#if violence is to be avoided then why has my life been full of it

[sixxxxxxeyes]

I want I want I want.

I want what I can't have. I want what I don't need. I want what I should hate.

Desperate to touch, to taste, to claw my way inside another body.

To embody it fully, this violence. To change it. To turn it into love.

If my body is a temple then desecration is my punishment, my desire, my downfall.

This is the only way i know how to be human.

[the--days]

so it's like this.

you're young and you're scared and you're trapped in the feywild (happens to the best of us) with the love of your life. You're a half-elf and she's a fullblooded elf but you don't think about it very much because you're barely surviving day to day. And you get offered a deal to get yourself home again, and you take it. And the price of your freedom is that you leave her still trapped there, alone.

And then five years pass. And you age a century in that time, and you grow, and you change, and you find her again, and you're still in love, and you meet people, and you lose people, and you love them too, and you learn, and you start wanting a future again, and caring again, taking care of yourself, taking care of other people--

and after all of that, at the end of things, you find out the man responsible for all of the misery in your short, sad life has cast a spell which gives him complete control and ownership of you- mind, body, and soul (again. this happens to the best of us). And you are given the choice to stay under his thrall, and live a thousand years-- or to age and die, like humans do, and to be free of him.

And the love of your life is there, and you're married now, and she's still a full blooded elf, and you're still a half-elf, and you think about what that means a lot more than you used to.

And still, after everything you've learned-- you choose your freedom. You choose leaving her behind.

[absurdthirst]

A Mafia Marriage {Mafia!Oberyn Martell x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 16k

Warnings: Modern AU, Mafia AU, arranged marriage, contract marriage, harsh feelings, cancer, verbal sparring, impetuousness, Oberyn is volatile, threats, violence, rough sex, harshness, dominant sex, unprotected sex, loss, death, grief, foursomes, wlw, mlm, oral (male and female receiving), group sex

Comments: Having worked for the notorious mafia family, the Martells, your mother is very sick and you are running out of hope. Until you are summoned by Doran Martell. He will pay for the best treatments and the finest doctors in exchange for one thing. Marrying his brother, Oberyn Martell.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.

|| MasterList || Oberyn Martell MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The Martells are the most powerful family in the city of Dorne. The ability to ruin lives or enhance them with the power, control and wealth they have is immense. They control everything. Nothing happens in their city that they don’t know about and most would never dream of trying to cross the mafia family. The last time that happened, Elia Martell had been killed by the Lannisters and it had sparked a rivalry war that still causes tensions to this day. 

Loyalty means everything to them. Your mother has worked for them your entire life and because of that, you were exposed to things most were not. Living in Sunspear, the large looming tower that the Martell family had built as a symbol of their status. Now, that life is in jeopardy, your mother is sick and you have been summoned by Doran Martell to discuss her condition. 

“Come in, sweet one.” Doran ushers you in with a wave of his hand and you walk in. He gestures to the large chair on the opposite side of his desk and you sit down, wringing your hands together. “How is your mother?” He asks and you bite your lip, trying to stop yourself from crying. 

“She’s good. She’s - she’s not good.” You choke out, tears stinging in your eyes. “She’s- she’s really sick. Stage four breast cancer and we - we don’t have enough money to get her treatment. She has insurance but it’s not enough. They said they’d make her comfortable but we want to fight it.” You reveal, closing your eyes in pain.

Doran knew that the prognosis isn’t good, he’s spoken with her doctors and they believe that the best course of treatment was to keep her comfortable. She has less than six months to live. He taps his desk as he watches you, leaning forward to pull his handkerchief out of his breast pocket and offers it to you. “Then you must fight it.” He decides, knowing that it will be to his advantage to offer this to you. “Your mother has been a loyal member of our household for many years. We will cover the costs of her treatment and care. Hiring the best doctors and nurses.” He pauses. “If you will do me one favor.” Your eyes open, full of hope, ready to do anything and he delivers his demand. “You must marry Oberyn.”

You stare at him in shock for several moments before you laugh, your head shaking as you think about Oberyn Martell being married. The man is infamous for his liaisons with men and women across Dorne. He doesn’t want to settle down and you certainly don’t want to marry a man who can’t keep it in his pants for more than a day. “I don’t want - no. I don’t - why me? He is with Ellaria.”

“Ellaria has no interest in taming some of Oberyn’s….wilder proclivities.” Doran hums. “My brother is quick to fight, easily goaded and offended. You…you are sweet. Gentle.” He presses his finger tips together with his elbows on his desk. “You can temper that nature, I know you can.” You look doubtful, but he knows his brother and despite his insistence that he would never settle down, he would with you. “Marry my brother and your mother will have everything she needs and more. Hopefully to live a long and healthy life. If unsuccessful, you will have the security of being a Martell. Having our family to lean on.” 

You should say no. You should storm out and tell Doran you’d never marry his brother even if your life depended on it. But it’s not your life that depends on it. It’s your mother’s. You swallow harshly and nod, “fine. I’ll marry him. Does he - does he know?” You ask, curious if the man knows about this arrangement. Doran smiles, “he’s fully on board.”

****

“What the fuck are you thinking? Marrying me to that - to that mouse.” Oberyn growls at his brother when he storms into his office. Doran sighs and taps his fingers on his desk, “Oberyn…you need to calm down.”

“Absolutely not. I told you I was never marrying.” Oberyn reminds his brother, temper flashing in his dark eyes, making his swarthy complexion even deeper. The grey that is starting to thread through his hair doesn’t distract from his attractive, yet harsh, features and Oberyn still fights and fucks like a man half his age. Doran sighs. “As head of this family, I have the right to demand you marry, anyone I choose, remember?” He shrugs slightly. “I choose her and you will do it.”

“You want me to continue doing your dirty work? My dear brother, never getting his hands bloody. I do all the hard work. Killing who you order since you cannot. Yet you sit behind that desk and order me to marry a woman I don't want. She’s a mouse. She’s - she’s boring.” Oberyn growls and Doran shakes his head, “she will calm you. She will be good for you. If you do not marry her…I will disinherit you. No properties. No cars. No money. You’ll be out in the cold. You’re volatile. We cannot afford another war with the Lannisters, yet every day you take us closer to it.”

Oberyn hisses angrily at his brother, knowing that he could call his bluff, but the risk to his daughters would be too great. The Sand Snakes do not deserve to have their lives upended. “Marriage will not change me, brother.” He snorts, waving his hand dismissively. “Arrange the affair, the poor girl will be bored out of her mind as I continue to do exactly what I wish.” He turns around and strides from the room confidently as he gets the last word.

