him smile at the spread, and finally he speaks: “wow, babe. that’s a lot of food.”

at the sound of his voice, you start a bit. it’s much lower than usual, and you detect a bit of scratchiness in it. without looking up, you make your inquiry: “are you feeling well? you sound a bit froggy.”

hyunjin snorts at your description. “froggy? you really are something...”

you smile, bringing two servings of food to the table. as you begin to eat, the two of you settle into comfortable silence. 

as the meal continues, though, you feel yourself begin to frown. despite his obvious attempts to hide it, hyunjin seems to be having trouble swallowing his food. with every bite, you see your boyfriend flinch just a bit. 

not being able to take it any longer, you set your chopsticks down. “really, hyunjin-ah. you don’t seem well, are you getting a cold?”

your boyfriend makes a mocking pouty face at you. clearing his throat, he responds: “i’m fine, y/n. i really am, so don’t baby me.”

you give a half hearted glare. “fine. but if you wake up tomorrow feeling like shit, don’t say i didn’t warn you.”

- - -

you had been right, of course.

and, for the record, you had warned him.

it’s 6:48 in the morning, and both of you were awake. you lean over in bed, switching on the light. laying in a pathetic lump on your other side, hyunjin groans loudly. you turn back around to face him. “hyunjin-ah, seriously. let me feel your head, you’ve been coughing all night!”

the lump that happens to be your boyfriend shifts to face you in bed. you frown once you can seem him clearly- his face is red, and his eyes are watery from the coughing. you place your own cool palm on his forehead, and almost jerk back in surprise. “babe, you’re burning up!”

flinging your blankets away, you spring out of bed. “hyunjin!” you groan. “i knew you sounded off, why wouldn’t you say anything?”

he coughs again, finally managing to clear his throat. in his raspy voice, he manages: “i didn’t want to ruin your night. i knew you were excited.”

you sigh, knowing the feeling, and hating the understanding. hyunjin was overworked, truly. he shouldn’t have felt the need to lie just to spend time with you, no matter how excited you were...

“c’mon.” you say nudging him in the hips. “sit up, i’ll get you some painkillers and water. are you hungry?”

he grunts in response. when you don’t move, he finally mutters into his pillow: “i don’t know.”

a smile tugs at your lips at this. “that’s alright. i’ll get you a bit anyways.”

you know that hyunjin’s dramatics are probably a conductor to this situation, but a tiny part of you is excited at this opportunity to spoil him, even if it’s at his expense. 

in the kitchen, you dig around for the promised medicine and some snacks, then pour a glass of water.

when you re enter your bedroom, you see hyunjin has managed to sit up. his tall figure is slumped as he leans against the headboard of your bed. nonetheless, he smiles as you enter the room. “you’re so pretty in the mornings,” he mumbles.

you gently smack his head as you set down the water glass. “oh, shut up. at least take the meds first so you’ll be able to defend yourself later on.”

at this, he chuckles- but the joy quickly dissipates as the laugh turns into a pained cough. you use your palm to rub circles over his back as he regains his breath. the fit passes, but the tension in the air doesn’t. 

in perfect unison, the two of you sigh.

hyunjin breaks the silence. “i’m so sorry, y/n. i should have just told you i wasn’t feeling well last night... maybe we could have caught it before it got this bad.”

you give him a bittersweet smile. “your pride can be a weakness, my love.”

at this, hyunin puts his hand to his chest in fake shock. “i can’t believe you’d say such things to me. and while i’m ill!”

“it’s just a cold, your highness. take the tylenol and see how that helps.” you pause, knowing that he is probably in more pain than he’s letting on- you can tell because he was covering it with humor, something he rarely does. “do you- do you want a washcloth or something? an ice pack?”

your boyfriend’s expression is warm. his voice is still uneven, and he responds in an almost whisper: “is that alright?”

your heart stutters at his demeanor. “yes, that’s alright.”

when you return with the cold washcloth, hyunjin has slid down a bit- now only half sitting up. his eyes are closed, though you suspect he isn’t asleep, at least not fully. but you can tell he’s exhausted from being up all night with his sneezing and coughing... maybe he really is asleep...

you make your way to him, and pause to admire his peaceful face. he truly is beautiful... you reach over and gently sweep his long hair away from his forehead, allowing your fingers to linger. he’s still very warm to the touch, and you can’t help but worry for him. after a moment, you swap your hand for the washcloth, draping it gently across his already damp forehead. 

you aren’t really sure how to properly care for a sick person, but a cold compress seems to be what all the dramas suggest. so you sit back down and hope for the best. 

a few minutes pass- hyunjin breathing peacefully in the bed, and you in a nearby chair watching him. suddenly, your counterpart’s eyes flicker open, deep brown eyes meeting your own. “y/n-ah?” he rasps.

you almost launch out of your chair. “yes? are you alright?”

hyunjin gives a half-hearted snort as his eyes drift shut again. he continues to speak without seeing you. “i’m fine. but- will- do you mind sitting with me? over here?”

you stare at him for a moment, processing. then you smile. “yeah, i can do that. as long as you don’t get me sick.”

“no promises.”

and with that, you crawl back into bed with hyunjin, his back to you. you scoot up a bit, positioning yourself so you can hug him from behind. you’ve never been the big spoon before- but honestly? you love it, and you bury your face in between his shoulder blades, filled with an overwhelming rush of affection.

“y/n?” comes hyunjin’s voice again, very quietly.

you don’t move, answering into his back. “yes?”

“i love you.” 

and with that, hyunjin slips back into sleep, this time nestled in your arms.

[hpimaginesandblurbs]

hey, sweetie! I came across your account and found your stories are utterly amazing! I can't get enough re-reading all over again; it's very very great! I was hoping if I could make a req? If only you don't mind!

Can you do the marauders (yes, prongs moony and padfoot) smut where they accidentally use degrading kink but the reader is hurt and she ended up crying because it makes her very insecure because she's nothing but just a fuck toy? I don't hate the idea of such kink but I'm not fond of being degraded even though it doesn't mean any harm. maybe they will praise her and cuddle until she's completely calm down. i really like fluff ending❤ thanks!

pairing(s): james potter x remus lupin x sirius black x reader (foursome) 

warning(s): 18+, foursome, double penetration, oral (male receiving), anal, degradation, praise, lots of cum, cute cuddles 

word count: 1.9k

a/n: oh my god. when i got this request i literally had to pause and reread it so many times because it sent me spiraling. too good. thank you for this because i know exactly what i’ll be daydreaming about for the next week! i’m the same way about degradation (i don’t want it unless i’m really in the mood) so i can totally relate. i just hope i did it justice. enjoy! 

“C’mon, puppy, sit right here like a good girl,” Sirius instructed, giving a pointed nod to his erect cock. He was lounging back on his bed, one hand propped behind his head, his raven hair wrapped up in a messy bun. He looked like a Greek God and he didn’t even have to try. 

You made your way up the bed, straddling his waist and hovering your core above him. You were already dripping wet with the anticipation of what these boys were about to do to you. You weren’t sure how it escalated to this point, but here you were. 

You were hovered above Sirius’ cock, Remus making his way up the bed behind you, and James was off to the side, stroking his cock and content with waiting until you were ready to take it. The night you four had planned was triple penetration to the ultimate proportions. 

You sunk down onto Sirius’ cock, feeling him stretch you and fill you so beautifully as he always did. All of their cocks were amazing, but Sirius’ was the perfect amount of thickness that you needed. 

“Fuck, you never stop being tight no matter how much we stretch you. Just the perfect little hole for us,” Sirius said roughly, his large hands coming to grip your hips and grind you down onto him, getting you settled on his cock. 

Remus was the next one with his hands on you, pushing you forward onto Sirius’ chest until you were completely exposed to him. He could see the spot where Sirius was entering your body, stretching you out completely, and he could see exactly where his own cock would be going - right into your tightest hole, already being stretched with a plug. 

He worked it out gently, all three of them listening to you whimper into Sirius’ neck as he pushed and pulled, teasing you, until he finally removed it. 

“That’s a good girl. Stay just like that and quiet to be our little toy,” James commented, reaching over to brush some hair out of your face. You keened at the attention, but his choice of words made you flush red with embarrassment. You knew logically you were more than just a hole or a toy for them, but hearing it made you question what their intentions were nonetheless. 

Next thing you knew, you could feel Remus’ cock at your entrance, slowly pushing in. It wasn’t as bad as you had expected, the boys had prepped you well, but the additional stretch and sting made you wince lightly despite your moan. 

Remus roughly grabbed your arms and pulled you back so your back hit his chest harshly as he bottomed out inside of you. You were now successfully taking both of their cocks which made your head spin with arousal, but his words sent you spiralling. 

“Oh don’t act like you’re in pain. That won’t work with us. We know you're just a filthy slut so you’ll take it like one,” Remus said, beginning to slowly roll his hips against your ass, forcing you to grind on Sirius’ cock in return. 

Regardless of how his words made you feel, you couldn’t stop the moan from falling out of your mouth, effectively proving him right. When you looked down at Sirius, you knew he could see the tears beginning to form in your eyes, but he disregarded it to begin thrusting up into you, your head falling back onto Remus’ shoulders. 

“Fuck she feels so good,” Sirius moaned. “Prongs, she’s ready for you,” he said, looking over to his messy haired friend. 

Once that was said, Remus released your arms and you had to flail to stay upright, clutching Sirius’s shoulder. You weren’t there for long before James grabbed a chuck of your hair from the root and pulled you down sideways, your mouth lining up with his cock. 

“Open,” was all he said, treating you indifferently. Something you were not used to and not a fan of. You did what he asked regardless though, hoping if you proved that you were good their attitudes would change. 

Once your mouth engulfed James, all three of them let out a moan in sync, getting off on the fact that all of them were inside of you at the same time. 

“Look at her,” Remus rumbled out, “just a filthy fucking whore taking all of us.” 

You whined around James’ cock in protest, but the vibration only made him moan and pull your head in further, your nose now flush up against his skin. A tear slipped down your face, both because of the urge to gag around James’ cock and because of their unexpected treatment of you. Sure they had degraded you before, but never this much, never all of them at once, and always mixed with praise. This was different and you didn’t like it. 

“Look at her,” James started with a breathless laugh, continuing to fuck your throat raw, “she’s even crying for it like the pathetic slut she is.” 

That’s what did it. That’s what had you pulling off of James with a sob, struggling for breath with tears pouring down your face. “Stop, please stop,” you begged quietly, praying that one of them believed you. 

Thinking back, you were all stupid to never have a safeword for these situations but nothing like this had ever come up before. They were always so good with reading you, knowing exactly what you needed. You weren’t sure what went wrong this time. 

Thankfully, James didn’t go to reach for you again and Sirius and Remus immediately stopped giving you the delicious friction they had been providing inside of you to turn towards your face. 

You collapsed against Sirius’ chest in a fit of sobs and he was quick to wrap his arms around you and pull you close. You could practically feel the panicked looks being passed between them, but they were all quick to jump into action. Remus was running his hand along your back, but he never pulled out, they knew how much you hated them pulling out before you were ready. You felt the bed dip and James sat down at Sirius’ side, a hand coming up to brush through your tangled hair. 

“What happened, love? What’s wrong?” Sirius asked softly, his lips brushing against your neck. 

“Too mean,” you whimpered out, not looking up at any of them. 

“We were being too mean to our sweet girl? You want us to be nice while you’re our good girl?” Remus asking, lips brushing your shoulder blade before he pressed a gentle kiss on your skin. 

“Please,” you said with a final shaky breath, looking up at the boys while your tears dried. 

“You sure you want to keep going?” James asked gently, his thumb coming up to brush the tears off of your face. 

“Please. Please, it felt so good,” you begging shamelessly, grinding down on Sirius and Remus’ cock for good measure, just to prove how much you wanted to keep going. 

“Fuck, okay okay,” Remus said, choking on a laugh when he felt how tight you were against him all over again. 

“Ride us just like that pretty girl. You’ve been so good for us all night. Letting us fuck you and strecth you like this. So good,” Sirius mused, really laying it on thick in his attempt to rectify his mistakes as he grabbed your hips harshly, overwhelmed with how tight you were. 

“You wanna use your mouth again, love? Or just your hand?” James asked, gently turning your face to his using a knuckle. 

You didn’t even reply, just bent over sideways once more and opened your mouth, tongue out. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” James said with a chuckle, gently working your mouth back onto his cock until he was lodged down your throat. 

They never stopped the rough treatment, but the words they were saying were affecting you so much differently now. Rather than making you question yourself and your place with them, they were making you feel so good and loved and safe. 

The way they were ravishing your body made you feel heavenly. The way Remus and and Sirius’ cocks were dragging in and out of you made your head spin and your core tighten, dangling on the edge just waiting to be tossed over. James’ cock down your throat gave you a fraction of power over at least one of them, knowing all of his pleasure was coming from your body. Truly, all of their pleasure was, but you were working hard for James. 

“Fuck you feel like a vice,” Remus groaned, his fingers digging into your hips as he rolled his hips against you in a steady pace. You could feel the way him and Sirius’ cocks were dragging past each other through the thin walls inside your body, making you tremble with the thought of being so full of them. They were practically splitting you open, but oh what a way to go. “Let go for us, Y/N. Fuck, I can feel how close you are.” 

It didn’t take long after that. One, two, three more pumps from each of them and you were spiralling over the edge and into your release. You pulled away from James to let out your loud cry of relief and he readily took over to work his own cock, aiming it directly at your open mouth. In the rush of your release, you could feel yourself being filled with cum in all your holes. Warm rope after rope of cum gushed into your core and your mouth, completely filling you up from all angles. 

Being that full of their cum made you tremble, but you finally worked your way down from the clouds and collapsed against Sirius’ chest once more. 

It took all of you a minute to even feel coherent, but finally Remus was pulling out of you slowly. You could feel a rush of cum leave your body and trail down your thighs and onto the bed. You weren’t even sure whose bed you were on anymore. You whimpered at the feeling, both the unsatisfactory feeling of misplaced cum and the feeling of being empty after so long. 

Sirius went to pull out next, but you shook your head aggressively, needing to feel close to one of them after all of that. “Please don’t,” you begged softly, unable to give him a reason at the moment. You were a mixture of overwhelmed and still in a comedown, you just needed to be close. 

“Alright, don’t worry. You can stay here as long as you’d like puppy,” Sirius told you, shifting so the both of you were laying on your sides, getting you comfortable on the bed beside him. James crawled into the bed behind you, and Remus moved to relax against the headboard, pulling your feet into his lap to lightly massage them, relaxing you further. 

“You did so good for us tonight, love,” James said, moving his body so his chest was against you back, boxing you in. “We didn’t mean to upset you at all. You’re always good for us. You know that, right?” 

“I know. It was just too much in the moment,” you tried your best to explain. 

“We’ll talk about it later, yeah? We should have a word for if that happens again,” Remus suggested, quick to bring up what you had already been thinking about. You gave a small nod into Sirius’ neck, which he relayed to the boys. 

“Get some rest, pup. We’ll be right here when you wake up,” Sirius told you, placing a kiss on your forehead before moving to pull a blanket over the both of you, never pulling out once just as you wanted. 

Because you always got what you wanted from your boys. 

[l-artemisia-del-secolo]

Taste of a memory

Yelena belova x reader, one shot, mentions of missions during the red room, hopeful ending as usual, what is a pryanik

"Babe, what are you hiding there?"

When you came into the kitchen Yelena frantically hid something in a brown paper bag.

"How was your day, princess?" She tried to change the subject while weirdly holding the bag behind her back.

"You're distracting me?" You laughed and held out a hand, "Come on, babe."

"It's... it's nothing." She shook her head.

You couldn't help but be completely enamoured by this woman. Usually so fierce and strong, protective and confident. Almost a grown up. But now she was like a helpless kid, covering something she was, judging by the eyes... ashamed of.

"Are you sure?" You sounded softer. And your hand that was still hanging in the air gently landed on her shoulder. "Whatever it is, it's fine."

Yelana nodded. You sounded reassuring, you sounded familiar and cozy. And she immediately wanted to lean in your touch.

"It's fine." She echoed.

"You want to spend some time alone?"

Of course you didn't want to let her go. But it's how it worked with Yelena. Sometimes you had to let her reflect on the situation and make her own conclusions. You were the same. Of course later you would talk. Except once. You never talked about her sister's death. With this she wasn't ready to open up yet.

You let her leave the room. But before that made sure to touch the bare skin of her arm. Burn it, remind her she wasn't alone.

She was quiet for the rest of the day and the next day and the day after. You were there for her. Surrounding with attention, hugging with love, reassuring with affection.

You remembered how you sucked at it at first. Being in a relationship. In fact you both sucked. But she needed you more and in time you found that in yourself. You were the one who showed her how to resolve conflicts and stop when needed. But Yelena was the one who had to work harder, overcoming her insecurities.

You were ready for her reaction to whatever happened between you two, but you didn't want to, you hoped that those days were long gone.

In a week Yelena came to you herself. You had a stressful day with the marketing report you had to present. And when you came home you just poured yourself some whiskey and mindlessly were watching something on hbo max. It didn't help that you had a headache.

She sat near you and took your glass. "One of those days, princess?"

"Unfortunately."

She moved closer. She was ready. You placed your head on her lap and allowed her to massage your temples.

You were hesitant, you couldn't relax.

"Something's wrong?" Of course she noticed that you still were tense. Usually it took you just a few minutes to let go of everything.

"No, migraine is just stronger this time."

"You're an awful liar, princess".

You squinted. "Is it a bad thing?"

"No," She sighed. "Not really. I appreciate that we're being honest with each other. It's about what happened in the kitchen?"

"Babe, if you don't want to talk, I understand." You tried to stand up but Yelena didn't let you.

"I know. Tomorrow. I promise." She kissed your forehead.

You didn't sleep well that night. Subconsciously trying to get closer to your woman. Yelena didn't sleep at all.

When you woke up she was already gone. But when you returned from work she was at home.

You saw the same brown paper back on the kitchen table.

"Привет (hey)." Yelena greeted you. But she sounded different. Colder. "How's your migraine?"

"Thanks, it's a..." You couldn't stop staring at the bag. "It's fine."

"Curious?"

"Nope, if you think I shouldn't be." Weak attempt at a joke. But Yelena appreciated that. It was hard to keep her distance with you if you were trying to break the ice.

"Come here." You obliged. Once you were within her reach, she caught in a hug. "Promise me, nothing between us will change."

"Promise, babe."

Yelena looked right into your eyes. You weren't lying. You simply couldn't. You didn't know how to. She let you sit while she remained standing.

"I told you about my upbringing. Мои корни (my roots). My purpose." She heard your sigh and corrected herself. "My previous purpose. Previous life."

"Yes."

"Well, I never told you about my first mission. When I was 12. I had to go undercover to gather intelligence."

"Who could you possibly be when you're only 12."

"I was supposed to get certain documents from an engineer. And his wife often helped homeless children. It was just 10 years after the Soviet Union collapsed. And in Russia itself not everything was alright. Especially in further regions. For example in Tula."

"You were supposed to be one of the homeless kids god knows where?" You heard stories like this before from her. But when you're only 12? You couldn't believe it.

"Yeah. I had to take advantage of a good hearted woman. Get into her house. And steal the documents. Standard operation for a widow this age." She stopped for a second recalling details of that assignment. Her torn clothes, smell of dirt she had in her face, hunger in the eyes of the other kids. "But during those missions a certain approach had to be used. Chemical control had to be reduced for a child to have a more authentic behaviour. On such cases the Res room relied on propaganda they still were using on young agents."

