#give me cooper day or give me death

[double-features]

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i feel like i could, realistically, pull cooper day, tate langdon, russell hayes, or max cooperman (i probably couldnt)(theyre just the only evan characters i can think of that are minors)(stroke my ego yall PLEASE i need a confidence boost)

[ambreiiigns]

i wanna be someone who listens to misfits full time again wtf is ghost

[seelestia]

✧ the gambler and his knight.

aventurine can't stand having his outfit exposed to the elements nor to the rude hands of clients that won't cooperate – luckily for him, he has you to take care of it all. { aventurine with a bodyguard!reader. }

⎯ fluff & angst. 2.9k wc. headcanons w/ some written scenes. the plot is vv subtle but it's there a.k.a aventurine simps for you (jokingly) but you both end up catching feelings (not jokingly). mentions of violence, death & russian roulette. pre-penacony timeline. a self-indulgent piece to celebrate this blog's 2nd anniv! ★

★ 〜 masterlist.

© seelestia on tumblr, june 2024. please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own.

aventurine who graciously welcomes you under his employment with a game. just a little something to ease your nerves and get you used to his ways. you look at him with such incredulity as if he just fell and hit his head silly. he pays no mind to this – finds it to be amusing a great deal, actually. keep it up, newcomer!

“heads or tails?” he asks, flipping a coin in the air and catching it seamlessly. a routine for him, you would've figured from the sight. “that's. . . an odd way of saying hello,” you point out but your tone bears no hint of protest. he notices that.

“i've heard that one before,” aventurine tilts his head with a smile, nonchalant. “so what's your guess?”

“tails,” you reply without any delay. it's a mindless answer; getting it wrong this way would prove to bear less disappointment compared to putting actual thought in it. “heads for me then,” he whistles.

aventurine opens his palm. it's heads. you frown as if to suspect foul play—but you don't because you know about his notoriously good luck—and your new boss chuckles, almost placatingly.

“looks like i win,” he grins without a care in the world at all. “aren't you starving? let's fetch ourselves a meal, friend.”

a loss rewarded with a prize? you blink. with grace so in contrast to the whiplash you feel, aventurine walks past you with a trail of expensive perfume in his wake. obviously, he expects you to follow and you do after a moment's reluctance.

(this guy is more confusing than the stellaron.)

aventurine who grows quite fond of seeing you acquiesce to his wishes, whether serious or trivial. could you ward off those reporters? could you pour him a drink? could you play a game of poker with him? could you join him for lunch? you're always so professional that he starts to find some mirth in pushing your buttons (never too much). unlucky for you, he does it to be affectionate and lucky for him, you always say yes even if you roll your eyes every single time.

aventurine who trusts you with his credit card. . . to a worrying degree. when asked if he's sure about this, he just waves it off and says it'll be safer in your hands. seriously, this card has been in your possession longer than it's ever been in his. sometimes, he does ask for it back – only to drop some 200k credits to your account. “a tip for doing a good job,” he'd wink casually while you're flabbergasted beyond belief.

aventurine who finds it extremely attractive whenever you step in to protect him from harm. dealing with uncooperative clients is a day in his life, yet some are so brutish they resort to getting physical – but he has you to make sure their hands stay off him. a gun in his direction? knocked off before the trigger even has a chance to get pulled. reaching out to grab him by the collar? they're already on the ground, your foot threateningly pressed on their back as a warning. what a dashing sight – and thanks to you, his pristine outfit has been saved more times than he could count at this point.

aventurine who likes to call you his “knight in shining armor” teasingly. awh, you don't like it? he thinks you're more than deserving of that title with the way you always swoop in to get him out of trouble. if the thousands of credits he gives you aren't enough yet, won't a cute title suffice? “it sounds corny,” you tell him with a grimace—and maybe, yes—but he just chirps coyly, “dunno. i think it's fitting.”

aventurine who makes it his responsibility to check on you after a rough mission. credits are no problem, he'd even reserve the most expensive private doctor in the cosmos if that means you'll recover faster. sadly, he has little to no medical skills – so the most he can offer you is bandages. sure, you can take a bullet to the stomach and handle a punch or two, that's your job, but what about tiny scratches? . . .don't tell him you're about to reject his kind offer.

“what's your favorite color?” he queries, somewhat out of the blue considering the situation where he is helping you tend to a minor cut on your finger. you raise an eyebrow, “why do you wanna know?” as he gently plasters a plain-colored bandage on your skin (which he's only been granted permission to after minutes of begging you to let him do it).

“for the bandages,” aventurine answers. he finds no need to hide his intentions as he runs a thumb over the bandage, softly as to not hurt you, to keep its position secure. “so that the next time you ask, i'll have some in your favorite color for sure.”

“how. . . thoughtful of you,” you snort, amused.

(briefly, he resists the urge to ask if he can place a kiss on your cut for 'luck'. but if he does, you might have his head. so, he'll try another time.)

aventurine who slowly begins to find a sense of comfort in your company. maybe, it's the way you scoff at his quips with a smile or the way you always tell him to be careful. maybe, it's the way you take him seriously or the way you stay by his side—is your job description the only reason why?—or maybe, he's just pathetic and reeks of so much loneliness you feel sympathetic. he can't tell, but he hopes the luxuries he has can persuade you to stay just a little longer. even if you don't actually care. (you do.)

aventurine who notices how anxiety brims in your gaze when you watch him gamble at the table – with a sum too high to be considered sane and sometimes, his own life. he can see it all; how your hands shake as if you want to reach out, how your lips tremble as if you want to tell him to stop. but this is what he's made for, is it not? he'll survive one way or another. . . until fate decides the bill for all his past good fortune is finally due. and when the time comes, he'll be ready for it. (will you?)

a game of russian roulette.

it always starts with thrills only to end with carnage spilled all over the table. luck is the only thing worth praying for at that point and oh, is luck not the dearest friend aventurine ever had? hence the reason why he always agrees, not with a yes but with a “why not?”.

you're there as his protector, yet utterly condemned to the role of a witness as soon as aventurine nods along to that darned game. panic rushes through your veins as the gun is passed around so relaxedly, so easily with laughter all around. aventurine's next in line, you realize grimly. the next decision that comes after is spontaneous, so different from your usual calculated nature – you drag him out of the casino in a frenzy before the weapon even lands in his hand. in your head, there is no other thought louder than: he could've died.

“a shame i didn't get to the fun part,” you hear him hum from behind you, too disturbingly calm for your liking. the bustling noises inside the establishment have all but faded into the background. “that was close, hm?” he laughs, a sound you would've found endearing if this was another occasion. any occasion that doesn't involve teetering dangerously on the precipice of death.

you stop in your tracks and aventurine, behind you, naturally follows. your silence is something he first takes note of and the way your hand shakes as it holds his is the second. you still haven't let go. what's going through your mind? he calls out your name softly, perplexed at your lack of explanation.

“. . .why did you say yes?” you respond with a bitter question. “you could've died. you almost died,” you try to hold back a shout – yet, your words are spat in such a fusillade he feels a seed of guilt starting to bloom inside his lifeless heart. he discards it in favor of putting on a frivolous smile.

“oh, relax,” he lets out a chuckle, one that sounds so ignorant of the taut tension in the air. “it's just some russian roulette. why so serious?” he shrugs as if to physically brush off any seriousness clinging to his figure. his remark gives off the assumption that every single hint of your worry has flown over his head.

“it is serious. . .” you bite your bottom lip. he sneers in return, “yeah? since when?” as if to challenge you to give an actual answer. his life is full of risks, to say otherwise would be a lie. “you're sweet for worrying but you don't actually care about me that much, do you?” he snickers to himself. like the thought of your caring about him can't possibly be true, like it's all just a terrible joke.

but he's the only one laughing.

aventurine falls quiet and finally, genuinely meets your gaze for the first time that night. he doesn't like what he sees. your lips are downturned, unamused and saddened—you do care, a realization that has been left unsaid—and all remainders of levity in him are replaced by immediate dread. it only now registers that the anger, concern, frustration on your face are for him; they're the unavoidable consequences from caring about him.

(his eyes widen. no, no, no.)

“c'mon, you—” he covers it up with a carefree smile, as feigned as it came. he shoves his hand in one of his pockets. it's shaking. “. . .worry too much. you've seen me play a handful of games before. i've never lost a wager, remember?”

you don't look convinced at all. in fact, you look as if you've arrived at the brink of seething. “and if you do? for once in your life, you lose?” you prod him for more. for something, for anything – perhaps, for a promise that he won't do it again.

(but you know aventurine, you know there would be no such promise.)

“then i lose,” he says, final and resigned. “there's really nothing else to it,” he tries to offer you another smile but it didn't quite reach his eyes. “hey. at least, you'll be there to witness my spectacular fall, right? it'll be a show to remember.”

he nearly doesn't manage to keep up the façade. it's already as precarious as it can be. you don't reply to him this time – instead, you let go of his hand to wipe at your cheeks. his gaze trails after your fingers and it freezes upon seeing the pearly tears falling free from your eyes.

aventurine has never seen you cry before. you're always so stone-faced, so hard to break that he recalls almost cheering when he heard you laugh for the first time. that was when you finally won a round of poker against him. a pity, he would've reminisced about the memory more. . . if only the matter of losing and winning a game isn't as serious as it is now.

“don't say that,” you mutter, harshly wiping away at the incessant tears pouring from your eyes more than you'd ever allow them to. some make their way into your mouth, they taste just as bitter as your current frustration. does he truly value his life so little? you can't fathom it, you can't fathom him at all.

but there is one thing you were certain of, at the very least: “you hired me to protect you,” you shake your head unrelentingly, “so i'll do it. until you throw me away, i won't let you die.”

you've stopped crying then. aventurine feels remorse; the tears that you shed because of him are starting to dry. the selfish part of him wants to reach out and brush them away with his thumb – but would you let him? would this lead you further down the rabbit hole that is him? in the end, he decides against it.

“. . .i'm sorry,” he sighs instead, raking a hand through his messy blond hair. whatever it is he is apologizing for, he doesn't have a clue either. he lets his eyes slip shut. he can't bear to look at you, can't bear to look at his pitiful reflection in your eyes.

(he's not worth caring about, can't you see? he dances hand in hand with death – there is no need to subject yourself to being a spectator.)

the two of you then part ways that night with shallow pleasantries on your tongues. no inside jokes, no evident yearning for the other to stay, no more than an awkward exchange of “i'll see you tomorrow.”

on his way 'home', regret and relief clash to form something inexplicably hollow inside kakavasha's chest. he wanted to wipe away your tears—what a regret—but if he did, they would've burned on his skin and became another mark to haunt him—what a relief he didn't. and frankly, if destiny is about to reap his debt, he'd rather go with no regrets at all.

whether those regrets include you? he doesn't have an answer just yet.

(the name at the bottom of his contract with fate is signed as kakavasha. but you wouldn't recognize that name. not as him, at least.)

aventurine whose eyes can't flutter close at night ever since thoughts of you fill his mind more than they already do before. you care for him, you want him to live—all his fault, he allowed himself to get too close—but these realizations are rooted in too deep and refuse to leave. what to do, what to do, what to do?

it isn't supposed to turn out like this.

what he and you have is meant to be transactional; he'd be spared from unnecessary scuffles and you'd be compensated with monetary payment. he means to keep it superficially fun; for him to tease you with jests—so you'd stay and save him from the deafening silence in his head—and for you to dismiss him with that adorably annoyed look on your face. just some silly banter, that's it.

so then, since when are there rounds of poker where he'd coo over your frown when you lost? or the sound of your lecturing after he secretly got you a high-end item? or meals shared together where you'd bicker over the bill? or bandages in your favorite color kept inside his bedside table? since when do you start to care? . . .since when does he start to care?

think of something else.

kakavasha tosses and turns in his bed, but the soft pillows and blanket do nothing to quell these bothers of his. are feelings always this complicated? he places a hand over his eyes, tired and exhausted, and stares at the ceiling as if it could provide him with an answer.

but there's no use.

in a moment void of logical thinking, he reaches for his phone and hovers a finger over your name in his contacts. he is usually good friends with bad ideas – but not this time, he sets his phone down and lets out a frustrated sigh that only his expensive pillows are there to hear.

(for gaiathra's sake, he hasn't even told you his real name yet.)

aventurine who becomes awfully distant the next time he sees you. you accompany him to meetings with clients per usual, but it's different. . . he talks to you succinctly, not verbosely with that trademark grin of his. his face is bereft of the things you grow to like seeing on him. a sincere smile instead of one just for show, for example. but even that's difficult to ask for since he only speaks to fill the silence with empty chatter. he doesn't look you in the eyes either; you feel a pang of hurt, you've always loved his eyes.

aventurine who discards all thoughts of you as soon as he steps inside pier point to be assigned a project. a conclave between the stonehearts is a matter of top confidentiality and you, dutifully, are ordered to wait for him outside the office. though, he'll admit; your absence by his side actually does leave a gaping void—such hypocrisy, really—but at least, those pesky voices in his head know how to shut up when it comes to work.

“penacony. . . is diamond finally ready to do something about it?”

aventurine rests his left hand on the small of his back, fiddling with the clubs-shaped detailing on the fabric there. it looks like an act of idleness from afar, but anyone observant enough would know it's a way to subdue whatever nerves he wishes to hide.

he waits for the person in front of him, gazing at the purplish-red sky of pier point at sunset, to speak. for their next words shall mark the start of his next journey in fate's course.

aventurine who hesitates to let you come to penacony with him at first. but it'd be poor reasoning not to, since some might have a bone to pick with him as the corporation's representative. . . and he knows you'll protest to come with anyway. fine then, situationship discomfiture be damned – not even a second after he steps out of the meeting, his neon eyes finally meet yours. “so, how does a trip to penacony sound?” he announces with a confident smile. you blink, noticing how his lips are wobbling at the sides. you don't say no, however. (if only the two of you know what sort of ride you're getting yourselves into.)

— thanks for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. why don't we all sob over this man like it's a cryfest ♡

[adragonprinceswhore]

Rumours

Aemond Targaryen x (Ex)Wife

Chapter VI: Storms 🎼 Masterlist

Summary: Aemond’s wife left him following an explosive fight last week, and he hasn’t been able to find rest since.

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, depictions of a toxic relationship, possessive Aemond, shitty and useless coping mechanisms, reference to violence and injuries

Word count: 2300

A/N: Thank you always sweet sweet Justine (@theoneeyedprince) for looking this over and giving me ideas 🤭 ILY! The lyrics are interwoven with the story in this chapter, hope it makes sense! As you can tell, this is set a week after his wife left him, and before he wrote his new songs for Rumours…

‘Every night that goes between, I feel a little less’

8 hours and 25 minutes.

That’s how much sleep he’d gotten in the last week.

Since the fight.

Fights. Plural.

It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten into a physical altercation with his brother. His childhood memories are tainted by endless disputes, especially after their father died, back when Aegon would sneak out to get drunk while their mother worried sick at home.

Why was his brother seemingly incapable of behaving well? Aemond saw how his mother worried herself sick over her oldest son, while also having to deal with grieving the loss of her husband, and navigate the internal political turmoil the death of such an influential man left behind. And Aegon couldn’t even spare her further heartache.

Fucking pathetic excuse of a man.

It was, however, the first time he had hurt his wife. Physically, that is. She’d told him he’d hurt her before, when his jealousy got the best of him.

He knows he’s crossed a line. As soon as he lost his temper and threw that plate against the wall. Dangerously close to where she was standing.

He regrets it all. Why did it even have to happen in the first place? If she had just cooperated with him; worked with him instead of against him. Instead of hiding things from him, talking with Tyland behind his back.

He always knew that she’d leave. One day.

He’d never leave her.

Frustrated, Aemond lets out a quiet sigh and gets up from the bed, moving to sit on the edge, slouching as he places his head in his hands. He suddenly notices how quiet the room is; the loud thoughts echoing in his mind momentarily disappear as he ponders what he could do instead of sleeping.

He moves quietly to not wake Alys next to him, whose heavy breathing provides the only real sounds in the room. It is almost eerily quiet now that he thinks about it; such a stark contrast to the insufferable buzzing of thoughts roaming around in his head.

Rest doesn’t come to him anymore. 

His mind can’t provide him with any repose. Not even for a second.

He closes the door to the bedroom with a quiet ‘click’ and exits, moving towards the balcony connected to the large, open-plan living room.

She had picked this apartment, together with him.

Our home.

The memories of going to look at cabinets for the kitchen together, choosing a sofa together, fucking on said sofa, overtake his mind before he can distract himself.

‘As you slowly go away from me’

When he realised that she’d left and wouldn’t come back, he tried to erase her from the space, shoving all of her belongings into one of the wardrobes in the spare bedroom.

He couldn’t bear to throw them out. He couldn’t bear to see them either. She’d left behind everything he’d ever given her; all gifts he’d carefully picked out for her. Seeing her wedding ring on top of the kitchen island, next to the divorce papers and the shattered plate on the floor had made his stomach turn when he came home from the hospital.

‘This is only another test’

He’d suffered much harsher trials than this.

When he lost his eye in a car crash at only 10 years old, he suffered through the most excruciating pain of his life. He had to relearn everything; how to focus his gaze, how to read and write without developing a headache, how to play his favourite sports without running into his opponents. 

He’d managed all that, yet this time he felt consumed by an aching sense of dread.

A hopelessness deep in his chest.

‘Every night you do not come’

It was all too late. No turning back.

‘Your softness fades away’

He knows that the aching dread is the longing he feels for her. The thought of never touching her again, never being close to her again. 

Never being in her embrace again.

He feels a chill run through his body as he settles on the armchair placed by the wall, overlooking the bright lights of King’s Landing.

Reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nearby table, he takes one out and lights it before taking a long drag, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back to rest against the back of the chair.

She’d chosen the patio furniture as well.

He fucking resents himself in this moment. Why is his body, his mind, incapable of doing what he wants? Forget her. She sure as hell wants to forget him.

‘Did I ever really care that much’

‘Is there anything left to say’

When she left during the fight backstage last week, he had wanted to run after her. But then he threw one quick glance at his older brother, and could barely see his expression due to all the blood smeared over his face.

He called out to him, but Aegon didn’t answer, laying limply on the old leather sofa with one arm hanging from the side and his mouth open. That was when Jace had come back in, face turning white in an instance as he was confronted with the scene before him, pulling out his phone from his pocket with a shaky hand to call an ambulance.

Aemond went with his brother to hospital, waiting by his side until he regained consciousness while trying to calm his distressed mother and wide-eyed sister. They had looked at him in the same way she had; eyes filled with animosity. He could barely meet their gazes as shame left his cheeks scalding.

‘Every hour of fear I spend’

‘My body tries to cry’

All he could think of at that moment was coming home. Home to her. To her warmth.

‘Living through each empty night’

‘A deadly call inside’

He takes another drag of his cigarette. Not being able to sleep, to eat, to think clearly is so foreign to him. It’s like when he lost his eye; he has to relearn everything. How to fucking breath.

There’s this restlessness inside him that won’t disappear, no matter how hard he tries to exorcise it. He’d tried going for walks; his usual go-to when he needed to clear his mind.

On one of those walks he’d smoked an entire pack of cigarettes.

How much time had passed? How long had he been out? He could hardly remember where he’d gone, what he’d seen or what time of day it’d been.

He’s lucky to have grown up in the centre of King’s Landing, knowing every street by heart, intuition leading his steps as he eventually finds his way back home. To an empty flat, haunted only by the memory of her.

She haunts him worst internally though, through his own mind.

There, in the eye of his mind, he sees his greatest fear; her with another man.

Any time he closes his eyes, the same image greets him; her, naked in the arms of another, throwing her head back in bliss.

She sighs and moans, letting her new man know how good he’s making her feel. She tells him too; that he’s the best she’s ever had.

She runs her hand down his cheek, unmarred and smooth. No harshly red scar, no unpleasant raised skin. Someone pretty, like her.

‘I haven’t felt this way I feel’

‘Since many a years ago’

He tried drinking; Aegon’s lobotomy of choice.

After downing two bottles of the Dornish red he’d received from some business associate when he was still working with his grandfather, he found sleep for 1 hour and 12 minutes before waking up with a racing heart and body covered in a slick sheet of cold sweat.

He would have tried talking to someone, if the only person he wanted to speak to hadn’t blocked his number. He’d realised that after being connected directly to voicemail each time he called her. That didn’t stop him from leaving messages though. First, they were filled with apologies and promises of never losing his cool again, of being better for her, of reassurance that he loves her. But as he grew to understand that she wouldn’t come back, his frustrations got the best of him.

He called her just to scream at her, into the nothingness that was her disconnected voicemail.

“I always knew you’d leave me! You fucking liar”, he spat as he threw his phone against the same wall he’d smashed the plate against.

It doesn’t matter. She’ll never hear them anyway.

The tiny bit of relief he felt afterwards hadn’t made any significant difference. He still couldn’t sleep, couldn’t find even a moment of tranquillity.

He places the cigarette between his teeth as he reaches forward to grab the notebook on the patio table next to his seat.

There’s one thing he still hasn’t tried.

As he plucks the pencil from where it's hanging on the side of the hardcover, he begins writing without thinking too much of what’s coming out, letting his hand guide his thoughts as he brings his plagued mind down on the paper.

‘In those years and the lifetimes past’

‘I did not deal with you, I know’

‘Though the love has always been’

His most recent attempt at finding respite from his mind was sleeping in his bed.

Our bed, he corrects himself with a wince.

He’d met Alys Rivers, manager at Riverland Creative Agency, earlier that day when he stopped for a drink during his quotidian nightly walk. She recognised him instantly, swiftly approaching him to mask her true intentions with some saccharine small talk. He knew she wanted to inquire about his band’s management; if they were satisfied with Tyland or if they’d be persuaded into joining her instead.

But all he could focus on was her hand casually placed on his shoulder as she spoke, her large, green eyes locking with his as she playfully teased him about his stoicism.

The heat radiating from her palm alone lit a fire inside of him, but rather than lust, he felt something akin to longing.

Yearning.

For warmth.

He asked her if she’d like to have a drink at his house, and when she replied with a wink and a cheeky retort, he knew she’d give him what he craved.

‘So I search to find an answer there’

‘So I can truly win’

Alys didn’t feel like her. Didn’t set the fire within him ablaze. Nor did she extinguish it. He didn’t feel better; he felt the same.

Restless.

Uneasy.

Different.

Broken.

‘Every hour of fear I spend’

‘My body tries to cry’

‘Living through each empty night’

‘A deadly call inside’

His hand moves on its own accord, words pouring out from him without having a chance to pass through his consciousness.

‘So I try to say goodbye, my friend’

‘I’d like to leave you with something warm’

Maybe he never gave her comfort?

Maybe all he did was take?

No. He knows he’s been a dutiful husband. He’s always been by her side, supporting her no matter what.

Unlike his own father; a shitty husband who was more of a burden on his mother’s shoulders than a pillar to lean on. Aemond knows that he’s nothing like his father. He gave his marriage his all; he never neglected his wife. 

He gave her all of him.

‘But never have I been a blue calm sea’

‘I’ve always been a storm’

But she didn’t want his love. She didn’t appreciate all he’d done for her. She didn’t understand him, not really. If she did, she wouldn’t shut him out like this.

Fuck her selfishness.

When he left his grandfather's firm to pursue music full-time, Otto Hightower had threatened to disown him, telling him that he’d make sure all ties Aemond had to the Hightower name would be cut off.

All he knew was how to be a good son and grandson. How to please his grandfather and mother. But when he confided in her about his predicament, asking her for advice on how to handle his grandfather's wrath, she’d cupped his cheeks and gazed into his eyes as she reassured,

“I am your family now, Aemond. We’ll always have each other” 

Liar.

He feels bile rise in the back of his throat as he keeps writing, allowing the feelings he didn’t know how to express some outlet. The thought of her now makes him feel sick.

‘Always been a storm’

‘We were frail’

He feels stupid; blinded by the light of her love.

‘She said, “Every night he will break your heart”’

‘I should have known from the first, I’d be the broken hearted’

Being given such warmth from another person. That’s what made him addicted to her.

He’d never experienced that before, not even from his mother or sister. There was always this restraint; this rift between them, for as long as he could remember.

But she let him in with open arms; let him into her comfort without resistance.

And now she’d taken that away from him.

‘I loved you from the start’

Looking at the lyrics written down in front of him, he doesn’t feel better. His shoulders don’t feel lighter. His chest doesn’t feel less tight. All he knows is that she did this. She promised to be by his side forever and broke that vow.

He leans back in the chair, fiddling with his lighter in one hand as he reads over the text again. What would she say if she saw how much she hurt him?

Would she come back?

The fleeting thought makes a tight knot form in his throat and he swallows forcefully to make it go away.

She’ll never come back.

He picks up the paper, letting the fire from the lighter in his other hand grace over the bottom corner, and sets it alight.

A/N: No, this is not a song form Rumours 🤭 but technically he doesn’t record it, so I think it’s fair! Tysm for reading 🩵

[a-leg-without-fear]

Poison🩸🌧️

got the feels and wanted to write about it

Ship: Old!Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader 🩸

Rating: 13+

Wordcount: 786

Warnings: disease, injury, blood, aging, kind of age gap? (they're roughly the same age but reader doesn't show it), grief

Your nose scrunched as it was hit by the all-too familiar scent that followed Logan like a shadow. Acrid, sharp, deadly. Seeped into his blood from his metallic bones, poisoning him. Killing him. Leeching his life and healing mutation to where he was a husk of the X-Man he once was.

It was 29 years to the day since you’d met him. When he'd woken up, terrified, on that chrome stretcher and nearly choked you to death. The blood flowing through his thick arms pumping by your ears and only proving what you’d hypothesized: his blood wasn’t normal.

Logan’s blood ran thicker than every other person’s. Tasted more metallic, more iron in his blood than the rest of the mutants that filled Charles Xavier’s mansion. You had always found Logan’s blood to be tricky to manipulate. Whether it be to stimulate his healing or to form the thick ichor to your desire, it just didn’t want to cooperate.

That same difficulty faced you now as you kneeled in front of your and Logan’s shared bed. The room rattled as another freight train barreled by outside. Dusty picture frames swinging on rusted walls, bottles of medication bouncing on wire shelves, creaking bed groaning under Logan’s weight.

You held a clean rag to a shotgun blast in Logan’s gut. His blood had soaked through two others just like it, now lying in the dented bucket at your feet. A vein in your neck strained as you focused on healing the wound.

“It’s no use, doll. I’ll be fine,” Logan grunted. He tried to wave you off with a withered hand. You smacked it away from your face. A low hum rumbled his chest.

“Shut up, old man,” you said. That earned a rough chuckle from his chapped lips. You glanced up at him from where you knelt between his knees.

If pure reverence was an expression, what painted Logan’s face in broad strokes fit the bill. Crows feet bunched around his hazel eyes, smile lines deepend by his close-lipped smirk, graying eyebrows turned up at the edges. He ran a calloused hand along your unaged cheek.

“Beautiful as the day I met you,” he whispered softly. Grief struck you in the chest like a wooden stake. 

It wasn’t fair. Logan’s adamantium skeleton sucked the life from him, making him age and decay, while you remained the same. Wrinkle-less, youthful, bright-eyed. You would pump your youth into him if you could. 

But you couldn’t.

All you could do was prevent the inevitable. Prevent what once seemed impossible, yet hung over you like a thick fog.

Logan ran his thumb under your eye, collecting a tear that spilled from your clouded eyes. You blinked up at him as a thick lump formed in your throat. Words unspoken passed between the two of you. Adoration, understanding, sorrow. Leaking from the hot tears spilling from your eyes and into Logan’s leathery skin. 

“I love you,” you breathed into his palm. You gave it one last attempt, healing the wound in his stomach. You could just barely feel the edges closing and the skin knitting together. The ligaments running through your neck and shoulder tensed under the effort.

“Love you too, doll,” he replied, using the hand not on your cheek to smooth down your strained muscles. Thinning fingers ran down your shoulder, passing over his borrowed flannel and your bare skin, then wrapped around the hand held to his gut. He laced the digits with yours, “Give it up. I’ll heal the old-fashioned way.”

A sigh rattled your lungs, anguish pooling in your chest like an oil spill. You let Logan drag your hand away from his stomach and to his face. Your crimson-stained fingers traced along the tough skin of his jaw.

“Always taking care of me,” he mumbled. Kind eyes ran across your pained expression. 

He tucked his fingers under your chin and brought your mouth to his. Plump, full lips met chapped skin. You poured your devotion into the kiss, licking into Logan’s mouth and clutching at his white tank top. His fingers dug in your silken hair.

It wasn’t perfect. It never was, when it came to Logan. Nearly thirty years of being together had taught you that fact. He was messy, rude, rough around the edges. Not to mention metal-clawed and built like a fridge.

And yet, despite it all, he was yours. You woke up next to him every morning, went to bed with him every night, much like you’d done ever since you met. Your lives were so intertwined it was hard to tell where you stopped and he began.

You knew, decades after Logan was gone, you’d treasure your intimate connection like nothing else.

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[magicbystarlight]

Before I Knew You - Part Eleven

Bill Weasley x Reader

Masterlist, Part One

Summary: You’ve spent years training under Madam Pomfrey in the hopes that you would join the Healers at St. Mungo’s at graduation. But in the aftermath of the death of Albus Dumbledore, you chose to join the Order instead. When you’re forced into hiding, you find yourself alone with Bill Weasley and his new wolfish tendencies.

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: 18+, typical canon warnings, smut, age gap, oral sex (fem recieving), delayed orgasm, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, rough sex, cum eating (kinda?), allusions to knotting, angst. Minors DNI.

A/N: This would not have been written without you, Lovely 💛

There was a lot of arguing. The younger siblings demanded answers. Their parents tried to give none. Bill countered that they should know. That it was in everyone’s best interest to be prepared in case they too were interrogated. Fred suggested moving you. He flinched at the growling disagreement from Bill. Molly tried to argue he may be right, but George said Yaxley could be hoping for that. Fear causes people to make mistakes, he argued. 

“What exactly did he ask?” The table fell silent, looking towards you. But you were only looking at Arthur.

“Much the same as his father had asked at the wedding. Why you’d been there, where you’d been before, where you went after. He asked that if I heard anything about or from you, to tell him. Only him. And if I saw you," he looked at Bill who nodded for him to continue, "to tell you that he has someplace safe.”

The table erupted again with words like delusion and trap thrown around. 

"He's going to the twins next." The commotion died once more, all eyes on you.

"How do you know?"

"Because I know Cillian." No. That wasn't right. The Cillian you knew wasn't a murderer. "At least, I know he was jealous of them back in school. Thought one of them had a thing for me." You'd nearly forgotten that. You looked between Fred and George. "He'll be more aggressive with you because of it."

Fred winked. "Don't worry 'bout us, love—

—we can handle him," George finished.

Bill's fist slammed on the table, making Ginny flinch. "This isn't a fucking joke!"

"But they need to act like it is," you countered. You kept your eyes on the twins. They needed to be prepared. They needed to know. "You've got to be as combative with him as he will be with you. Make it clear you have no intention to cooperate with him. If you act any differently it'll look suspicious to him."

Molly tapped her wand against the table, all the dishes lifting from the table. They flew to the kitchen, scraping themselves into the trash before settling into the sink. She followed them, waving her wand. Water and soap filled the sink. You’d forgotten magic could be used for something as mundane as dishes.

“That’s good to know,” George said, trying to ignore the uncertainty that had settled over the table with Molly’s abrupt end to dinner. Half the plates still had food.

“What if he brings his father?” Ginny asked.

“He won’t. Cillian has to be going behind his back trying to find me. Corbin wants me dead.”

Plates clattered in the kitchen. The Weasleys shared looks with each other.

Molly stood clutching the counter, staring out the window. "We should have all gone into hiding when we had a chance." Arthur came to her side and she allowed herself to be brought into his arms, burying her face in his chest. It hurt to see.

Ginny’s final day had been ruined. At least she’d be safe from Cillian’s questioning at Hogwarts. It would be too risky for him to go there. Even with Fred and George he’d have to be careful. Eyes would be everywhere in Diagon Alley with someone reporting back to someone who could report back to his father of his activities. That was if he wasn’t already being followed.

They left shortly after. Molly’s hug was a bit tighter than comfortable when she promised everything would be alright. Fred said he’d stop by again soon. Ginny said nothing, but squeezed your hand with watery eyes. You didn’t go outside to see them off, but as you looked at the clean kitchen you wish you had. There was nothing there to keep your hands busy. Magic had cleaned the dishes and put them in their place. It had wiped the counters. Swept the floors. Even the chairs had been pushed in. 

One pop. Then another. And then the door, steps, a hand on your shoulder. "I'm sorry. I should have told you earlier."

"Ginny got to enjoy most of her day. I wouldn't have been much fun if you'd told me before.” His hand fell off as you shrugged. “Besides, it’s better that they all know. So they’re prepared.”

“You really think he’s gonna go after them?”

“Cillian was jealous a lot.” Another thing you’d nearly forgotten. “I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t try to track down every guy that’s ever spoken to me.” Not the women though. He didn’t think Cho had counted. You turned and rested your head against his chest, his embrace welcome. The tension eased in your body.

“It’ll be okay,” he promises, “they’ll be okay.”

—

Bill left early the next morning to see Ginny off, reluctantly leaving you in bed with a kiss and a promise to not to be gone long. You stayed in bed for a bit, but sleep never returned. 

The sun rose higher in the sky as you worked out in the garden. Molly had brought the wolfsbane stored in the Burrow’s shed, miscellaneous potion ingredients that had been collected from various Order members, and any seeds she could spare the day before. Professor Sprout’s lectures echoed through your mind as you planted new seeds and replanted old plants into neat lines. You’d have to figure out how to build a greenhouse for some of the more difficult plants. There was plenty of sand to make glass.

When all that could be done in the small garden was done, it was still a quarter till ten. How you missed the hours it would take on the farm.

Your hair was your next task. That would take time. Washing, brushing, using your favorite hair potion Ginny had been thoughtful enough to bring. You considered styling it without the aid of magic to pass the time, but decided against it.

As your hair righted itself, your thoughts drifted back to the wolfsbane. Maybe if you could get in contact with Charlie, he could get some dragon blood. And maybe Hagrid could get some Occamy eggs. The rest would be easy enough to get your hands on. Then you could finally get a real attempt at the Wolfsbane Potion for Remus. 

Until then, you had other things you needed to start working on. Potions and salves to make now that you had the ingredients. 

That was how Bill found you a while later. Bent over a cauldron on the stove, hair covered to protect it from the steam of the Murtlap Essence. “Mum made treacle tart,” he said, sliding a pastry box on the counter. “And brownies.” Another box. “And some biscuits.” A third box. “She bakes a lot when she’s worried. I don’t think she slept at all.”

Your shoulders deflated. She’d have been worried anyway, with Ginny off to Hogwarts, but with the threat of Cillian hanging over her sons it must be so much worse.

“She wanted to know if she can drop by a couple times a week while I’m at work.”

“Why?”