Doran shakes his head, knowing his brother is a hard nut to crack but he will try. He wants his brother to settle down before he takes over when Doran steps down. After the car accident, Doran ended up in a wheelchair and he knows he will not be able to lead the family when his body fails him.

****

“Don’t worry, mom.” Holding her hand, you rub the back of it gently, wondering if it’s just your imagination that her skin feels brittle. “Doran has agreed to pay for all the treatments.” You smile, hiding the anguish that you are feeling. This is for your mother, no price is too high. “You are going to have the finest doctors and nurses in Dorne treating you and you will be cured in no time.” Her weak smile is worth it. Reaching out with your other hand, you pull the covers up her body, knowing that she is cold and turning up the heat by another notch. She is cold all the time and luckily you don’t live in the north, Winterfel would be miserable for her. You squeeze her hand gently. “See? I told you that we shouldn’t give up.” 

Oberyn seethes as he watches Ellaria dance with a few other women on stage. His lover doesn’t know the news that he’s getting married yet and he plans to keep it that way. The ice in his glass of whiskey clinks as he grips it in his hand and he hates that he’s being forced into marriage. He vowed to never marry after his sister was killed because she married into another mafia family. The Lannisters killed her. He just can’t prove it. He sighs and Ellaria comes over, climbing into his lap to press her lips to his, “come on lover. Watch up. You rented this private booth for your enjoyment.” She reminds him as the rest of the club goers squeeze in below. 

**** 

You feel overwhelmed. Watching the wedding planner as he pulls out the linen options and cake options and you don’t even care. You’re being bought to marry a Martell and you don’t want to pretend like this wedding is of your own volition. “Where is the groom?” The planner asks and you bite your lip, “he’s-” Oberyn cuts you off with “right here” as he strides into the room with a cigar in hand, his orange shirt half unbuttoned and you hate how attractive he looks.

Awakening before noon is a rarity for Oberyn and despite the late night, he is finding himself to be enjoying the shocked look on your face when he strolls into the room. “Apologies for being late, you know how I hate to drag myself away from my….activities.” He quirks a brow and smirks as he eyes the wedding planner. “You should know that all colors will be Martell colors.” He tuts. “No need to pick anything else. After all, she is marrying into the most powerful family around.” 

You bite your lip to smother your scoff as his cockiness. You shake your head and look down at the plans, the colors you picked are obsolete now that orange and gold have been chosen by him. “What else would you like to have, darling?” You ask sarcastically. You know Oberyn. Your mother works for them so you’ve grown up with the family, watching Doran take over, have the accident, then Oberyn whoring around, killing anyone who dares to look at him the wrong way.

“Wine, lots of wine.” He snorts, tapping his chin as he pretends to contemplate the question even though it’s obvious you would rather he leave. “Perhaps some contortionists and burlesque dancers for the reception?” He knows that will offend your prudish sensibilities and maybe even make you mad enough to call off the wedding. If you refuse to go through with it, Doran cannot complain. 

You clench your jaw, you know what he's trying to get to you to do and you won’t let him. You need to make sure your mom gets treatment. You won’t allow him to ruin this. When your mom is better, you’ll divorce him and he can have his life back. “Whatever you want.” You hum, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of you arguing. “Perhaps we can have a vanilla wedding cake?” You suggest, wanting something simple and you know that’s your mom’s favorite.

Vanilla. Boring. Just like you seem to be. Oberyn rolls his eyes but he’s nodding. “The cake can be whatever you want it to be.” He promises, making it seem like he is being generous. “I also want cupcakes of every flavor.” He smirks at the wedding planner and sends him a small wink. “I like variety.”

You can’t refrain from rolling your eyes this time. “Yeah. Cupcakes. Every flavor. Of course, vanilla isn’t enough for him.” You tell the planner who glances between the two of you. You are struggling to even get through this but you will. Oberyn looks at the table layout and quickly moves people around, a glint in his eye and he frowns after a moment, “Ellaria needs a table.” He declares and you inhale sharply, unable to believe he has the audacity to invite his lover to your wedding. “She’s - I didn’t think- it’s a family affair.” You remind him and he scoffs, “she is family.” You sigh, reminded that he cares little for loyalty and a monogamous relationship.  You remember a few years ago the Martells were throwing a party for Doran and your mother was invited and you joined her. You overheard Oberyn proudly telling his friends that he could fuck who he wanted. Marriage was a ball and chain and he refused to be tamed. He wanted freedom to fuck who he wants. He also went on to say he hated women who didn’t know what they wanted from sex. Women who were timid or shy. That made you roll your eyes and stride off to search for a glass of champagne. Since you were a little girl, all you ever wanted was a loving relationship. A man who loved you and was loyal to you, dedicated and caring. Now, you’re marrying a man who couldn’t give a shit about you.

Oberyn is surprised that you aren’t pitching a fit, sure that you would be insulted. “Fantastic.” He murmurs, leaning close to unsettle you and he’s struck by how sensual your perfume is. He is not a man who restrains himself often, so he presses his lips to your pulse in a gesture that anyone else would find loving and intimate. “You and I will get along well, my sweet little Dove.” He coos in your ear. 

You resist the urge to shiver and recoil as he backs away and you want to slap him for kissing you. You don’t know what Doran coerced him with to marry you but it’s obvious he has no plans to change his lifestyle and you don’t care. You just want to give your mother a chance, if there is any hope of her beating the cancer. You won’t let Oberyn ruin this. You need to do this for your mom’s sake. “Whatever you want, baby.” You coo, reaching up to caress his cheek and the wedding planner smiles, “you make such a beautiful couple.” You lower your hand and thank him. “Let’s discuss the outfits. I have you booked to go wedding dress shopping on Saturday. Oberyn, you will have your tailor work on your suit?”

He hums, knowing that Doran will want him to have a new suit made for the event. “Do you want something traditional or bold and daring?” He asks, arching a brow at you and smirking. 

“Traditional.” You tell him, not wanting to look like you’re in Vogue even though you literally will be in Vogue with the man beside you. He looks disappointed with your answer but you don’t care. This isn’t a runway event, it’s a wedding. “Black tie it is.” Oberyn nods, although he will sneak in some orange and gold. The wedding planner makes some notes and claps, “very well. We have everything we need to get this wedding going. T-minus twenty days. I’ve never planned a wedding so fast.” He confesses, almost wondering why he needs to plan it so fast. His eyes drop down to your stomach but there’s no indication that you are pregnant. He had been told about your mother so that could be why it’s being planned so fast.