You tried to remain stoic. But your eyes were already tearful.

"Oh, princess." Yelena brushed them away with her thumbs. "No need for that. It was such a long time ago. Don't weep for my past. Anyway, I succeeded, she noticed me. Every day I was with the kids, but every night I was back at the base. It wasn't that bad. And in time that compassionate woman let me into her house. She allowed me to eat there and get warm. She learned my name, my backstory. And with the mind controlling not being there I felt something for her. Then I didn't know what it was. But now I know it was love and gratitude."

Yelena stared for a few minutes blankly. Feeling those sensations long forgotten. Feeling the hope she had to stay in that family.

"But I was programmed. I was serving. I had no other choice. And in a few months I found the documents. When the family wasn't at home, I broke into the apartment and stole them. But on my way to the car, that woman saw me. She saw their folder. She understood. And that was the first time I've seen the exact moment I've destroyed a person. Not physically, sure. But she thought of me as a daughter, as a member of the family. But that's not all."

She leaned to you for a kiss. Cold, detached, calculated.

"I fucked up on my first mission. Of course I was punished. But I didn't care. With the chemical I only cared about the less than stellar result. And in a few years I accidently discovered that the red room killed her, because she saw my face. I... of course now I repent. But what's the use of that. She is just one of many."

"It was never your fault."

"It's complicated. You know that better than anyone. And that feeling that I understand now, it even had a taste and a smell then. Cause Людмила (Lyudmila) was giving me a certain thing that Tula was famous for." She gestured to the bag. "Пряник (pryanik)"

You opened it. And there it was. Made from flour and honey. Sweet and aromatic.

"I buy myself one once a year. To..." She shrugged. "I don't even know why. Maybe to get that childish feeling of hope back. Is it weird?"

"No, of course not."

"Yeah, I guess." She muttered to herself.

"It is not weird. I understand. I mean. I think I do. It's normal to try to relive memories.' You stood up and poured yourself some water.

"Very bitter sweet ones. But you know. Now it's easier for me. With you and Fanny....'' Yelena almost had a shadow of a smile. "Try it."

"Sure." You took a bite of this pryanik. "Well, it's really sweet."

"It's supposed to be, princess." She sounded playfully annoyed. "Appreciate it."

"I do. And you know, I guess I can cook it for you." You said carefully.

"Well, that definitely makes the sensation far less bitter. Promise?"

"Promise."

Of course it wasn't the end of the conversation. You were returning to this topic time and time again. Working it through, searching for an answer. At times it was ugly, at times it was tearful, at times annoying. But you were ready for that,both of you. Oh, and you kept your promise. You learned to bake for her.

[thecousinsdangereux]

the land of race car ya yas

A short little ficlet for @corvophobia who has drawn a bunch of art for the bees racer au of my dreams. This is ALL based on her drawings, so make sure you check out her stuff. Happy birthday, Amber! You are one of my two favorite British children. <3

(Please note that I know nothing about street racing. I've only watched the Fast and the Furious movies. Forgive me....)

--

“How’d you do that?”

Blake’s used to the question or some version of it, and maybe that’s why she takes in the words before she notices the tone, imagines a scowl (a lowered brow, hands curled into fists, the flash of teeth as the scowl turns into a snarl) with the same instinct that has her shoulders tensing. It’s only mid-turn that she realizes the question is laced with wonder rather than anger, but even this awareness doesn’t prepare her for the sight that meets her. It’s a woman, her smile wide and unrestrained by pesky things like self-consciousness or insecurity, and her eyes are nearly glowing in the low light, purple and bright and full of open admiration. Her black leather jacket, classic in cut, has the sleeves rolled up mid-forearm, revealing a prosthetic of black and yellow, and her grey jeans are tight, showing off a body that Blake has to work to avoid following the curves of. Her hair is long, blonde, curling around her shoulders and down her back, artful in its disorder, down to the single, stubborn cowlick at the top of her head.

In short, she’s beautiful, and Blake stares for longer than she should, feeling heat in her veins.

“Do what?”

She manages a response, but it’s absent minded. She’s just noticed the light dusting of pink on the woman’s cheeks, coloring the spaces in between her freckles, and it has her re-evaluating, pulling her thoughts to the effort she’s put into her own outfit that evening: a cropped and sleeveless hoodie with blocked colors of white and purple, tight leather shorts, and clunky boots that hit just under the knee. Blake looks good and this woman knows it, which makes them even on this particular front, and that's a settling sort of feeling.

“Win,” the woman says simply, her smile growing. “And don’t just say NOS.”

“NOS,” Blake drawls, just because she can, and she’s rewarded by the woman’s laugh, rewarded even more when she steps closer.

“No, but what’s your delivery method? Direct port, obviously, but you had to have used a custom kit, right? I’ve been telling you, Yang, I need to recalibrate yours. Can I look at your car? Would you mind if I just took a tiny peak just to see what you’ve done with your injection site? We really need to upgrade, Yang. A nozzle with less back pressure will give you a better squeeze. I’ve been telling you!”

She hadn’t noticed the other woman, but blinks at her now, a red blur waving her arms about, hoping from one foot to the other, firing out words faster than Blake — an aficionado of all things fast — can keep up with. The woman (Yang?) seems to find the act familiar and reacts with affection tinged with a false exasperation (put upon for Blake’s benefit or maybe as a means of gentle chiding), sighing and placing a hand on the smaller girl’s shoulder.

“And I’ve been telling you, you can’t just ask people to look at their shit!” She turns to Blake now, and this time her eye roll is definitely for Blake. “Sorry about that, I swear we’re not trying to steal any of your trade secrets. Ruby just… really likes cars.”

“It’s so pretty too,” Ruby coos, batting away Yang’s hand and taking a step towards the vehicle Blake had used to push past Yang at the last moment, a fact neither of these women seem to hold against her. “The purple stripes. But I bet the engine is prettier.”

It’s unprecedented, really. Blake’s been on the scene for a while — longer than she would admit to anyone here — first as a tagalong and now as a driver, but she’s never had an encounter quite like this. The unexpectedness of it all has her feeling off-balance, has her reacting without any of her customary cool anger as Ruby stares at her hood (as though if she focuses hard enough, she’ll be able to see through the metal to the parts underneath). Maybe that’s why Blake responds in a way that’s decidedly unwise, without any further thought at all.

“You can take a look. I don’t mind.”

“Really?” Ruby squeals, but doesn’t wait for Blake to confirm, darting around her and flipping open the hood in the span of three seconds.

“Really?” Yang asks, and the word sounds wildly different coming from her, sliding out from behind her crooked lips like thanks or maybe a challenge (or maybe both). “Not worried about my mechanic figuring you out before the next race?”

Blake should be, of course. But.

“Can’t say I am.”

“Maybe not the smartest move.” Yang crosses her arms; the chrome of her right glints under one of the flickering street lights. For the first time, she looks away from Blake’s gaze, eyes darting over to check on Ruby (who’s leaning so far into the front of Blake’s car that her feet nearly lift off the ground) and then to another group of drivers, a good distance behind them, but clearly watching in curiosity. It’s never wise to gather after a race, but everyone always does when it goes well, and for the first time, Blake’s glad for it. “She’s pretty vicious about giving me an edge. I wish I could say it was familial loyalty, but really, she just wants to make the fastest car in the city.” Yang pauses, tilting her head in thought. “Or country. Or world. Not sure when she’ll be satisfied, to be honest.”

“Sisters?” Blake asks. She can’t really see the resemblance, but then again, she hasn’t spent as much time looking at the younger of the pair, even though she should probably be less focused on the elder (the one not pouring over her engine. Sun and Ilia were going to kill her).

“Yeah.” Yang probably doesn’t realize how much her smile grows in the confirmation, saturated with pride and love. “Scary brilliant too. Give her five minutes with a car and she’ll take it apart, put it back together, and it’ll run better than it ever has. But all that means she always thinks it’s the car that puts a driver ahead.”

Blake arches a brow. “And you think she’s… wrong?”

“Well, yeah.” Yang’s closer than Blake remembers her being, maybe because her legs are long, her strides somehow longer, and it only takes a step before she’s close enough for Blake to feel the heat radiating off her body. “I know it’s only the driver that puts a driver ahead. That’s why I’m here talking to you instead of looking at your car.” Her lips twitch and she amends her statement quickly. “Part of the reason, at least.”

The other part of her reasoning is made pretty obvious when Yang’s eyes trace up Blake’s form once more. It should probably bother Blake, but it doesn’t, maybe because she’s done the same to Yang during this conversation (more than once). Still, there are things better avoided, and Blake knows this better than anyone. She does her best to get back on track.

“It wasn’t me,” she says (almost blurts), and then feels her neck warm when Yang looks at her quizzically. “Before, you asked how I won. But it wasn’t me, not really. You could have had it if you hadn’t fired your nitrous early. You were impatient.”

It’s too blunt, Blake knows this as soon as the words leave her lips. She’s backtracked too much, retreated into aloofness as she was wont to do, but Yang only laughs, and the sound cracks through Blake’s go-to defense, a corner of her lips curling before she can stop it.

“You’re right. I used to be way worse, back when I started out, but I’m a lot better now. Usually.”

“So what happened today?” It’s the question Yang wants her to ask, of this Blake is sure, but it hardly feels like a chore.

“Ah, bad luck, I guess. I took one look at the driver next to me and all that impatience came rushing back. All I wanted to do was finish the race and meet her properly.” She winks. Combined with the cheesy line, it shouldn’t work as well as it does (but it does). “I’m Yang.”

“Blake.”

They don’t shake hands, and Blake’s glad for it. There’s something buzzing between them, a tingling sensation at the tips of her fingers, the build up right before a lightning strike, and Blake’s not entirely sure what the contact — however brief and friendly — might do to her.

“Next time, maybe I’ll be a little more prepared.” Yang’s eyes roam across her face, settling once more on gold. “But probably not.”

“Immersion therapy,” Blake quips. “Give it time.”

Yang whistles sharply, and it takes Blake a moment to realize that she’s called her sister back over. (Blake had forgotten about her entirely, though the grease on her hands and face leads her to believe that Ruby had done a thorough dive under her hood, the sort Blake ought to be worried about.)

“Time is exactly what I plan on giving it. A lot of time, if you’ll let me.” Yang nudges her sister back in the direction they’d come from. Ruby waves, offers a wide grin of thanks, but Blake’s stuck on purple.

“Well. Let’s see how you do in the next race,” she murmurs.

“Looking forward to it.”

And Blake, who started racing to get away, who started racing to run, who started racing so she never had to stay in one place for long, finds that she is too.

—

“What the hell is your problem?”

Blake’s used to this question too, or some form of it, and this time, the tone is exactly what she expects. The small, white-haired woman in a vest and tie, however, is not.

“Listen, I’m sorry I hurt your boyfriend’s feelings by being a better driver than him, but you’re only embarrassing yourself now.” Blake takes another look at the woman’s attire; her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and — despite the country club hairstyle and the heels — the hint of a tattoo on her pale skin, just under the fabric makes up Blake’s mind for her. “Or… Girlfriend?”

“Not quite,” says a familiar voice.

Today, Yang has decided to show off her abs (and she most certainly does have abs) with a cropped jacket of black and gold checks, and Blake can’t quite bring herself to look beyond that for too long, though she catches the black driving gloves, the oversized and gold sunglasses, the oversized cargo pants. In the seconds it takes for Blake to wind her brain back up, Yang grins, cocksure, and continues.

“Though you were right about the gay thing. I mean, look at her.”

“Look at you,” the other woman sniffs, actually physically turning up her nose. “Could you be any gayer?”

“Yeah, I could be wearing a vest and tie,” Yang fires back, but it’s clear the banter is familiar, it’s obvious these two know each other well enough for their back and forth to not contain any real barbs.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Blake drawls, before she’s able to stop herself, and Yang turns back to her with an arched brow. “Good to see you again, Yang.”

“Oh, is it? Could have fooled me!” The other woman’s ire has been refocused, and it’s seemingly stronger than before, the pitch of her words higher, more dire. “Given you nearly killed her just now.”

“Weiss,” Yang sighs, but Blake winces, feeling the sting of the words despite Yang’s quick glance of reassurance sent her way.

“I didn’t realize you’d pull off when I drifted. I thought you’d… lean in.”

It’s not an excuse. They’d been neck and neck towards the end of the race (again), and when she’d nudged the side of Yang’s car — far gentler than she would against anyone else — she’d assumed the woman would give as good as she got, like most every other racer she’d gone against. But Yang hadn’t taken any chances, and it’d cost her the race.

“We don’t do that here,” the woman — Weiss — says, lips pursed to the point of contortion, but Yang only laughs.

“We do that here all the time. I did way worse to Mercury last week.”

“Yes, but Mercury is a creep.” Weiss pauses, considering. “We only do that to creeps here.”

Blake’s hands lift, a show of peace. “Hey, no one handed me the Beacon Street Racing Etiquette Guide when I joined up the other week. Maybe you could loan me your copy.”

This doesn’t exactly smooth things over with the woman, especially not when Yang snickers, but Weiss can clearly see the writing on the wall, and tosses her hair over her shoulder with a huff.

“Whatever. I’m telling Ruby about this,” she warns Yang (or maybe Blake, or maybe both of them), before stalking away, her last words called over her shoulder. “She’s not going to be happy.”

There’s no concern on Yang’s face as she watches her go, if anything she looks amused. “Sorry about that. She’s… protective.”

“I can see that. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been friends with someone for a while.” It’s a guess (and a probe), but Yang doesn’t correct any of her phrasing, so it must be close enough to the truth.

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean protective of me.” Yang’s grin shows a flash of white teeth. “Weiss bet on me tonight. You lost her money. And that’s the real sin.”

Blake’s surprised at how easily her laugh comes (more surprised how easily the fondness slips through the cracks in her chest). “Oh, I see. So I can kick your ass up and down the streets as long as I convince her to bet on me in the future? Good to know.”

“I’m not sure that’s the message I want you to be taking from this,” Yang drawls, but still smiles, flicking her glasses up to her forehead. “Besides, like she said, Ruby’s the one to look out for. She seemed all sweet and innocent yesterday, but gods help the person she turns her disapproving stare on. I’ve seen people break into tears on the spot.”

From what Blake had seen yesterday, Ruby isn’t the sort that loses her chipper bounce very easily, so despite Yang’s teasing tone, she files the information away as useful. If she were being a little more self-searching, she might question the action, given her tendency to not stick around in any one place for long. (Surely Beacon isn’t any different. Surely she couldn’t know now if it were.)

“Lucky she missed the race today, then.” Her lips curve, a sharp corner that would require a drift. “What, she couldn’t bear to see you lose again?”

“Oh, ha ha. No, she had class. And she knows there’s no skipping for racing; that’s the only hard and fast rule for our household.” It’s not what she expects, the straight answer backed with genuinity, but it strikes Blake as endearing, somehow, especially when Yang continues. “I started racing here so we could pay for those classes, so I think it’s only fair.”

“That’s — ” Kind. Authentic. Surprising. Blake’s not sure which word to use so she disgards them all. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type who was racing for the money. Not that… there’s anything wrong with that. Especially in your case.”

Yang laughs. “Hey, don’t mistake me. I started racing here for the money, but it’s not why I race in general.”

“So why do you?” Blake asks, even though she suspects she knows the answer. (It’s not wise to take your eyes off the road, but she’s done it in both of her races with Yang, eyes darting to the side to find the woman speeding alongside her: eyes wild, grin wide, the fervor of the moment all over her face. There’s freedom there, more than there is anywhere else, and Blake thinks she sees that in Yang as much as she does in herself.)

“Same as you, I think,” Yang murmurs, closer now, sliding in when Blake’s distracted once again.

“I’m not sure you know me well enough to say that.”

A bluff, of course, but it gets the intended result.

“Not yet.” From this close, Yang looks taller, and Blake has to tilt her chin to look into her eyes. “But I’m still looking to fix that.”

Blake wets her lips. It’s too much, and she’s not sure she can tack on ‘too soon’ to quantify the thought, make it less tame. If she had to guess, Yang will always be too much, like sunlight after coming out of a room. Blake’s not sure she’ll ever adjust to the rays, or if she wants to.

“Let’s see how you do in the next race,” she says again, and Yang laughs again, totally unabashed.

“Okay, I’m sensing a trend here. What, you’re not going to let me take you out unless I win a race again you?”

“If I say ‘yes’, what are you going to do?”

It’s not cockiness that overtakes Yang’s face then, not exactly. It’s confidence or want or determination or maybe just the flush that comes from the thrill of a challenge. Blake’s setting herself up for something here, she knows, failure or disappointment or something like it, but right then, she doesn’t care. There’s a freedom in this sort of race too, and that she’s come to love.

“Oh, that’s easy, Blake.” Yang leans in a little more, and Blake knows it’s audible, the way her breath is cut short. “I’m going to win.”

[fandomlovingfreak]

Summoned

Chapter 1: Summoned

Sebastian de Poitiers x OC

Rating: E for everyone

Word Count: 1661

MasterList Link I Wattpad Link I AO3

Summary: Summoned, to bid to come : send for

When a letter is received from an old friend summoning her for an unspoken favor, Isobel must set sail from her father's home in Scotland, unsure if she will ever see the shores of the country she loves, ever again. French Court, something whispered about by her and her friends as young girls seem frightening to Isobel. Yet, destiny awaits her in Mary's secret favor.

Disclaimer: The characterizations of characters from Reign (based on historical figures) are all the property of the CW Historical Romance show, Reign created by Laurie McCarthy and Stephanie SenGupta (these characters include but are not limited to Sebastian de Poitiers, King Francis, Mary Queen of Scots). This work has not been created for profit or financial compensations, and is a transformative fair use work in accordance with Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act.

CW nor the creators of Reign do not own my original character Isobel.

Notes: I’ve been reworking this fic for a while. I hope to bring it to life as I’ve quite literally been writing it off and on since 2019!

Enjoy

Dear Isobel,

I would like to be summoning you under different circumstances, but I find myself needing you at this hour. I cannot disclose too much information within this letter, as we are still uncertain whether or not the English are intercepting our letters, but I beg you to make haste.

I await your arrival at French Court.

Your friend,

Mary Queen of Scots

 I've read and re-read the letter from my dear friend at least two dozen times since departing from the shores of Scotland. Reading was a wonderful escape from the thoughts that I may never see these shores again, something my father had drilled into my head a thousand times before I left. He was certain I'd find a match in France, hopeful that the Queen of Scotland was arranging the details as I traveled.

I myself am nervous about the implications of the letter... of the summoning from Mary. Where my father saw hope, I saw dread-- or at least unexpected news.

But she spoke of something important, and I couldn't just ignore her pleads to come to her Court. Last I'd heard, she'd married her long-awaited fiance, Francis, and gone on a long honeymoon tour. What on earth would have her summoning me of all people at this moment?

***

Everything is splendid

I think to myself as I look around the halls of the castle. The people are even dressed splendidly. 

I am greeted by my old friends Kenna, Greer, and Lola, who all talk animatedly about my arrival before I am hurried off to Mary's bed-chamber for the purpose of my summoning. 

She greets me just as our other friends had, warmly, with smiles and small talk. I did miss her, more than I originally thought I did, as I see she's become more Queenly than ever before. Technically, I suppose, she was more a Queen than ever now that she and her husband had officially been crowned King and Queen of France.

"Come sit, please." Mary situates us by a glowing fire, asking if I'd like a refreshment of any sort. I decline, feeling I can't wait another moment. I must know why I am in France.