“She wants to make sure you're doing alright. Thinks you have to be lonely here. She won’t say it, but she’s gonna be lonely too now that Ginny’s gone.” His arm slid around your waist. “I told Fred and George they should come by sometimes too.”

Your gaze snapped to his face, surprised. “Why?”

“Because you need a life outside of me. And I know my family isn’t really that, but I’ll see if I can get the other Order members to come by. Get them checked up and all that.”

“Do you really think that’s the greatest idea? You could barely stand having Kingsley here. Thought you were gonna tear Fred’s head off yesterday.”

“I’ll still get you to myself at night, right?”

“Yeah but,” you tried to explain, “are you sure you’re up for that? If it could make your symptoms worse, especially with the full moon coming, then mayb—“

His kiss cut you off.

“Like I said,” he breathed against your lips, “I’ll have you to myself at night. That’s enough.”

“But everything with Cillian, is it really safe?”

“It’s safer, I think, than you being here alone all the time. And we’ll come up with a plan in case something goes wrong. Practice some defensive spells, figure out a place to go.”

You kissed him softly. “Thank you.” 

“Oh don’t thank me,” he said, his teasing tone setting in, “it’s about time you started pulling your weight. Can’t have you lounge on the beach all day in some provocative little swimsuit, can we?”

You scoffed. “It was not provocative!”

“Have to disagree with you there, love.” His nose brushed against your cheek. “Everything you wear is provocative.”

“Guess I’ll stop wearing anything then.”

His groan had you smiling. “Please tell me you’re nearly done,” he begged.

“It’s gotta simmer for another couple hours,” he groaned again, “but it’ll be fine on its own fo—OH! Bill!”

It seemed he was determined to make it a habit of throwing you over his shoulder. Only this time he bypassed the couch and kicked the door to the bedroom open. You bounced against the mattress, giggling as you removed the hair covering. He was eager, giddy even, as he pulled off his clothes. He crawled up the bed, smiling into a messy kiss before helping to remove your own. 

His lips trailed down your neck. Teeth and tongue teased your collarbone. Your fingers tangled in his hair as his mouth found your breasts. A soft moan slipped out. He alternated between them, nipping and licking until you were squirming. When you asked him to stop teasing, he nuzzled into your neck and laughed. "I've got the patience today, love."

It clicked what he meant a moment before he slid down. Your groan turned high and breathless as his tongue glided between your folds. "Oh fuck," you gasped, hips jumping. His hand held you in place. You whimpered. This wasn't fair. His tongue traced a lazy pattern that had your legs shaking. You wanted to grab him and pull him closer. But he was unmoving. The pleasure was agonizing. He would go faster then slower. Fast, then slow. You felt the edge creeping closer and then he'd pull back and nip at the softness of your thighs.

He was merciless. He was enjoying himself. His groans were sinful, his hands greedy as the touched every part of you but the place you needed them most, his pace never slowing.

"Please," you begged, voice cracking.

Bill chuckled. "Please, what, love?" he asked, the vibrations shooting up your spine.

"Please stop teasing me. Please, let me cum. Please."

"So desperate for me, eh?" His fingers pushed into you. Rubbing and searching until they curled against a spot that had you seeing white. He hummed in delight, letting his tongue flick over your clit. The knot in your stomach snapped, his name falling from your lips over and over.

He didn't stop or slow as the high faded.  

"Bill," you cried. It was too much. You pushed at his head, trying to get away from the touch. You were too sensitive. His arm wrapped around your thigh and pulled you closer.

"One more, love."

"No, no, I can't. Bill, I can't."

"One more, love. Just one more," he promised. His hand was relentless. Fingers working that same spot. Your muscles tensed. His lips wrapped around your clit and sucked. Your vision blurred. The pleasure too intense, body locked and trembling. It was euphoric. When the spasming finally subsided you gulped down air.

Bill crawled back up, smiling proudly. "Beautiful," he said. The taste of you clung to his lips as he kissed you again. Your arms looped around his neck. You wanted more. Needed more. You pulled him closer. He settled between your legs. The head of his cock teased your entrance, making you jolt. Still sensitive. You whimpered into his mouth.

"Too much?" he asked, concerned.

Your legs wrapped around his and encouraged his hips forward. "Not enough."

His nose bumped against yours. "Godric, I love you."

He slid inside, inch by inch. Slowly. Your bodies pressed flush together. A gasp escaped when his hips finally met yours. His head fell to the crook of your neck, and he stilled for a moment, taking deep breaths. Then his hips pulled back and he began a slow pace. It was gentle. His lips caressing every part of your skin they could reach. Your hands trailed down his back. The pleasure built slowly until your climax hit again. 

He kissed your jaw. "More?" he whispered.

"More."

The pace picked up. Slow became steady. You whimpered as he continued to fill you.

"So perfect," he groaned.

His hips stuttered and picked up speed. You could feel another orgasm approaching. You dug your nails into his skin, holding on tight. His breathing grew heavy, his kisses messy and wet. His hips slammed against yours and you tumbled over the edge crying his name. He followed, burying his face in your neck as his hips slowed and came to a stop.

Bill collapsed beside you and pulled you close. "Think you could go for five?" he panted. You swatted his chest. He laughed and kissed your hair. You didn't want to move. Your eyes were drooping in exhaustion when you realized you had to.

"The dittany," you sighed, reluctantly pulling away from him. You went to stand, but your legs wobbled.

"I'll get it," Bill laughed, guiding you back down. He left with a kiss, not bothering to slip anything on. He's not gone long and he didn't come back empty handed. He was gentle with the warm washcloth as he wiped up his spend that had seeped out of you. But you were still sensitive. And vocal. A wicked gleam in his eyes warned you it wasn't over.

"What are you—" your words cut off in a sharp cry as his tongue dragged across your cunt again.

"Cleaning up my mess" he said before diving back in. He was thorough, tongue sliding inside you and swirling around. You were exhausted and sure you couldn't give him what he wanted, but he wasn't deterred.

He licked and nipped and sucked. His name fell from your lips.

"Please," you sobbed.

He pulled back, wiping his chin. "Please what?"

"I can't. Please."

He hummed, considering, and dove back in. You gripped the sheets, withering under him. He was relentless. It was overwhelming. Every muscle tensed, the knot in your stomach coiling tight. You cried out. It was blissful torture. Your toes curled. Your legs shook. The orgasm hit like a tidal wave. You whimpered as his tongue eased you down.

When he was satisfied, he pulled back. "Six?"

"Don't you fucking dare." There was no ire in your tone.

"Need me to grab you anything?" he offered with a sly grin. "Since you can't walk?"

"Shut up." You threw a pillow at him. He laughed, dodging the assault.

"Be back in a minute."

He was true to his word, returning with two glasses of water, the box of treacle tart, and a fork. He handed you a glass and climbed in bed next to you. He left another kiss against your forehead. It felt normal. As if you'd been together for years. As if you were together. He offered you the first bite of the tart. A part of you ached. 

—

Molly came the next morning after Bill had left for work. She was so different from your mother, yet so much the same. They both had to keep busy when things were stressful. Something to do to keep their mind clear. Your father wasn’t like that. He liked to sit and think and plan. 

She left not long after Bill returned home. You worried she’d noticed the way Bill nearly greeted you with a kiss. But she said nothing about it. You’re not sure if that made you feel better or worse.

—

Tonks popped in for only an hour the day after. Her conversation stayed far from werewolves or the upcoming full moon. It’s only as she was preparing to leave she asked, “Think we’ll see Bill anytime soon?”

“I don’t think so.”

She didn’t comment more on it. She knew. You felt a prickle of annoyance after her departure. She knew and said nothing. Not before, not when Bill was struggling, not now. Next time you’d ask for—no, demand answers. It was only fair. For Bill’s health.

—

You’re alone the two days leading up to the full moon. Bill was insatiable. You woke up the morning of with Bill’s rushed pleas in your ear.

“Need you, love. Please.”

It’s different. Less controlled. Like he’d been starved and presented a buffet. He’s desperate. “Cum for me, please. Need to, fuck love, need to feel you squeeze me, please, please, please.” You complied happily. 

—

You paced the living room. He was supposed to be home an hour before. You didn’t question him when he finally appeared. With the way he kissed you, it couldn’t have been anyone else.

He was rough. His hands bruising, possessive.

You don't remember making it to the bed or removing your clothes, but your there under him. His mouth is on your skin, biting and sucking. There would be bruises tomorrow. He buried himself inside you without resistance. The sound you let out was embarrassing. It only encouraged him. He fucked into you harder, his hand sliding between your bodies.

It's verging on painful. "Bill," you moaned, clawing at his shoulders. You don't want him to stop. His fingers circled your clit.

"Need you to cum," he groaned. His lips found yours again. His fingers worked faster. "I can't" he cut himself off with a growl, "can't hold back. Fuck, please cum." Your back arched and nails dug into his skin. He cursed. You cried, clenching around him. His hips slammed against yours once more, and then he stilled.

But something was wrong.

There was more pressure than there should be. You can't focus on it. Your eyes were too heavy. "Bill?" It came out groggy. His weight crashed into you. You were barely able to adjust him to allow yourself to breathe before you slipped into unconsciousness.

Author's Note: He said "I love you" and our girl assumed he meant in the friendly "Wow, you're so awesome and cool!" kinda way and not in the "In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you." kinda way. He's definitely having his own internal freakout about her nonresponse to it.

Next

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 7: Sapphire] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Thank you for reading (and tolerating all my nautical puns)! 💎

How can love be a curse? How can it be something to fear, to condemn, to break?

She has dreamed of him all her life. First he was a protector, almost fatherlike, and then a remote, bewitching phantom as she crept into adolescence, and then when Harwin Strong died Daemon sailed over Saint George’s Channel to offer her solace in England, and at last the fantasies she never would have confessed to anyone were fulfilled, two marriages and four children later. Rhaenyra remembers what he told her in the mist-draped lakeside cottage where they met in secret, crossing paths like an asteroid striking a planet: My wife means nothing to me. She’s not like us. She is young, and weak, and afraid, and I could never respect that kind of person. Her father owns the last Connemara marble quarry in the world, and I needed a son. But the only woman I want is you.

Aegon fires the pistol as he chases her through the corridors of A-Deck, and when she shrieks nobody hears, or if they do they don’t appear to rescue her; the ship is full of people screaming, sobbing, clawing for their lives against wet walls and locked doors. He shoots and misses again. There’s something wrong with his hands. He keeps fumbling with the gun and almost dropping it, hissing in pain as he squeezes the trigger, and there’s blood staining his fingers.

Good, Rhaenyra thinks. I’m glad he’s hurt. I hope he’s dying.

She sees an open room and ducks inside, slamming the door behind her and barring it with the weight of her body as Aegon rams it with his shoulder. Rhaenyra is surrounded by the trappings of another family who purchased first-class tickets: chairs with velvet upholstery, a faux fireplace, paintings by Rousseau and Boccioni and Homer. The lights flicker and the steel beams of Titanic groan, low and disastrous. There isn’t much time left.

“Daemon!” she yells as loudly as she can. If he hears her, he’ll come running. I have to get to a lifeboat. I have to live for my father, for Jace and Luke and Joffrey, for the children I will one day give Daemon.

Rhaenyra struggles with the lock as Aegon batters the door and it quakes on its hinges. Just as she latches it, he fires the pistol through the door. Wood cracks and splinters; a bullet pierces Rhaenyra’s ribcage like a blade. There is unbearable pressure, and then a sharpness, a pain she believes she cannot stand until it keeps getting bigger, deeper, ripping her open and filling her with dark wet weight like the ocean surging into Titanic. She crumples to the floor. When she coughs, blood spurts out onto her lips. Rhaenyra wipes it away and then stares at the red on her palm.

I can’t die now. My life just became what it was supposed to be.

Aegon punches a hole through the mangled door large enough for him to reach in and unlock it. Then he stands in the threshold looking down at her, his hands shaking but his eyes hard, fierce, unflinching. Rhaenyra has never seen him like this before. She didn’t know he could be good at anything.

“How the fuck did you get on the ship?” Rhaenyra snarls as she scrambles away, hacking up more blood. The black opal ring Daemon gave her gleams like onyx or obsidian, something born of heat and earth and insurmountable, ancient gravity.

Daemon and I were made for each other. The same blood, the same bones, the same will to carve treasures from the bleakest places.

Aegon follows her across the floor, slow stalking steps. He doesn’t answer; instead, he shakes his right hand a few times—steadying himself, casting out tremors like demons—and then grips the pistol with it. He raises the gun, the barrel aimed at Rhaenyra’s face.

“Daemon?!” she screams, but he isn’t here. Then she asks, sudden desperate confusion, her blue eyes wide: “Why are you doing this?”

Aegon’s voice is calm. “Because she can’t be free unless you and Daemon are gone.”

That girl? Daemon’s sad, stupid wife? I’m dying because of HER?

“Father never loved you,” Rhaenyra seethes, red on her teeth, blooddrops spilling from her lips like rubies. Her eyes are cold, glinting sapphires, pools of freezing water that only needs minutes to stop the heart. “Just like Daemon never loved her.”

“I know. And I used to care. It almost killed me, it almost ate me alive. But now I’m better. And I finally know exactly who I’m supposed to be.”