“I want my daughters there.” Oberyn tells you. “In the wedding or not, I will dance with each one at the reception.” He has eight daughters, eight bastards that he publicly and proudly claims as his own. He is a doting father and his own wedding will be no exception. “I don’t suppose you have decided on a ring yet, have you Dove?”

You know that Oberyn has lived many lives before you met him. You sigh and shake your head, “I don’t expect a ring. You know what this is.” You murmur, not wanting to take more than what you need for your mother. You need to help her and you don’t want the Martell money to wear on your finger as a reminder of your situation.

The wedding planner is not standing next to you, but Oberyn is offended. “Whatever this might be, you will have a ring.” He will not have someone talk about his lack of care for his bride, even if he does not wish to get married. “I will have the jeweler come tonight with a selection of rings for you to choose from.” He informs you. “Pick what you will like from them.”

You scoff, "how romantic." You roll your eyes and watch the planner gather his things while Oberyn is next to you. You hate how he seems to loom over you, his aura overwhelming you. He's always been that way. You look down at your bare left hand and try to envision his ring on your finger but it feels foreign and wrong.

“It is better than picking some monstrosity you hate.” He snorts. “I don’t think that you would like my taste in jewelry, you don’t seem to like my taste in anything, Dove.” Now that he’s seen your reaction to this, he feels that you are no more happy about the situation than he is. “Or are you hoping that your innocence will intrigue me?”

You snort, "I don't want to intrigue you. You are indulgent, quick to kill, and ostentatious. I am not. I have never killed. I have never been - been promiscuous. We are worlds apart and this marriage is for us to get what we want." You declare, knowing he would never marry you if it weren't for his brother.

“What I want?” He snorts, oddly insulted by your description of him even though you aren’t wrong. “Believe me, there is nothing in this arrangement that I want.”

His words sting even though you aren't remotely interested in a relationship with him but you don't want to show him how his words hurt. You stiffen and look at him, ignoring the way his dark eyes seem to burn into you. "The only thing I want is for my mother to live. I'll do whatever it takes to save her. Even marry you." You hiss and stride off, the wedding planning finished and you want to get home and pretend for a while that this isn't happening.

Oberyn watches you go, a frown creasing his brow and he has to admit that he admires that. You don’t want him, that’s obvious. You aren’t a good actress and he wouldn’t have believed you if you tried to seduce him. He pulls out his phone and calls his brother, even if the man is still in the same house he is. “Doran….tell me about the mother.” He demands.

**** 

You stare at yourself in the mirror, almost confused by the person looking back at you, and you don't recognize the woman standing there in the white dress. A bride. You look like a bride and you glance back at the iPad where your mom is on there watching you try on dresses. She was confused when you told her you were marrying Oberyn when you had been vocally disapproving of him. "You look beautiful, baby." She coos and you smile, tears stinging in your eyes as you wish you were marrying someone you loved instead of Oberyn.

“This is a beautiful choice.” The sales woman had been very attentive when she learned whose bride you are. The announcement had been made in the papers and on all the major Dornish networks two days ago. She knows that no expense will be spared on the Martell wedding and that means a hefty commission for her. “Would you like to try the shoes you picked out?”

You nod, chest feeling tight at how real this is starting to feel. You inhale shakily, watching the associate go to fetch the shoes and you lift your dress to try on the shoes that cost more than you’d spend in shoes in a lifetime. You turn to face the iPad again and your mom grins, clapping her hands and you hate how frail she looks. “Beautiful. Beautiful.” She grins and you offer her a weak smile.

“Oh I am so happy that I will get to be there for this.” She tells you, having feared the worst when her diagnosis was terminal. “The new doctors have been wonderful, they assure me that their treatment course has a better prognosis than before.” She beams tiredly through the camera. “Perhaps there will be grandchildren soon to help bolster my strength.”

You nod, swallowing down the hope that your mom could get better. She could beat this. She doesn’t know that this is fake. You told her that you fell hard and fast for Oberyn and he wanted to marry you before anything happened to your mom. She bought the story, the drugs clouding her judgment and you are grateful you can give her this happiness. You sigh and brush down the dress, looking at yourself in the mirror. You never imagined you’d be marrying for money but here you are. If your mom lives, it’s worth every second of misery being married to a man who can’t keep it in his pants.

“This arrived to the store for you.” The assistant brings over a box that is plain and sturdy. Obviously old. You frown slightly and take the small card that is with it and flip it open. “Dove, this veil has been worn by Martell women for over two hundred years. Wear it well. Oberyn.” There is no sentiment behind the words, but the thoughtfulness of it surprises you. Opening the box to find a stunning antique place veil that has small yellow and orange suns delicately embroidered around the edges of the throat length overlay and the twenty foot train. It’s an heirloom piece and absolutely stunning.

The sales associate comes over and gasps at the veil. “The last woman to wear this was Elia.” She reminds you of the last Martell woman who was killed by the Mountain on the order of the Lannisters. A man who still walks the earth today by some miracle because Oberyn has been very vocal about killing him. She carefully removes the veil from the box and secures it on your head. It’s so delicate but combined with the dress, you look like a princess. “Oh my God.” You choke as your mother says the same words but as a tearful coo. “You look beautiful. Like a Martell.” She cries happily and you stare at yourself in the mirror. A Martell. This is real. You’re marrying a man you do not love. You carefully touch the veil and take a moment until you turn to the sales associate and tell her you’re going to take the dress. It’s ridiculously expensive but Oberyn already has told the shop to let you buy whatever you want. You say goodbye to your mom and shut the iPad after you change into your clothes and you head back to your apartment to find it being packed up. “What the hell is this?” You ask the moving man who shrugs, “moving you into your new place with your hubby to be, sweet cheeks.” He declares and you clench your jaw. You knew you’d be moving in with Oberyn to keep up appearances but not so soon.

The man watching over the packing pushes off the counter where he was leaning against it as he eats a bowl of berries from your refrigerator and saunters over towards you. “Don’t worry, they won’t break anything.” He promises. He is Oberyn’s right hand man, handsome and just as quick to violence as the man Dorne had labeled the ‘Red Viper’ and ‘the Prince of Dorne’ due to his second in command status. This made Dario third in command in his mind. “Although maybe you should invest in some lingerie to entice Oberyn.” He suggests with a smirk. “The drawer is a little….bland.”

You narrow your eyes, hating that Dario has looked through your underwear drawer. Hating that your life is being moved because of Oberyn. "I don't think I'll be enticing Oberyn at all. This is - you know what this is." You hiss at the cocky man who smirks as he stands in your kitchen. "I do. Which means you better make it worth his while since he's marrying you to save your mother." He hums, reaching out to cup your cheek and you jerk your head from his touch. "Shame as well. You're a pretty one. Stuck up but nothing a bit of anal wouldn't change." He chuckles and you wrinkle your nose, "you're disgusting." You scoff and turn to make sure the movers aren't damaging anything.