Mary looks down at her hands, suddenly looking as if she'd rather not be doing this, "Yes, well. I must ask you to do something I feel uneasy asking of you--"

I take Mary's hand in mine, "what is it?" Her tone is almost unreadable, but her eyes tell me I should be nervous.

Mary takes a deep breath of air, "I must ask you to stay here in France and-- marry Francis's brother, Sebastian de Poitiers."

I feel the color drain from my cheeks, "Marry--?"

My Queen has the decency to look embarrassed as she searches for words, "Francis's half-brother."

"The late King's bastard son? That Sebastian? Mary, I don't understand--"

"I know that-- I know how your father would react, will react if you agree to help me, but please listen to me, Isobel. I have good reason to ask for your help." After a moment, I nod, urging her to tell me the point of this-- suggestion.

"I'm not sure what you've heard about my past year in the French court, so I'll start from the beginning." I listen to her retell the problems they've had. The Queen Mother's meddling, the prophecy of Francis's death if he married Mary, the ploy to get Sebastian legitimized by the Vatican. All of the details are poured out for me to better understand Mary's odd request.

"I don't understand how you could have even-- I mean, Mary. He's the King's bastard. Your mother would have never allowed it..."

"And she fought it and won. I know that it seems crazy, but I love Francis. I would do anything to keep him from death, even marry a man I--" she flushes. I can see there were feelings even if she chose one brother over the other. 

"Oh, Mary..."

Mary sighs, "I know it's a lot to ask of you, Isobel, but Sebastian is my friend, and it's the only way Francis will feel... he can let Sebastian stay in court-- if he's married and settled down with his own wife."

I look down at my hands, embarrassed to be asking such a question, "How would this affect me in court, Mary?" How can I turn down my Queen's requests, though? I have to do what is right for the country, even if the country she's asking me for aid from is her husband's.

"Francis has agreed to give Sebastian a title, a small one but a title nonetheless, and an estate that will be available if you wish to escape French Court for a time during each year. Bash is a bastard, but that won't destroy you under Francis's care."

"And has Sebastian agreed to this?" 

Mary hesitates, "He has not." I thought as much, "but it's the only option for him. He'll see reason. Sebastian is very reasonable, Isobel. That's one of the reasons why I thought of you when this predicament came up. I often think he is a reflection of you in ways."

My father's potential thoughts and opinions plague my mind, keeping me silent as she waits for my answer.

"I know I'm asking a lot of you, Isobel." Silence chokes out the conversation.

"Can I think it over, Mary?"

"Yes. If you need me to, I will send your father's word. I'll tell him it was for the good of the alliance between Scotland and France. Anything you need, Isobel." Her hand grasps mine, pleading with me.

With a nod, I agree to be quick with my answer. 

***

The halls are near empty as I walk slowly towards the room prepared for me by my dearest friends Kenna, Lola, and Greer.

Worries come in and out of my brain rapidly. I fear for the fall in my reputation, then feel awful for thinking of another so lowly. Sebastian could very much be a wonderful man, and I'm sure he is if Mary held such a high opinion of him. She wouldn't have entertained marriage with a man if she did not believe him to be a truly wonderful person, I'm certain of it. But, that did not change the fact that he existed somewhat outside of polite company.

Sitting on the large bed, I fold my hands tightly on my lap in worry. If I agree to marry, I will be directly aiding my Queen and helping create peace within both of our countries. Francis was technically now the King of Scotland. On the other hand, I would be marrying someone I don't know, which frightens me. Not to mention I will someday have to face my family, who may blame me for pulling them down with me if all of this backfires and I become some sort of social pariah.

Feeling thoroughly exhausted by all of this thinking, I flop back onto the bed.

In the end, I do trust Mary. I don't believe that she would purposefully lead me astray, and she seemed genuine and confident that Sebastian and I could be a match. A good one at that.

**

With newly found resolve, I wake early and dress before making my way to Mary's bed-chamber. I need to-- before I chicken out and run home to my father. I can be brave.

"Isobel," Mary's voice is full of surprise, "is something the matter?" She takes a few steps towards me

"I've thought it over, Mary," I take a large calming breath, sealing my fate, "I will marry him."

She stands looking at me for a beat before taking a few steps to embrace me, "Thank you, Isobel. Thank you. You can't understand how grateful I am." She pulls back, looking deadly serious, "I promise you that I personally will send word to your father and make him know this was my doing. You will receive no backlash; you have been kind and selfless. I promise you that you will be taken care of under both the Scottish and French crowns."

I smile, pulling her back into a hug, "Thank you, Mary."

"Don't thank me at all. You are doing an enormous, insane favor for me."

"I trust you, you know that? I don't believe you would let me marry someone horrible."

"He isn't! Sebastian is wonderful. He's thoughtful and kind, a little pigheaded, but what man isn't a bit stubborn?" I laugh at her words. "And think of this! You and I shall be related by marriage."

I smile kindly, not wanting to burst her bubble... In many's views, a bastard, even one close to his half-siblings, is not a true sibling.

***

Sebastian looks between Mary and his half-brother, "you can't be serious."

Francis's eyes hold that hatred. The one reserved specifically for Sebastian that has developed since Mary came to Court.

"It's the only solution, Sebastian. I will never feel comfortable with your return to Court-- living near my wife if you remain a bachelor."

He snorts at the ridiculousness of the idea, "If I agree to marry a complete stranger, you will somehow gain comfort?" The venom in his voice pulses through each syllable.

Unluckily, Francis matches his frustration, his tone turning just as icy, "You will be too preoccupied with your own wife and new station to continue lusting over my wife. Your Queen." Mary looks at her husband with concern, a look he used to be on the receiving end of. Sebastian looks away with disgust... no sadness. Some vile emotion that he detests feeling.

"Please, Bash," Mary tries to soothe the pain, "Isobel has agreed. She's wonderful. She will make an excellent wife for you."

Sebastian sighs, running his fingers through his hair, "Can I meet her first? I would like to meet her before you force us to marry, please."

Mary and Francis look between each other. 

"I can arrange that."

[dameronology]

pancakes & promises {finnick odair}

ok i don’t normally write for the hunger games but here is some morning fluff for 2 of my faves, @karasong​ & @megmeg-chan​ (based on meg’s request). i hope you enjoy💕

warnings: none...except swearing 

The mornings were always one of Finnick’s favourite times.

Things were quiet; calm and quell, worlds away from his hectic past and tainted memories. Finnick was never without a charming smile or flirty comment but behind his endearing exterior, there was a vortex of dark memories. The warm blue eyes you often caught staring at you had seen worlds of pain. The large hands that were the source of half his affection had once wielded weapons. He’d become so used to the noise - of the arena, of the war, of his own thoughts - that the silence was almost strange. He’d spent years trying to escape it, trying to fill it with the sound of gentle music and white noise and the low fuzz of the radio but nothing had worked. 

Then there was you. Between his arms underneath cover of the darks, head buried in his neck as you gently snored. The tickle of your breath against his bare skin and hands softly gripping onto his arms was an anchor. With your legs tangled underneath the sheets with his and your warmth beside him, he wasn’t afraid of the silence anymore. If anything, it was something he began to appreciate. It was a sign of change - change for the better. Most of which had been brought on your presence in his life. You were a barrier to the past, really. A definitive and constant existence intertwined with his that protected him from the bad parts of history. It was contained nicely in two parts: before you and after you. It was the latter he was so desperately holding onto, more than willing to throw the other into the abyss. 

Finnick had woken that morning as usual; naturally, thanks to the sunlight leaking through the blinds. If you weren’t wrapped up in his arms, usually thanks to your tendency to roll away in the night, he’d reach out for you without thinking. Instead of being met with your warm skin, his fingers came into contact with the sheets. They were cold - you must have been gone a while. He immediately sat up, a frown etched on his features. You were never gone. Why were you gone?

Then he heard you - in the kitchen, kettle going and singing quietly. That was another thing he wasn’t used to: domesticity. Someone to look after him, instead of it constantly being the other way around. Finnick made a point to care for you and look out for you, and he would have done it even if you’d completely denied him of love, but you didn’t. It was a relationship of equals. And equals didn’t often come along in these times.

Wrapping the sheet around his waist, he slipped out of bed and padded through to the kitchen. You were stood by the cooker, his shirt hanging off of your shoulders and a song playing quietly on the radio. 

It was one of those moments he couldn’t really explain; it was so simple, so domestic and sweet, but one he was happy to stay in forever. He’d experienced everything else in life - moments of heroic grandeur, moments of great loss - but somehow, it was the little things he wanted to hold onto. The sight of you in the morning; the smell of your body wash on your skin after a shower; the feeling of your soft hands tracing the scars that littered his skin. It was normal to remember all the big flashpoint moments, but what about all the tiny ones in between? The things that interconnected all the different eras of his life? Ones like this, where nothing in particular was happening, but that were so worth holding onto.

He leant against the door frame, watching you for a moment. Finnick didn’t want to disturb you - or maybe he wanted to savour the moment. He woke up to you every morning but he wanted to remember each and individual single day. That was something he’d come to learn, having been reminded of his mortality so many times. He’d be damned if he was going to hold onto the moments that made him stare death in the face and tell it to back the fuck down so many times. 

The floor-boards beneath creaked slightly as he re-adjusted himself, causing you to jump slightly. You glanced over your shoulder at him, a smile playing on your lips as your eyes caught his. The morning sun was coming from through the kitchen window, pouring over you in a way that you made you seem almost other worldy. It was fitting, really.

‘G’morning.’ You greeted him through a mouthful of pancakes. ‘I made pancakes. Or I tried to make pancakes.’

His eyes followed your hand as you gestured up to the ceiling. There two or three half cooked pancakes stuck up there, clearly hanging on with all their might. 

‘What’s with the splatters on the wall?’ Finnick raised an eyebrow at you.

‘Oh, those ones hit the ceiling fan.’ You bit your lip to suppress a laugh, eyes falling to the floor. You could feel your cheeks heating up his intense gaze, even as a grin broke across his face. 

‘You never cook.’ Finnick said. He made his way over towards you, broad arms snaking around your waist as he pulled you into him. ‘The oven in this house is purely for decoration.’

‘I wanted to surprise you.’ You admitted. ‘I know you love pancakes and it’s been a while since we’d had them. Thought it might be a nice thing to wake up to.’

He could have sworn that his heart stopped at that. Finnick had spent so much of his life running from people, watching his own back and constantly looking over his shoulder. To have someone to actually do things for him, to (try and) cook for him with his favourite food in mind? The feeling was still entirely new to him. You were still entirely new to him. You did things for him without even thinking about just...because. Your love for him was reason enough. 

A silence fell over you for a moment as he just stared at you, intense blue gaze holding your own. He still couldn’t believe that you were real, even with your hands resting on his shoulders and your presence right before his eyes. The funny thing was that it wasn’t like the moment was particularly special, or big, or even interesting. It was just you and him in the kitchen, something which was quite mundane, truth be told. But maybe that was it: the fact it was mundane. His entire life had been so fucking crazy, so filled with panic and blunder and change, that to have something constant enough to even be considered mundane? That in itself was extraordinary. You were extraordinary. 

‘Hey.’ You gently brushed your hand over his cheek. ‘You’re staring.’

‘Yeah, I know. At you.’ He replied.

‘Okay, maybe let me rephrase that.’ You softly laughed. ‘Why are you staring?’

‘I just...’ he trailed off, biting his lip for a moment. ‘I just really love you.’

‘I love you too, Fin.’ You leant forwards, brushing your lips against his. 

Finnick was a good kisser; you knew that better than anyone. Somehow, every kiss felt like your first. His lips were always soft, always warm and welcoming. That, paired with his hands on your hips and the way he ran them up and down your sides, was enough to make you forget the entire world around you. He was enough to make you forget the entire world around you. As far as you cared - and as far as you wanted to care - it was just you and him, and nobody else. You were the center of his universe and he wasn’t willing to let anybody else in.

‘Oh, shit.’ You suddenly pulled away when the pancake on the stove started to spit smoke. ‘This one was gonna be good! And you distracted me!’

‘Darling, I always distract you.’ His cocky grin returned as he leant against the counter beside you. 

‘You were being so soft a minute ago.’ You quipped, jokingly rolling your eyes. 

‘I can be both.’ He grabbed your arm, yanking you back towards him. He wrapped his arms around your waist, 

‘I liked it when you were confessing your love for me.’ You softly murmured, pressing your forehead to his.

‘Want me to do it again?’

‘I certainly won’t complain.’

‘Okay.’ His grin faded to a thoughtful smile. ‘I love you so much that it’s almost overwhelming. In fact, it might be completely overwhelming but I don’t even mind.’

‘That’s better.’ You pressed another kiss to his lips. ‘And I love you too, so much that it is also almost overwhelming.’

‘Almost?’ Finnick quipped. ‘I’d argue I’m entirely overwhelming-’

‘- I also fell in love with your humbleness.’ You shot back. 

‘I will accept your declaration of almost overwhelming love so long as you promise it’s forever.’ He replied. He knew how cheesy he was being, but it was one of the things he was good at.

‘Of course.’ You grinned. ‘Forever?’

‘Forever.’ 

[dcbbw]

The Witch Hunt

This fic is a highly fictionalized account of true events. I wrote it as a way of coping with the discourse and said it would never be publicly posted. But thanks to an ask from @twinkleallnight (and her persistence that anything I write needs to be shared and enjoyed by all), and discussions with my boos, bears, and Coven sisters … here it is.

HUGE THANK YOU to @ao719 for the amazing moodboard.

Thank you to my writing sisters for re-reading this story and assuring me that it still makes sense.

For all who will read this fic, THANK YOU! Your time, efforts, and energy spent reading, commenting, and/or reblogging is greatly appreciated more than you know.

Please excuse any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. (I rushed through my final editing)

Only the Commoner and the King belong to Pixelberry.

Song Inspiration: Every Breath You Take, Scala/Kolacny Brothers: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bt63b4x2Xec

Word Count: 3,546

Eastwick

Light years and many moons from Reality, there is an alternate universe called Fandom where both children and witches live. The witches are a large coven, and spend their days writing spells; incantations of love, lust, and laughter … sometimes of darkness. The spells are for their intended and beloved, and tell of the lives and adventures the sorceresses wish to experience with them.

The witches live in a corner of the Fandom known as Cordonia, in a small town called Eastwick; for the most part, they all got along well and were supportive of each other.  Within the coven were three sisters: Hilda, Zelma, and Glinda. The sisters lived together in a large Victorian house, complete with wraparound porch, bay windows, and spires. All three were well-known and well-liked throughout the coven.

Glinda was the most popular; her bright cheery smile and sweet personality made her a favorite throughout Eastwick.

Zelma was the friendliest; she knew nearly all the other witches, and read over their spells to ensure that nothing went wrong. One incorrect word or improper enunciation could twist the spell’s intention completely.

Hilda, who was also a wizardess, was the most empathetic; she offered hugs and a listening ear to the strays of the coven: The witches who either had no magic, or if they did, no idea how to use it. Her sisters were usually tolerant when Hilda brought home her newfound, friendless acquaintances … except for Apple Core. There was a reason the oldest citizen of Eastwick had never truly been a part of the coven, but Hilda insisted Apple Core just needed love.

The sisters were sitting at their kitchen table, writing spells for their love interests. Zelma was in love with the Commoner of Cordonia, as were many others; it did not deter her from sending her love spells into the universe, neither did it stop the Commoner from returning her affections.

Glinda and Hilda were in love with the King; as was the case with the Commoner, the sisters were in competition with many for his both his hand and his heart. Glinda had decided that she and Hilda would love different versions of the King so as not to make things awkward between them. Glinda fell in love with the blonde-haired, blue-eyed King, while Hilda’s King had dark hair, dark eyes, and Asian features.

“I love him so much,” Zelma murmured as she finished her spell, her eyes landing on a picture of the Commoner she had summoned in their crystal ball.

“And he loves you in return,” Glinda said while tapping her quill pen against her chin.

“He loves an alternate version of me. If he knew what I really looked like, he wouldn’t,” Zelma lamented.

“Our beloveds see our hearts and souls, not our outer appearances,” Hilda stated as she waved a wand over her spell of lust.

Silence as the sisters worked to finalize their spells before casting them into the Void. Suddenly, there was a jarring of the earth and a loud clap of thunder; it was so loud and sharp,  Glinda covered her ears as the house shook.

Zelma looked up, her eyes darting around the room, as if the source of the disruption was in their home.

“The Dark One is casting.” She looked at her sisters uneasily.

WestWorld

On the other side of Cordonia, in WestWorld, The Guardian’s head lifted at the sound of distant thunder. Her eyes fell to her glass of water, now slightly moving across the table from the remnants of the shaking earth. Her gaze narrowed.

“The Witches!” she hissed.

WestWorld was where the children of Cordonia lived. There were some adults:  survivors of trauma and abuse from their previous worlds, but the majority of the residents were children. The Guardian lived there to ensure the under-aged residents were properly housed, clothed and fed. She shielded them from the Witches, whose sorcery and magic were misunderstood by WestWorld.

The Guardian and her Army believed in love and light; no sex was needed for that. Angst and strife were not needed for that. Darkness definitely was not needed. So, the Guardian warned the children constantly not to venture into Eastwick and to never, under any circumstances, read the spells that were cast into the Void from the other side.

And now, the Witches were casting darkness into the Void … again. Dark magic was the only thing that would have such far reaching effects.

The Guardian retrieved an ornate gold box from her cupboards and removed the lid to reveal her crystal ball. She chanted as she waved her hands over the ball, summoning up a spell to inform her of what was happening.

The Dark One appeared in the glass, looking rather smug and pleased; her image faded, to be replaced by the parchment containing her spell. The Guardian fell into her chair, her eyes wide with shock as she read what the Dark One had cast.

The Guardian felt her stomach churn; the children would most certainly want to see what had caused such a disruption in their world. Normally, the citizens of West World were content to read their tales of otherworldly creatures from a time long past, or of the single mothers who loved their childen beyond measure.

But they were children, and they were curious.

And now Dark One was once again summoning the Guardian’s charges to the other side.

The Guardian rose hastily from the table, and ran through the halls calling for her Generals.

One Week Later

Eastwick

The Dark One sat in her living room, her eyes fixed on her Book of Spells, searching for an answer, a solution.

Something.

The Guardian and her Army were calling for the Dark One’s head. They wanted her banished from all of Cordonia, and her spells erased from existence.

The Dark One shook her head to herself.  

That was unacceptable.

The Dark One was in love with the Commoner; she always had been since she first laid eyes on him. However, The Dark One knew she would never stand out in the sea of spells filled with love and lust. She didn’t speak that language.

No, she needed to speak to the Commoner soul to soul.

She focused not on his perfection, but his flaws and insecurities. She sought out the Commoner’s dark side that no one wanted to hear of or speak to. The Dark One offered the Commoner her broken pieces, her sorrow and hurt … and he was finally accepting them.

He was falling for her.

And she refused to let anyone stop them from being together.

With a small sigh, The Dark One sipped from her glass filled with hibiscus wine. This was not her first run- in with The Guardian. When The Dark One cast her first appeal to the Commoner’s dark side, her spell was met with resistance from both Eastwick and Westworld. She had taken a day away from the coven, not in shame, but to consider whether to remove her spell. If it inspired such strong feelings from her fellow witches, would it repel the Commoner?

But it did not.

He began looking her way. He urged her to tell him more about herself; he whispered more of his secrets in her ear. And The Dark One decided not to remove her spell simply because others were jealous the Commoner’s attentions were turning to her.