Aegon pulls the trigger.

~~~~~~~~~~

As Daemon descends the Grand Staircase, you crawl down towards the next landing, your head spinning, your hands empty, writhing on your belly like a snake.

The dagger???

But you can’t find it, and you don’t have time to stop and search. Daemon is only a few steps behind you. When your palms hit B-Deck, you try to drag yourself upright, grappling for the banister; but before you can get your feet under you, Daemon kicks you and sends you hurtling down the next flight of stairs. You tumble towards C-Deck, clawing in vain for something to break your fall. Your head strikes the English oak wood and you hear your father’s bewildered voice as he sat at the dining room table in Lough Cutra Castle: Where are you going? When will you be back?

Never, never, never; and now from somewhere below you recognize the roar of rushing water.

“You were going to kill me?!” Daemon taunts as he bears down on you like a storm. Blood soaks his throat and the white shirt beneath his black suit jacket. His eyes are bright, feral, monstrous. “After all those times I spared you when I could have drowned you in a river or a hot bath or the sea? You’re so fucking useless. You really can’t do anything right. All you had to do was shut up and endure, and you could have lived to be an old, old woman with all the comforts my empire afforded you. Now, my dear, you will never see another sunrise. And when Titanic sinks, you’ll be buried with her.”

Down, down, always down towards the ocean floor, you crawl faster away from him as his footsteps grow louder.

“Help,” you moan weakly. Aegon? Anyone? But the only reply is the echoing of your own voice and the sounds of the dying ship: breaking metal, distant screams, gushing torrents of seawater.

You crash into C-Deck and again try to stagger to your feet, but Daemon is here, shoving you as if from a cliffside or off a balcony. And as you plummet down the Grand Staircase towards D-Deck—where the First-Class Dining Saloon is, where Thomas Andrews once assured you that Titanic was unsinkable—it is not hard wooden steps you collide with but swirling ice-cold seawater. You plunge beneath the currents and then come sputtering up to the surface, your white wool coat drenched and threatening to pull you below again like an anchor. You struggle to shed it with arms that are rapidly going numb.

I’m so cold, I’m so cold, if I don’t get out of the water I’ll be dead in minutes—

Daemon’s fingers close around your throat and he forces you under the waist-deep water. You thrash and try to push him away, to pry him off of you, but your muscles seem to have disappeared, they have been scraped off your bones and now you can only wait to die, your breathless lungs burning as your body freezes. You have a sudden vision of Daemon in his firelit study at Lough Cutra Castle, marveling at a shard of Larimar dredged up from the Caribbean Sea and quoting the first known treatise on gemstones, written by Theophrastus in the time of Alexander the Great: Of things formed in the earth, some have their origin from water.

“No!” you scream through the depths, bubbles rising up to air you cannot taste. You claw at Daemon’s hands, but you cannot wound him, cannot get a grip on him, and hasn’t that been true since you married him five years ago?

The dark, freezing water makes you want to give up. It makes death feel easy, painless, inevitable. You imagine faces you’ll never see again: Draco, Aegon, your parents, Fern. You hope Carpathia will be here soon to rescue the survivors. You wonder what will happen to Aegon’s paintings.

Through the water come the muffled booms of explosions, four of them, surely something catastrophic, the ship splitting in half or a distress flare misfired or boilers bursting and shearing through what’s left of the hull. Then Daemon’s hands vanish from your throat and someone is hauling you up out of the icy currents, they are freeing you, they are disinterring you from an oceanic grave.

“I’m here!” Aegon is shouting as you burst into open air, gasping and flailing. He drags you towards the Grand Staircase where you can climb out of the flood, but you’re looking for Daemon. He is a few yards away and floating face-up, one hand clasping his chest and a gurgling sound leaking from his throat. The water around him is turning red. He’s fading, but he’s not dead yet.

“Aegon, he’s still—”

“I know. I’ll take care of him once you’re out of the water. I don’t have any more bullets left.”

“I want to do it.”

“We need to get you dry and warmed up—”

“I want to do it,” you say again, and Aegon lets you go.

You twist off your black opal engagement ring and throw it into the water beside Daemon. Then you place both of you hands on his chest and push him beneath the surface, Aegon standing just behind you with the barrel of the pistol in his grasp in case he has to use it as a club. The glacial seawater froths and whirls as it rises over Daemon’s hemorrhaging chest. He startles—a death rattle, a late rite—and resists feebly, gazing up at you with glassy, disbelieving eyes. They ask: How did this happen? I was supposed to kill you, remember? I own you. I own jewels trapped in subterranean darkness all over the world, and you are the very least of them.

“Draco isn’t yours,” you tell Daemon as you force him under. “Rhaenyra isn’t yours. And I’m not yours either. Now sink and die and make me free.”

He twitches, he bares his crimson teeth at you, but after all this time finally Daemon is the weak one. The rising water flushes maroon around him, his skin goes a frail and translucent bluish-white, his heart is drained until the chambers are cold and grey and empty. You hold him beneath the water until the bubbles roiling up from his nose and mouth disappear. He will never touch you again, he will never hurt anyone, he will never bruise or break or ensnare or captivate. And who will inherit his mines scattered across the planet?

Draco. His only son. And my family and I will act as trustees until he’s eighteen.

“We have to go,” Aegon is saying. He must have taken off his coat before he went into the water after you. He stands shivering in only his white shirt and green corduroy pants, the ocean now lapping at his chest.

“Rhaenyra?” you ask.

“She’s gone. I’m sure.”

“It’s over,” you say softly, feeling weight like stones roll off of you, feeling warmth like sunlight on your face.

As if in reply, the listing ship groans and the lights flicker again. “Not yet,” Aegon says, grabbing your hand. “Let’s hope there’s a lifeboat left.”

You wade to the steps and climb out of the water. Aegon helps you wring out your soaked hair and the skirt of your gown, then snatches his black wool coat off the steps where he left it and puts it on you. You race up the Grand Staircase to C-Deck, and then B-Deck, and then the A-Deck landing where you find your green handbag with Aegon’s tiny aluminum lighter still inside.

“I think you dropped this,” Aegon says when he spots the dagger on a nearby step, still covered with Daemon’s blood. He wipes it clean on his corduroy pants and then passes it to you. When you hesitate to take it, he grins. “Who knows. You might need to stab someone else tonight.”

“I never want to draw blood again.” But you accept the dagger and place it in your handbag, the captive gemstones glimmering there: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire like the North Atlantic Ocean that is swallowing Titanic down into her cold, crushing belly. Then you ascend one last flight of steps to the Boat Deck, passing the bronze cherub statue and the ticking clock, stealing a glimpse up at the dome of glass and wrought iron that will soon shatter when the sea punctures through it like a bullet or a blade.

Outside the night air is so frigid that ice crystals begin forming in your hair, and the hem of your blue gown begins to stiffen as it freezes. You are barefoot, you only now realize, and if splinters from the pine planks of the deck needle their way into your flesh you won’t be able to feel them. There are only two lifeboats left on this side of the ship, one of which is already being lowered down to the sea. Officers are still directing women and children into the other. Benjamin Guggenheim and his companions are very drunk, clumsily herding frantic first-class passengers towards the boats. The string quartet is now playing The Merry Widow by Franz Lehár.

“Come, come quickly, Lady Targaryen!” the officers shout when they see you, knowing by your gown that you belong here, perhaps recognizing you from strolls on the Promenade Deck or when you and Daemon boarded Titanic in Cork with much fanfare. Aegon helps you into the lifeboat, his wounded hands cradling yours. Another distress flare is shot into the sky, metallic rain, doomsday portents.

We’re going to be alright, you think. We’re going to survive this.

“Darling, you’re sopping wet!” one of the women in the lifeboat exclaims, and they all begin to fret over you. There are dogs here, a Pomeranian in one lap, a Yorkshire terrier in another.

“Get her under a blanket,” Aegon is saying. “Keep her warm or she’ll get pneumonia. Give her a lifebelt.”

“We will, we will,” another lady shimmering in jewels—a mother of two boys in heavy coats and blue-striped pajamas—promises him. “We’ll take good care of her.”

You turn back to Aegon. “What?”

He tells you, his voice quiet: “Petra, they’re not going to let me in.”

“No, no, you can’t stay here—”

“Women and children only!” an officer booms, then begins waving several shrieking maids towards the vessel, just moments from launching.

“Aegon,” you say, horrified. He’ll die if he stays. He’ll drown or he’ll freeze and he’ll be entombed at the bottom of the Atlantic. “No.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No you won’t,” you sob, then look desperately at the officers. How can I change their minds? “He’s a Targaryen, he’s a first-class passenger, he must be allowed aboard!”

“A Targaryen?!” one of the officers says distractedly as he battles with the rigging. “I know all the Targaryens on Titanic, and he’s not one of them!”

“Just look at him,” the other officer mutters, meaning: He isn’t dressed like someone with castles or mansions or titles or mines. He can’t be someone who matters.

“He is,” you plead, tears stinging on your cheeks as they freeze. “He’s Aegon, he’s a Targaryen, please, he can’t be left behind—”

“Women and children only!” the first officer barks at you as the other pushes away a group of panicked young men in black suits trying to bribe their way into the vessel. “And if you want to stay here with him, that’s your business, but get to it so the rest of us can try to make it off this ship alive!”

“There’s more than enough room for him, for Christ’s sake, there are dogs in here!”

“There will be other lifeboats, love,” one of the women tells you as she drapes a scratchy wool blanket across your shoulders, but you don’t believe that’s true. The maids are climbing into the lifeboat; the officers are beginning to lower it with sharp lurches that make the occupants gasp.

You reach for Aegon, your hands catching on his drenched shirt, the thin layer of ice cracking beneath your fingers. “No, no, Aegon, I can’t go like this.”

“You have to,” he says calmly, and he holds you face still and touches his lips to your forehead, a kiss goodbye, gentle and lingering.

“No—”

“You have a kid. You have to go. Draco will be looking for you on Carpathia.”

“You deserve to be free too.”

“I’ll stay out of the water for as long as I can,” Aegon says like a vow. “I’ll try to find something to float on. And once Titanic goes down…maybe the lifeboats will come back to pick up any survivors.”

The water is too cold. I’ve felt it, I’ve been paralyzed by it, once you go under you only have minutes. “You can’t…you won’t…”

“Petra,” Aegon says, and his eyes turn desperate. He knows it’s his only chance. “Make them come back for me.”

“I will,” you swear to him.

And he pries your fingers off his shirt and rips away from you before your resolve can weaken. High above and through tears that blur your vision, constellations of stars gleam like diamonds.

~~~~~~~~~~

He runs to the other side of the Boat Deck, searching for lifeboats that haven’t launched yet. He can’t find any. There are swarms of passengers weeping, shouting, jostling, and officers trying to restore order. Pistols and flares are fired, chairs are tossed overboard for passengers to cling to as they float. But Aegon knows that won’t be enough; if they stay submerged, they will die.

I need something bigger. I need something I can lie on. A door or a dresser or…

He shoves through the crowd to get to the ship’s railing. Below, the ocean has gotten so much closer. He sees a lifeboat bobbing in the waves, just far enough away that someone brave enough to leap could not get to it. Inside, along with perhaps twenty first-class women and maids, Aegon recognizes Laenor Velaryon and his ever-present Parisian friends. They are puffing on cigars and toasting glasses of brandy, celebrating their good fortune. They must have successfully bribed their way aboard.

“Fuck,” Aegon sighs, his breath fog in the frigid air.

How am I going to stay out of the water long enough to survive until I’m rescued?

Then he replays the evening in his mind—his first night with Petra, perhaps his last night on earth, red silk and candles and oil paint and the warmth of her beneath his hands—and Aegon gets an idea. He sprints back to the Grand Staircase and soars down to B-Deck, seawater ankle-deep on the floor. He splashes through the corridors to the staterooms once occupied by Daemon Targaryen’s wife and child, now rid of him, now waiting for what will come next. Aegon hurries through the sitting room, passing the taxidermied tiger head above the fireplace and the large, heavy chest where Daemon made Petra lock up the art she bought in Paris.

She didn’t remember to put the real Picasso’s paintings in a lifeboat, but she saved mine, Aegon thinks. If I make it out of this alive somehow, I’m marrying her the second we dock in New York.

He goes to the bedroom, finds what he needs, carries it with him as he returns to the maze of hallways. Now the icy water is nipping at his knees.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ocean is calm, the lifeboat rocking placidly on inky surf. The women comfort their children and their dogs. You take Aegon’s aluminum lighter out of your handbag and light yourself a cigarette, then pass it around so the other passengers can thaw their lungs with hot plumes of nicotine, here in the early hours of the morning when it feels like you’ll never be warm again. The officer who took command of the vessel—the same one who shouted at you and refused to admit Aegon—is rowing vigorously as you and several other women help him, staring horror-struck at Titanic as she goes down by the bow.

“We have to get away from the ship,” the officer keeps saying, and he sounds genuinely petrified. A woman in a glittering gold gown steers with the tiller. “Or she’ll suck us into the water with her.”

There are shadows of other lifeboats nearby, also fleeing from the condemned Titanic, that miraculously colossal and opulent triumph that everyone had told you was unsinkable. You wonder which one Draco and Fern are in, undoubtedly cold and frightened but safe.

Aegon deserves to live too. I have to find him, I have to save him.

Now there is seawater flooding over Titanic’s deck at the bow, where you and Aegon saw third-class passengers—now dead, or very soon to be—kicking around pieces of the iceberg that they didn’t know had doomed them. The ocean surges higher, covering B-Deck, and A-Deck, and finally the Boat Deck, where the towering funnels collapse and you can hear shrieks and guns firing. You know you won’t be able to see Aegon from here—you won’t be able to tell if he made it into a lifeboat somehow, or if he is one of the figures that falls from a lethal height into the waves, or if he is crushed or shot or trapped below deck and drowned—but still, you cannot stop looking for him, peering through the night to where Titanic glows in her spotlight of white-gold electric luminescence.

As the bow sinks, the stern begins to rise, higher and higher until the tension cracks the ship in two, and the passengers you share the lifeboat with wail and sob as the ship’s lights blink out for the last time and the gravesite goes dark. Women call out the names of their husbands, fathers, brothers, adult sons, knowing they must be dying. You can only watch with tears streaming down your face, thinking: How could he survive that? How could I have left him?

The stern bobs for a while in the nightscape sea, a shade, a phantom, and then it plunges into the ocean. The water—indifferent, dispassionate, not a mortal but a titan, here long before humans and destined to outlast them, not unlike the treasures of the earth—gulps down metal beams and pine planks and split bones and shredded flesh. There are screams, so many, so pitiful, so loud they fill the sky, and the howling women in the lifeboat cover their ears and those of their children so they will not have to try to exorcise the sound from their memories later.

As soon as the stern has been consumed by the depths, you say to the officer: “We have to go back to look for survivors.”

“Are you mad, Lady Targaryen?” he snaps at you; but there are tears in his bloodshot eyes. “We’ll be mobbed if we sail into that. They’ll pour into the boat until we go under too. Do you want to freeze to death with them?”

“People will die quickly. They are dying already, the water is cold enough to kill in minutes. If we start rowing towards them now, most of the passengers will be dead by the time we get there. And then we can rescue anyone who’s left.” Please still be alive, Aegon.

“Not a chance in hell,” the officer says.

You turn to the other women. They blink back at you in dazed, timid terror. “It’s murder to leave your men behind,” you implore, you beg them to agree. “Help me row to them.”

But the women only weep softly to themselves and look to the officer to tell them what to do. He smirks at you victoriously, an expression of no humor but rather grim, fearful misery that could drive someone insane. In the lap of one woman, the Pomeranian whimpers.

I can’t leave Aegon, you think. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

You open your green handbag and pull out the dagger, the blade pointed at the officer. He shouts and bolts away from you, incredulous, furious.

“You’re threatening to kill me?!”

You shake your head. “I’m offering you a gift.” You turn the dagger around so the officer can grasp the handle. His gaze catches, transfixed and wondrous, on the gemstone spheres like perfectly aligned planets. “This dagger is worth more than you would make in a decade of work. Go back for survivors, and it’s yours. Refuse, and when we are rescued and my son inherits my husband’s fortune, I will make it my life’s work to destroy you. I will follow you anywhere on earth. I will ruin you. So take the dagger as payment and break my curse, and let us save the people who are left.”

The lifeboat sways in the small, serene waves, and the stars revolve high above in a moonless sky, and you and the other women wait for the officer to reply. After a minute or more—we have to go back now, right now, we don’t have much time—he finally lifts the dagger from your open palm and tucks it into his belt.

“Fine,” he says, picking up his oar again. “Let’s go. I cannot abide your damnation. I’ll be haunted by enough ghosts already.”

He and several of the other women row into the throng while you find the flashlights stored in the bottom of the lifeboat, then perch at the bow searching for Aegon. Instead you see hundreds of bluish corpses floating in their lifebelts, dead men and women and children, some of them first-class or crewmembers of the ship but most of them third-class passengers: Italian, Polish, Greek, Syrian, Russian, Chinese, Irish, discarded people, good for dying in the operations of mines or factories or railroads and little else.

“Aegon!” you shout over the water, but he does not answer. There is only the mist of your own words and the sound of cold currents rippling as the lifeboat cuts through them.

Your group saves two people from the sea, both nearly frozen to death and unable to speak: one man floating on a table washed out of a dining room, one little girl clutching her dead mother. Then a long time passes with no living souls to salvage.

“Have we done enough now, Lady Targaryen?” the officer asks you gravely. “Have you seen a sufficient number of the dead to assuage your wrath?”

“Not yet,” you say, steely, your eyes fixed on the water as the flashlight illuminates lifeless faces, scraps of wreckage, nothing, nothing, nothing. And then the light settles on him.

When the stern of Titanic went under, so did Aegon: there are ice crystals in his hair, and his clothes are freezing to his skin, and his lips are blue, and he’s shivering violently. But unlike over 1,000 other passengers, he didn’t stay in the depths long enough to perish as the cold stopped their hearts and lungs. He had something with him, a life raft, a second chance, a treasure mined not from some far-flung crevice of the earth but from the bedroom where he uncovered you, where you found each other and never wanted to go back to the way life felt before.