**** 

“Lover, where do you expect her to stay?” Ellaria’s body stretches out across the settee, head back as she tilts her head up to look into her lover’s eyes. Her smile is almost secretive, as if she knows something that Oberyn does not. She might, she’s been with the man for over a decade, birthed four of his children and has no issue sharing him with whomever catches his fancy. Oberyn huffs and shakes his head. “There are plenty of rooms. She can take up an entire floor for all I care, but she will live in Sunspear.” Doran had made it clear that you would be his wife and he would treat you accordingly. It was why he had sent the veil over to the dress shop. It was important you wear it. To show all of Dorne that you are his, a Martell.

You glance around the place you’ve been moved to. It’s beautiful and you look out across Dorne to the sea, blue and glistening under the hot sun. You sigh and inhale deeply now that the movers have left and unpacked. You didn’t need to lift a finger and you wonder if that is how the Martell’s live. Rich and famous for all the wrong reasons, you wonder what your life will become. Your mom is in the hospital, a private wing paid for by Doran and a reminder of your agreement. You don’t hear the door behind you open until Oberyn’s “hello” reaches your ears and you sigh, turning to look at your husband-to-be. He looks disheveled and it annoys you to no end that he looks hot yet you can tell he’s been with his lover. “I didn’t expect you to return.” You confess, “figured you’d be with your lover until the weddings

Oberyn smirks slightly at the comment. “You are not as innocent as you look.” He hums, walking farther into the room and picking up a crystal figurine that you have sitting on a table. “It is comfortable, no? You have everything you need?”

You nod, “it’s beautiful here.” You look out the window again, “I see why you are so…you. Being gifted this beautiful life.” You murmur, turning back to look at him as he sets the crystal down. “I know you are with Ellaria. I don’t - should we say I know about it or should we say it’s over?” You ask, wanting to know to react if you’re asked about it.

He arches a brow at the surprisingly mature take. He had expected you to make a snide comment about his lover of many years. “You can say what you wish. Even tell people she is your lover.” He chuckles, not even able to imagine that, although Ellaria thinks you are very appealing in a virginal way. “She would not mind.”

You roll your eyes, knowing this is a woman he has children with. “Come now, people won’t believe I am her lover. I need - I’ll tell people it’s an open relationship. Easiest way since you're unlikely to become monogamous.” You huff and walk over to the fridge to take a bottle of water out. “I don’t know what you get from this arrangement apart from annoying me at every turn.”

Oberyn snorts. “Perhaps I like to annoy you.” He muses, wondering how you are to temper his impulses when you can’t stand him. “You are free to have whatever lovers you wish.” Your mouth drops open in shock and he holds up a finger to silence you. “Two rules. No bastards and you don’t fuck my men.”

You think about Dario, how he eyed you, and you bite your lip, wondering if you can rile your fiancé up. “I can promise no bastards.” Which makes you chuckle internally considering he has eight daughters out of wedlock. “For your men…I don’t know if I can promise that.” You hum vaguely, liking the way he clenches his jaw.

Fury heats his veins and he is moving before you can react, grabbing your arms and hauling you closer, his nose nearly touching yours. “I do not hurt women, but I will kill every one of my men you touch.” He hisses. “I will not have them thinking to fight me for your cunt.”

You gulp, his fingers digging into your arms to give you a glimpse of the dangerous man he is. You nod, your nose bumping his as you say “I understand.” You don’t want anyone to die because of you. You have had boyfriends, lovers, but you refuse to have your image tarnished by taking a lover while married to Oberyn. You hope this can be annulled once enough time has passed and your mother is better.

****

“You look perfect.” The irony of having Ellaria help him get ready for a wedding to another woman is not lost on him. She smirks as she adjusts his bow tie slightly. “I will have to pick out quite a few lovers tonight to distract myself from missing out on your wedding night.” The pout she sends him is playful and he snorts. “I will be spending tonight in our bed with you and whoever catches our interests.” He captures her hands and holds them, his eyes serious and dark. “This changes nothing between us.”

You brush down your dress, your mom in a beautiful dress, sitting in her wheelchair with the IV connected to her arm. She’s so frail but her smile is beaming and your heart warms at her happiness. Even if she doesn’t quite understand this farce, she’s happy and you can give this day to her. If she doesn’t survive, you’ll know you did everything for her. “He’s going to be blown away.” She coos and you offer her a weak smile in the mirror. You have no bridesmaids, not wanting anyone else involved in this sham and your wedding planner helps you put the intricate veil on your head.

Oberyn stands next to the priest, sure that the Gods will be laughing as he professes to take this woman as his wife. The church is packed, everyone wanting to see the infamous Oberyn Martell marry. Some said it would never be done. He glances at his brother who is sitting in his chair on the front row, making sure that this marriage happens. He cuts his eyes towards the door and sighs.

The music begins to play and for a second, you want to run away and not look back. Then you remember your mother’s face and your chest tightens. You need to do this for her. You inhale deeply and nod, letting the ushers open the doors, and you grip your bouquet as you start your trip down the aisle to a man that doesn’t love you and you don’t love him.

Glancing quickly at Ellaria, Oberyn turns to watch as you start the slow, measured walk down the aisle that is covered in silk flower petals. Some might have believed that he had never married because Ellaria was deemed unsuitable to be his wife, but that was not the truth. The truth was, the part of Oberyn’s heart that loved - beyond his children - died the day his sister was savagely killed. Brutalized and cut down, the vision of her final moments and the loss of his favorite sibling had hardened his heart. Even now, he loves Ellaria in his own way, he cares for her and makes sure that she is provided for, but he does not hold her in an all consuming passion. He does not crave her like he craves air. Watching as your white clad body glides forward, he wonders if you will understand that.

You can feel his eyes on you and you force yourself to look up from the aisle to meet his dark gaze. His stare is intense and you wonder what’s going through his mind. He’s a mystery. He’s been with Ellaria for years on and off and never married her. He’s had eight daughters and never been married. Either he can’t commit or he doesn’t want to commit. You finally stand before him, handing your bouquet to the wedding planner and you take Oberyn’s outstretched hand to stand in front of the priest.