But now, The Guardian was viciously attacking her, over simple spells! There were threats of her murder if she did not comply with The Guardian’s request. Her sister witches, save for a few, were silent. The chosen to do battle with WestWorld fought alone; however The Dark One was given suggestions, instructions, and encouragements in private:

Listen to their concerns.

Perhaps you need to not cast so many spells.

Just stand down for a little while; it will blow over. The battles always do.

The Dark One thumbed slowly through her Book; her eyes took in the words that her soul had spilled. Her blood, sweat, and tears covered every page. And she knew what she had to do. She would step away from the coven; not because The Guardian told her to, but to protect the innocent.

It meant leaving the Commoner behind and The Dark One wasn’t sure she could do that. She had finally captured his attention and found her understanding.

But she would try.

She just had to do one last thing …

That night in Cordonia the earth shook, and the thunder clapped loudly and incessantly as The Dark One released nearly all her spells into the Void.

The Three Sisters

At the home of The Three Sisters, Zelma fretted as the house shook and dark clouds covered the sky.

“She’s been casting nonstop for a week! They’re threatening to kill her! And now what is she doing? The Void cannot handle so much dark energy.” Zelma stopped pacing to angrily throw her hands in the air. “She’s going to make it so none of us can cast!”

Glinda poured hot tea into three delicate teacups. “Perhaps we can appeal to The Guardian.”

“She won’t listen to us! With The Dark One being so unreasonable, The Guardian will set her sights on us. I’ve dealt with WestWorld once and I’m not eager to be once more tossed into that fray,” Hilda argued as she added honey and lemon to her fragrant beverage.

“If we use our powers of invisibility, she may. I see others from both sides are appealing to her in that manner.”

Zelma and Hilda barely heard their sister; they were watching the crystal ball reveal spell after spell flying past, flurries of parchment and ink whisking before them as if in a windstorm.

“Stop it! Stop the ball!” Hilda yelled.

With a frown of confusion, Glinda waved her hands over the sphere and froze the image. The sisters read the spell before them, eyes widening at the darkness it revealed. When they finished reading, they looked at each other, each trying to process what they just read.

Hilda straightened up. “This…this is not good. Perhaps I will approach the Guardian. I see where she has let the children read one of my spells. She praised it.”

“Perhaps … “Zelma said doubtfully as she reached for her cup.

The knock on the door startled the trio. Glancing at the clock, Glinda wondered aloud who it could be at this hour. Hilda went to the door; she was the oldest and viewed herself as her sisters’ protector. She pulled open the door to see Apple Core.

Apple Core was an outcast amongst the witches. She was without magic, and very demanding of members of the Coven. Apple Core had no true home and only one friend.

“Hello, dearie,” the outcast croaked.

“Good evening,” Hilda responded politely.

She noticed the older woman’s threadbare cloak and cracked, dry lips. Hilda stepped aside, pulling the door open wider as she did so.

“Please, come in. Perhaps partake in a glass of water? And a bowl of brew?”

Apple Core smiled thinly as she entered the household; she ignored Glinda and Zelma rolling their eyes at each other.

“The Dark One is releasing her magic quite freely tonight,” Apple Core remarked as she settled into a wooden rocking chair.

Glinda went to fetch water and brew for their visitor. Zelma and Hilda sat side by side on the sofa.

“Yes, she is. I plan to reach out to The Guardian as she and I are on friendly terms.” Hilda smoothed down her dress.

Apple Core looked at her quizzically. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“She has let the children read one of my spells.” Hilda said with a hint of pride.

WestWorld never allowed a spell to be voluntarily brought into their corner of Fandom.

“Your spell has been removed and cast out of WestWorld. The Guardian has discovered that you are mutuals with The Dark One, and therefore are guilty by association. In fact, all three of you are now on The Guardian’s blacklist.”

Glinda was returning with the sustenance for the visitor and heard the last part of the statement; her voice held an edge when she spoke.

“What are you talking about? I was never mutuals with The Dark One, and Zelma broke ties with her months ago! Hilda has maintained ties with The Dark One, but in name only!”

“This has become so much more than a push to banish The Dark One. And I fear now, even if she leaves, the damage has been done. Deep damage,” Apple Core said cryptically.

Her eyes fell to her bowl and the glass of water; she greedily licked her lips. “The best thing to do … frankly, the only thing … is to deflect The Guardian’s anger and ire back where it belongs. On The Dark One.”

“But how?” Glinda sat next to her sisters.

Apple Core slurped her brew directly from the bowl; splashes of broth splattered both Apple Core’s dark cloak and the silver spoon still sitting on the tray. Her eyes rolled over to the three sisters. “I can only point you in the direction, I cannot lead you.”

Hilda spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “The spell we just read; perhaps that will be enough to redirect The Guardian. I can speak to her invisibly. It can’t hurt.”

“Have you ever used the Spell of Invisibility?” Glinda asked, scoffing slightly.

“Hmmmm, once?” Hilda shrugged.

Glinda shook her head impatiently. “I’ll show you!”

Apple Core finished her meal and rose from her chair. “Your secret is safe with me, dearies. Just know, I have seen many battles fought between the two sides, and this one is going to be far worse than the others before. And a word of caution … The Dark One has even more spells; she just isn’t releasing them yet.”

“MORE spells?” Zelma exclaimed, wondering just how many spells The Dark One had. She rose to  usher Apple Core to the door where she bid the woman a good evening, watching Apple Core’s dark cloak billow behind her as the outcast made her way back to a hut on the outskirts of Eastwick.

Two Weeks Later

Eastwick

Zelma was sobbing as her sisters tried to comfort her. The battle with WestWorld was intensifying at a rapid rate.

Hilda’s attempts to divert The Guardian had failed: The Guardian had already read every spell The Dark One had cast into the void, which led her to seek out who among the Witches approved of such an abuse of power. The Guardian’s research went back over a year and was helped along by several informants, all invisible and anonymous to her but she had her ideas as to who the people were.

Names filled her ears, portions of spells and those who supported them crossed her desk. Her lips tightened a tad more with every name she came across. The Guardian needed a plan; a plan to end this once and for all.

This was so much bigger than simply The Dark One.

Zelma had wanted to approach The Guardian with news that one of the informants was bogus, and a spy for both sides. But in her haste and eagerness, she forgot to cloak herself with the Spell of Invisibility.

The Guardian’s lips had curved in a slightly cruel smile when the two women faced each other in their crystal balls. The Guardian knew who Zelma was; Zelma found out who the Guardian was. The witch flushed beet red and began to stammer, but The Guardian waved her hands and both balls went dark.

Zelma panicked. She knew about the Blacklist and didn’t want to be on it. Zelma didn’t want to be in WestWorld’s crosshairs at all.

She saw what had happened to Hilda; she saw what they were doing to The Dark One. Zelma immediately wrote a letter of apology to both the Coven and WestWorld. She tried to scrub any traces of her affiliation with The Dark One; but still, they remained.

The Guardian refused to listen to Zelma’s apologies and excuses. Moreover, she was angered by the outpouring of love and support for Zelma. But The Guardian held the upper hand, and she did not hesitate to use it.

Zelma was blacklisted and outed.

Her best friend in the coven had her spell creating abilities revoked.

Yet another friend wrote an appeal to both sides, asking to come to a consensus as to the best way to protect the children. She too was outed and blacklisted.

The only concession made by The Guardian was to restore spell creating privileges and to assure Zelma that she was in good company:  Her sisters, along with many others, would be joining her on the list.

Invisibly, Glinda, Hilda, and several others from the coven reached out to The Guardian; they were either ignored, or met with dismissiveness. Hilda’s plea was met with acknowledgement she raised valid points, but The Guardian would not waver on her decision.

This was for the children.

The sisters and their friends were both resigned to and relieved at their fate. Perhaps this Blacklist would be a good thing. They were buoyed by their fellow Witches requesting to be added to the list.

WestWorld and Eastwick rarely interacted; another layer of separation may be the best thing.

WestWorld

The Guardian’s head was in her hands, her fingers splayed across her face. Everything was going to hell in a handbasket, so quickly.

Too quickly.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

The Guardian had started her crusade with one mission in mind: banishment of The Dark One. But that hussy hadn’t left; she had barricaded herself inside of her home after releasing hundreds of spells into the Void. For days on end, all that crossed anyone’s path were dark, potentially triggering spells. The Guardian was truly puzzled how one witch could have so.many.spells. just waiting to be cast. And for the Commoner’s love at that; for the King … The Guardian could see that.

At least it was over.

Then began the influx of invisible, anonymous visitors. The Guardian knew they weren’t all witches, at least in the beginning. The Spell of Invisibility was available to all the citizens of Fandom.

Hour upon hour, The Guardian heard words of support and encouragement; tales of trauma; grateful sobs … all from people with no names or faces.

The Guardian knew she was doing the right thing; she and her Army were protecting those who were defenseless. The Dark One was simply the tip of the iceberg. All the dark spells had to go, and the ones who wrote them had to be outed, at the very least.

A new plan formulated in her mind, and her generals agreed with it.

The Blacklist would include the witch’s names, their addresses, and a list of the offensive spells.

And that is when the others began to visit.

They came while The Guardian slept; they came while she was preparing her meals. One came while she was bathing. All told her she was self-serving, trying to draw attention to herself and WestWorld.

That her plan of the Blacklist was simply telling the children where to go.

That they too were traumatized, and this is how they chose to cope.

The others told her they warned the children not to read their spells because the words they spoke were not for young eyes.

They told her to reach out to the people being put on the list, to walk in their shoes for a day or so.

The Guardian’s brain felt as if it were about to explode from too many voices and too much information.

She argued that she had reached out to the Witches; they had blocked their portals to her.

The Witches said that was an untruth.

The Guardian said she was doing what was best: Providing the children with the witches’ addresses and providing them access to their portals was to protect the children and survivors.

The Witches countered The Guardian was readying her Army to attack them. The children had already used their invisibility and anonymity to bully them to the point of encouraging the witches to commit suicide.

The Guardian said she was making Fandom a safe and nurturing environment for all.

The Witches scoffed at that, arguing that was why they lived in Eastwick and the children lived in WestWorld. It was neither safe nor healthy for either side to interact with each other.

It was all too much; this is not what was supposed to happen. Despite what it looked like, she was not looking to start a war.

But one was underway.

And to make everything even worse, The Dark One was casting spells again.

With a slightly trembling hand, she reached for her glass of water as she popped an aspirin in her mouth. The knock on her portal startled her; water sloshed from the glass and onto her frock.

She raised her head as the witch stepped over the threshold. It was Hilda.

A smile on her face, but a serious look in her eyes, Hilda sat uninvited at the table with The Guardian.

“We need to talk.”

Tagging:  @sirbeepsalot @jared2612 @ao719 @burnsoslow @bbrandy2002 @ofpixelsandscribbles @debramcg1106 @marietrinmimi @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @texaskitten30 @glaimtruelovealways @indiacater @forthebrokenheartedthings @kingliam2019 @bebepac @zaffrenotes @liyanin @liamxs-world @choiceslife @ac27dj @the-soot-sprite @gnatbrain @anotherbeingsworld @atha68 @hopelessromanticmonie @amandablink @mom2000aggie @cmestrella @iaminlovewithtrr @shewillreadyou @starrystarrytrouble @liamrhysstalker2020 @alyssalauren @queenrileyrose @ladyangel70 @yourmajesty09 @gkittylove99 @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet @lodberg @charlotteg234 @sweatyrysconnoisseur @mainstreetreader @busywoman @gabesmommie1130 @jessiembruno @darley1101 @txemrn @tessa-liam @phoenixrising308 @beezm @gardeningourmet @lovingchoices14 @thegreentwin​

[ophiuchus-interactive]

Hi, darling! ❤ "i’m finally ready to be with you, but you’ve finally moved on from me, and i’m too late" please?

Am I gonna regret this? Absolutely.

Oooh!!! Nobody specified means everyone gets some pain!!!

Thank you dearie!!!

(TW: Death, growing old, regret, mention of grief, slight mention of blood)

Valerian-

“Was it worth it?”

It was like an itch.

No matter how many times over the years Valerian fought with himself to ignore your last words to him, he couldn’t. It crept up on him, crawled under his skin like a memory made of carrion beetles and worms. The question wouldn’t die, it decomposed- fertilizing nightmares of days long gone by. It turned his heart rotten.

He wakes up sometimes with his hand reaching out across the bed, the coolness of his empty linens sending Valerian drowning amongst the currents of time and misfortune again. Giving his decision the moniker of “mistake” would hardly encompass how much of a fool he was, how he thought so assuredly he had you, that you had all the time in the world to wait.

Just one more job, he would tell you, one more bounty. And all there would be left for him, was you.

But you were gone. And your words stung and scraped and dug at his skin. And he scratched and scratched and scratched at the fading memory of you.

Peter-

People talk about the five stages of grief like it’s a process, but really, it’s a map. It’s a state you find yourself in, a sick and twisted path of destinations and crossroads that path themselves in and out of hell. You find yourself there. You hardly ever leave. Some people are lucky; some find themselves in acceptance of their loved one’s death. Some lose themselves in their anger. Some people, desperate to cling to the memories, never make it farther than phase one.

Peter’s destination was bargaining. He never got any further than that.

Desperation. Helplessness. Despite any and all appearances of the cheery, capable man, you saw more in your time with him than most. And he was hurt.

Peter tried many times to get through these feelings, the past clawing at his heart and mind, ripping- always ripping- him back to where he left off. He was so beside himself in his worry for you every time you got hurt, there were times you thought it better to not go home at all. If only to quell the pain. If only to stop his hurt.

And maybe it was bad. Bad to let him go like you did. But how much more could you stomach watching him hurt? Ghosts haunting him, tormenting him, his face twisting at the sight of you coming out of a battle alive.

Be okay, for me. Please be okay.

You hated promises you couldn’t keep.

You hated the thought of breaking his heart even further, if one night you came home, and you weren’t okay.

Rosalie-

Love isn’t perfect. It was an epiphany she had working on a dock, years after she’d left you. She was older, wiser, but still remembers you the way she liked you best: smiling. Your voice had faded from her memory, your words probably twisted by time, but it was your smile that she recalled with perfect detail. It was good, this way. Better.

Rosalie tries not to think about the moments where it wasn’t flawless, and always to her surprise, those memories are nothing more than blunt daggers in her mind. Tears, anger, regret- those feelings surface, dull and subdued, but they don’t affect her the same way it does with your smile.

Where did it all go wrong?

Rosalie doesn’t know. She doesn’t expect it, either. She broke her finger slamming her hammer down, missing the nail when she came to this realization. The shattering sound of her ring finger was a dull, monotone noise compared to the blood that rushed in her ears;

Did I not try hard enough?

It was you, smiling. The crystal clear sound of your laughter. The mute sounds of your anger- the blurry visions of your tears. Faded arguments. Jokes that sound so familiar. Her memories weren’t perfect. Her love for you wasn’t, either.

But it was real.

Real like the fractured bits of bone and knuckle. Real like her scream. Real like the hot, furious tears that poured down her face, the pain- the pain.

Intangible. Imperfect.

Like her memories of you.

Thane-

“You’re lucky you’re not dead, you know,” Thane’s voice was steady, like scolding was part of his profession, “if they were any closer to you-”

“I know,” You say, your eyelids slamming shut. You did your best to hide your frustration, lest Thane suddenly decides he was going to start bitching to you about that, too, “but I’m alive. It’s fine,”

“It’s reckless,” He corrects, and the familiar feeling of your heart dropping to your stomach throws you off. You were over him. His words shouldn’t sting this much anymore.

“Foolish, really,” Thane continues, and his cold, sterile needle seems bury itself deeper into your skin, “but, given your proclivities for practically throwing yourself at death’s doorstep, I’m not surprised,”

You scoff, throwing back your head in disbelief. Is he being serious?

“I jumped in front of the damn gun because you weren’t moving fast enough! Any slower, Thane, and you would’ve been dead.”

He stops. The needle sat still against your skin. The sutures pulled taut- your wound was almost closed.

“What?”

“He was aiming for your effin’ head,” You spit, tired, tired of the damn man in front of you. Never so much as a thank you for the amount of times you saved his ass, and he’s still giving you shit? Still grating on your fucking nerves?

“I…” He sucks in a breath, “I didn’t know that,”

“No shit,” You huff, “you never do.”

That seems to be enough to snap Thane back out of his daze. His piercing, cold eyes met yours, and you were surprised to see that they seem to mirror your irritation. Your fury,

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

That you're loved, you fool. I loved you.

Why couldn’t you see that?

Why couldn’t you see me?

There was so much at that moment you wanted to say, so many words that turned stale on your tongue. It was bitter, finally seeing the realization on his face, to watch those very lips that you’d only dreamt of tasting, turn until tight, thin frown. Confusion and worry and shock painted his face a pale, pinkish gray. It was the color, you realized, of regret.

Of his regret. Not yours.

Ophelia-

When Ophelia found your first gray hair, she almost cried.

It’s started. The clock is ticking.

You soothed her horror with laughter, plucking the strand of hair straight from your head and throwing it to the side, like it was garbage. Trash.

“You stress me out,” You say with a laugh, and Ophelia finds it in herself to smile. She doesn’t notice at first, how the laugh lines deepen.

You complained of pains in your back. Your hips. Riding a horse has become too much of a pain for long distance travel.

Your head of hair is now silver. Ophelia pays the color little mind.

She insists on riding into town herself more and more, much to her quiet, naked distress.

You slap her shoulder playfully, shrugging off your discomfort like you were twenty-three again,

“And miss out on the candy restock? Perish the thought.”

Ophelia now loves the contoured lines of your face. You’ve laughed a lot. It’s pretty.

You sit at home now, keeping your hands busy as best you can.

Ophelia does her best to ignore the gossip in town. She’s older, and yet they call you the pervert.

Does she really look so young? Has she really not changed? Will there be no sign of growing old with you?

You smiled sadly as she said these things late one night. She’d be crying again,

“Be still, my heart. I am always with you.”

She misses it.

She left for town only a day ago. The tulips were in bloom. Ophelia thought it a good idea to surprise you.

Doc greeted her in town. He shook his head, eyes cast to the ground.

The tulips were ruined in her haste, and Ophelia cried herself into exhaustion.

It was a terrible day. A feather unnoticed on her neck, had turned a light shade of gray.

Javier-

Javier was cold. Dying was a frigid feeling.

His chest heaved slow, shallow breaths. With each rise and fall of his chest, he could feel his own blood fill up his lungs, his own chest caving in. Dying was an uncomfortable feeling.

He held your hand like it was his lifeline. Javier didn’t want to look in your eyes again, he knew the light was gone.

“Re-remember when,” he starts, and the force of his breath alone causes him to gag and heave. For a brief second, he wonders if this was it- he couldn’t even say goodbye, before he said hello again. Javier was okay with that. But his breathing slows and calms down, and it was enough for him to start again,

“R-remember when I first met you?” It was a favorite of his; you looked so wild back then, so free. Years have passed and times have changed, you along with it, but the way you looked then?

It made him believe in such a thing called love.

Javier tries to laugh, but it comes out as a choked, wet cough. His hand still held onto yours tightly,

“...you...made me feel alive. And...and scared, a-and brave, and- oh, god, I love you. I-I love you.”

Javier took a breath. Dying was a tiring feeling.

He held your hand. Dying was a lonely feeling.

But he’s coming, and he’s sorry that he’s so late.

Sergio-

“Thank you,”

He laughs. It’s a hollow sound. Sergio was three fingers deep into his rye when you finally spoke up, and of course, it makes him laugh,

“Is that what divorced people say to each other? Thank you?”