Aegon is sprawled across the oval-shaped mirror that once stood beside your bed, the fractured glass reflecting the stars that glimmer in the night sky. His ravaged hands cling to the wooden frame. And when the beam of the flashlight skates across his face like moonshine, Aegon knows you’ve come back for him, and he reaches for you until your hands link with his and help pull him aboard.

~~~~~~~~~~

Carpathia arrives an hour later, just before four in the morning on April 15th, and as the sun rises over the North Atlantic Ocean you and Aegon find Draco and Fern on the bow deck, where stewards are distributing blankets and tea to the survivors. Women wander the ship pleading for help finding their lost loved ones, weeping endlessly for their brothers, their fathers, their husbands. Your tears have stopped entirely.

Carpathia’s passengers are generous. They offer in charity their food, their clothing, even their rooms. Children share their books and toys with Draco. Fern teaches him how to play marbles; you read him The Story of Saint Patrick. A doctor onboard disinfects and bandages Aegon’s hands, and assures him that he will be able to play viola again, not now, perhaps not even soon, but one day.

That first afternoon, as you and Aegon are taking a stroll on the Boat Deck, you spot a man painting a scene of the sunset: gold, tiger’s eye, ruby, red beryl. Aegon shows him some of the portraits from his scuffed leather portfolio…though, of course, one in particular is not suitable for mixed company. The man is so impressed that he insists Aegon must not be deprived of the ability to create such beauty for lack of supplies, and gifts him an easel and some paper, brushes, and oil paints.

It’s difficult with his sore, bandaged hands, but Aegon still wants to try, and when his brush begins to shake he asks you to help him. Aegon explains things to you as you steady his hands: chiaroscuro, scumbling, alla prima, glazing, impasto, a foreign language that will soon become familiar. Already, you are learning. And as Carpathia sails into New York Harbor on the evening of April 18th, Aegon takes a paintbrush and draws a circle around your ring finger in vivid, sapphire blue, a worthless gift of no gleaming gems or metal, a vow that means everything.

It’s been years, but Aegon remembers the way to his mother’s house. He leads you, Draco, and Fern to the doorstep of the Hightower mansion on Fifth Avenue. He knocks and a butler answers, a middle-aged man who gapes at Aegon in shellshocked disbelief.

“One…one moment, sir, if you’d be so kind to…to…to just wait here, please,” the butler stammers, then disappears inside. A few minutes later, a different man appears in the threshold. He must be Aemond, tall and white-blonde and precise in every movement, his left eye concealed by a black leather eyepatch. His remaining eye, a clear alert blue, darts to where Fern is holding Draco on her hip and then to you and Aegon, his bandaged hands resting so lightly on you they could never leave a mark.

Then Aemond’s face softens, and there is a kind sort of relief that seeps in, and you imagine your parents will look the same way when you return to Lough Cutra Castle. “You’re home,” he says quietly.

And Aegon smiles and replies: “We all are.”

[tootiecakes234]

Katsuki taking care of sick Y/N:

“Kkkaaaaaaaaattttttt…… katsukiiiiii…” you called out from your burrito roll in the bed.

“What?” He shouted from the living area.

You didn’t answer but peaked your head out to look at the door for his inevitable arrival.

This is your 3rd or 4th time calling him today and you knew he was starting to get annoyed with you but you couldn’t give a rats ass.

You were stuck in this room, on your death bed because that asshole refused to let you be more than 5 inches away from him while he was sick.

You knew it would turn out this was and now he was back to 100% but you were running fevers and hacking up lungs.

He barged into the room with an exasperated look on his face.

“What do you want now? And so help me god if you ask me to hand you the remote one more time I’m gonna blow the whole damn tv off the wall.”

He was currently wearing sweats, no shirt, and the apron you bought him for Christmas that said “ No idiots in my kitchen”. He loved that damn apron.

“What are you doing” you asked followed by a sniffle.

“I’m TRYING to make your soup because you haven’t eaten anything in 2 days. But you seem dead set on making sure I never get to finish making it.”

“But I’m lonely, and I’m not hungry. I want to you to come lay with me…. Hold me.” You say with a little pout forming on your lips.

“Y/N, you have to eat. Also I told your ass to finish that damn glass of water and it’s still half full. You’re never gonna feel better if you don’t do what I tell you.” He says in his stream voice.

“You’re not a doctor. I didn’t do all this when you were-“ then you choke and cough until little tears gather in the corners of your eyes.

“See look, you’re choking because your body knew you were about to spit out some bullshit. You didn’t do all this because I was cooperative.” He says as he sits on the edge of the bed rubbing his hands over your cheeks. “You’re being stubborn and trying to get under my skin by calling me every 5 seconds.”

“Well I wouldn’t be sick if you weren’t such a baby. I told you this would happen and look. Now I’m dying…. Did you do it on purpose? Are you trying to get rid of me??”

“Babe, I don’t have to put in this much effort to get rid of you. If I don’t watch after you, you’ll end up offing yourself before long.” And he chuckled.

“My pain is funny!?!?” You exclaimed.

He chuckles more, “kind of.”

“This! This is what I meant by shitty bedside manner. You’re so mean to me.”

He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead and pulls back with a soft smile on his lips.

“Ok, ok, ‘m sorry. Just let me go finish making the soup and then I’ll come back in here and rock your whining ass to sleep. Do you want me to lay you on the couch while I finish?” He asks.

You nod your head yes and then he stands and sweeps you up quickly into his arms.

When you get to the living room he sets you down gently on the couch.

“Now you can see me slaving away for you in the kitchen. Are you satisfied?”

And you nod again.

He straightens up and starts heading back to the kitchen.

“Wait Kat” he turns back around to face you. “Before you leave…. Can you hand me the remote?” You ask and try to keep the laugh in that’s threatening to escape at the glare directed at you.

If looks could kill, you’d be a goner😭

Katsuki Masterlist

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[chososwifey24-7]

Rutheless

Yakuza boss sukuna x fem!reader

Cw: Nsfw, 18+, blood, death, kidnapping, swearing, fingering, oral sex (male receiving), pv penetration, mating press, consensual sex, no protection (reader is on birth control), cum eating, rough sukuna, aftercare.

Run. Breathe. Survive.

That's all you could do. The image of the tattooed man entering your house and beating your father to death. The cut on your side from one of his lackeys stung on your side and burned.

Where the hell would you run? Where the hell would you hide? They had seen your face. They had seen the fear, the pain, your face.

You could only assume your father got himself into more debt. Unpayable debt. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you continued to run. Labored breaths escaping you.

Legs giving out. That's all you felt as you fell to the concrete in the alleyway you were escaping through. You scraped your knees and your palm.

Gasping. Your lungs needed air. You needed to breathe! Why the fuck wouldn't your body cooperate?

You heard the footsteps before they saw or heard you. You pulled yourself behind a dumpster, a mouse scurrying across your foot. You wanted to scream, wanted to run, but where would you go? You'd be caught.

You heard their voices up and down the alleyway. They stalked it like predators. They sounded excited, excited to finally catch their prey.

You felt more blood seeping through your shirt. It couldn't be that deep of a gash, but through all the running and escaping, you had no time to put pressure on the wound to stop it from bleeding.

That's when you heard him. The man that had beaten your father to death and enjoyed it.

"Where the fuck did she go? You two were supposed to get her."

His voice was low, gravelly, haunting.

You could feel your chest rise and fall quicker and quicker as you heard the footsteps come closer and closer yet to the garbage can.

"We tried to Mr. Ryomen. That bitch is quick."

The other man laughed at his buddies words. He laughed obviously in agreement to the statement. That's when you heard the click of a gun.

"If you can't do something as simple as catching a damn brat, you aren't useful to me."

You tried to stay calm and quiet. You covered your mouth with both hands. Your phone was still at home. You could call anyone to save you.

"No, no, Mr. Ryomen, we'll find her, we swear."

The man quickly tried to beg for his life. Plead for this Ryomen guy to spare him. That he could do better.

"No need."

You heard Mr. Ryomens voice before you felt his hand ensnared in your hair. Your eyes widened. How the hell did he know you were there?

You tried to scream and kick and punch, but this man was strong. He snapped his finger, and the lackeys of his were on you zip, tying your hands and feet together.

"No, no! Stop!"

You screamed and tried to wriggle from the tattooed man's grasp. The man you know now as Mr. Ryomen.

He simply threw you over his shoulder and a car came around the corner.

"Ah, Uraume, right on time. Perfect."

You were thrown into the backseat of the car before being blindfolded. That's all you remember before being dragged into a basement and left there.

❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁

It had been days. It must have been. They brought you food and water ever once in a while. That's how you tried to track the days tied to a chair.

Unfortunately, things began to blur together. Things became more dull, you knew you couldn't get out of this, so why were you trying?

That's what you thought until Mr. Ryomen came into the basement and cut the zip ties off of you. Your immediate reaction was to try to fight. To throw punches.

He easily grabbed your wrists and held you with a grin. That sickening grin.

"I see you still have some fight left in you. It's surprising, but I came here to talk, not fight."

He simply threw you to the side, your back hitting a cold concrete wall before you fell to your knees coughing.

"You see, your father died because he couldn't pay back his money, and he refused to do anything to even try. So we told him we would take you. Sell you off, maybe. I haven't quite decided yet,"

He began explaining as he stalked towards you slowly and intimidatingly. You couldn't even run away, your back was against the wall, literally.

"But you're so damn pretty I thought, why not just pay me back with your body. Yeah?"

He said as he kneeled in front of you and grabbed your chin roughly.

"Because that sounds more appealing to me."

He licked his lips and leaned in closer to you. His face was so damn close. His lips planted a kiss on your cheek before he grabbed you by the hair and tilted your head back.

He chuckled to himself as he watched your tears stream down your face and your eyes closed tight. He took his other hand and wiped a tear from your face and cooed in a mocking tone.

"Oh, there there. There's no need to cry. I'll simply use you until your father's debt is paid back, then I'll send you on your way."

That's when your eyes met his and you bit your lip a bit.

"How much is my father's debt?"

He thought for a moment and then turned back to you with a glint in his teeth. His smile so damn bright, but so scary attention same time.

"I think it was somewhere around 500,000 yen. Quite a bit if you ask me."

Your jaw dropped. How were you supposed to pay that back off soon. The doubt began to creep in. You thought that maybe you could screw him for a few days and get out of here, but 500,000 yen! That was almost impossible to pat back soon.

He saw your facial expression and chuckled.

"3 months. Stay with me and let me do with you as I please for 3 months. After that, I will let you go."

His deal was intriguing, but 4 months, that was a long time. Could you honestly handle him? He wasn't bad looking, but he wasn't the person you'd want to spend the rest of your life with either.

You only had this option, though. You looked up at him in the eyes with determination. You didn't want to be sold off, so you'd chose the lesser of two evils.

"Fine. 3 months. I'm all yours."

The glint in his eyes seemed even more evil than it did the first day he had caught you.

"Alright. Since I can do whatever I want with you, why wait. Let's get your debt repayment started."

❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁

That's how you fou d yourself on your knees in sukunas room on your knees in front of his aching cock.

It was huge, and he wanted you to fit all of that in your mouth? There was no way. You leaned forward, though. After all you did tell him yes.

Your tongue gently licked the underside of his base, and he groaned deeply. You got to his tip and began to gently suck on it before going down on him a bit more.

"Oh fuck. Keep going."

He said as he tried to push your head down a bit. You were sucking him off, and he was loving it. Your mouth was addicting.

After thrusting into your throat and making you gag, he came.

"Swallow it."

Tears rolled down your face from his roughness, but you listened to him. Swallowing it, you looked at him and stuck out your tongue.

"Oh fuck, good girl. Now, up on the bed, I'm not done with you yet."

You did as he said once again and got up on the bed laying on your back and spreading your legs.

He whistled lowly as he took his fingers and ran them ul and down your folds, collecting your slick before roughly shoving them in you. You let out a scream before he began to finger you.

The pain slowly melted into pleasure and you were a whimpering mess on his finger.

"Ah, Mr. Ryomen, oh, please! I'm gonna cum!"

You screamed out, and before that knot could break, he pulled out his fingers and began to suck them clean.

"Mmm, you taste divine. Ilm have to save that for another day, but right now I want you cumming on my cock."

He strocked himself once, then twice, then lined himself up with your entrance.

You squirmed a bit before he shoved himself into you. Your mouth opened in a silent scream before his lips met yours in a hot teeth and tongue make out.

His thrusts were hard, rocking your entire body and the bed. He pulled away from the kiss and growled lowly as he continued.

"Are you in the pill?"

He asked as he thrusted a bit quicker as he was approaching his high.

"Ah, yes, yes. I'm on the pill."

You manage to get out in between thrusts. After those words left your mouth, he was grabbing your legs and pushing them to your chest in the meanest mating press ever.

Your moans became more high-pitched, and his thrusts picked up to an almost inhumane speed. You both were getting close.

Your hands moved to his shoulder and gripped them tightly. Your vision going white and his thrusts stilling as you both came together. His hit seed filling you and feeling weird.

You laid there for a second coming down from your high, and you couldn't help but admire his tattoos. You lazily took a finger and began to trace over them. He hummed gently and let you.

You groaned as he pulled out of you and left you to run to his bathroom and run a bath.

Soon, he came back to you and picked you up bridal style. Another groan leaving your lips, your lower abdomen hurting a bit.

He slowly set you down in the warm water before getting in behind you and holding you close to him.

Your eyes were fluttering closed as his chest met your back. This felt better than the sex itself. Being taken care of.

His arm wrapped around your chest and pulled you closer to him. He gently bit your ear before whispering to you.

"Get some rest, I'll carry you to bed if you fall asleep because both know this is far from done."

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Tag list

@yandere-stories

[auras-moonstone]

HEAR ME OUT! Tara and Y/n has been together ever since the massacre in Woodsboro but Tara (like that bitch she is) treats her like shit while drunk at a party, ending up in a breakup. Ethan steps in and takes her home and it ends up in Smut/fluff.

stars around my scars — ethan landry

word count: 1,174

pairing: ethan landry x fem!reader

summary: after witnessing the way tara mistreats y/n at the party, ethan takes her home to take care of her.

warnings: toxic relationship. fluff.

Y/N ALWAYS HAD ALWAYS KNOWN TARA DIDN’T LIKE HER AS MUCH AS SHE DID. She had always known deep down that the petite girl had feelings for Amber, but she had been too scared of ruining their friendship so she settled for the second option—her. And call her masochist, but Y/N never cared as long as she could call Tara hers.

And then, there was Amber’s betrayal and death. It sent Tara down a rabbit hole. She had never been in love with Y/N, but at least she used to care about her. She was sweet and attentive despite her heart belonging to someone else. Now, Y/N was simply the person she kept at arm’s length as a distraction from pain. Parties and alcohol were also things that helped her with that.

The party the group was currently at landed on a very convenient day—it marked one year from the Woodsboro killings, and Tara made it her mission to get as intoxicated as possible, trying to get her mind off things.

“Tara, please stop. You’ve drunk way too much.” Y/N said to her girlfriend, who was frenetically searching for another bottle of vodka.

“Jesus, leave me alone, Y/N.” the girl rolled her eyes. “Don’t you have anything better to do than suffocating me with your clingyness?”

Y/N sighed. “I’m just taking care of you. You’re going to regret drinking so much in the morning.”

“Are you deaf or something? I said leave me the fuck alone. I just want to drink and forget about everything.”

“I know, T. But you’re very drunk, and you keep mixing drinks. It’s gonna land you in the hospital.” Y/N carefully grabbed her girlfriend’s hand, but the girl shoved it away as if the touch had burnt her.

“You’re not her, don’t you get it? You’ll never be her. I just wish you’d leave me the fuck alone. I don’t love you, stop trying to make me love you. It’s not going to happen. Ever.” Tara spat, voice loud enough to make people look.

Y/N stood still, not knowing what to say or do. Her brain couldn’t formulate any words, she just felt a gigantic knot on her throat and tears blurring her vision. The pity glances were overwhelming, and she wanted to get away from them so badly, but her feet wouldn’t cooperate.

Ethan, who had witnessed the harsh words from a few feet away, rushed towards them as soon as he noticed her friend’s frozen state. “You’re a fucking bitch.” he glared at Tara, and silently added ‘and you deserve everything that’s coming to you.’ “Let’s go, Y/N/N. I’m taking you home.”

Y/N followed the boy without a second guess. Ethan didn’t utter a single word on the way home, he just tucked her under his arm and affectionately rubbed her arm. And as always, his presence was comforting.

He was always there for her, lifting her spirits up and offering his ear whenever she needed someone to talk to. Even though Y/N could sense what his thoughts about her relationship with Tara were, Ethan had never judged her for her questionable and stupid choices.

Ethan had tried very hard not to spill every thought he had about it, because as much as she wanted to open Y/N’s eyes, he knew she hadn’t been ready for the truth. And deep down, Y/N sensed that. But that night, she felt it was time to hear his opinion.

“Thank you, Eth. For everything.” she finally said once they reached his apartment.

Ethan sat beside her on the couch with a glass of water in his hand. “Anytime.” he replied, giving her the glass. “Y/N…” he said after a few seconds of dead silence.

“I know, Eth. I’m the most idiotic person in the world.” her eyes were glued to the floor, completely embarrassed by the fact that Ethan had to witness the way Tara had talked to her.

“Don’t do that. Don’t put the blame on you.” he kneeled between her legs, forcing her to look at him. “You’re so amazing, and I’m sorry Tara didn’t see that. You deserve so much better, Y/N/N. You were such a great girlfriend to her, and she took you for granted.”

“I should’ve ended it so long ago… but I don’t know, we’ve been through so much and I was scared that if I broke up with her, the group would put distance between us. I don’t want to be alone.”

Ethan grabbed her by the cheeks and caressed her face softly. His touch was so relaxing that it made her close her eyes, and before she knew what was doing, she started pressing kisses on his palm and wrists.

The boy’s heart was beating so fast that it felt like it wanted to escape through his chest. “I’m never leaving you. You’ll never be alone. Keep me close and I promise I’ll take care of you and make you feel loved.”

Y/N opened her eyes at that statement. Surprised vulnerable eyes met his determined and loving ones, and for the second time that night, she was left speechless. In the best way, Ethan took away her ability to speak.

“Since the very first night, you have been living free rent in my mind. Realizing you were taken was like a punch to the guts, but learning that your heart belonged to someone who didn’t appreciate it? It pierced my heart. Maybe I should’ve said something sooner, maybe you needed someone to help you open your eyes.”

Y/N shook her head. “I don’t know if I would’ve taken your advice, to be honest. I was blind. But Ethan, you’ve taken care of me from the beginning. You would break your back to make me break a smile, Eth. I want nothing more than to try something with you but I just got out of a relationship, I don’t know if my mind is in the right space to start something new.”

“I’m not saying we should start a relationship right now. I can wait, and in the meanwhile I can make you feel good, be whatever you need.”

“That wouldn’t be fair to you, Eth. I can’t use you like that.”