Despite your obvious dislike of the situation, you look beautiful and graceful. Your hand is soft and warm in his and your eyes meet his with a determination that pulls reluctant admiration out of you. This is for your mother, he knows that. The frail woman is here and that is a miracle because the doctors are trying every radical treatment they can to save her. He has known her most of his life and he has to respect this kind of loyalty to her. The willingness to do anything to save her. He pulls you close and starts to flip the veil over your head so he can see you clearly.

Your eyes meet his unhindered as he lifts the veil from your face and you inhale shakily as he reaches for your hands. You barely pay attention to the priest, letting him make his speech but Oberyn has to squeeze your hand to get your attention when the priest asks if you take Oberyn to be your husband. You hesitate for a moment, biting your lip and look over at your mother who is smiling with tears in her eyes. You can’t say no. She needs to have one last chance. “I do.” You declare and Oberyn’s grip on your hands loosens while he says “I do.” After your exchange rings and the priest finishes his speech, you’re in a daze until the priest declares you husband and wife. “You may now kiss your bride.”

His lips curve into a smirk. Not shy about gathering you closer to kiss you without any fear of you pushing him away or slapping him. Not that it would bother him, he doesn’t mind when a lover is rough. It’s exciting. He makes it a scene, dipping you down and kissing you thoroughly, his tongue sliding into your mouth to taste you and turning what should be a chaste kiss into something much more carnal.

Your cheeks burn when he finally sets you on your feet, lips glistening and the crowd cheers as he takes your hand and guides you down the aisle. You hate how your lips tingle and you would never admit it but he’s a good kisser. You stumble slightly but he keeps you upright and you make your way down the aisle until you’re in the hallway, your chest heaving as you let go of his hand. “Well that will certainly be in all the magazines.” You declare and Oberyn chuckles, “had to sell it, Dove. Can’t have people thinking I don’t satisfy my bride.” You scoff and make your way down the hall to the photographers that are waiting. “We both know it’s not going to be my bed you’re in tonight.”

“Disappointed?” He leans close, invading your space and to the photographers, it looks as if Oberyn is whispering sweet nothings in your ear. “You just need to invite me to your bed and I will make sure you have a wedding night you would never forget.” Despite his objections to marrying you, he has no issue fucking you. It would be interesting to aid in striping away your virginal facade and turning you into his own little whore.

You smile and turn to look at him, reaching up to cup his cheek, “I’ll never let you fuck me. You can take my hand, my life as your own, but you’ll never have my body.” You lean in to peck his lips and turn back to the cameras, almost blinded by the lights. Oberyn has had more lovers than you’ve had hot dinners and you refuse to give him that kind of power over you. You know he’d never let you forget it if you let him fuck you. Then he’d leave and go back to Ellaria’s bed. No, you’d never give him that hold over you.

Instead of being angry by your vow, Oberyn bursts out laughing, amused by the venom in your words. His cock twitches, imagining making you eat those words when you fall into his bed eventually. “Then you should not worry about who screams my name tonight.” He murmurs quietly. “Although I’m sure you will hear it.”

The irony of this situation is not lost on you. Doran picked you to calm his brother down but you seem to be riled up by his nature, leaving behind your normally gentle and agreeable personality in favor of defending yourself. His hand cups the back of your neck as per the shouted instructions from the photographer and you smile at him but say through gritted teeth, “rather them than me.”

“Temper, temper.” He muses, winking at you before he drags you closer for a kiss so the photographer can capture the moment. He finds your unrestrained hatred of him refreshing. He doesn’t like when people kiss his ass unless he is in the mood. “Then I will make sure I have a group of them.”

You let him kiss you and you wonder how you’re going to endure the reception when you’re only on the photos. After you take photos with your family, you and Oberyn enter the reception hall to applause and you let him pull you close for the first dance. You don’t say anything, leaning your head on his shoulder to make sure you look close without needing to speak to him and you close your eyes, not wanting to see the crowd watching you.

The moment would actually be considered sweet if there was some semblance of affection between the two of you. When the song comes to a close, the DJ that is setting the mood announces a dance between mother and daughter.

You are surprised but you go over to your mom who is in her wheelchair and she attempts to get up “no mom, don’t stress yourself. We can dance in the wheelchair.” Your mother shakes her head, “absolutely not. I will dance at my baby’s wedding, without being in a wheelchair.” You don’t argue with her, you just help her stand and guide her over to the dancefloor when the song begins and you gently sway with your frail Mother tears sting in your eyes when you try not show how sad you are, but she seems to be getting worse. You had hoped that the treatments at Martells would help her. You don’t see it in her eyes, but she knows that she is dying and she wants to enjoy every moment she has left.

Oberyn watches until it’s obvious that you are supporting most of your mother’s weight and he quickly steps in behind her. Shifting the weight off of you, he grins to the crowd watching. “I was jealous of two beautiful ladies dancing without me.” He jokes, making everyone laugh and making it seem like his impulsive nature is to blame instead of your mother’s frailty.

You can’t deny that Oberyn wrapping his arms around your mom’s waist makes you smile in thanks and the song plays as Oberyn sways you both. When the song ends, he playfully lifts your mom into his arms, carrying her over to her chair. “You’re supposed to carry my daughter.” She giggles and Oberyn winks after he sits her down, “that’s for later.” He presses a soft kiss to the back of your mom’s hand.

Your mother giggles again quietly, charmed by Oberyn’s flirtatious nature even though she’s aware of the man’s proclivities. Perhaps he has changed for you, the thought makes her happy to know that you will have a strong man at your side when she is gone. He winks at her before he stands straight and the DJ announces the first of eight dances with his daughters.

You settle down at your table to watch Oberyn dance with his daughters, each one getting their own dance and you watch him as he speaks softly to them, making them laugh and smile, and sends them to their table with a kiss on the cheek and a hug. It’s clear he adores them. You feel eyes watching you and you turn your head, your eyes meeting Ellaria’s as she offers you a soft smile. You’re surprised she doesn’t hate you. Isn’t glaring at you for marrying her lover.

When you don’t cut your eyes at her, Ellaria picks up her glass of champagne and stands up. Slinking across the hall in a dress that is a little too revealing to be considered proper, but she wears it well. “Dove.” She smiles, sliding into the seat where Oberyn will be sitting later to eat. “You look more beautiful than I imagined you would. You wear the Martell veil well.”

You know people are watching so you offer her a soft smile, “thank you. I was shocked when Oberyn gave it to me. I am sure he always imagined you’d be the one wearing this for his wedding day. I wondered before this charade why you never married each other.” You ponder out loud. “You know about our arrangement and why we are doing this. I have no malice towards you. You are his lover, the mother of his children. I do not know why Doran wanted me to marry his brother.”