You shrug, gulping down a glass of your own poison. Divorce decrees took more out of you than gunfights. Is it any wonder why one happens more than the other?

“You were my husband,” You say quietly, your eyes never meeting him, “You loved me, for better or worse...thank you, for that.”

“You’re an amazing person,” Sergio says without hesitation. His fingers were cold as he clutched his whiskey glass, raising it high into the air, “I...I mean that. Truly.”

What more was I to do, if not love you?

You smile, gulping down your sorrows, lest they escape your lips. Crying was for later. You’re saying goodbye, now.

“I, ahem,” Sergio clears his throat, his free hand going to wipe his reddened eyes, “I hope that whoever they are, they treat you good and proper, and that you are loved…” He pauses, “...that you are loved, as I’ve loved you.”

Say it more. Mean it. Husband, what words are these, when I’m no longer meant for them?

“I don’t hate you, Sergio,” You blurt, and they were words that demand repeating, “but this...I’m not...we, we’re not-”

They are only meant for you.

“-I know,” Sergio says, giving a wave of his hand, “I know. And thank you,”

“For?”

“For allowing me to love you,” Sergio says unevenly, and he takes a moment more to finish his drink.

????/Hope-

So this is agony.

Another’s hand upon your cheek.

You looked happy in their arms. You wore the same smile that made them realize what love was for the first time- what it could truly mean. Those feelings only grew inside them as time went on, bright and fluttering and bursting, so this is love.

It felt good.

But you never gave them that look you’re giving your lover, now. There’s no light in your eyes when your gaze finds them- you grin, you always grin, but it’s the same look you give Valerian and Peter.

It hurts. But why?

They should be happy for you- you're happy. You have someone to love. If this is what you’re feeling, being in your lover’s arms…?

They’ll have Rosalie run a diagnostic on their systems- surely this is a glitch that needs to be fixed. If you’re happy, they’re happy. Rosalie can fix this pain, and Hope will be normal again.

It hurts, being like this.

[lisinfleur]

Pity

Author’s Notes | It was almost instantly that I thought about this idea. When I saw the plot, this story just unfolded in my mind. I hope you guys like it as much as I did! Congratulations once again, my dear @youbloodymadgenius for your first K of followers! May them become a thousand more! Universe | Vikings Pairing | Ivar x Reader Info | Viking Age AU, produced for @youbloddymadgenius 1K Challenge, prompt number 50. Words | 1989 ⁑ Warnings: Some cursing, mentions to murder and violence.

It was the third or fourth ball you were participating in after becoming engaged to your fiancé - an arrangement made by your family to tighten your allegiance towards prince Oleg and somehow a reward for the many years of loyalty to his crown: you would be married to his brand new ally and the soon-to-be re-crowned king of Kattegat, the nordic Ivar, the Boneless - someone you had grown to admire and fell in love with within his short time at the Rus palace in Kyiv.

You would be crowned queen by his side - to your father's major happiness - and would grant him the children his former wife wasn't able to give to him. If you were able, of course, to surpass his infinite jealousy and the marks her treason had left in your soon-to-be husband's mind.

It was something visible that Ivar had grown interested in you at the palace and you had been able to break up his barriers approaching him with your loyalty to his cause and comprehension of his actions: your family was loyal to prince Oleg, but you were loyal to yourself and you didn't hide your support to Ivar's intentions to get rid of Oleg's strings as soon as it was possible. Your family's loyalty to the Prophet was a ladder that conducted you towards the position you wanted beside Ivar, but it was it. If you had to put a knife through Oleg's neck for Ivar you would, and your fiancé loved to hear this coming out of your mouth with all the beautiful letters he said were music to his ears.

However, you would cease to be his singing bird as soon as your laugh could be heard by anyone else other than him. Even other women were considered threats in his eyes and to be isolated wasn't something you would accept just for him to feel safe in whatever insecurity he insisted to keep about your love.

Fights were inevitable, although the two of you had grown perfectly able to hide it from anyone else around as if you were the perfect couple, born to be with each other.

Yeah... His hand was quite the size of your neck and you had tested it already once - Something you swore would be the first and only time he would ever touch you like that. Something he promised would be the first and last time he would ever lose control like that.

Bless the soundproof walls of your room...

"I CAN'T TURN AROUND A SINGLE SECOND AND THERE ARE YOU, SMILING AT EVERYONE!"

You could understand the fear his people had of him: Ivar was really frightening when he was angry - and he was angry almost all the time. But you were never scared of the monsters under your bed and the last man who looked like a monster in front of you died by your own hands when you were younger and decided your honor worthed more than the life of that bandit. Maybe it was this what attracted him in you: as he was screaming, you were looking at him, standing, firm, strong even when his servants and slaves had fled in awe.

"So what? If I hear funny jokes, I'll laugh, Ivar. That's natural to any human being!" you answered, almost acid.

"Oh, then Hvitserk is the only one to tell funny jokes around, my dear?" he answered, finally putting out the jealousy behind all that angry rampant. "Cause you laugh whenever you're close to him! You're all smiles to Hvitserk! Are you growing fond of him too, my dearest bride?"

You rolled your eyes, causing him to grunt in fury - he just hated the way you wouldn't be affected by his greatness or afraid of his furious glares. Ivar loved how strong you were and hated it in the same proportion.

"You speak as if you didn't know what I did to be here by your side, into this room, hearing these stupidities," you sighed, frustrated, pouring some wine from his amphora into a cup for you and sipping the content.

"Did you really do it for me, Y/N?" he questioned, finally touching a sensitive topic that made you stop the cup you had on its way to your lips once again and place it at the table with a louder noise.

Your eyes became as fierce as his own and Ivar knew he'd gone too far. Yet, his eyes continued to look at yours, making his doubt genuine and causing your anger to boil up.

"Are you insinuating I'm a climber who just wanted to use you as a ladder to a crown, Ivar the Boneless?" you spat it with all the letters, causing him to cringe at the sound of those words so clearly said.

But you continued, defiant. Not a drop of fear mixed with the indignation into your eyes when you stood in front of him, facing the great Ivar, the Boneless, as if he was nothing but a boy speaking gossip of you through the town.

"Is this what you're saying, my king? That I fought my father's intention to have me married to one of Oleg's commanders, came into foreign lands to live with foreign people and among heathen customs, for nothing but the crown you can place on my head?"

Your voice sounded firm as you approached him. Your eyes diving enough into those pools of icy blue waters he had on his face to see his soul shrunk into them, hiding insecurity behind those dangerous words.

"Are you calling me a whore and saying I'll fuck your brother behind your back just because I smiled at him, Ivar?"

"Fucking stop it!" he finally blew up, moving bothered over his bed, frowning with tones of disappointment and frustration covering what was once pure anger in his expression. "I just... I just don't see what you saw in me!" he started, pouring what was truly bothering his heart. "You're a fierce woman, strong, gorgeous mare kissed by Freyja! What would you want with me, Y/N? You seem so relaxed among them... It seems so more natural to see you smiling beside him that..." Ivar paused.

But you knew it was hard for him to admit his fears and so, you gave him time and space, crossing your arms to look at him, waiting for his words.

You would give him time. But he would say it.

And he knew you wouldn't give up until he'd said all the letters so, Ivar sighed, defeated.

"He's whole, Y/N. My brothers are all whole and don't come to me with these eyes rolling once again!" he reprehended you before you could really do what he complained you would. "Hvitserk is a gorgeous man who I've seen attracting more women into his bed than lambs into his stomach! The bastard can lure any woman he wants into his sheets!"

"But not me," you affirmed, categoric.

"It's not what I'm saying!" Ivar complained again, annoyed by the interruption. "Look at them! They're all perfect. Hvitserk is perfect. I'm the broken thing my father's seed produced when he was already full of the many children the gods had promised him," he mourned.

However, instead of allowing him to dive into his grief as his mother used to do, or proceed to spoil his ego as Freydis would do to heal his pain with her sweet little lies, you approached him, caressing his face, turning his insecure blues towards your firm gaze.

"You can't see yourself, can you?" you asked, making his fear become confusion into his blues.

Ivar wasn't used to your way to deal with his self-indulgence yet.

"Oh, pity for him, the broken child of Ragnar Loðbrók," you pretended to cry for a moment, just to light the fire of his anger in the back of his eyes once again before continuing your speech, not letting him try to answer your words. "Cut the bullshit, Ivar! You're a man, like all the others. You grew from a boy, like all the others. Hvitserk may be 'whole' as you said, but he has his flaws and I can see them. He's funny and charming indeed, but his charm doesn't mislead me from the womanizer I can see in his actions nor from the drunken rag he becomes whenever the ball comes to an end. Ubbe could be whole as well, and what did he use his perfect legs for? To flee, like a good coward, from the consequences of his own stupidity, hiding somewhere in Kattegat to lick his mother's murderer's shoes and follow his older brother like a dog instead of a man! Sigurd was whole as well. It didn't prevent him from taking an ax to his chest and who among the two of you is alive, uh?" you asked, increasing the confusion into Ivar's eyes.

How could you be so sure of his value?

How could you be so determined to be with him? By his side?

But there was no mistake in your words, no weakness in your voice. Your words were being poured from your heart and he could see that in your eyes.

"They may be whole, Ivar. You're broken indeed. You can look at your broken legs and cry like a pitiful baby, mourning the gods' will to put the biggest burden over your shoulders. Or you can look at yourself and see that even with this burden over them, you dragged yourself when anyone believed you would even move. You stood when they said you would never walk. You became a leader when they believed you would become a corpse among the children who die at their first Winter."

"But Y/N," he started, this time sounding like that boy you could always see deep inside his eyes. "I'm..."

"You're the boy who lived," you said, cutting his sentence and holding his chin up. "You're the boy who survived, Ivar! They may be whole, but it just proves that with half of what they have you did the double of what they do! Or maybe more! Now stop mourning and stand by my side, husband! Cause I may laugh at them, but it is for you I'll be moaning and it will be your name echoing in my voice in bliss."

"Y/N..." he tried one last time.

Probably, Ivar would start again with that conversation about his supposed impotence. You didn't even let him start, touching your fingers over his lips.

"I'm not a slave whore you had to share with your brothers. Nor a filthy bitch who decided to mislead you with lies and treason, my dear. If you couldn't do it with them, then I'll show you by my side, you can. There is nothing you can't do in this life, Ivar. Your very presence in this room is proof enough of what I'm saying. They told you would never reach your first year... And here you are, leading them all, over their heads. You're more than your self-pity will let you see. But don't worry, my love. I'm here to open your horizons."

You smiled at him, so full of your words.

Ivar still couldn't believe what you were saying. But you were so sure that he couldn't really doubt your convictions.

"Now put a smile on your face and come with me, love," you said, smiling. "If you don't want me laughing at their jokes, then stand by my side and make me laugh by yourself. And stop with this jealousy, Ivar. I'm yours, my love. I chose you. You better be ready to bear my presence for a long time..."

His lips curved although he was trying to hide that smile. And you knew by Ivar's giggle that the arguing was over. He was your man and you were his woman. And no charming prince around would change this.

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[a-bang-for-your-bucky]

Welcome Home (Part One)

(NOT MY GIF)

Summary: After not speaking to her brothers for over a year, Peyton Rhodes’ life is turned upside down when her boyfriend of four years cheats on her. She uproots her life with WWE and returns home to Atlanta. She finds herself among great friends and she is finding herself again after being lost for so long.

WORD COUNT: 2,624 (well shit). 

Pairings: Cody Rhodes x OFC (Sister), Brandi Rhodes x OFC (sister), Dustin Rhodes x OFC (Sister), past Seth Rollins x OFC, future Kenny Omega x OFC (maybe?), MJFx OFC( maybe?) Could end up being Matt Jackson x OFC (who knows) let the writing gods surprise us.

WARNINGS: explicit language, mentioned cheating, possible future smut (Warnings are subject to change as I continue writing and will be updated as needed).

A/N: This has been a WIP for over a year now. This will be multiple parts. It will be a slow burn. (MAYBE) I’m a sucker for the friends to lovers trope. Please do not think that this reflects my feels toward a certain wrestler (Seth). This story is strictly fiction. I do not own any of the characters except for my OFC(s). Please, please, please, give me feedback. I’m slowly working myself back into the fanfic world. <3

“Cody was right.” I cried as soon as my brother’s wife answered the phone. I hadn’t spoken to my brothers since they left WWE. Cody was upset that I wouldn’t leave with him. Brandi was my way of communication with them. She’d call at least twice a week. This week was different. 

“I caught him. I went to congratulate him after his win over Finn and they were,” I sniffled, hurt coming over me again. “It was Mandy. I thought she was my friend.” I explained to my sister in law.

“Pey, I am so sorry. Please come home. You know AEW has a spot for you whenever you want it.” Brandi offered. It was the same thing she said to me every week, but now I’m ready. 

“I just don’t know why.” I cried. “I was the perfect girlfriend. I basically put my career on hold for him. I thought he was, I thought he was it for me.” Brandi had said that they were going to be home for Cody’s birthday in a few weeks and invited me to come to the party. 

“I’ll talk to Hunter.” I choked out. 

Luckily, my contract was almost up and as soon as Vince heard I didn’t want to re-sign, he settled for my release. We didn’t have the best relationship, but Hunter advocated for me stating that it was best for the company as well as myself. He knew the situation and didn’t blame me for wanting to go.

I knew I had to go back one day. I just never thought it would be this soon. I parked my car in the drive. I could hear Pharaoh announcing my arrival before I could make it to the door. I made my way up the sidewalk to the porch. I took a deep breath and knocked. 

Brandi opened the door immediately. “Well I'll be damned.” She said, “I can’t believe you came!” I smiled, embracing my brother’s wife. 

“Like I would miss my big brother’s 35th birthday.” I lied and she knew it. If Seth hadn’t cheated on me, I wouldn’t be here. 

Brandi led me inside where there were some guests who had gathered in the foyer. Brandi introduced me quickly, leading me through to Cody. “Hey, babe. Your surprise is here.” Cody, who was standing by the fireplace, talking to Dustin, turned and saw me. 

Awkwardly, I raised a hand to wave. “Hi.” I whispered. Cody sat down his drink and walked over to me. I expected him to cuss and yell, but instead, he threw his arms around me, hugging me tightly. 

“Peyton, I'm so happy you’re here.” He whispered. Dustin came up behind him. 

“Long time, no see sis. You know, they invented this thing called a phone. You should look into it. Call your big brothers sometime.” Dustin fussed before hugging me too. 

“It is really good to see you guys.” I tried to hold back the tears, but some escaped anyway. “How have you been? AEW has really taken off huh?” I said making small talk.

Cody nodded, “Yeah, I have the best business partners. I can’t wait for you to meet them.” Looking at my brother, he was truly happy. WWE had given him a few more stress lines, but seeing him now, you couldn’t tell. 

He grabbed my hand, pulling me to follow him. He led me to Matt and Nick Jackson, standing with Kenny Omega and Adam Page. “Guys! Guys! Look who decided to show her face.” Cody beamed, smiling big. The four guys waved. 

“Finally! We get to meet the prodigal sister.” Kenny Omega spoke first. 

“Peyton, these are the guys.” Cody pointed to each of them. “Matt. Nick. Kenny. Adam.” 

“Nice to meet y’all finally. I watch your show every week. You are all very talented.” They all mumbled a “thank you” in tandem. 

The rest of the evening went by smoothly. We all sat and talked. Getting to know The Elite was amazing. It was almost as if I hadn’t been AWOL for a year and a half.  When the party was over, I was helping Brandi clean up. 

“Pey, you don’t have to help. You’re a guest.” She said, grabbing the glasses from my hands. I shook my head.

“I’m family. And family helps.” I smiled, taking the glasses back and continued to the kitchen. Cody walked in behind me with plates. 

“Hey,” he started, “Thank you for coming.” He finished, placing the plates in the dishwasher. I added my glasses. 

“I’m sorry.” I blurted out, turning to face him. Cody looked at me, confused. “I should have left with you. You were right about that place. My career, my relationship, everything, became a shitshow after you left.” tears began to fall. 

“Pey, it’s okay. I’m just happy you’re here now.” Cody wiped the tears away. 

“Code. I lost my title. Seth cheated on me, and I barely got any TV time.” Cody scoffed. He never liked Seth.

“He cheated on you?” Cody growled, and paced around the room. 

I nodded, “I caught him. I went to congratulate him after his win one night and they were,” I sniffled, explaining to Cody. “I don’t know why.” I cried. “And then I lost my title, and then stopped getting TV time, unless I was on Seth’s arm.” I darted my eyes to the ground. “We still had to work together. After everything, I had to pretend like we were the perfect couple, until my last appearance.” Cody pulled me into a tight hug. 

“I pissed a lot of people off with the way I left. I’m so sorry that affected you.” he whispered into my hair, like it was his fault. 

“I don’t blame you, Code. I was granted my release.” I mumbled into his chest. He pulled back. 

“What?” His eyes were wide. 

“I asked for my release and Hunter pushed it through. I’ll be a free agent in 90 days” I explained. Cody smiled like a Cheshire cat.  

“Babe! Dustin! Get in here!” Cody yelled, startling me. The both of them came running, looking for an emergency, but they only saw Cody pouring champagne for a toast. Confused looks covered their faces. 

Cody gave everyone a flute and started a toast. “To our baby sister, the newest AEW superstar.” Brandi squealed and hugged me tight. The guys joined in. 

I was finally home. 

It was hard, walking away from my life in WWE; However, finding my place within the Elite was easy. Especially with Kenny Omega. He quickly became one of my closest friends. The next 3 months were the best of my life. The break from wrestling gave my body and my heart time to heal. Everyone did their best to hide that I was coming to AEW, even leaving fake trails that I was going back to NJPW.

After working out the details of my contract, I was officially signed with AEW. Cody wanted me to make a surprise entrance, interrupt one of his segments. Creative loved the idea of brother and sister reuniting, but they wanted to make it interesting. When my debut date came, I couldn’t have been any more nervous.

Sitting in catering, I was alone, lost in thought, picking at my food. It had been a long journey here, but they made it. AEW came to life and it was thriving. Double or nothing had passed, and that meant tonight was Dynamite.

“Guess who?” Someone had snuck up on me, covering my eyes. I smiled because I knew exactly who it was.

“Hmm, Prince Charming?” I guessed quickly. Kenny placed a sloppy kiss to my cheek.

“Close, but better.” He said uncovering my eyes. “Hey, princess. Just thought I’d come save you from your thoughts. What’s going on in that head of yours right now?” he asked, knowing I’ll tell him, taking the seat next to me. 

I sighed, rubbing my face. “I was thinking about my journey, how I got here.” Kenny nodded, but didn’t say anything. “I was thinking about how I get to see Jon again, since leaving WWE, and I was thinking about Seth.” I finally spit it out. Seth, his name leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

“I knew something was bothering you. Talk to me, doll.”

“I was scrolling through Insta earlier. He’s engaged. I know I shouldn’t care, but I do. Not because I still have feelings for him, but because she is, was, my friend, and I don’t want him to do to her what he did to me.” I explained to him.

“That’s understandable, Pey, but people gotta make their own mistakes. Mandy knows what he did to you and she still said yes, so that’s on her.” Kenny said, ever the voice of reason.

I nodded in agreement with him, knowing he was right. I needed to focus on my new path, my new future.

“Peyton!” Cody called from a distance, Brandi following him. It was time.