“Y/N, I’m begging you to use me. Fuck, I sound like a attention starved puppy, but I want you—whatever way you want me, whenever you want me and as long as you want to.”

Y/N searched for any sign of hesitation or reluctance, but the boy was determined. He really wanted this, and to be honest, so did she. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Y/N nodded, the sides of her mouth lifting. “Right now, I need a kiss. You think you can give me that?”

Ethan grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her towards him, lips meeting aggressively. “Your lips taste so fucking good, baby. I think I’m already addicted.”

“Good, cause I think I’m addicted, too. I’ve never been kissed like this.” she said in between kisses.

“Then I guess we should never stop doing this.” he gripped her waist as he straddles her thighs.

Y/N’s hooded eyes connected with his and they both smiled. “Guess we shouldn’t.”

[sidekick-hero]

In Loving Memory

Written for @steddieangstyaugust Day 4, prompt: Angst with Happy Ending

Tags: Modern AU, rockstar Eddie, plane crash, HAPPY ENDING, minor character death

words: 3.3k | AO3 | mature

“Good afternoon, Mr. Harrington. My name is Elizabeth Quinn, and I’m part of the cabin crew today. Thank you for choosing to fly with us. I hope you're enjoying your flight so far.”

Steve looks up at the owner of the soft voice to his right. It’s a young woman in a stewardess uniform with big brown eyes that instantly remind him of Eddie.

“Oh, hello. Uhm, yes, everything is fine, thank you.”

The stewardess smiles warmly. “I'm glad to hear that, sir. I wanted to discuss a situation we’re currently facing. As you may know, flights can sometimes be overbooked, and today we have a few more passengers than seats available in first class. We’re looking for a volunteer to move to another section of the plane. In exchange, we’re offering a significant compensation package, including a voucher for a future flight, a complimentary upgrade on your next trip, and a gift card for our in-flight shopping.”

She looks apologetic, and he can tell she hates asking him this. It’s not a particularly long flight, and he mostly booked first class because that’s what his father’s secretary always did for him the few times his parents had him fly to wherever they were. So giving up his seat for a four-hour flight doesn’t seem too bad.

“Yes, I can move to another section of the plane. That’s okay,” he tells the stewardess and is rewarded with a bright, genuine smile adorned with dimples. Another thing that reminds him of Eddie. He pushes the ache in his chest down and returns the friendly smile with one of his own.

“Thank you so much for doing this, Mr. Harrington. If you have any specific preferences or questions, please let me know. Your understanding and cooperation greatly help us ensure everyone has a comfortable flight.”

With that, she leads him to another part of the plane, presumably Economy class.

“This one right here, Mr. Harrington. It has extra legroom and is situated next to an emergency exit. I will make sure you have a pleasant flight with us. You can call me with the call button or find me at the front or back of the plane.”

Steve nods with another smile that falls as soon as she walks away to prepare for takeoff. His thoughts wander back to the reason he’s on a flight to LA today.

Eddie.

He still wonders if this is a good idea. When he bought the ticket to LA, he was sure of it. The panic that had constricted his throat had lessened as soon as he pulled up the website of the airline and he felt like he could breathe again for the first time when he got the confirmation mail.

It’s a long shot, he knows that. Surprising Eddie in LA after everything that happened but he hopes it’s a grand enough gesture that maybe Eddie will forget how much Steve has hurt him. Robin suggested to just call Eddie and apologize, explain to him why Steve was so reluctant to take the next step with him.

The truth is, Steve doesn’t think he could handle it when Eddie didn’t pick up the phone or just hangs up on him before he can say his piece. If Eddie decides that it’s too much for him, that Steve’s too much, too damaged, then be it. But he needs to see Eddie one last time, drink in those beloved doe eyes one more time.

Steve thinks about why he and Eddie fought the last time they saw each other. Growing up in a very conservative household, Steve always suspected he might like men as well as women, but he denied any attraction toward men because of what his parents might say. He knew they wouldn’t accept him.

He was 31 when he walked into a bar in Chicago with his best friend Robin and locked eyes with the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. Eddie was the first man he ever kissed, ever slept with. He couldn’t help himself, not when Eddie flirted with him, wooed him, and made him laugh with his whole body. Steve always assumed what they had was strictly physical, just some fun between two single guys.

But Eddie wanted more than that. He wanted a relationship with Steve.

Eddie had asked Steve to be his date on the red carpet in LA for the Grammy Awards. Eddie was actually nominated with his band, Corroded Coffin, and he wanted to show the world who he loved. But Steve was scared. Everybody would know he was in a relationship with another man. So he declined, and Eddie left Steve’s apartment heartbroken.

Steve can still see the look on Eddie’s face, the hurt in his eyes. It had shattered something inside him, but his fear was stronger. He had watched Eddie walk away, the love of his life slipping through his fingers because he was too afraid to hold on.

Steve’s thoughts are interrupted by the plane's PA system crackling to life, announcing their imminent takeoff. He leans back in his seat, staring out the window as the plane begins to taxi down the runway. The memory of Eddie's face, the pain in his eyes, is as vivid as ever.

He had tried to justify his fear, telling himself it was about protecting Eddie, about not wanting to put him through the scrutiny and judgment that would come from being seen with another man. But deep down, Steve knew it was about protecting himself. He was scared of what his parents would think, what the world would think.

As the plane ascends, Steve closes his eyes, replaying that last conversation with Eddie in his mind.

"Steve, I love you. I want us to be together, really together," Eddie had said, his voice trembling with emotion. "I want you by my side at the Grammys. I want to show the world who I love."

Steve had felt his heart pound in his chest, a mix of fear and longing. "Eddie, I can't. You know how my parents are, how everyone will react. It's not that simple."

Eddie's eyes had filled with tears. "It is that simple, Steve. Either you love me enough to be with me, openly and proudly, or you don’t. I can’t keep hiding us. I can't keep hiding you."

Steve had stood there, silent and conflicted, as Eddie walked out the door. The sound of the door closing behind him had felt like the end of everything.

The plane levels off, and Steve opens his eyes, blinking back tears. He knows this trip to LA is a long shot, but he has to try. He has to make Eddie understand how much he means to him.

Steve takes a deep breath and pulls out his phone, opening the notes app. He starts typing, trying to find the right words to say when he sees Eddie.

The flight attendants come by with the beverage cart, and Steve looks up to see Elizabeth smiling at him. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Harrington?”

“Just some water, please,” Steve says, returning her smile.

As she hands him the bottle of water, she says softly, “It looks like you have a lot on your mind, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Steve looks up at her as he accepts the cup of water and finds that he actually wants to talk with someone about what he’s about to do. He needs someone to tell him that it’s going to work out.

“I do. I’m on my way to win back the man I’m in love with.”

There, he said it. He admitted that he was in love with another man and now he’s fighting the urge to hide, scared of her reaction. But he holds her gaze, heart pounding in his chest.

“Oh,” she says, her eyes softening, “that explains the look on your face. I think you’re very brave, Mr. Harrington.”

Steve takes a moment, contemplating how much to share. But he feels a strange sense of comfort in Elizabeth’s kind eyes.

“His name is Eddie,” Steve begins, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s the most amazing man I’ve ever met. He’s kind, talented, and makes me laugh like no one else can. But I let my fear ruin everything between us.”

Elizabeth listens intently, her expression encouraging him to continue.

“We fought because he wanted us to go public, to be together openly. He wanted me to go with him to the Grammys, to be his date. But I was too scared of what my parents would think, what people would say. So, I said no. And he left,” Steve explains, his voice cracking.

Elizabeth nods, understanding in her eyes. “That sounds really hard, Steve. But it also sounds like you care a lot about him.”

“I do,” Steve says, his eyes filling with tears. “I love him more than anything. That’s why I’m going to LA. I need to tell him how sorry I am and that I’m ready to be with him, no matter what anyone else thinks.”

Elizabeth places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It takes a lot of courage to admit when you’re wrong and to fight for what you love. Eddie is a very lucky man to be loved so much by you, Steve. I hope he sees that.”

Steve smiles, feeling a bit lighter. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I really hope he does.”

Elizabeth gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving on to the next passenger. Steve watches her go, feeling a much needed sense of hope. He’s made mistakes, let fear dictate his actions, but he’s ready to make things right.

About two hours into the flight, Steve decides to stretch his legs and walks up and down the narrow aisle. He passes families with little kids, an elderly couple working on a crossword puzzle together, and two young women chatting and laughing. It’s fascinating to see so many different lives intersecting in one place.

On his fifth lap, Elizabeth appears next to him, gently touching his arm.

“Steve, could you please take your seat and fasten your seatbelt?”

He looks at her, puzzled. “But the seatbelt signs are still off.”

“That’s true, but from experience, I know the signs could come on any minute. I just wanted to give you a heads-up before the aisle gets too crowded with everyone returning to their seats.”

Steve nods, appreciating the heads-up. “Thanks for letting me know.” He heads back to his seat.

As Steve settles in and fastens his seatbelt, the plane suddenly lurches violently. The cabin shakes with a gut-wrenching turbulence, hurling passengers and their belongings through the air. Panic erupts as screams fill the cabin, and Steve clings to his seat, trying to stay calm amid the chaos.

Elizabeth dashes down the aisle, her face pale and eyes wide. She spots Steve and rushes over, her voice barely audible over the cacophony. “Steve! Call Eddie! Now!”

Heart pounding, Steve scrambles for his phone. His hands tremble uncontrollably as he dials Eddie’s number. The turbulence makes it nearly impossible to hold the phone steady, but he manages to keep a grip.

The call connects, and Eddie’s voice comes through, thick with confusion and worry. “Steve?” He asks and then he must hear the chaos in the background because he immediately adds, “What’s going on? Is everything alright?”

“Eddie,” Steve’s voice cracks as he fights back tears. “I’m so sorry. I should have been braver. I should have been all in. I’m on this plane, and it’s really bad. I wanted to come to LA to talk to you. I wish I could have done all this in person. I wish I could kiss you one last time.”

Eddie’s voice trembles with desperation. “Steve, what’s happening? Why does this sound like a goodbye?”

Steve’s eyes dart around the cabin, the plane shaking violently as alarms blare and panicked voices rise. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t want this to be a goodbye, but I think it might be. I needed to tell you how much I regret being so scared, and I’m sorry for hurting you. I love you, Eddie. I should’ve told you when I had the chance.”

The turbulence worsens, and the plane begins a terrifying descent. The noise in the background grows louder and more intense. Eddie’s voice, filled with panic, tries to reach him. “Steve, stay with me! Please!”

But as the plane’s descent becomes more violent, the call goes eerily silent. Steve’s heart pounds in his chest as the only sound now is the relentless, chilling dial tone. Tears stream down his face as he grips the phone tightly.

Elizabeth returns to Steve’s side, her eyes filled with kindness and urgency. She places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Hold on, Steve. It’s going to be okay, but I need you to fight. For Eddie, okay?”

Steve nods, trying to steady himself amidst the chaos. He closes his eyes, focusing on Eddie’s voice and the love they shared, holding onto the hope that somehow, somehow, he’ll get another chance.

The last thing he hears is the deafening roar of something massive hitting the ground way too fast.

When Steve opens his eyes, he’s immediately overwhelmed by blinding light and searing pain. He groans, wishing for unconsciousness to take him away again so the agony would stop.

“Steve?”

The sound of Eddie’s voice pulls him from the sweet embrace of nothingness. The panic in Eddie’s voice is palpable, as if he’s on the verge of breaking down.

“’ddie?” Steve mumbles, his mouth feeling like it’s stuffed with cotton and his tongue heavy.

“Yes, I’m here, Stevie. I’m here.” Suddenly, Eddie’s beloved face appears above him, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. “Hi, baby.”

Steve manages a smile, the pain momentarily overshadowed by the sight of Eddie’s face. How he’s missed those eyes.

The thought brings Elizabeth back to his mind, the stewardess with the same eyes. Reality crashes back, and Steve gasps with the sudden realization that he should be dead.

“What… happened?” he croaks, his voice barely audible as his strength begins to wane.

“I promise I’ll explain everything, Stevie, but first we need to get your strength back. I’ll let the nurse know you’re awake.” Eddie reaches for the call button next to Steve but stops to press a gentle kiss to Steve’s forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was terrified of losing you.”

That’s the last thing Steve hears before darkness pulls him under once more.

The next time Steve wakes up, he feels a bit better. The pain is still there, but it’s dulled by the medication, making it manageable. He’s strong enough to talk more than just a few minutes, and he uses that strength to repeat to Eddie what he had said on the phone during the crash.

Eddie is holding Steve’s hand between his, his tear-streaked cheek resting gently on the back of Steve’s hand. His eyes are still red and puffy, but he speaks with a steady voice that is thick with emotion. “Steve, I could never just walk away from you. I knew you weren’t ready, even though it hurt. I planned to talk to you when I got back to Chicago, to tell you that I would wait for you, as long as I wouldn’t lose you. But when you called and I heard all that screaming… Fuck! I can’t even think about it without wanting to throw up. The crash was bad—most of the front was completely destroyed. It’s a miracle you survived.”

Steve blinks, trying to piece together the fragments of his memory. “How… How did I survive?”

Eddie’s gaze is intense as he searches Steve’s eyes. “From what they told me, you were supposed to be seated in the front, but you weren’t. No one could explain why. Your seat was right next to the emergency exit, so they got you out quickly. And you had your seatbelt fastened, which probably kept you from being thrown around too much. It’s almost like fate that you survived. Only twenty-three people made it.”

Steve’s eyes widen as he absorbs Eddie’s words. The thought weighs heavily on his chest: If it hadn’t been for Elizabeth’s warning, he might not have been so lucky. He’s sure she’s the reason he’s still here.

A flicker of concern crosses Steve’s face. “Elizabeth… she was a stewardess on the flight. She moved me to this seat, told me that first class was overbooked and asked if I’d be willing to switch. And she also made sure I fastened my seatbelt just before we started going down.”

Eddie’s eyes grow wide with shock. “But… they said on the news that casualties were below a hundred because first class wasn’t as full as usual. They said no one in that section survived.”

Steve’s heart pounds as he starts to realize the gravity of Elizabeth’s actions. “I need to find out if she survived, Eddie. She saved my life, and I need to thank her.”

Eddie’s eyes brighten with resolve. “We can do that, Stevie. I need to thank this woman, who saved the man I love. What’s her name? I’ll get Chrissy on it—she’ll find out in no time.”

Feeling his love for Eddie surge, Steve lets it overflow for the first time without restraint. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

They share a long, tender look, like lovesick teenagers, before Steve remembers Eddie’s question. “Her name is Elizabeth Quinn.”

Eddie’s expression changes abruptly. All color drains from his face.

“What did you say her name is?”

“Elizabeth Quinn. Why, do you know her?”

Ignoring the question, Eddie asks, “What did she look like?”

Steve describes Elizabeth, including her big brown eyes that reminded him of Eddie’s—one reason he bonded with her almost instantly.

As Steve finishes, Eddie looks even paler. Wordlessly, he pulls out his phone, navigates to an article from the airline, and hands it to Steve. The headline reads: “Airline Grieves Loss of Crew Members on Flight 731.” The article features a picture of a stewardess who looks just like Elizabeth. Her name is listed below the photo: Elizabeth Quinn.

Steve’s heart sinks as he reads the name. “That’s her. Elizabeth Quinn.”

Eddie’s voice trembles as he looks at Steve. “Elizabeth Quinn was my mom. She was a stewardess, and she died in a plane crash when I was eight.”

Steve’s eyes widen in shock. “I’m so sorry, Eddie. I had no idea.”

Eddie’s eyes are glassy as he looks at Steve. “She was the best person I knew. She loved her job and loved helping people. And now it seems she came back to help two more people: me and you.”

Steve reaches out weakly, placing a hand on Eddie’s. “I wish I could have thanked her in person. But I did tell her about you—how funny, smart, and amazing you are. How much I love you. And I should have known, because you look just like her. The same kind eyes and dimples when you smile.”

Eddie squeezes Steve’s hand, his voice breaking. “I’m glad you got to meet her. God, this is so crazy. I was so angry for so long that she left me. I know it’s unfair, but that’s how I felt. I miss her so much.”

“She knew you loved her. She made sure you wouldn’t lose another person you love, because she loves you too. Even if she’s no longer here, she’s still watching over you.”

“Over us, you mean. I’m pretty sure this means you’re part of the family now.”

Eddie still asks Chrissy to check the airline's list for Steve’s savior. He’s not surprised when Chrissy reports that there was no Elizabeth Quinn on that flight.

[juqtier]

₊˚╰ 𖣠 MERCY ✧.* SPENCER REID

SUMMARY: During one of the most detrimental and devastating outbreaks this world has ever seen, the BAU had spent countless hours trying to bring in the man responsible, dead or alive. When they seek help from a minacious mercenary, and personal feelings somehow get involved, the situation quickly becomes much more complicated and difficult than anticipated.

GENERAL WARNING: ANGSTY and horror (somewhat), weapons, violence, descriptions of viruses and diseases, death, kissing of course, zombie like creatures, apocalypse, outbreak, descriptions of mutations

CHAPTER WARNING: descriptions of violence and viruses, reader is kinda an asshole. THIS CHAPTER MAY SEEM BORING BUT PLS the story will get interesting as it progresses! just gotta explain the basic concept!

A/N: the first chapter, yay! this is clearly inspired by resident evil (my fav game series). i thought it’d be interesting and unique to combine my two fav hyperfixations. i made the virus names and effects, and im clearly not a scientist so if they are scientifically inaccurate ignore it or im gonna cry. also, I wrote this with early spencer in mind (3-5) but if you imagine him from a different season lmk! ALSO sorry if any of the writing is bad, my english is terrible!

ACCOMPANYING SONG : SMELLS LIKE TEEN SPIRIT, NIRVANA

. . .

CHAPTER 1

January 15th, 2009

- 985 days since the outbreak

You had been caught. You had finally been caught.

Of course, you were well aware of the risks that came with being a mercenary, being caught was one of them. Yet, this didn’t diminish the anger you felt, sitting in a dingy, dark interrogation room, cuffed to a table.

It felt as if days passed by. Your eyelids felt heavy, you couldn’t manage to find a comfortable position to rest in. A metal folding chair would quickly prove to be a poor place to even attempt to relax in. Sitting in silence for so long, your ears could perfectly hear the buzzing of the flickering bulb above you, and it drove you crazy.

Just before you could drive yourself insane, focusing on each bothersome aspect of the interrogation room once more, the door opened.

Two men, two entirely different vibes.

One was an older, tall, stoic man wearing a suit practically devoid of color.

And while the man that stood beside him wasn’t wearing the most colorful outfit, his blue shirt and purple tie were a stark contrast to the other man’s outfit.

His long, wavy brown hair stood out as well. A part of you wanted to just stare at him, he was so pretty. But the other part of you, the majority of you, wanted to knock both officers unconscious and attempt to run away.

“I’m Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, this is Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid. We’re with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” The older man explained as both of them took a seat across from you.