She watches you for a moment before she laughs, a beautiful trilling sound of amusement, her head tipped back to expose her long neck. “Oh darling, I see why he wanted you to marry Oberyn.” She hums when she calms down. “And I would have never married him.” She admits causally, shrugging one elegant shoulder. “We do not have that kind of relationship.” She knows how Oberyn feels and she would have never tied herself to him with those things in mind. He was too free of a spirit and so was she, if the truth was told.

You frown, certain that Oberyn loves Ellaria more than anything, but maybe you don’t know the entire story. “I don’t expect him to stop sleeping with you. We aren’t - this isn’t a marriage of love. This is convenient.” You clarify and pick up your glass of champagne, taking a sip while Oberyn spins his daughter around.

“I don’t know if that is alllll true.” She murmurs, a small smile on her face. “And it is wise that you don’t expect him to stop being who he is.” She lifts a brow in irony. “We never want to change someone when we love them.”

You nod, “yeah. I don’t care what he does. I only want my mother to survive. Whatever Oberyn does is his business. I just don’t want him to make me look a fool.” You confess, setting your glass down and everyone claps as Oberyn finishes his last dance.

“Then don’t be surprised by anything that he does.” Ellaria leans forward seriously. “Oberyn might not love you, he doesn’t love me either. Not like you might think, but he is loyal….in his own way.” She cautions you. “You are now his and he will expect the same kind of loyalty from you that he gives you.”

Your frown deepens as she says he doesn’t love her. You’ve heard the rumors of how intense their relationship is. You assumed they were deeply in love. “I won’t make a fool of him.” You assure her, “I just want my mother to survive and after that? Well, that would be a miracle problem to have.”

The other woman glances over at the frail woman with a look of concern and presses her lips together. “I hope that you get your wish.” She murmurs, reaching out and taking your hand. “Let me know if there is anything I can do.”

You appreciate her not spitting in your face since you are stealing her lover as your husband. You squeeze her hand and she glides back to her table as Oberyn passes her. He kisses her cheek and makes his way over to your table, sitting down beside you. "Ellaria likes you." He declares and you snort, "You can tell from just one kiss?"

“My lover is not shy about things she likes.” He chuckles quietly. “Now, I am famished, and I think that we should eat.” He offers, nodding to the wedding planner to have the servers start bringing out the plates of food. The canapés had been good, but he wanted something more. “Eat up.” He winks at you. “You will need your strength.”

You refrain from rolling your eyes and reach for your glass of champagne so you can down it. It’s going to be a long night but you are prepared to endure it when your mom looks like she’s won the lottery. She looks so happy so you force a smile and sit beside Oberyn like you’ve won your own lottery.

The party is still in full swing when you and Oberyn make your exit, ducking the handfuls of birdseed and confetti that all the party goers throw. Holding tight to your hand, he rushes you out, getting to the elevators before he drops your hand and pulls out his keycard to open up the access to the floors where your and his apartments are located. “The party will go on for hours.” He predicts as the car doors slide open and you step onto the elevator. “Pity we will miss it. It was a good one. The dancers the planner found were….limber.”

You lean against the wall of the elevator car, watching the floors pass by and you inhale deeply, looking at Oberyn. “You are welcome to rejoin if you wish but I suppose we need to make people think we consummated our marriage.” You hum and you know you won’t stop him from finding someone to warm his bed.

His brow arches and he smirks, leaning closer to you and pressing you closer to the wall. “Are you going to invite me between those pretty thighs, Dove?” He coos, reaching up to caress your neck, his thumb rubbing your pulse. Your scoff grates on his ears, irritating him when he has been flirty and kind to you. He has done nothing today to humiliate you or demoralize you and yet you are pushing him away like he is the gum on the bottom of your show. Him, Oberyn Martell. His piercing hot look turns cold and he hisses. “It does not matter.” He snorts. “I have people lined up to suck my cock if you have no desire to.” He boasts. “Any one I want. Why would I want you?” It’s petty and cruel, but he can be that way when he’s insulted. “You have the demeanor of a cold fish anyway. I like my partners to enjoy themselves.”

His words shouldn’t hurt as much as they do but you stiffen and when the elevator dings to announce your arrival, you stride out of the car into the apartment without hesitation. “Then go find your pleasure anywhere but my bed. I didn’t marry you to fuck you, Oberyn. I married you to save my mother. You need to remember that.” You hiss and slam the door behind you to your bedroom, slumping down on the bed. You listen to the elevator ding again and tears sting in your eyes until they roll down your cheeks. You married a man who doesn’t love you and you hate that you had to do this to save your mother. Your sobs come when you realize you can’t get out of your dress without help so you lay down, constricted by the lace, and cry for your marriage and your mother.

“Lover…” Ellaria slumps onto the bed, worn out and exhausted. “I need rest.” Oberyn chuckles, his wedding attire strewn over the floor as his hand slides over her sweat slick hip and he slaps the ass off the man who is laying beside her. “Then you watch.” He tells her, lunging forward to slide his tongue into the man’s mouth as he tries to forget about how your eyes had flickered with hurt before you turned that tongue on him.

**** 

It’s been a few weeks since you and Oberyn married and you’ve barely seen him. You are with your mother every day as she struggles to get through treatment and you know it’s a fruitless effort. She’s withering away and even selling your soul to the Martell’s won’t save her. You arrive back at the apartment after your mom fell asleep and you’re surprised to see Dario standing in your kitchen. “What - what are you doing here?” You ask, confused and looking around for Oberyn.

Dario smirks as he pops another piece of an orange that he had stolen from your fruit bowl into his mouth. “Checking on you.” He quips and flings the rind of the fruit onto the counter as he walks towards you. “Haven’t seen you around and wanted to make sure you aren’t……lonely.” He knows that Oberyn hasn’t been spending his nights in your bed. He has men and women parading out of the floor that he shares with Ellaria. He slides his hot gaze up and down your body suggestively and licks his lips. “Perhaps you prefer someone who knows what he wants.”

Your back stiffens and you realize he is alone with you. You glance around the apartment and he reaches out to caress your cheek. You freeze, unsure of what to do when you’re alone and you know what he’s capable of. “I’m not - Oberyn is - I’m not allowed to touch any of Oberyn’s men.”

“He won’t know.” He muses. “Too busy playing with his whore and everyone else.” He snorts. “Did you reject him? He’s fucking everything that walks like you did. Proving to himself that your cunt doesn’t matter, but I think it does.” He steps closer and smirks. “I want to have something he doesn’t. For once.”

You are frozen in place, your mind skipping and you know you should push him away but he leans in to press his lips to your cheek, a chuckle breathed against your skin, and your back hits the kitchen counter as he crowds you, his other hand on your waist.