Cody stood, center ring, proudly. He had won the TNT title at Double or Nothing. He went on about how he was issuing an open challenge every Wednesday.

I stood nervously behind the curtain, waiting for my cue. I was about to make my debut. My life has been a little crazy since I left WWE behind, but definitely for the better. 

As an avid Fall Out Boy fan, I had struck a deal to have my favorite song as my entrance music. I had been using it for most of my career. The music hit, the crowd went crazy. “Holy Hell, that music can only mean one person. The sister of the American Nightmare. That’s Peyton Rhodes!” JR yelled into his mic as I strolled down the ramp, ignoring the crowd. “Peyton” chants filled the arena as I made my way to the squared circle. 

“Peyton Rhodes has joined  AEW and the crowd couldn’t be happier,” Excalibur added. I walked around the ring to the time keeper, grabbing a mic from Justin, and strolled on toward the ring. 

The music cut, and Cody was first to speak. "Oh yeah. I guess we didn't announce this but Peyton Rhodes is AEW!" The crowd screamed at Cody's news, chanting "AEW". 

I soaked in the cheers because I knew it was all about to change. I had been a face for most of my pro-wrestling career, and now I finally get to pursue the heel turn my fans had been begging for. I took in a deep breath and adjusted my leather jacket. 

“Oh, Atlanta, shut the hell up!” I groaned into the mic. I revelled in the audible gasp that could be heard. “That’s right. No more sweet ‘Georgia peach’ Peyton Rhodes. I came to AEW to raise hell, and that’s what I’m going to do.” I wandered around the ring, stopping in front of a camera. “I’m sick and tired of wanting your approval. I’m here to get what I want. And I want it all.” I punctuated as I looked dead into the camera.

“Hear that big brother,” I turned and faced Cody, “Hell just arrived in AEW I hope you’re ready.” I gestured to the crowd, “I hope you’re all ready, because if you thought Cody was a nightmare, wait til you see me, the Dream Killer.” I dropped the mic, and rolled out of the ring. The crowd loved it. “Dream Killer” chants echoed in my ears all the way backstage. 

I was greeted by Dustin, Brandi, and Kenny. “That was perfect, Pey, they loved it.” Kenny said as soon as I was in sight. I grinned, running up to him, jumping into his arms for a hug. 

“The crowd loved you. They’ve been hoping for this heel turn since your WWE debut.” Cody said, smiling from ear to ear as he returned to the back after finishing his promo.

“For real, Pey! You pull off the ‘heel’ thing. I can’t wait to work on your wardrobe!” Brandi squealed, embracing me in a dancing hug. “Just think about the shoes, Pey, the shoes.” Brandi was way more excited about the outfits than the actual turn. She had helped me pick the one I was wearing. Black jean shorts, a front-zip black and white crop top, leather jacket, and black boots. 

“I can’t wait to see where this takes me.” I said before we were joined by the rest of The Elite.  

Nick was the first to speak. “Not bad, Rhodes. You might be a better heel than your brother here.” He elbowed Cody in the ribs.

Matt nodded in agreement, “For real Peyton, the crowd was so hyped for that turn.” He said with a soft smile, bringing me in for a quick hug. 

I turned to face everyone. “Thanks guys. All of you. You gave me this chance.” I thanked them, “I promise I won’t let you down.” 

“You’re a great addition to the AEW family.” Adam complimented, “Come on Ken, we got a match to get ready for.” he said before walking away. Kenny gave me one last hug before following him.

Cody and Brandi also parted as she had a segment coming up, leaving me with the Young Bucks. “Come on, Pey, lets celebrate!” We had walked back to catering where some more of the AEW stars were waiting. In the back, I spotted the one person I couldn’t wait to see again. I told The Bucks I’d catch up with them. 

“Jon!” I screamed, almost running to him. When he saw me rushing toward him, he opened his arms, inviting me in for a hug. Hugging him was a blast from the past. 

“Peyton fucking Rhodes. I heard rumors you were coming. Sweetheart, you knocked them dead.” He spoke into my hair. I gave him one more tight squeeze before pulling away. “Well, you look great.” He said, gesturing to my outfit. 

“I’m heel now. Finally.” I boasted. I’ve been waiting for this for the longest time and no one was taking it away from me. Jon and I talked, catching up. I asked about Renee and he lit up. He was happy and that’s all I wanted for him. He was finally able to be the fighting champion everyone knew he could be. 

“What about Seth? What happened? The last time I spoke to him, he said you guys were happy and he had bought a ring.” Jon asked, and it knocked the breath out of me. I knew he would ask, but I wasn’t expecting him to mention a ring. 

“He cheated on me. With Mandy. They’re engaged now.” I said without choking up, which was a good sign. I could see the disappointment well up in Jon’s eyes. 

“You were always too good for him.” I knew he and Seth were still good friends, but I appreciated the words nonetheless. Jon gave me one last hug before he got called away for his match, leaving me alone in catering again. 

I found a table close to a TV so I could watch the end of Kenny and Adam’s match. They were well on their way to becoming tag team champions. I started thinking about what Jon had said about Seth, about him buying a ring. I couldn’t believe it. He was going to ask me to marry him and I would have said yes, had I not found him with Mandy. I was pulled from my thoughts by my phone vibrating. It was Seth. 

I saw your debut. 

You look good. 

You’re gonna be a great heel.

I miss you. 

I wish you would talk to me and let me explain. 

I read and reread the messages a hundred times before replying. 

Okay, Seth. When and where?

[darling-i-read-it]

The Wrath of the Lamb

3x13

Hannibal Lecter x reader x Will Graham 

Hannibal Re-Write Series Masterlist

Word Count: 4.7k (this is officially the longest thing i’ve ever posted, i beat my own record three times with this series lmao)

Warnings: spoilers for hannibal, murder, guns, pregnancy, burning, canniablism, death, gore probably more idk 

Author’s Note: My very favorite thing about this rewrite is watching the show and seeing how those writers and creators took pieces of the original source material to create their own show and I took both the novels and the show and just did this. I am very very proud of this. I am so happy I decided to do it. I was going to make a substantial change to the ending but I honestly am hoping that one day, season 4 will happen and maybe I’ll stil be writing. Thank you all SO MUCH for getting this far. I am so happy we got to share this together and that this show is as good as it is. I hope I did it justice because this show is so complex. I hope that you all enjoy and thank you again. 

I used some direct quotes from the script so some things may seem familiar 

Official Episode Summary: Will orchestrates a plot involving Hannibal in hope of slaying Francis Dolarhyde; Bedelia is concerned for Will and the lives of those close to him.

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director 

Tag List (is always open!) : @llperfectsymmetryll​ @ericacactus​ @vlightning95​ @sweetgoodangel​

(not my gif) 

You looked in the small window of Reba’s hospital room. You were standing outside of it beside your husband, your hand tight around your upper arm. You were almost cradling yourself in a way. This reminded you of when you had come to visit Abigail, when she was still in the hospital. As your eyes went from the window to Will you were once again thrown to the reality of now. If it had been Abigail in that room you would have looked to see a shaking, sweating puppy dog Will Graham who was so unsure of the world around him. This Will was so different. His hair was done, his shirt ironed. You had ironed it. 

He met your eyes and you gave him a small nod. He opened the door and you let him go inside. You did not follow him. He had enough empathy to give Reba and he understood where she was standing. You and him understood. You had all loved a monster.

-

Will grabbed your arm gently. You and him stood in front of Hannibal’s cage. You had no doubt that Hannibal saw you somewhere else. But nonetheless, you allowed yourself to ease in his presence. A thing Will was once again learning to do.

“Ding-dong, the Dragon’s dead,” Will said. Hannibal raised an eyebrow. He looked between the two of you and his smile faded.

“Pity. I had such plans,” he promised. You believed that. “Are congratulations in order?” Will approached the other man, just against the glass wall. 

“I didn’t kill him. Neither did Y/N. Suicide.”

“I would have liked to kill him as well,” you muttered. Hannibal seemed disappointed at that.

“Then he wasn’t as strong as the Dragon after all,” Hannibal whispered. 

“He was trying to stop,” Will argued. You weren’t sure why Will was arguing for Francis. You hated that he was. He had hurt you. Francis had scared you. You didn’t mention it but you could feel that Hannibal caught the emotion

“I was rooting for you, Will. I figured you would adore killing the man who attacked your family, it’s such a shame. You came all this way and didn’t even get to kill anybody. Only consolation is Dr. Chilton.” Hannibal paused for affect. “Congratulations for the job you did on him. I admired it enormously. Did you do it together? Was the idea hatched in the duo?” You straightened your back. 

“No,” Will said simply. 

“What a cunning couple you are,” Hannibal said anyway. 

“Are you accusing us of something?” you questioned.

“Does the enemy inside you agree with the accusation? Even a little bit?” Hannibal questioned. 

“We came back to stop the Dragon. He’s stopped,” Will stated. 

“Your family was on his itinerary Will. You’re safe now, all three of you. You can go home again. If there’s any point?” Hannibal suggested. You gave him a look. 

“I like my life,” Will said but he did not sound convincing. 

“It won't’ be the same. You’ll see it’s not the same,” Hannibal promised. You stepped closer to the glass.

“I want it to be the same. Together, we will make it the same,” you promised.

“Mutual assurances you try to exchange in the dark and in the day will pass through some refraction, making them miss their mark. When life becomes maddeningly polite…” Hannibal thought about his words and made you both think about them as well. “...think about me. Think about me, don’t worry about me.” 

Will was ready to leave. You could feel it. 

“You turned yourself in so I would always know where you are. You’d only do that if we, together, rejected you.” Will put his hand on the nape of your back. “Good-bye Hannibal.” Will started to lead you out. 

“Will…” He turned. “Was it good to see me?” 

“Good? No.” 

Will walked out and you followed him. He kept going but you stopped as the doors behind you shut. Your mind reeled and he could see it. 

“I need my own goodbye,” you whispered. He gave you a long look. He knew that this was what you needed. He knew it was. Still though, he didn’t want it. He wanted to protest. 

“I’m going back to the motel. Meet me there?” You nodded. He walked down the hall. You could feel his tenseness but ignored it as you walked back into the room with Hannibal. He was clearly surprised to see you. 

“Was that not good-bye?” he questioned. You shrugged.

“That was Will’s good-bye. Not mine.” 

You walked in front of the glass and sat down. Hannibal did the same. You were arguably one of the only people he would sit down like that for. 

“I take for granted, on occasion, that you enjoyed my company,” you told him. You played with the hem of your pants. “I recognize, to a fault, that you would eat me if let out. You would eat my husband. You would eat my baby. But still…” You smiled, reminiscently. “I loved you.” 

He was pleased to hear this. He was so pleased.

“You never would have left him. Not even if I killed him in the kitchen,” he suggested. You thought about that for a moment. You thought back to that terrible day and felt it again.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“When you came in to interview for the secretary position I had already picked someone. I didn’t want to be rude, so I let you in.” He stopped. That was the end of his story.

“Why would you let me work for you?”

“Because I liked you. And as it turns out, we would have met eventually. Through Will.” You nodded.

“But it would have been different.” 

“Yes. Yes it would have.” You pressed your hand against the glass. He looked at it and he did not put his hand on yours. 

“Will is right. I turned myself in so you and he would always know where I am. Because you rejected me.” Your hand fell off the glass slowly.

“I deserved that.” 

You stood up and took a deep breath.

“Good-bye Hannibal.” 

-

You walked up to the hotel room and started to grab the key from your purse. You struggled for a moment but eventually found it. You slid it into the lock and unlocked it, walking inside. Your mind hung over Hannibal still when you were grabbed. You had just been able to see Francis coming at you enough to push him off, hitting his head. He ran out of the door and you followed him but eventually he went too far and you had to stop. You turned back to the room and ran back, your hand on your stomach as you breathed hard from adrenaline. 

Will sat in the chair, tied down. You rushed to him, locking the door behind you. 

You started to untie him.

“Who was that?” you asked. 

“The Red Dragon,” he breathed. You scoffed.

“Not dead then.”

“Clearly.” You got him out quickly.

“Are you alright?” you questioned. He nodded, rubbing his wrists. 

“Yeah. He didn’t hurt me much.” 

“What did he want?” 

You stared at each other. He didn’t need to tell you. You knew. 

-

Will, you and Jack Crawford stood in the hall leading to the morgue. 

“The obvious thing is to try to get him to come to us. Bait him with something he wants more than us,” Will said. Jack gave him a look.

“He’d be an idiot to go for it,” Jack muttered. 

“I know. Want to hear what the best bait would be?” you asked. Jack stared at you. You stared back at him.

“Not from you.”

“Hannibal would be the best bait,” Will said so that you didn’t have to. Jack shook his head.

“Why in God’s name would anybody want to meet Hannibal Lecter?”

“To kill him, Jack. The Dragon could absorb him that way, engulf him, become more than he is,” Will explained. It gave you a moment of just realizing that was how he used to speak about killers he didn’t know. 

“You sound pretty sure Will.”

“I’m not sure. Who’s sure? I’m not even sure Hannibal would draw the Dragon. I say it’s the best shot,” Will explained. 

“Set up how?” Jack asked.

“I would be hell to do, I know that. We’d take Hannibal into federal custody,” Will said. You gave him a look. 

“Because Y/N and Alana would never sit still for what you’re about to suggest?” You gave Jack a bitter role. 

“We fake an escape.” Will stared at you for a moment and Zeller called his name. “One moment.” He disappeared in the morgue that left you and Jack alone, annoyingly. 

“You’ll have both their lives in your hands,” you whispered. 

“Since when do you care about if Hannibal gets hurt under my care?” he questioned.

“Since now.” 

-

Bedelia did not look happy. You did not expect her to be happy either. You respected her bit of unhappiness. 

“We assign a moment to decision, to dignify the process as a timely result of rational and conscious thought. Yet what you propose is so thoughtless, I find it difficult to imagine that moment exists,” Bedelia said bitterly. You stood behind Will, walking around the room slowly. Will sat down across from her.

“Decisions are made of kneaded feelings. They’re more often a lump than a sum.” Bedelia stood up, walked to where she kept the drinks and poured herself one. She offered one to you that she then realized you couldn’t drink. 

“However you think you’re going to manipulate this situation to your advantage, think again,” Bedelia said.

“There is no advantage. It’s all degrees of disadvantage,” you argued. Bedelia fixed on you and Will with a piercing stare. 

“‘Who holds the Devil, let him hold him well. He will hardly be caught a second time’.” 

“I don’t intend Hannibal to be caught a second time.” A flicker of alarm played in her eyes. 

“Can’t live with him. Can’t live without him. Is that what this is?” she asked, bitterly.

“I guess this is my Becoming,” Will suggested.

“I just tag along,” you whispered.

“Because you have two crazy men in absolute love with you,” she told you. Will stood up, straightening his jacket. He was done here.

“I’d pack my bags if I were you Bedelia. Meat’s back on the menu.” 

-

Alana looked annoyed. She sat in Jack’s office, a place you hated to the ends of the Earth. You messed with your hair a bit, leaning against the wall.

“Hannibal has tentatively agreed to the deal, as proposed,” Alana said.

“What will make him less tentative?” 

“He wants Will and Y/N to ask him.” She turned to him. “He wants you to say ‘please’.” You gave a bitter smile. So very like him.

“I’ll say ‘pretty please’,” Will said. He was preparing to speak to you. He knew what he had to bring up would not blow over right.

“We will have a stampede when people think Lecter is out,” Jack explained.

“Let them stampede. Authenticity. And let them think I helped Hannibal escape,” Will muttered.

“Authenticity?” 

“Someone has to be close. When the Dragon comes.” He turned to you. “And just one person.” For a moment, the other three people in that room let that sink in. It was a surprise even to Jack Crawford that Will would even suggest that he go somewhere without you. 

“Sorry?”

“You can’t come,” he repeated.

“No I heard you, I was letting you change your sentence.” 

“I don’t think you need to be there. You don’t.” You clenched your fist and looked away from him. You understood where he was coming from. There was no reason for you to be there. You would only be in the way and you had a child. It would be stupid.

But still.

Every piece of you wanted to be there with Will and Hannibal. You were always there with them. They were your boys. 

You shook your head slowly. 

“What do you suggest I do?” you asked. Will thought about that for a moment.

“Whatever you want.” You couldn’t look at him. He pulled a pocket knife out of his jacket pocket and handed it to you. You took it slowly but still looked away from him. “For if you need it.” You weren’t sure what that meant and you didn’t want to ask. 

-

You and Will walked into the room with Hannibal again. You had hoped to never have to see it again. He did not look surprised to see you this time.

“I thought you said your good-byes.”

“We’ve had one last good-bye between us.” Hannibal was tied up in a straight jacket. You hadn’t been this close to him for a while. You wanted to touch him but you held yourself back. 

“You didn’t just say good-bye, though, did you? That little extra bit at the end for you Will. It felt very final for both of you. I believe it’s called a ‘mic drop’. You dropped the mic, but here you are having to come back and pick it back up again,” Hannibal explained. There were nurses in there with you that stopped any kind of intimacy feeling you may have.

“I knew you would keep running if I kept chasing you. I knew you wanted me to know exactly where I could find you. When we needed you,” Will said.

“And you did,” Hannibal commented. 

“I need you, Hannibal,” you said. Will finished it off.

“Please.” 

-

Will stared at Hannibal in his cage. Even as Francis drove by, he stared at Hannibal. His mind became blurry. But still, he saw the outline of Hannibal’s face in the fog that was his mind as it crashed. People died. People were killed. 

Hannibal was let out. 

Will did not panic. He figured this would happen. He knew this would happen. 

When his mind regained his moment, he got up and stepped out of the broken car. Hannibal crossed to the police car as he took off his straight jacket. He opened the door and pulled the dead driver from the vehicle.

“What are you doing?” Will called.

“You know Will, you worry too much. You’d be so much more comfortable if you relaxed with yourself. Are you coming? He’s not going to kill us here. What he wants to do requires something a little more private.” Hannibal behind the wheel was an interesting scene. The side window was smashed, blood splashed across the inside of the windshield. Hannibal pulled up alongside Will, opened the passenger door and shoved a dead police officer out of the vehicle. He leaned over the seat.

“Going my way?” Will looked through the car door and then looked back down the road.

“You know it can’t just be the two of us,” Will said.

“It never was and never will be, just the two of us.” 

-

You sat in Jack’s office. Will’s pocket knife was in your hand tightly. You were getting a play by play that way which was the only reason you were truly there. You sat in a chair, head in one of your hands as you heard the voices go out and static. You looked up and Jack looked at you.

“What is that? What happened?” 

“Hold on.” He dialed a number.

There was an excruciatingly long moment in silence. You held your breath, biting your finger gently as you waited. Someone spoke on the other line. You couldn’t make out what they were saying. 

Then he hung up and looked at you. You stared back at him and waited.

“They were intercepted. We don’t know yet if there are any survivors.” You stared at him and he waited for that backlash. He was ready for it. But there was no anger that went over your face, instead it was just a small laugh. You shook your head and that laugh fell. 

He saw that face and he recognized the look in your eyes. 

“Do you remember the first judge of Will’s trial?” you asked quietly. 

“What?” 

“Do you. Remember. The first judge. In my husband's murder trial?” you asked again, louder this time. 

“Yeah. Hannibal killed him.” You widened your eyes and shook your head slowly.

“No. I did.”

He had no time to react. You opened the pocket knife and leaned across the desk, slashing his throat. 

-

You reached the motel room quickly after that. You pulled in at the same time you saw a car pull into the parking lot behind you. You got out of your car, hands still stained in Jack Crawford’s blood. The car slowed down beside you. You looked into it and the window rolled down, revealing Will in the passenger seat, Hannibal in the driver's seat.