The words practically went unnoticed by you, your mind had been more focused on the discomfort caused by the tight cuffs around your wrists. Your eyes met Hotchner's, and he could tell exactly what you were feeling.

Angry.

“Wanna take these cuffs off?” You request.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that until you cooperate with us and give us the information we need.”

“What information?”

Your eyes naturally rolled, gradually growing more annoyed by the second. Even with how frustrated you were, you weren’t going to cooperate easily. You were a mercenary, and the FBI was well aware you had only ever been motivated by payment.

It sounded selfish to everyone else. It was selfish, but to you, it was the only way to survive.

Hotch extracts papers and files from a manila folder, spreading them out onto the table in front of you. Your eyes watched his hands as he displayed each paper for you.

“For the past seven months, me and my team have been observing your every move.” Hotch’s eyes are glued to you. “Several times in these past months, you’ve been employed by Luca Ansaldo.”

The name has been drilled into your ears by this point.

Luca Ansaldo, a wealthy, ‘brillitant’ virologist and CEO of the virology company SynX. And, unbeknownst to you, the creator of the Lazarus Virus.

Ansaldo had employed you many times before, and with the pay being more than generous for a seemingly easy job, you didn’t think twice about accepting his offer.

But now, just hearing his name was enough to enrage you. Yet, you remain calm, returning Hotch’s eye contact. You barely even noticed Reid beside him, merely observing the interaction between you and Hotch.

“He paid me well for a simple job, is that what you wanted to hear?” You mutter.

You knew that wasn’t what they wanted to hear, but you also couldn’t tell what they wanted.

The past officers that had come in, aggressively interrogating you, never made it clear what exactly they wanted from you. All you could really understand was that they wanted his whereabouts, and you couldn’t tell them that. You didn’t even know.

“What jobs did he pay you for?” Hotch inquires.

“Easy jobs. I’ve done that plenty of times before for others, why does it matter now?”

Hotchner adjusts in his seat, probably finding it just as uncomfortable as you were in that moment.

“It’s important because we’re not currently after the other individuals you’ve worked for, we’re after Ansaldo.” He explains, sliding a document toward you.

Your eyes quickly scan the words on the paper, taking in all of its details.

“Under SynX, Ansaldo has managed to manufacture one of the deadliest viruses known to man, the Lazarus virus. You can see the results of his work walking in the streets.”

“Lazarus Virus?” You question. “Like, from the Bible?”

You clearly knew about the outbreak, every human did. You just had never been able to put a name to the virus responsible.

Reid took this question as an opportunity to share every bit of knowledge he had about the virus.

“Yes, actually. The name derives from Lazarus of Bethany, mentioned in the Gospel of John. The story claims Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, only four days after his death.” He hadn’t even noticed your eyes locked on him as he rambled. “We believe the virus attacks the brain stem, destroying the brain's basic functions. However, while mental capabilities deteriorate, physical capabilities are enhanced, explaining why they’re rather strong and violent. Those infected by the virus are called ‘Revenants’.”

You couldn’t help but be impressed at his ability to speak for so long without even losing his breath. He had spit out each word with urgency, as if he had been waiting to share this information with you.

“You seem to know a lot about the virus, why am I here?”

“We don’t know enough.” Hotch replies. “Without a sample of the virus, we won’t be able to produce an effective antidote. Ansaldo is currently the only man we know of that has any samples, and you know more about him than any of us. You may be our only chance at finding him before it’s too late.”

He leans forward, an even more intense stare accompanying his statement.

For a moment, for a brief moment, you allow yourself to absorb his words. It was as if a switch flipped in your brain, allowing yourself to prioritize others before yourself.

And again, this sounded so incredibly selfish. You could recognize that, of course. But you couldn’t blame yourself. And quite frankly, neither could Hotch or Reid.

The outbreak was and is devastating. Major cities were overrun and filled with chaos, with millions dead or missing. Trusting people wasn’t as common as it was years ago. Especially for you. You had been alone, fighting to survive, for years. It was all to protect yourself. You had the right to protect yourself, right?

“How much?” Hotch’s words bring your attention back to him, back to the situation you were in.

You weren’t sure if you misheard or misunderstood him, and it seemed as if Reid shared that same thought. His eyes widened as he snapped his head towards Hotch, questioning him with his eyes. Hotch, however, doesn’t even seem to notice Reid’s shock.

“What?” You stutter just a bit, clearly confused.

“How much do we need to pay you for your cooperation?” He repeats.

“You want to pay me to work for you?” You reply, skeptical about the offer.

Reid visibly shared the same sentiment. It was as if he couldn’t close his mouth. You didn't expect this, and neither did he.

“You are the closest connection we have to Ansaldo.” Hotch ignores the shocked faces of you and Reid, “If we have to pay you for your cooperation, then we are willing to do that.”

His expression shows that he’s serious. You consider the offer a bit longer before spitting out the first number you can think of.

“Two hundred thousand.”

You wait for any change in his expression, you wait for him to simply refuse. But he never does.

“We can arrange that.” He gives you a small nod before rising from his chair, Reid following. “I will assign an agent to keep an eye on you. You will be kept under supervision at all times as you work alongside my team. If you even attempt to betray our agreement, I promise you will not see a single dollar.”

“Wait.” You blurt out before they can even make their way to the door. “Can I choose what agent gets to follow me around?”

The way you word it makes it sound like a privilege, like it was an honor to have to watch over you. In reality, it most likely wasn’t.

The FBI considered you a dangerous, difficult mercenary. Asking you for help was a last resort, one they tried to avoid. But as they watched the virus spread across the country, unable to stop it, they knew they had no other choice.

“Do you have an agent in mind?” Hotch raises an eyebrow, confused by your question.

You nod in response, your eyes landing on Reid.

You couldn’t explain why, but his quiet, shy demeanor drew you to him. He wasn’t standoffish like the other officers and agents, he was actually quite the opposite of you.

Reid furrows his eyebrows. Neither he nor Hotch had expected the request; their looks expressed that. Hotch looks over at Reid, as if he were contemplating whether he could handle such a job. It was a silent conversation between the two; you were just an observer in that moment.

“Reid will watch over you as you work the case with us.” Hotch proclaims.

“Hotch, are you sure?” Reid whispers, just loud enough for you to hear him. He sounds nervous as he speaks, causing you to smirk.

“If she causes any problems for you, I will assign a different agent for the job.” Hotch responds, going for the door. His hand lands on the door knob, twisting it and pulling the door open with Reid behind him.

“Can you take these cuffs off me?”

Hotch and Reid turn their attention towards you once again before Reid digs in his pocket, pulling out a set of keys. Hotch watches as Reid walks over to you.

Your gaze remained fixed on Reid as he fumbled with the keys. You observed his shakey hands, finding all of it almost humorous.

When he finally managed to remove the cuffs, he let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding in.

You stand up from your seat, rubbing your wrists where the cuffs had previously been.

“Thank you so much.” You say with a teasing, playful tone.

His eyes never meet yours as he steps back, allowing you to stretch, glad to be free from the metal chair you were held down to.

“The team is gathering to discuss our next steps in the case. You’ll be joining us, since you’re working alongside us now.”

He explains the situation quickly as he leads you out of the room, still avoiding any eye contact.

“Exciting.” A smirk was still plastered on your face as you walked behind Reid.

While Reid was more nervous about the situation, and you clearly found it amusing, there was one thing the two of you had in common at the moment.

You had no idea what you were getting into.

. . .

pt. 2

a.n. : again sorry if the writing is bad, but i’m excited for this series to play out! it’s a concept i haven’t seen done before so i wanted to make something cool with it! i believe even if you aren’t a fan of resident evil, criminal minds x mercenary is still kinda cool. also, if you want to be on tag list im more than happy to add you!

[ianduncankinnie]

I often post about Palestine but I'd like to take a moment to talk about what's happening in Bangladesh.

KEEP YOUR EYE ON BANGLADESH

TL;DR Students killed for protesting the government's quota system. Students are being arrested and murdered for speaking up about their deceased friends. Everyone is being threatened by the government and many social media platforms are being banned.

All I'm asking is to spread the word. Please. International pressure really works for our nation. We're dying here. UNICEF reports 34 children dead. There might be more. All reblogs and likes and shares are appreciated. Thank you. I guess I'll see you tomorrow.

Past

A movement protesting the government's quota system put forth by the father of our nation Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. This was placed in the first place to help the grandchildren of those who fought in the Liberation War of our country to get government jobs. We have a terrible job market here which is why many highly educated people leave the country. On 16th July, While protesting, a Student named Abu Sayed of Begum Rokeya University was killed by the police. This only stoked the feelings of injustice between the students.

During a press conference, the PM was asked about the quota for the grandchildren of veterans. Her response? "If we don't give jobs to the grandchildren of Veterans, will we give jobs to the grandchildren of Razakars?" Razakars are the people who collaborated with the Pakistani Forces to bring down the Bangladeshi freedom fighters. They betrayed the nation for their own gain.

Traitors.

Imagine calling the youth of your nation traitors.

Imagine calling almost 14 million young people who can't find a job despite their credentials betrayers.

Imagine cursing people who are protesting for job equality under a government with the all time highest corruption in the history of this nation.

On 17th July the broadband connection centre in Mohakhali was burned down. Mobile data services and communication were shut down by the PM. After 11 days the internet was properly restored.

On 19th July, A National Military Curfew was put in place by the Prime Minister to mitigate the unrest.

But that was last month. If you need details I highly recommend sources in Bangladesh like the Daily Star or reputable like Al Jazeera. The quota has since been lifted. Lives were lost. But it was for a good cause, right?

Right?

RIGHT?

Present

Well no. There's still a curfew in the capital. Several districts like Cumilla are still under attack. The government warns of not spreading misinformation yet still lie about the severity of the issue. The police are arresting those who protest as well as those who speak up. The students are demanding for the resignation of the PM. The PM obviously refuses to apologise or even acknowledge the deaths of some 147?

or is it 200?

They're not counting how many they're killing. They're not letting anyone else count either.

It is midnight here. This morning as in 4th August 2024, the students have called for a non cooperation movement. The Ruling Party Awami League will also be holding rallies across the nation tomorrow. I do not know what is going to happen to me. I do not want to think of what will happen to my family tomorrow. I don't really care. What I'm truly scared for is the future. As these protests do not end well here.

Future

Precedence says the PM will eventually resign. Every student protest of our nation has ended in momentary success.

Momentary

What comes after is usually a military regime. A caretaker government until a next government is chosen in a supposed election. Even then if they decide to hold an election. The caretaker government is usually run as a dictatorship. It was true for the 60s. It was true for the 90s. I don't doubt it will happen again.

I'm graduating next year. My niece is still new to the academic system. I wish her the best. My grandmas and grandpas are dead. Nobody left to pray for me. My aunts and uncles are growing old. My cousins can't speak up for fear. My mom is so tired. My dad is angry. I'm unsure if I will still be able to post the next couple of days.

All I'm asking is to spread the word. Please. International pressure really works for our nation. We're dying here. UNICEF reports 34 children dead. There might be more. All reblogs and likes and shares are appreciated. Thank you. I guess I'll see you tomorrow.

[sissylittlefeather]

Bonded: Part 3

Surrender

A/N: I was able to write something! Here is a continuation of the vampire!reader series I started on Halloween 2023. Part 2 was the last day of my Kinktober challenge and this is Part 3.

If you need to catch up, here are the links:

Part 1

Part 2

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, there's the usual sex and smut, but also death and blood drinking

Word count: ~2.7k

"It's easy. You kill him."

“Kill him?!” You shriek and Mary smirks at you.

“You'll bring him back, of course. You have to turn him.” You look down at Elvis and he kisses your knuckles submissively. You're tempted to let him stay like this: all sweet and in love with you. But it won't work with who he is.

“I can't turn him. How do I make him a normal human again?” You look at Mary pleadingly and she scoffs.

“Not possible. Our actions have consequences, young one. You started a process that can only be finished.” She turns and walks from the foyer into the kitchen. “Follow me.”

You pull Elvis to his feet and he wraps his arms around you.

“If I'm a vampire, will you let me stay with you?” His eyes are so round and full of affection that it almost breaks your heart.

“Honey, if I make you a vampire, I'm not sure you'll want to.” He caresses your cheek gently and without thinking, you lean into his touch.

“Come on!” Mary calls from the other room, breaking you both out of the trance you seem to be in. You make your way into the kitchen with Elvis close behind you. “He needs to lay on the table.”

“How exactly does this work?” You ask as Elvis climbs onto the table cooperatively.

“You will completely drain him. Your venom will begin the process of turning him and when he wakes, he will feed from you first. That will complete the transformation and end the blood bond.” Mary speaks matter-of-factly, but for you and Elvis, this is a decision that impacts the very core of who you are. You look down at him laying on the table.

“I'm sorry, Elvis.” He smiles up at you, doe-eyed.

“Don't be. I've loved loving you.” You swallow the lump in your throat and turn to Mary, determined to do this right. You nod and let your fangs descend. He won't taste as good without an orgasm, but that's not your concern right now. He cocks his head a little to give you access to the place you've bitten twice at this point. You lean in and run your tongue over the spot. Then, you sink your teeth into him and begin to drink.

You were wrong. He tastes just as sweet as he did after sex. Something about him is absolutely intoxicating, but you can't let it go to your head. You need to focus.

Fifteen minutes later, you pull back and breathe, looking down at his ashen face. You're so full, but you have to keep going. He's almost there and he nods to you gently before his eyes close and he passes out. You try not to cry as you lean back down and keep drinking.

Finally, no more comes as you suck the spot on his neck. You look down and notice that he isn't breathing anymore and start to panic.

“Mary! He's not breathing!”

“Of course he's not. He's dead.” She answers you nonchalantly as she fiddles with something in the kitchen.

“Mary! Did I do it right? Oh God…” You start to think she's been lying to you and shake Elvis's shoulders as the tears stream down your cheeks But of course he doesn't rouse. You bury your face in his chest and cry. “Elvis! Please!”

It takes you a second to realize what's happening when you feel his hand on the back of your head. As soon as you do, you sit up and look at him. His blue eyes are sharp and clear and if it's possible he's gotten even more attractive.

“I'm okay, honey. But-” He opens his mouth and his fangs are prominent. “Starving.”

You nod frantically and crawl into his lap, straddling him as he sits up, his hand on your neck as he runs his tongue over a spot.

“Okay, you're going to want to bite savagely and cruelly, but don't. Make yourself be gentle.” You whisper. He nods and growls against your neck. You feel him drag the tips of his fangs against your skin and shiver. It shouldn't be sexy, but it is. His other hand holds your hip, pulling you in against his body.

“Male vampires can be quite dangerous. There's a reason we ended them. You need to keep him under control.” Mary speaks and you notice a nervous edge as she watches the scene in front of her. It's true that no one has seen a male vampire in decades. She's not sure what will become of Elvis.

“You can't control me.” Elvis whispers darkly into your neck and you start to think this was a huge mistake. Without any further warning, he sinks his teeth into your neck and starts to suck the blood out of you.

As soon as the blood hits his lips, he's addicted to the way it tastes. He drinks from you eagerly and intensely and you feel yourself start to get lightheaded.

“Elvis…” You whimper. “Stop…”

Mary notices how pale and weak you are becoming and tries to pull him off of you. He easily pushes her to the side and grabs you with both arms, burying his lips in your neck as he sucks on you. He's lost in a haze of blood lust and actual lust and if it wasn't for Mary, he'd lay you down and take you right there in the kitchen. It's only when he feels your hands in his hair that he stops for a bit and pulls back to look at you. You blink slowly, trying to focus on his face with the blue eyes and soft lips, as blood drips down his chin.

“Elvis…” You plead as a tear slides down the side of your face, your head flopping as he holds you.

“Oh God, baby. I'm sorry. Baby?” He shakes you and tries to revive you.

“Hmm?” You answer, loopy from blood loss. He licks the spot where the puncture wounds were and they begin to heal quickly. He starts to panic a little that he's drained you too much. Without thinking, he offers you his arm. You lean forward with your fangs extended and before Mary can stop you, you bite him and begin to suckle.

“No! No! Don't do that!” Mary frantically pulls you off of his arm and you groan. He tastes so good and you need more. “Stop! You'll end up bonded again and this time it won't be breakable no matter what you do.”

You dive back into his arm and he pulls you in close to him and Mary starts to panic. She rips you apart and slaps you across the face, hard. Elvis hisses at her and pushes her backwards, holding you protectively. Without another thought, he pulls your lips to his and all of a sudden you're both a tangle of tongues and blood and fangs and combined moans as you kiss deeply. He holds your body as you roll against him and it looks like there's going to be no stopping the two of you when Mary grabs a pitcher of water and throws it on you both.

Finally, this wakes you both up as you cough and splutter and look around confused. Mary sighs deeply and falls backwards into a chair.

“What happened to us?” You look at Elvis and then at Mary.

“You almost soul-bonded.”

“We what?” Elvis asks, his eyes wide. Mary gives him an exasperated look.

“Soul-bonded! You almost bound yourselves to each other for eternity!” You crawl off of Elvis sheepishly and stand up and he tries to adjust so that his erection is less noticeable. He looks at you with his eyes wide and round, but the look of pure devotion is gone. Some part of you misses it.

“Now begins his existence as a vampire. You will have to teach him. Can you do that?” You look at Mary as she speaks and nod slowly. “Do not feed from him again.”

“I won't.”

******

You spend the next few nights teaching Elvis everything he needs to know about being a vampire. He learns to feed, to compel, and to clean up his messes before a girl wakes up. Overall, he's a good student, eager to learn and do what he's told, but sometimes you have a hard time pulling him off before he drains a girl completely. You really can't control him.

It scares you to send him off alone, but he has to go back to Germany. You keep in touch and he seems to be doing well, but your chest aches with missing him. He took a part of you when you turned him and now it feels like there's a hole in your heart. He sees you one last time before he leaves for home in 1960.

“Thank you for doing what I asked.” He speaks sullenly, like he's not exactly grateful.

“Elvis, I tried to warn you. This life isn't easy.” You look up at him and he cups your cheek gently.

“It's okay. I asked for it. It's my burden to bear.” The way he talks makes you want to cry. He didn't deserve this. You look down at your shoes to try to hide the tears.

“I'm so sorry.” He tips your chin up so that you're looking into his face.