Dario takes your non-refusal as acceptance. His body pressing against yours as his mouth moves from your cheek to your lips. Mindless to anything but you letting him kiss you. Not hearing the door to the apartment open or the quick steps towards you, anger lacing each boot strike. He doesn’t even know that anyone else is in the apartment, too focused on his victory over Oberyn, until a hand grabs his shoulder and he is dragged off you like a rag doll. A fist plowing into his face before his eyes even open to see who is there. “Bastard!” Oberyn shouts, kicking the man while he is down before he backs up. “You were warned not to touch her.” He roars.

You gasp, shuffling to get out of the way as Oberyn straddles Dario and his fist comes down on his face. "Oberyn. I - he didn't - he hasn't fucked me." You yell at him but he continues to hit his second in command.

“You want what is mine?” Oberyn rages, hitting him with one fist, then the other with alternating strikes. Dario had thrown his hands up to defend himself but the force of the attack renders him helpless as his boss beats him. He gurgles out an apology, barely heard and not acknowledged. “I let you have everything - anything - you want. But not her. I told you that you are getting too comfortable.” He had known Dario was jealous, thinking himself the better man. It was why he had told him that he couldn’t have you. No one could. If the man fucked his wife, he would start thinking he could replace Oberyn, and he would never let that happen.

You scream at Oberyn to stop. Dario might have been handsy but he doesn’t deserve to die. You watch as Oberyn hits until Dario goes unconscious and your husband’s chest heaves as he looks up at you, sweat on his brow and his knuckles torn up. “Holy shit.” You gasp, kneeling down, “I can’t - why did you - why?” You ask breathlessly.

Panting, Oberyn reaches for you as he leaps to his feet. He is still agile and deadly, making you gasp with the speed at which he moves. He growls as he shakes you slightly. “I told you not to touch my men.” He hisses, right before his lips slam against yours in a bruising kiss.

When you look back on the moment you kiss him back and you realize it was adrenaline. Your hands tangle in his hair and you moan into his mouth, pressing yourself against him. He slides his tongue into your mouth and you moan, sliding yours against his and you feel his cock hardening against your hip.

Dario doesn’t groan, still unconscious on the floor as Oberyn backs you against the wall and presses you into it. Completely taking control of the kiss as his hands grab your ass and he pulls you up into his arms and presses against your core as he carries you through the apartment to your bedroom.

You don’t reject him, hyped up on adrenaline and the feelings that have been haunting you since the night you got married. His dark eyes find you everywhere - in the coffee you drink, in the chocolate you treated yourself to, and you know you need to get him out of your system. Your back hits the bedsheets and he follows, kneeling between your legs and his lips press against your jaw. “Oberyn.” You gasp, tilting your head as you close your eyes so he can destroy you like you always knew he would.

His name on your lips is all the permission he needs. Hands pulling at the clothes you are wearing. Stripping them as efficiently and and quickly as possible. Greedy for every bare inch of flesh you reveal to him and his lips travel over your neck. His teeth leaving a trail of marks behind as he claims you as his own.

You want to see all of him. To know if the rumors of his beauty are exaggerated or if they are true. You unbutton his half buttoned shirt, pushing it from his shoulders and he shrugs it off, tossing it aside, while your hands caress his chest down to his stomach.

“You do not even look at my men.” Oberyn hisses, flipping open his belt and snapping it out of the loops of his pants, the gun holster dropping to the floor and sliding away. Reminding you of how easily he could have killed Dario. He grabs your hands, thinking to tie them to the bed, but he wants you to touch him. To be just as hungry for his body as he has been for yours. He’s never been denied, and instead of it making him indifferent, it has made him crave you. Tossing the belt aside, he holds your hands above your head, making your tits stick up in their lacy bra and he ducks his head to bite down on a nipple.

You cry out, arching your back and you wrap your legs around his waist, grinding up against him. “Fuck. I- I- shit. Baby.” You cry out, “I need you inside me. Now.” You beg, cunt aching with the need to have him stretch you out.

His pants disappeared, underwear was never a thing, so it isn’t a barrier between the two of you. His fingers twist under your panties and he rips them apart at the seams. Taking you at your word that you need him.

You gasp when he rips your panties off and you spread your legs for him without hesitation. You desperately want him inside of you. The way he defended what is his even if you aren’t his in heart, you are on paper, and the way he took out Dario has you ashamedly wet. “Fuck me, Oberyn.” You whine when he grips his cock and shifts between your thighs.

He loves the way you are begging him. His smirk is self satisfied and predatory as he shuffles close and swipes his cock through your soaked folds. “Gods, Dove.” He growls. “You will remember tonight.” He vows, lining his cock up and snapping his hips forward as he covers your mouth with his own.

You cry out into his mouth, the sound smothered by his tongue, and your hands find his back, scratching your nails down the golden skin as his cock stretches you out. There’s a sting but you love it.

Oberyn would never insult you to say that you are the best cunt he’s ever been inside. You wouldn’t believe him. However you are wet and tight, fitting him like a glove. He doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, drawing his hips to plunge back into you just as fast, eagerly setting a frantic pace.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he starts to fuck you. There’s no mistaking this for love making. It’s fucking, through and through. His hips hit your ass and you feel like you can barely breathe as he grunts into your mouth. It’s been so long since you had sex, focused on your mother’s health, and it's bliss to think about nothing except how you feel.

One hand braces on the bed below you, the other squeezes your tit. Pinching your nipple harshly to make you gasp and clench around his cock before he slides his hand lower. Finding your clit with precision accuracy and starting to rub tight, perfect circles on the bundle of nerves. Very practiced in pleasuring men and women alike.

“Holy shit. Oh - oh Gods, Oberyn. Baby. Oh shit.” You pant as he rocks into you, his fingers rubbing your clit, and you whimper as you scratch your nails down his back, marking him in the only way you can. “You’re gonna - shit. I’m gonna - I’m gonna cum.” You gasp, the feeling suddenly overwhelming you.

He doesn’t slow his pace down. His hips slapping against your ass. “Good girl, Dove.” He groans, kissing along your jaw. “Cum on my cock. Soak me.” He orders, feeling your body clench down around him.

The wail you let out is almost inhuman and you clamp down on his cock, a cry of his name barely distinguishable as you soak his cock with your cum. Your nails digging into his back and his cock working you through your orgasm.

He’s determined to make you never forget being in bed with him, fucking him. Wanting you to crave it every time your cunt throbs with need and your thoughts stray to having someone plunge into you. His men are off limits, unable to touch you like he does. You can have him, Ellaria and anyone else, but he wants you to want him.