You let out an audible sigh of relief. 

“Jack told me you were dead,” you said as you rushed to the window.

“Get in the back,” Will said gently. He went to grab your hand but stopped when he saw the blood. Hannibal noticed it at the same time. You did not address it, instead you got in the back of the car with them. 

Hannibal pulled out of the parking lot and away.

“The blood isn’t...the b-” Will started but you cut him off.

“No. I slit Jack Crawford’s throat,” you stated. Hannibal, pleasantly surprised, laughed. Will turned around to look at you. He didn’t look exactly surprised at you. More surprised at his lack of shock.

“About time,” Hannibal said. 

“Is he dead?” Will asked. You shrugged.

“I left before figuring that out.” 

You were so happy to be back beside the both of them. You just let out another sigh of relief.

-

You got out of the car and admired the scenery. It was such a Hannibal place, you weren’t even surprised. The sun setting, the cliff, the way the house stood on the Earth. So serendipitous. 

“The bluff is eroding. There was more land when I was here with Abigail. More land still when I was here with Miriam Lass,” Hannibal said. Will looked over the view and down the cliff a bit. Water, crashing. Gorgeous.

“Now you’re here with us,” Will said. 

“And the bluff is still eroding. You and I are suspended over the roiling Atlaninic. Soon all of this will be lost to sea,” Hannibal explained. You walked over to where Will lingered by the cliff. Hannibal walked away from you to find the key to the home. 

“This isn’t the right place for us to be,” he whispered.

“Yes it is,” you countered. 

“Running from the law with a child?”

“Sounds like something we would do and do well.” He looked over at you away from the view. 

“Let’s get your hands cleaned.” 

-

The sun set completely. The moon showed through the glass walls. You stared through the view and Will stood beside you, watching you watch your new life. He put his hand on your shoulder and you leaned into him as Hannibal walked into the room. Hannibal pulled a wine bottle from the rack and poured two glasses of wine. 

“I apologize that I cannot offer you any wine Y/N,” he said. You turned to him. Will’s hand dropped. 

“No worries.  I never liked it anyway,” you lied. Will took a glass. 

“You’re playing games with yourself in the dark of the moon,” Hannibal said, moving toward the window as well. “Wasn’t surprising that I heard from the Great Red Dragon. Was it surprising when you both heard from him?”

“Yes and no,” Will said. 

“Surprised me. I just wanted to sleep in my own bed,” you whispered. Hannibal smiled gently but that quickly fell off his features. 

“You intend to watch him kill me?” Hannibal questioned. You shook your head but Will spoke first.

“I intend to watch him change you.” Hannibal took that in, a sad smile on his face as he fingered the corkscrew. He saw it in his hands and wondered if he should kill you. Kill Will. Get it over with. Instead, he uses the tip to cut the seal on the wine bottle. 

“My compassion for you both is inconvenient,” Hannibal stated.

“If you’re partial to beef products, it’s inconvenient to be compassionate toward a cow,” Will muttered.

“Save yourself, kill them all?” Hannibal asked.

“I don’t know if we can save ourselves. And maybe that’s just fine,” you said. 

“No greater love hath man than to lay down his life for a friend’,” Hannibal recited. Will looked out the window and sensed the danger.

“He’s watching us now,” Will whispered. He looked at you and you looked back at him. You were staring at each other the second that the glass wall shattered, impaling Hannibal in the stomach. You turned quickly, moving toward Will subconsciously. Hannibal’s wine bottle dropped from his hand and a large red stain on his sweater blossomed with blood. Glass shards fell through the air and beyond them, the patio is just the black knight. In the darkness came Francis Dolarhyde.

Hannibal slid down to his knee. Blood pumping from the gunshot wound in his abdomen. Will grabbed you but Francis raised his gun to the two of you. 

“Don’t run. I’ll catch you.” Hannibal glanced down at his belly wound.

“Hello, Francis,” he said.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter,” he echoed. Francis pulled a tripod from his bag and tossed it to you before pointing the gun at your head. Will took the tripod from your hands and began to set it up. 

“I’m so happy you chose life, Francis. Suicide is the enemy.” 

“I had one rag of pride that Reba McClane gave me. It told me that suicide was a sorry end,” Francis explained.

“You were seized by a fantasy life with the brilliance and freshness and immediacy of childhood. It took you a step beyond alone.” Francis pulled out a 16-mm camera from his bag and handed it to you who fixed it on the tripod, still at gunpoint. 

“I’m going to film your death, Dr. Lecter, as dying, you meld with the strength of the Dragon.”

“It’s a glorious and rather discomfiting idea,” Hannibal muttered. You back away from the camera and he reached for the gun that was in his waistband. You wanted to reach for Will’s knife he had given you but hesitated. 

“Watching the film will be wonderful, but not as wonderful as the act itself.”

Before you even knew what was happening, a knife slammed in Will’s face. You screamed. Francis shot you in the stomach. You stumbled back and then moved forward again. Will fell through the broken wall you attacked Francis. You had enough strength to get him outside.

Francis lifted Will off the ground and Will stabbed him with the knife that was once in his cheek. As you found your own knife, Francis started to again fight Will. As you moved you saw Will rag-doll across the stones. Will’s blood spattered across the thick drops to the stone. He got to his hands and knees. You went to stab Francis again but he got to you first, slashing your side. It stunned you enough that you fell back on the stones beside your husband. 

Will pulled his gun out and Francis immediately disarmed him, tossing the gun over the bluff. You wanted to scream but nothing came out. Just as Francis went to slash him again Hannibal came out of the darkness. He tried to snap Franics neck but the man's neck was too strong and he swatted Hannibal away. 

The two of them staggered across the patio. You tried to get up and Will did as well. He tossed Hannibal off but you and Will were up again.

You started to use your knives on his legs, hoping to disarm him. Hannibal grabbed a hatchet that he found off to the side. He slammed it into Francis achilles tendon and then his knee. 

You, Will and Hannibal all stood now. Exhausted but equal. Francis bleeded from his wounds, leg destroyed. Hannibal staggered up to him and bit out Francis throat. He arched his back and blood fell all around him.

Eventually he fell and let out one last breath as he stared at Will in front of him. 

Dead. 

Will started to finally feel his wounds, as did you and Hannibal. He looked down at his hands which were drenched in red. 

“It really does look black in the moonlight,” he whispered. You didn’t know what he was talking about but you didn’t ask. You stumbled to Hannibal who caught you. In his other arm, Will stood. The three of you embraced, not quite hugging, not not hugging. 

You caught your breath together. The night was still otherwise. 

“See,” Hannibal breathed. You did not look up at him. Will’s head was against his chest. You were buried in his neck. You grabbed Will’s hand and he held it for dear life. “This is all I ever wanted for you,” he choked. “For all of us.” 

Hannibal sounded broken. 

You felt broken. 

Will looked broken.

You closed your eyes, brushing back the tears that you didn’t know were there. 

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered. And you weren’t lying. Will stared at you and he genuinely felt that it was beautiful. He felt what you did. A single tear cut through the blood on his face and fell. 

You held onto him and Hannibal tightly. 

These were your boys. These were the people you had risked it all for. And you did not regret it for even a moment.

Hannibal let out a shaky breath and you felt the Earth underneath you move. You felt the ground and then you did not. 

Where you once stood was drenched in blood. It was illuminated by the moon. If someone was to stand there, despite there no longer being a living person standing there, they would feel the emotions that had left. That place was no longer still. It was breathing. 

The sea underneath it was breathing. It had engulfed three people who loved each other more than anyone had loved anyone. 

The waves crashed against the rocks, the only noise left in the dark of the night.

[booksnmore]

Chapter One

Series Summary || In the cutthroat world of mergers and acquisitions, Feyre Archeron has to try and keep her head when caught between duty and a man that might have stolen her heart. (Modern Day ACOTAR AU)

Chapter Summary || After career-altering news at work, Feyre visits her favorite bar and finds someone to distract her for the night.

Word Count || 5348

A/N || Mature themes that are not appropriate for readers under the age of 18. Includes graphic depictions of sex. Reader beware. 18+

Tagged Crew: @highqueenofelfhame

Feyre tossed her keys in the bowl to the left of the front door and kicked off her shoes, one too-tall heel after the other, grinning slightly at the satisfying ‘thunk’ they made as they collided with the wall. She bent over and rubbed at the red lines pressed into her feet from the uncomfortable footwear all day, and cursed, not for the first time, the strict dress code enforced at her job. 

“Women should wear appropriate skirts and shoes,” she muttered as she padded down the hallway into the kitchen, making it clear what she thought of their ‘appropriate’ standards. The apartment was quiet, her cat napping on the couch not bothering to wake up and greet her. 

“Hello to you too, Jiji,” she said, ruffling the black cat’s fur as she walked past and ignoring his indignant ‘mrr?” of protest. She pulled the pins out of her hair as she walked past the coffee pot and pulled out a bag of tea, groaning as her long, strawberry-blonde hair tumbled free of its tight constraints. 

Flicking on the T.V. while her kettle came to a boil, she absently thumbed through the channels, ignoring the doom and gloom the news was preaching, and settled on an old re-run of Golden Girls. Ah, she could always rely on Dorothy to tell it how it was. The kettle kicked off, and she poured the water over her teabag, inhaling the bite of the black tea as it steeped. 

Her phone pinged from the couch where she’d set it, so with tea in one hand and remote in the other, she walked over to see what it was. If Lucien thought he could text her after hours and ask her to do more work off the clock, she was tempted to tell him where he could shove his brief. It was hard to believe that her drunken 3am application to the agrochemical company as a paralegal had panned out at all. After all, she’d been a recent grad with only her stellar 4.0 GPA and a few semesters of volunteer work at a local tax office for low income residents to commend her to the position. The HR lady had claimed that she was just the fresh perspective the company needed, and being naive enough to trust this, Feyre’d jumped at the chance to move to California. After all, she knew she was just one face among thousands, looking for a job. The salary they paid was enough for her to just manage to afford an apartment all to herself, if she ignored that some walk-in closets were bigger than the whole place.

She swiped open the message on her phone and, sure enough, it was a message from Lucien, the corporate lawyer she worked under. It wasn’t that he was a bad guy, not entirely. He was easy-going and gave Feyre opportunities to learn first-hand, and never pushed his workload onto her like she knew some of the other lawyers for the company did with their paralegals. He was interesting to look at; not necessarily conventionally attractive, not with the glass eye and scar down his cheek, or the perpetual frown he seemed to wear around their boss Tamlin, but something about him drew the eye in a way a model’s perfect proportions couldn’t. They had an easy-going enough relationship, and though they were friendly with each other he was always careful to keep things professional, and she never felt weird or creeped out around him. Not the way she felt around Tamlin.

The son of the CEO, and a chairman in his own right, Tamlin seemed to have a special affection for Feyre, and tended to offer her and Lucien workloads that were more interesting, or easier, and laved attention on her at work to the annoyance of her coworkers. She didn’t return the feelings, but how would she ever say that to her boss? So she smiled, and gritted her teeth, and bore the condescending little comments about how cute she was that day, how that skirt made her look luscious, how that blouse really did need something under it, as he could see her bra quite clearly, though it didn’t bother him. 

No,  those inappropriate comments were just made for the betterment of the company. If she wore that skirt that clung to her hips when they met with the judge, he was sure the court would rule in their favor. If she just smiled more, the judge would be a little more lenient. She tried to ignore the way she could feel his eyes crawling over her, or the way his brow would pucker when she wore a top buttoned all the way up. The only good thing about their relationship was that they rarely met in person. Lucien was aware of it, and did his best to help, in his own way. He and Tamlin apparently went way back to Yale together, but despite that he tried to field any in-person meetings with Tamlin that he could, and seemed to always have something for Feyre to be doing out of the office when Tamlin would drop by. She was silently grateful, not wanting to say anything and risk disturbing the fragile peace they’d found.

She read the brief message, eyes narrowing. Come into the office now. We have a problem. Though he was only a few years older than her, he texted like an old man, she thought with a small grin, then groaned loudly at the thought of shoving her feet back into her shoes after just freeing them. Since Tamlin required them to turn read receipts on for the company chat, he knew she’d seen his message and would expect her soon. Glancing ruefully at her tea, she stood up and slipped on her favorite pair of flats. She would just ignore the snide comments about how her shoes just weren’t professional enough. If he wanted her in overtime, she’d wear what she damn well pleased. 

“Guess I’ll see you later, Jiji,” she said, kissing the cat’s head despite his grumpy yawn. “Hold down the fort for me, won’t you?” The traffic was terrible - she’d only just gotten home in a cab after a 45 minute commute spent almost entirely sitting still. Paying for an extra cab wasn’t in the budget, and she suspected that Tamlin would want her in sooner than that anyway, so she pulled on a jacket and grabbed her purse. It was only ten blocks or so; she’d walk.

The streets were overrun with people, but at least with them she could slip past, using her smaller frame to get through where others couldn’t. She hated the way people would look down on her, using her height as a way to intimidate her, but decided in that instance that it was for the best. Autumn was in full swing, and the brisk nip of the breeze was turning to a more biting cold. Tugging her jacket more tightly against her, she almost regretted her decision to walk. However, when the looming office building stood just ahead and she looked down at her watch, she knew she’d made the right choice. Closer to 15 minutes than 45, and she did feel less sleepy after the walk.

Pushing the doors open, she waved at Jackson sitting behind the security desk, and the gray-headed man gave her a sympathetic look back. “He’s in a fine mood tonight, Ms. Archeron,” he warned, knocking his head towards the upstairs offices. “Best to just nod and get back to your beau at home.” 

No matter what Feyre told Jackson, he was convinced she must have a boyfriend, and had dreamed up the fantasy that she was engaged and totally in love, and had a dog and two cats. All she had to say was that the old man had too much time on his hands, and a far too active imagination. 

“Thanks for the heads up, Jackson,” she said, hitting the button for the elevator doors and taking that moment to compose herself. She knew her cheeks were flushed from the walk and the wind, so she instead used the reflection of the elevator doors to try and fix her windblown hair into something resembling a bun. She only had her emergency hair tie and none of the bobby pins required to keep the stray curls around her face from springing loose, so she did what she could before the doors dinged, then pressed the button that would deliver her to whatever Tamlin had needed her for so desperately that night.

When she stepped off the elevators, she knew something was very wrong. It wasn’t just Tamlin and Lucien that were gathered around the large table in their conference room. Standing beside them was Aamon Verne, Tamlin’s father and CEO of Viridis Agrochemicals, and Nikoli Hybern, the Chief Strategy Officer. The three men together were never a good omen. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, she walked up and rapped sharply on the glass door. There, in the chairs towards the back, next to Lucien, sat Nuala and Cerridwen, her two fellow paralegals, who offered her a look that was both encouraging and warning.

“Yes, come in girl,” said the elder Verne with a sweep of his hand. Despite his age, he still looked every bit the powerful man he was in his youth. Aamon Verne was a name that was both respected and feared in the industry, though Feyre had more loathing than respect for the man. He saw those around him only as tools for his use, and she’d heard him and Tamlin speaking about Nuala and Cerridwen while at lunch once in a way that made her skin crawl. 

Still, he was her boss and she dipped her head briefly at both him and Nikoli, resolutally ignoring Tamlin as much as possible. All three of the men had deep-set frowns, and only paused in their argument long enough for Tamlin to wave her over and push a stack of papers into her hand that seemed identical to what Nuala and Ceridwen were holding. He waved her away carelessly and she took a seat next to her co-workers, thumbing through the papers even as her ears revealed what was happening. 

“Who does this Rhysand think he is?” thundered Aamon, though no one was dumb enough to answer. “Buying out our shareholders, and our company out from under us? I knew this would happen if we went public. It was bound to happen eventually.” Nikoli didn’t look perturbed by his boss’ behavior. Only Tamlin of the three had turned a shade paler, though in his defence his face showed nothing of his emotion. 

“We could still reach out to the shareholders,” began Tamlin, but his father quickly cut him off. 

“And what? Beg them for our jobs? They aren’t fools. They knew we would throw everything we have at them the moment we found out.” Sneering at his son, Aamon turned to Lucien who stoically met his gaze. “Take your people and figure something out. Find us a way out of this, and I’ll give you double your wages as a Christmas bonus.” The unspoken threat was clear: if you don’t, none of us will have a job. 

Feyre’s head was spinning. A hostile takeover? Of their company? Feyre quickly went over the figures in their head. Since they were a publicly held company, they had thousands of shareholders, but not nearly enough that a tender offer wouldn’t work. She thumbed through the brief she’d been handed and, sure enough, Caeles Enterprises had offered to buy out their shareholders with a tender bid high above the price of the stock itself. It seemed the enough shareholders had sold, because at the moment, Caeles held the majority of Viridis’ shares of the stock, making them a majority shareholder. Feyre finally understood why the three heads of the company were so riled up. It really could be the end of their time at the company.

Leaning over to Nuala, Feyre asked, “What do we know about Caeles?” She pulled a pen out of her small leather portfolio and began to jot notes down as Ceridwen answered. “They’re relatively new, founded about ten years ago by Rhysand Neri and his cousin Morrigan. Apparently they mostly focus on renewable food sources, though it seems more broadly the company is focused on genetically modified agriculture. They have their hands in, uh, just a sec.” Ceridwen thumbed through the pile of paper, though Feyre found it before she did.

“Looks like their most recent focus is on soy crops in the Central Valley region. That explains why they're trying to take us over, at least.” Feyre’s gaze shuttered at that, knowing just how brutal Viridis’ policies towards competitors was. She and Lucien had just finished filing a lawsuit against the Growers of the Valley, requiring them to turn over 20% of their profits, as it had been ‘anonymously’ discovered that a large portion of their crops seeds were from Viridis’ own stores. She knew those farmers in the Growers of the Valley association couldn’t afford the 20% tariff, but per her company’s procedures it was a required case to take. 

She ignored the growls and curses from the three heads of the company and continued to thumb through the papers, before turning to Lucien. “Whitemail? Do we have enough capital to cover the shares it would take to tip the balance back in our favor?” She watched the gears in his mind turning, but scribbled a few other options on her notepad as well. 

“Let’s talk whitemail,” he finally said, standing up and motioning to the three of them to follow him out of the main office. “We’ll just be in the other room so you three can talk freely,” he said with a careless wave, already ushering them out of the room before Aamon could protest.

“Thank the gods we’re free of that,” said Nuala with a huffy laugh, giving Ceridwen a look. “If I had to stay in that testosterone-filled room for another moment, I think I’d have suffocated.” Feyre gave her friend a look of agreement, and even Lucien couldn’t hide his grin.

“What Feyre suggested might work,” he said, sitting down at the table and spreading the company’s bylaws out on the table. “Each of you grab a section, and let’s see what anti-takeover measures we can take. The likelihood that the new guy’ll fire all of us is pretty high, so work as though it were your ass on the line because, let’s face it, it probably is.”

So they hunted, heads down and fingers flying across the keyboard, for hours, until Feyre’s neck was sore and Nuala was yawning for the third time in as many minutes. Glancing down at her watch, she gave a resolute yawn of her own and sat down her pen, tip practically chewed up from that night’s frantic search. 

“Lucien, respectfully, we’re all exhausted. Nuala can barely keep her eyes open, and I think I’ve seen Ceridwen misspell the word ‘thorough’ at least four times. With spellcheck on,” she added, cutting off what would have been Ceridwen’s excuse. “I’m going to finish up for the night. It’s 12am, and I doubt the partners are going to let us sleep in tomorrow morning.” Though she might let Tamlin walk all over her, she knew her limits. She could feel a headache just starting in her temple, and her stomach rumbled in complaint at its negligence. 