“Hey. I asked for this. I'll be okay. You just… take care of yourself, alright?” You nod and desperately wish he wasn't leaving. It's stupid and impractical but you're not ready to be without him completely. Something about what you went through together has you wanting to cling to him like your non-life depends on it. He kisses your lips softly one last time and then turns and walks out the door.

But you don't even have time to cry before he's back through the door, his arms around you and his mouth pressed to yours.

“I can't leave.” He murmurs as he kisses down your neck, his fangs grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“You have to go.” You whimper and pull his hips into yours desperately.

“After.” He whispers, scooping you up bridal style and carrying you through your apartment to the bedroom.

When he gets there, he lays you down surprisingly gently and kicks his boots off. You spread your legs as he crawls on top of you, kissing the supple skin of your breasts. He opens your robe to reveal your bra and panties and moans softly when he sees you.

“You're still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.” He leans down and kisses the valley between your breasts. Your back arches without your control as he continues to press kisses down your stomach to your thighs. A whimper escapes your lips when you feel his fangs graze against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “Can I?”

“Fuck. Yes, please.” You try to remember what Mary’s warning was, but at this moment you don't really care. He smiles against your skin and licks a spot just inches from your center.

“Good girl.” He murmurs against you and then sinks his fangs into your thigh. You gasp and moan loudly as he begins to suckle from your leg. “Tastes so good, baby.”

You almost cum just from the sensation of him drinking from you, but he pushes you over the edge when he slips first one and then two fingers up inside you as he sucks. He barely gets his thumb on your clit before you shudder and pulse around his fingers, your orgasm ripping through you like a tsunami. After a few seconds, he licks the puncture wounds and then moves to your clit. You can still feel his fangs as he begins to lick over and around you fervently.

“I already came…” You whisper, your clit swollen and sensitive.

“I know. I want you to do it again.” The vibration of his voice against you makes you want to scream. Instead, you writhe and whimper as he drags his tongue over and around your sensitive bud. The pleasure is overwhelming and you feel another climax gather in your center.

“Oh God, Elvis!” You moan loudly and run your hand in the front of his hair. He groans and keeps licking you like he has nothing left to lose. “Ah! Ah! Ahhhhh!”

Your whole body relaxes as your release rushes through you and you cum hard in his mouth. He carries you through it with his tongue and then kisses your clit softly. As he moves back up your body, your hands begin to tear at his clothing and it doesn't take long for you both to be naked, pressing your sweat and skin against the other. You roll him onto his back and settle with a knee on either side of his hips. He reaches up and holds your face in his hand. There aren't any words, but both of you know what's being said. When you sink down onto his cock, his eyes roll back and he grunts loudly.

“Fuck, baby.” He whispers through gritted teeth as you start to roll your hips against him, pushing him deeper and deeper inside you. Your head drops back and you feel his hands on your breasts as you fuck him, slowly at first but picking up speed with each thrust. Before too long, you're bouncing as hard as you can, slamming yourself down on top of him as he guides your hips with his hands. Eventually, you lean over and kiss his neck and he wraps both arms around you, fucking into you from underneath. You graze your fangs over his skin and he stops.

“No. Mary said not to feed from me or we'll end up bonded again.” You pull back and sit up.

“Oh.” You whisper breathlessly.

“Not that I don’t- I mean-”

“No, it's okay.” Your eyes search his for a bit before you lean over again to hide the tears that have gathered in yours. He curses under his breath and looks up at the ceiling. Is it so terrible if you're bonded?

Without warning, and without pulling out, he rolls over on top of you and slowly rolls his hips forward to meet yours.

“You'll always have a part of me.” He whispers as he fucks into you. “Please believe that.”

You nod and hold onto his shoulders, still trying not to cry.

“I have to cum baby.” You nod, unable to speak. He's kicking himself for not letting you feed from him, but it's too late. His hips stutter into you and he grunts, filling you with his release. When he finishes, he pulls back and looks into your eyes, moving a piece of hair out of your face. “I won't ever forget you.”

You bite your bottom lip to keep the words from tumbling out of your mouth. I love you.

What you don't know, what you'll never know, is he's doing the exact same thing. He lays on your chest for a bit as you stroke his hair before he drags himself away and gets dressed.

In what feels like a few seconds, he's back at your front door, desperately searching for a reason to stay. But you've held back the words, knowing he has to go. He kisses your forehead and your lips one last time.

“I have to go.”

“I know.”

“I'm sorry. I-” Your eyes flick up to his quickly. “I'll miss you. Goodbye, baby.”

You nod and he walks through the door. This time he doesn't come back.

You watch on TV the next day as he waves and smiles and leaves Europe for good. You give yourself three days to mourn, but you're never quite the same after Elvis.

And he's definitely not the same after you.

******

December 1970

“I know I'm asking for a miracle here, but I need you to find her.”

“Boss, why do you need a dancer from the Moulin Rouge?” Elvis runs his hand through his hair and scowls. Most of his bodyguards know what he is, but he still can't admit to why he needs to see you.

“I just do. Now, can you do this, or do I need to ask someone else?” Elvis fiddles with the rings on his left hand nervously.

“I'll make it happen. We'll find her.” Sonny turns and walks from the room, leaving Elvis alone in the TV room at Graceland.

He prays desperately that they'll find you. You're his only hope.

******

To be continued...

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Taglist:

@ccab @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @deltafalax @atleastpleasetelephone @cinnamoroll-things @burnthheparaphilia @jhoneybees @cattcb @everythingelvispresley @returntopresley @searchingforgravity @msamarican @angschrof @lustnhim @polksaladava @librababe99 @hooked-on-elvis @theelvisprincess @makethemorning @peaceloveelvis @mrspresley69

[travelling-wanderer]

・﹒・ two roads

Summary: After your father racked up a huge bounty on him from being the leader of a crime gang, you finally got the courage to kill him. However, the Ghoul arrives intending to kill him unaware the man was already dead. He gives you two options- let him have the bounty and he'll offer you protection if you come with him, or be alone and at risk for other unsavory people to hunt you down.

Warnings: 18+, suggestive content, death, blood, coercion, flirty Cooper

Pairing: The Ghoul/Cooper Howard x GN!reader

Notes: H! I am now in the Fallout fandom thanks to the show. My only experience with Fallout was the mobile game Fallout Shelter lmfao played that on and off since 2017. Started a new vault tho! I got some show characters including The Ghoul >:)

Blood dripped down the knife as you stared at his lifeless corpse, your form hunched over, breathing heavy, eyes wide and frenzied, hair sticking up all over the place, staring down at the body as the red liquid stained and soaked into the floor beneath him.

You finally did it.

He wasn't a good father, but your mother helped curb his less savory habits. Well, she was gone now.

You only stayed with him out of obligation, but as the days wore on, so did he. He was born and raised up here, however your mother was a genuine Vault Dweller who left her vault and made a new life up here.

Including dating your father.

He started a small gang purely to find the people that had killed her, and ended up becoming one of the fiercest crime gang leaders in California. There was a high bounty on him and he was always on alert. Not around you though.

It was an easy stab to the heart.

You had never killed anyone before though- but your dad was the one who had raised you to protect yourself.

How ironic.

But you weren't a killer. You weren't used to being able to take someone's life with your own hands.

Things change.

You still could have sworn time stopped as you didn't move, still staring at the corpse. Should you feel bad? Guilty? Regret? Maybe. But you didn't. He wasn't a perfect father, you couldn't care less.

You didn't know how much time had passed before you heard the creaking of the front door open and steps on the floor. Whipping your body to face the source with the still bloody knife at the ready, the thing that walked through the door wasn't what you expected.

"Well now, it seems like I was too slow this time, usually I ain't" You heard of him, who didn't? He was a cowboy, ghoul bounty hunter- and the best in the country. You just didn't think he would ever cross your path despite your parents being involved with people like him. He was more a myth to you.

"Not much of a talker, eh? You his child I assume?" Still in shock over everything, you gave him a small nod as you must still look frenzied. He chuckled as he walked closer, yet you didn't move one inch, even as he gently grabbed your wrist that was holding the knife and tossed it onto the floor, plucking it from your hand with ease. You just watched as he smirked.

"Your first kill is always the roughest, don't worry though- you'll get used to it"

"Don't kill me" You meant to sound louder, firmer, it just came out as a whisper, a plea. Shaky, you watched as he just chuckled at your weakness. You may have just killed someone, but that didn't mean you didn't feel trauma from it.

"I ain't gonna kill ya, but I am claiming that bounty. Runnin' low on caps, I'm sure ya understand" A small part of you felt a bit calmer from his voice, you liked it in a very special way, but the survival part of your brain was stronger than the hormonal part, so you couldn't fully take it. You were still in shock after killing your father, after all.

"But- but I need those caps more" His eyebrow raised as he took you in, looking up and down, and it made you shiver in a way that wasn't out of fear.

"Oh really now? How about this-" He released you, causing you to stumble back a few steps and cradle your thankfully uninjured wrist.

"You let me have the bounty and I'll protect ya, meaning- you come with me" You narrowed your eyes at the last part. Protect you?

"Against what? Against who?" He was silent, telling you that it was something you certainly weren't dumb enough not to realize. After some time, it finally hit you"

"My dad's men..."

"Are not gonna be too happy to see their leader gone, killed by his only child nonetheless" The realization made your blood freeze, chills ran up your spine as you knew exactly who would go after you first and exactly how he would kill you.

"I can survive...I'll find a way" You were lying to yourself as there was no way you could live against your father's gang, but you didn't want to be protected by a stranger- who was a ghoul not to mention.

"Ok then" He stood right in front of you and leaned down- face only inches away- and put his mouth right next to your ear. Yet again, you shivered at his closeness, tingles going down your spine and at the same time, you could sense that something changed within him then.

"Don't come crying for me when you're bleeding out shot up like a shooting range" He whispered before slightly nipping at your ear and slowly pulling away, gauging your reaction. Heat consumed your entire face as you now felt the signs of arousal present in your body. Staring at him, you felt the overwhelming sense of attraction start to fester. Fuck- was he genuinely into you, playing some twisted game just to fuck with you, or trying to further manipulate you?

"I get a cut, seventy percent" Your voice was so shaky, between the arousal and the fact that he knew exactly what buttons to push, you couldn't believe you were going along with this. With him. But his face lit up at your inference of agreeing to let him protect you.

"Fifty" You then got right up to his ear, just like what he did.

"Sixty and final offer"

Hook.

"Or else I'll take my chances"

Line.

You bit his ear, giving it a small lick before pulling away.

Sinker.

His breath hitched as he looked at you with eyes full of nothing but lust and curiosity. He then suddenly grabbed your shoulders and slammed you against the closest wall, his lips ghosting yours. Your heart was hammering out of your chest as you waited in bated breaths, arousal spiking your sex.

"Come. With. Me" He was firm, but not angry. He was more...pent up, growing frustrated with you throwing back what he was giving you. You could tell he was hard without looking down.

"Something tells me there's a specific reason you want to protect me, isn't there, Ghoul?" Despite only knowing each other for less than ten minutes, you already felt comforted in his hold, and you both knew how to get under the other's skin.

The attraction was- self assured- mutual and instant.

Neither of you could or would deny it, just never admit it directly.

Instead, it would linger in the air, charged like lightening.

"And if so?" Now that the earlier tension was gone, you could fully take in all forms of him, including his accent. That accent was old, very old, so old that had to of been from pre-war. Nobody spoke like he did.

Nobody.

"I'll pack my things" Pushing him away, you walk towards your bedroom to gather a bag when you passed by your father's body and stopped.

"By the way- what part of him did they want?"

"The head"

"Go ahead, just please cover it. I...I don't want to see it" Shaking your head to rid you of that thought, you let him do...that as you ignored the sounds of mutilation as you put your best and favorites into a backpack. You were very selective about what you brought, since you know would forever be moving around. Going out into the main room again, you were surprised at what you saw, or rather, lack of. Instead of just covering the head up in some makeshift bag, he draped a curtain he ripped off from one of the rods and laid it over his body.

"Thought you didn't want to see it again at all. Now let's go, we're wasting daylight" The ball of fabric that was now connected to his belt swayed back and forth as he exited through the front door, stopping right before he walked onto the sand after he realized that you haven't moved.

"You comin'?"

[grey342]

Hii! I’m so glad to see someone currently writing bradley cooper fics because honestly PHIL CAN GET IT. i wanted to request maybe a jealous!phil where reader goes on a friends bachelors trip and knowing Phil’s past he gets all angsty, as smutty as you’d like :) honestly anything you’d write id love!!

Don't leave me

Jealous! Phil x reader

synopsis - Phil's girlfriend goes on a trip for a bachelorette party and he's not happy about it.

warnings - MDNI 18+ content, Phil being dramatic, Phil being jealous (Obv), lingerie, slight handjob, P in V, riding and praise.

authors note - Thank you so much for this request and the sweet compliment! I gotta be honest i'm not a huge fan of angst so I made Phil a lil more dramatic and kinda sassy. I still hope you like it :)

please do not steal my work - belongs to @grey342

This man is gonna be the death of me.

The main thought running through your head whilst packing. His remarks and whines can be heard from the next room.

Your close friend was having her bachelorette party this weekend but, she also wanted to spend a couple of days with the bridal party before her wedding. So you all decided to spend a long weekend in Vegas. And Phil is not happy about it.

"I mean, I don't get why you have to go," you roll your eyes at him, "it's not like she's your best friend."

"Oh yeah? And who is?" You retaliate, smirking.

"Me." He scoffs, as if this is obvious information, walking into the room. You take one look at him and start laughing.

You're not stupid, you kind of guessed why he was so mad about you going but now. He's made it really clear for you.

"What's so fucking funny?" He says confused, placing his hands on his hips. A gesture you would usually find attractive but right now, it's making you laugh even harder.

"I just, uh, I can't believe it," you say in between wheezes, " I mean. I had an idea but now it's so obvious." You quietly chuckle.

"What? What is? You're not making any sense." He declares, clearly getting frustrated. After calming yourself down you finally say-

"You're jealous." Apparently, it's now his turn to burst out laughing.

"What? Where the fuck did you get that idea?" He managed in between laughs.

"You're jealous. You're so insistent on me not going, you're trying to tell me all the bad things about the girls. I mean you literally just said "she's not your best friend, I am." You're SO jealous." You clarify.

He's silent just staring at you. You can see the clogs turning in his head to try and come up with a good response. You swear you can see the light bulb appear on top of his head.

"You're just saying that to make yourself feel better about leaving me. For a whole weekend might I add." He says almost sassily and walks out of the room. Clearly proud of himself.

"Sweetie," you sigh, "it's only three days. I'll be back before you know it. We can text throughout the day and call every night." You try to deal.

"Or I have a better idea... don't go and we can talk all day and all night. Face to face."

You groan in frustration. You cannot believe this is the type of conversation you were having with your grown ass boyfriend. Pick the sassy men they said. You internally roll your eyes.

You walk into the living room to see him practically pouting on the couch. Scoffing, you go to walk away when an idea pops into your head.

"Hey Phil, if you stop complaining right now you can have your present early." He looks at you confused.

"What the fuck do you mean "present"?"

"Well since you are so predictable," you emphasise the last word, " I knew you would act like this when I said i'm going on a trip. So, I bought you something as a "sorry for leaving you, you big baby" gift."

"You did?" You can see the glint of excitement in his eyes.

"Yes my little princess but, clearly you are a lot more upset than I anticipated so i'm willing to give it to you early. If you want it that is." You wager. There's a long pause where he's weighing out his options.

"Okay," he clasps his hand together, " I have decided that I would like my present early. BUT I still want one for when you come back." He leans back on the couch, glowing with pride.

"Fine. I'll be right back." He rubs his hand together in anticipation as you leave the room.

Moments later you're shouting down the hall, "close your damn eyes." He grunts in disapproval.

"Okay and open." He does and your met with a groan that also sound like a moan.

"Oh baby." You're stood in front of him in a lingerie set, barely covering anything. Plus it's in his favourite colour.

"Am I forgiven?" You say, moving down to straddle his lap.

"Yes. A million times yes." He exclaims instantaneously as you giggle.

His mouth meets yours passionately, with your teeth and tongues clashing. His hands make their way down to your ass and yours to his chest. Pushing him lightly so his back meets the couch.

His slowly starts to kiss your jaw, then down your neck and finally the top of your chest. He looks up at you, almost pleading, and you give him a look of approval. His hands move around your back to unclasp your bra.

He slides it off at an agonisingly slow pace. When the bra is fully off he stares at your chest in awe. He moves his head down taking one nipple in the mouth and groping the other. You let out a content sigh.

He switches over, repeating the same process as you began to rock slowly, back and forth, on his lap. His moans vibrate on your chest as your breaths turn into pants.

You reach down in between you and start pulling at the waistband of his grey sweatpants, indicating you want them off. He knows what you want and immediately begins to pull them down. You look down and eagerly take him in your hand. You swipe your thumb over the tip and began pumping up and down.

"Fuck.." He groans. You push your panties over to the side and slide onto him. Both of you moaning in unison. You'll never get used to the way he feels, filling you up perfectly.

Once you're both ready, you begin to move back and forth, riding him. His hands take sanctuary on your hips, slowly guiding you. You lean down, placing your mouth on his, capturing his groans in your mouth.

"You're doing so good. Riding my dick so well baby, my good girl." He says against your mouth. He reaches down and starts to rub slow circles on your clit. You whimper at the contact.

"Oh fuck, do that again." Obeying his orders you do it again. He uses his other hand to begin assisting you in bouncing up and down. Your movements begin to change pace, going faster.

His groans and your whimpers becoming louder. He dick twitching inside of you, indicating he's close. You ride faster and bounce harder. He in turn, quickens his movements on your clit and his fingers dig into your hips, leaving bruises for later.

"Oh shit, Phil.. I'm close."

"I know honey, I know hold on a lil longer." He pants. Your cries being the response. Your head thrown back, eyes screw shut.

"Hey, look at me. I wan't you to look at me when you cum." He demands. You immediately open your eyes and stare into his. His gaze possessive.

"Oh fuck, Phil." You whine.

"Let go baby, give it to me." That send you over the edge. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, the pleasure taking over and your body began to shake.

"Oh shit, oh shit." He says as he fills you up, head resting in the crook of your neck.

Coming down from your highs, he lifts his head and smiles at you.

"What?"

"You're so beautiful." He places a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Mhm, i'm still going." You stand up and start walking towards the bedroom.

"Ah! Come on honey, i'm the love of your life! You can't leave me!" He calls out, following you.