Lucien threw up his hands, the picture of exasperation, but Feyre could see through it to the real exhaustion below the surface on him too. “Fine, you lazy lot. Go home and curl up with your teddy bears for all I care. I’m going to stay and see if I can find a way to keep Aamon from killing and eating me tomorrow morning. Night, ladies.” With little more than a glance up as their chairs scraped against the ground, Lucien continued flipping through pages, jotting notes in his messy handwriting, and biting his lip. If it were any other situation, she might have found him cute, but he was her superior and that was just too complicated for her. Shaking the errant thought from her head, she grabbed her jacket, tucked her portfolio under her arm, and headed out into the now decidedly frigid October air. 

The cold instantly snapped her awake as she stepped out onto the street, hands jammed in her coat pockets. Glancing back the way she came, she made a snap decision to instead head east, ducking into a bar just down the road from work she wasn’t at all unfamiliar with. Her first few months working with Tamlin’s condescending and sleazy comments had seen her, Ceridwen, and Nuala at the bar more often than she might’ve liked, but in moments like this as she slipped inside and was greeted with a smile by Ressina from behind the bar, she knew there were worse places she could end up. 

“You’re not normally here on the weekdays babe,” said Ressina in the way of a greeting, wincing in sympathy at Feyre’s sour expression. Without prompting, she made up Feyre’s drink of choice - a vodka cranberry - and passed it over before leaning on the bar, expression expectant.

Feyre took a long drink before giving a huffy laugh at Ressina. “You are probably one of the only bartenders in the city that actually wants to hear what her patrons have to moan about, you know that?” The bar was mostly empty, save for a couple that looked like they were only moments away from leaving and finding a room somewhere. Feyre was surprised to find that the idea actually held some appeal to her, as well. Brushing that aside, she glanced down the bar at a lone figure staring into his drink, and decided it was safe enough to tell her friend.

“You know where I work, right? Well, let’s just say none of us might work there any longer. There’s new blood coming in and apparently trying to clean house. I don’t know how much longer I have a job.” She gave a mirthless laugh and finished the rest of her drink in one go, motioning for a second one as Ressina made comforting noises. 

“That’s rough kiddo,” said the barkeep as she stirred up another drink for Feyre without prompting, tisking under her breath. “I swear, the way they use you there with no gratitude, this might just be the thing to kick your ass in gear and get you to actually find a place that values you.” 

Feyre just shook her head and pulled out her portfolio, now nursing her new drink as she scribbled new strategies to prevent the takeover. Ressina took this for the break in conversation it was and began to clean up behind the bar, preparing for closing while humming to the music under her breath. The woman really was beautiful, and Feyre found herself distracted watching the way her inky hair swayed with her as she went about cleaning up and closing out tabs. Feyre’s fingers itched to draw her, already imagining the lines curving around her figure, the strokes it would take to convey the feather-fine hair. After a few minutes, however, she forced herself to get back to work. That was, ostensibly, why she was at the bar after all. She began to jot down counter strategies, leaving little notes to herself later on to explain what she was talking about, and found herself so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice the man at the end of the bar studying her until Ressina cleared her through and tossed her head in his direction.

“Uh,” she began, unsure how to spark a conversation with a man that clearly felt no shame at drinking her up like he was parched. “Hi?” Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol and cold, and she knew she’d had just enough to drink to loosen up by the heat radiating off of her ears. 

The man took a long sip of his drink before standing up and walking over, never taking his gaze off of Feyre. She felt goosebumps rise on her arms, but tamped down on the feeling and forced herself to keep a neutral enough expression. He was better looking in the light, his raven hair almost purple in the neon of the bar and mouth curved in what she could only imagine to be a smile promising filthy things.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, sitting down so close that their thighs touched. She felt warmth spread down her neck, though she forced herself to meet his gaze steadily, ignoring the quickening of her breath. He, however, didn’t ignore it and watched the way her breasts rose and fell under her blouse, drinking in the sight before looking back up with a smirk.

“Do I even know you?” Feyre asked, brow cocked. “I bet you use that line on all the girls.” She turned away, a deliberate move in that dance as old as time. Parry and riposte, ebb and flow. The heat in her veins made her bolder than normal, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I don’t even know your name, stranger.”

A funny look crossed his face so quickly that Feyre decided she imagined it, before he answered easily, “Daemon. And yours, my beauty?” 

Feyre laughed, rolling her eyes at him, though she felt herself more at ease with what was clearly a teasing compliment. “Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think Daemon?” She tucked a curl behind her ear that had fallen out of her haphazard bun, noticing the way his eyes followed her every movement with the laziness of a predator that knows it has its prey cornered. 

“What are you doing here, anyway? Beautiful woman like you, alone on a cold night like this? You should be curled up in furs next to some lucky guy somewhere.” His tone was light, but the hungry light in his eyes couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than lust. 

“Work,” she replied, expression tightening slightly at the reminder. “Don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?” She nodded down at his midnight suit, well-fitted and beyond anything she could ever afford, and cocked a brow. The challenge was clear in her gaze. She reached out and took his hand, ignoring the spark at their connection that caused Daemon to raise an eyebrow, and turned it palm-up. “Not a callus to be seen, just as I suspected,” she said, giving a theatrical sigh. “Bet your silver spoon is tucked away in that fancy suit too, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer, instead taking her hand and placing it on his chest where she could feel his heart pounding beneath the silky fabric. His other hand slid into her hair, massaging the back of her head and drawing an unintended moan from her. The tension from that day seemed to loosen and slide away. She’d always loved getting her head massaged, and it was almost as though he’d known this when he began. Her hands bunched the fabric of his lapel, eyes glazed until he drew his hand down to her cheek and began to draw close. 

She realized where this was going, chastised herself for being too easy, and then met his lips with her own. It was utter possession. His kiss was firm and commanding, taking and giving in equal measure. She felt his chest rumble when she slipped her tongue past his lips, tanging with his own, and would have kept going if not for a pointed cough from behind the bar.

Pulling away, Feyre felt her face turn scarlet and had to force herself to ignore Daemon’s self-satisfied smirk as he straightened his clothing. 

“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” said Ressina with a knowing look, glancing between the rapid rise and fall of Feyre’s chest and the lipstick staining the corner of Daemon’s mouth. “Go on, lovebirds. Don’t make an old woman long for something she can’t have.” She turned her back to them to clean the glasses sitting out, but not before Feyre saw her grin. 

Turning back to Daemon, she was at a loss for words. She wasn’t a one-night-stand kinda gal. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but she just...tended to not have time for relationships, and being the pragmatic girl she was, took care of any needs with brisk efficiency and the help of a not-inexpensive vibrator she’d gifted herself as a housewarming present when she moved to Cali. This guy, though… He almost seemed worth the trouble of bringing him home. She looked between him and the door, though her question was apparently written plainly enough on her face for him to make the one to suggest it.

He leaned in, nuzzling her neck and pressing kisses behind her ear. “I’d ask my place or yours, but I’m all the way across the city. You live closer?” His words were a torment of warm breath against one of her most sensitive places, drawing goosebumps up along her neck. Her head swam as though she was drunk, but she hadn’t had enough to go beyond a buzz and knew it must all be him. 

“Yeah,” she breathed, tilting her head to the side to give him better access. 

“Then let’s go, Feyre darling. Don’t make me wait.” 

He didn’t have to ask twice, not with the heat in her stomach dropping lower, lower, until she felt her thighs squeeze together unconsciously. She quickly paid for her drink and ignored the salacious looks her friend was giving her, before grabbing her portfolio and keys, nearly stumbling after Daemon as he stood and took her hand. If the bulge in his pants was any indication, it seemed like he wanted her as badly as she wanted him.

The trip home was a blur of scorching hot kisses and freezing wind, the combination almost driving her wild. They stumbled up the steps to her apartment and, with clumsy hands, she unlocked the door. Daemon pressed her back against the door, slamming it closed behind them, and began to ravish kisses up her throat, along her cheek, until he possessed her mouth entirely. Their kisses weren’t sweet, but a clashing of natural phenomena: a tidal wave against a sheer cliff, the inexorable pull of gravity on a falling stone. Their breath mixed as she pulled at his clothing, forgetting in the moment that the silk falling to the ground around them likely cost more than she made in a month. 

“More,” she demanded, biting his lip petulantly when he pulled away in order to unbutton her blouse. He flashed a promising grin her way, in that moment being the picture of boyish pleasure and nothing like the foreboding man she’d first seen at the bar. The moment the chilled air hit her breasts, she arched her back and he took the opportunity to fill his hands with her, mercilessly brushing his thumb over her nipples until they rose in stiff peaks. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, against her skin, lowering his head to taste the rosy buds that now stood erect between them. “Divine.” He laved his tongue over her breasts, then down the valley between them until she couldn’t keep herself from pulling him back up to her mouth. Her hands snaking down his chest, undoing the buttons as she went until she could press her hands against his bare skin, teasing her fingers down his side until she reached his belt. 

“Gods,” she groaned, clumsily undoing the buckle and shoving her hands into his trousers where she took possession of his cock, hard as steel and nearly as big around as her fingers could reach. She felt a shudder roll through him as she slowly teased him, swiping the bead of liquid from his tip and using it to help her hand glide up and down his length. “You’re so big, I-”

“Bedroom,” he bit out, cutting her off. He seemed to strain against her hand, nipping down her throat and along the tops of her breasts. “Unless you want to have sex against this door.”

The thought appealed to Feyre, but she managed to surface from her heady lust long enough to lead them both to her bedroom. She didn’t bother turning on the light, instead toppling into bed with him. “Condom?” she asked breathlessly, the thought only now crossing her mind. She was on birth control, but something about a one-night-stand seemed to require protection from a different sort of danger. 

“My wallet,” he groaned, the sound turning into a growl as she slid her hand around his hips to dip into his back pocket, giving his ass a grope before returning with the foil-covered square. He squeezed his eyes shut as she rolled the condom down the length of him, then his control seemed to snap. 

Rolling her beneath him, he poured kisses down her body until he reached the edge of her skirt, which he roughly pushed down until she was bare to him in only her pink flower underwear and tan bra. She hadn’t planned on getting laid when she got dressed that morning, but couldn’t muster enough concentration to worry about what he thought as he yanked the two pieces of fabric hiding her from him. His mouth slide lower, lower, pressing kisses to the delicate skin of her hips and inside of her thighs, before he sat up and pressed a thumb over her nub, rubbing once, twice, as she groaned beneath him. 

“Yes, yes,” she breathed, hips bucking as he continued, adding first one, then two fingers inside her as she struggled against the wave rising higher and higher inside of her. 

“So tight,” he growled, withdrawing his fingers and, in an act that had her melting, licked off each of his fingers, before lowering his face and feasting. A rumble of pleasure vibrated against her, causing her to alternate pushing against his head and pulling him closer, thighs squeezing against his shoulders.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, seeming to know what she needed but couldn’t say aloud. “Ready…?” He took her cry of pleasure as a yes, then said lowly, “Then come for me, Feyre darling.”

He drew her nub between his lips and sucked, laving his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves as she convulsed beneath him, finding herself soaring up and up until her pleasure broke on a knife’s edge, sending her shattering down back to earth.

Panting, Daemon gave her no time to recover, propping her hips up and lining himself up before driving in with a thrust. The pressure was intense, and this time her cry was tinged with discomfort, though he remained still until she began to slowly rock against him, moaning his name under her breath.

He took this as the permission that it was and began to move, slowly at first, then more quickly, angling himself so that he hit that one spot inside of her that caused her legs to clench so tightly around him that she thought he would complain. 

She kept up the quiet litany under her breath of “yes, yes, yes,” as he drove into her, hips pistoning until she felt his control shatter and his pace grew frantic. The heat inside of her roared up again, rising like a furnace, until she felt him thrust deep inside of her and groan, his pleasure sparking her own until they were both tumbling down, down, into each other and the orgasm they shared. She felt her eyes closing when the bed dipped under him as he stood. The sink ran in the bathroom, then he returned, sliding under the covers with her and petting her hair with a lazy, unhurried pace. Her eyelid began to grow heavy, until finally she gave into sleep.

[tigerseye46]

Summary: Sun Wukong asks Pigsy to make a choice

I made a spontaneous peachpig fic.

TW: brief talk of mortality and death

The king tapped a finger on his arm along with his foot, gazing at the wide open mountain, patiently waiting for a certain someone to appear.

The king took in deep breaths, he could do this. This was only going to be one of the most important things he was ever going to ask of anyone, especially his partner. This could change the entire course of their relationship. After a lot of thinking, he decided he was going to ask Pigsy to become immortal with him so they could live out eternity together. He hoped with all his heart that the pig would accept. He could do this, he could do this.

“Wukong,” Pigsy called and ran up to him.

He put on his best smile to hide his nervousness. “Hey, Pigsy.” He grabbed his hands and kissed them individually, relishing in the blush that marked his partner’s cheeks.

“Hey. What did ya need me for? Ya could have just called or somethin’.”

“I could have but that wouldn’t have been as fun,” he joked.

“Uh huh. You’re lucky I have the day off so I can see your sorry ass,” he remarked with an eye roll.

“Oh please, you love my ass,” the king remarked with a wink.

The pig’s face burned with crimson. “Shaddup! What did ya need me for?”

“Nothing really, maybe I just wanted your company,” he lied, his teeth bared.

The pig raised a brow, he had gotten to know the king’s tells pretty well so his boyfriend was obviously hiding something but he decided not to push unless absolutely necessary. “Sure, sure. What should we do today?”

The king silently sighed out of relief. “Well I was thinking we would dance together or something. Maybe open a bottle of wine.”

“Wine? Must be a special occasion.”

The monkey gulped. “Well, babe, every moment with you is a special occasion,” he excused.

“Tch. Flatterer.” Pigsy began guiding Wukong towards the mountain, the corners of the king’s mouth turned upwards as he was led.

They arrived in the small house in the middle of the stone cave. The king grabbed a bottle of peach wine and poured it into two glasses before passing it to his boyfriend. The pig sipped it. “You sure there isn’t a special occasion for you to be pullin’ this out?”

“Nope.” He flashed his teeth again. “No special occasion, my love.”

“Mhmm… whatever ya say. I’ll put on some music. Okay, babe?”

“Okay, take your time, hon.”

Pigsy digged into a box to find a cd, there were times where they would play music on one of their devices while other times they preferred to use a record player the king kept around. Wukong gazed lovingly at his partner until there was a pat on his leg. He looked down to see one of his monkeys with a peach in hand, gently lifting it up.

He ruffled the monkey’s hand and grabbed the peach. “Thank you, little one,” he thanked in a soft voice. “That’s all I needed. Thank you.” The monkey made a noise then left.

Pigsy pulled out a cd and music started playing as he placed it on the record table. He held out his hand. “Come on, babe. Join me.”

Wukong set aside the peach and the wine. He took his partner’s hand and wrapped an arm around his waist. “You got it, darling.”

Pigsy giggled and they began swaying together. The king’s heart beated against his rib cage as he ran through all the ways he could ask Pigsy. He accidentally stepped on his boyfriend’s foot during his thought process, receiving a small “ow” from his partner, he smiled sheepishly and kissed his forehead as an apology.

They continued onward without a word until the pig hummed. “You seem a bit off rhythm today, Wukong.”

“Maybe the reason I’m so off rhythm is because I’m taking the time to admire your beauty. Ever think of that?”

“Yea. Sure.”

“Don’t believe me?”

“Obviously.” He lifted the needle of the record player, halting the music. He crossed his arms. “Peach, you forget I know you and I can tell you’re not tellin’ me somethin’ so spill.”

The king’s hands were sweaty. “There’s nothing, love. Well okay, maybe one thing.”

“And that would be?”

“There’s a specific reason I called you here.”

“I can see that,” the pig interrupted.

“You could let me finish.” The pig’s lips formed into a smirk, most likely to say something snarky but he held his tongue. “I just want to say I love you very much. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, one of the best. And I never want to live without you. Every bit of you is amazing. And I know… I know what I’m about to say next is going to ask a lot of you but…”

He held his partner’s hands and got down on one knee. “Wukong, are you… are you proposin’?”

“Not exactly but something similar to it. Pigsy, I love you so much. It hurts to have a world where you’re not in it so I was wondering...” He grabbed the immortality granting peach with his tail. “I want you to become immortal with me. That is, do you want to become immortal with me?”

The pig’s mouth was agape. “Wukong…”

“I love you so much,” he repeated. “I want to be with you for the rest of eternity. I want us to get married, train MK together to the best of our ability, and I want us to have kids together. Watch them grow up to be as amazing as I know they will be.”

“Wukong…”

“I would never force you. I want you to know that. This is your choice.”

He stared at the peach with hesitation, reaching out for it before receding his arm. “I… I don’t know,” he replied and Wukong’s heart cracked a bit like glass. “This is a big decision, Wukong.”

“I know.”

“To live forever… a lot of things would change, the world would pass by me and people I would grow close to could die… that’s a big decision and it would affect me for the rest of however long I have.”

“Love…”

“And what would I even do for the rest of eternity? Maybe cook but what if I grow bored? And what if you grow tired of me?”

“That would never happen,” he huffed.

“I… I know… I love you, I do but I… can I think about this? I need time.”

This is his choice, the king reminded himself. He mustered up a grin. “Of course, love. I just wanted to let you know immortality is on the table…”

“Okay… I… can you take me home?”

The monkey’s ears drooped. “Yea. Course, babe.”

He summoned a cloud and flew them towards the apartment, neither saying a word the entire time. Pigsy got off and pecked the king’s cheeks with a small, “See you” and went inside.

Wukong sighed, he lingered outside the apartment complex before leaving.

They didn’t speak for days with Wukong trying to give his partner the space he needed to think things over. Although it had broken his heart and left him in a mix of sad and angry, he just wanted to live a nice comfortable life with his partner for forever but he understood why the pig needed to mull it over. Xiaotian noticed his sour mood and commented that whatever was going on between him and Pigsy (since Pigsy had been noticeably quiet lately) would sort itself out.

A week or two passed by before Pigsy showed up on Flower Fruit Mountain unexpectedly. “Hey, Wukong,” his partner greeted.

He perked up. “Hey, Pigsy. What’s up?”

“I was thinkin’ about what you said and…”

“I get it. Immortality is a rough choice to make and I get it if you don’t want it. I accept your choice.”

“That’s not it. It took me quite a lot to think about it and yes.”

“Yes what?”

“I want to be with you for all eternity. I want to be immortal with you.”

The king’s eyes were blown wide. “Re-really?”

He bobbed his head. “Yea. I want to.”

Wukong pulled him into a bone crushing hug, his tail thumped to the ground and he pressed a trail of kisses on his partner’s face. “Yes, yes, yes! I love you.”

“Love you too. Now how many kids we havin’ exactly?” He asked.

“I was thinking eleven at the very least.”

“Eleven? That’s a big number. Sure you can count that high?”

“Yes, love, I definitely can.”

“We better get started then. Now where’s one of those peaches?”

The monkey elbowed a tree and caught a peach in his hand. “Right here. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’m sure.” And this time without hesitation, he bit into it, receiving a huge kiss from his boyfriend when he finished.

Centuries have gone by and to this day, Pigsy doesn’t regret his choice especially since he had an amazing husband and eleven plus kids, including their eldest daughter who shined like the stars.