You moan as he works you through your orgasm and you are sure he’s punching your guts with his cock as he pushes deep on each harsh movement of his hips. “Oberyn.” You whine when he pulls out of you and he flips you onto your hands and knees. You struggle to balance as he kneels behind you and pushes into you with a speed you never expected.

The weeks that you have been married and he’s been denied your body, they are being made up for right now. Every time he’s wanted to fuck you and not been able to is being taken out on your body. He groans when you clamp down around him again.

Your fingers tangle in the sheets and you moan his name as he rocks into you. He feels even bigger in this angle and you arch your back, your tits swaying as he fucks you with his entire body. “Yes baby. Shit. That’s - keep going. Don’t you dare stop.”

He chuckles at your demands, finding your bossiness in bed charming. Digging his fingers into your hips hard enough to leave bruises under your skin, he hisses out your name as he continues to pound into you.

You whine, head dropping down as he wrecks you, and you know why the Red Viper is so well known as a voracious lover. “Fuck. Fuck. You’re - I’m gonna - oh shit. Keep going. Right there.” You cry, eyes squeezed shut as he hits something incredible and it takes two more thrusts to unravel you.

Your orgasm is beautiful, your cry loud enough that anyone near your apartments would hear his name being screamed. Hissing in pleasure while the cream from your cunt soaks his cock, making obscene sounds as he fucks you through it. “That’s right.” He groans. “Fuck, you are happy now, aren’t you? Getting fucked like you’ve dreamed of. You needed this, didn’t you?”

“Fu- fuck you. I don’t - shit. I want - want to feel you.” You choke out, chest heaving as he fucks the air from your lungs. “You - you wanted my pussy. You’re the one who - who wants to fuck anything going and I- I tried to hold out.” You confess in gasps.

His fingers wrap around the back of your neck, pulling you up and wrapping an arm around your chest. His hand cupping your tit as he pumps up into you from a new angle. “Yes, I wanted this pussy.” He growls in your ear. “Craved it, fucked anything I could to take my mind off of it, off you.” He pants out the confession. “Nothing worked until I found you kissing my lieutenant.”

You lean back against him, turning your head so you can look at him. Sweat on his brow and his jaw clenched as he thrusts up into you. “It was yours on paper. Your wife. Your pussy. I don’t make it easy. You had to show me that I wasn’t going to be thrown out of your bed after you’ve gotten what you want.”

His eyes are dark and hot, boring into yours as he thrusts into you, rocking you towards another orgasm. His other hand slides down to your clit where he starts rubbing it again. “Mine.” He agrees. “My wife, my lover, you can be in my bed whenever you want. Have your cunt licked while I have my cock sucked. Bounce on my lover’s cock while I bury mine inside him. Cum on Ellaria’s fingers while I fuck her. Nothing will be denied to you.” He groans. “Except my men.”

Dario laying on the kitchen floor is proof of that. You know now that he will kill anyone who even looks your way and you should hate that but instead it has you clenching around his cock. He hisses and you moan, “I want to try it. I want to experience your lovers and you.” You moan, covering his hand on your breast with his.

Oberyn groans in your ear, loving that you will compromise with him. Not try to change him. “You won’t regret it, Dove.” He vows, his hips still slamming into your ass he fucks you. “Now, cum for me again.” He orders. “Cum for me and I’ll fill up your cunt with my seed and be satisfied.”

His words send you over the edge and you swear you black out as you clamp down on his cock and soak him. “Oh fuck!” You squeal, shaking in his arms as you fall apart pressed against his chest.

This time Oberyn lets himself follow you. Thrusting deep two more times, he buries his cock in your womb and starts to flood it with his seed. Groaning your name in your ear as he pumps you full. “Shiiiiit.”

You pant, squeezing your eyes shut as he works you through your orgasm and you whimper when his cock twitches inside you. “Shit.” You echo, closing your eyes as you relax against him. “Don’t push me away again. I don’t want to hate you.”

“I thought that was what you wanted.” Oberyn admits. “My brother is not happy that you and I have been living separate lives.” He admits, rolling you both to your side and lying down on your bed. “I had come to ask if you would have dinner with me.”

You sigh, shifting to curl into him. “I want to get to know you. We are in this situation for a reason and I want my mother to get better and to make this marriage work for us until it doesn’t. We have to at least try. There’s a reason why Doran chose me.”

“He said you would tame me.” He doesn’t mind this version of you, the one that isn’t spewing insults. His cock is still glistening with your juices and he knows you are dripping his cum onto the bed. Maybe he just needed to fuck you. “I don’t know why he would think that.” He snorts. “I nearly killed Dario. Still might.”

You tut, caressing his chest, “no. You don’t need to kill him. He was just trying his luck. Don’t let him get into your head. We need to stand solid side by side.” You declare and sigh, resting your head on his chest, “I just want my mom to have a chance.”

Oberyn sighs. “She has the best doctors in Dorne.” He reminds you softly. “Doran has asked for a few more to come from Winterfell and King’s Landing to make sure there is nothing else to be done.” Doran always kept his word and that meant your mother would receive the best possible care.

You hum, tears stinging in your eyes, and you swallow harshly. “I don’t want to lose her.” You choke, “she’s been all I have known. My father died when I was a baby.” You confess, “I’ll be alone if she dies.”

“You won’t be alone.” He reminds you. “You have a husband. My family became your family when we married.”

You sigh, pressing a kiss to his glistening golden skin, “thank you.” You murmur, knowing he means every word. He’s your husband and he will be there for you.

He lays there for another minute before he sighs. “I need to drag Dario out of your apartment.” He huffs, reminded of the fact the man is still unconscious on your kitchen floor. “Have the cleaners come in and clean up the blood.”

You snort and shake your head, “he needs a doctor.” You tell him but he ignores you in favor of sliding out of bed and you watch his back muscles move as he heads into the bathroom. He comes back out with a wet rag to clean you up and you sigh, stretching out on the sheets.

Oberyn can be a selfish lover with some. The people who float in and out of his bed clean themselves up, but for Ellaria, for you, he will take care of your needs. You bite your lip as he carefully runs the rag over your folds and he snorts in amusement. “I just watched your asshole pulse while I fucked you.” He reminds you. “There isn’t a part of your body that does not please me.”

You chuckle and stretch out with a groan, “that’s good to know because I have never felt this good before.” You confess, “holy shit, Oberyn. I can’t - wow.” You’re a little speechless as you snuggle into your pillow.

He hums, happy that you are pleased with how he fucked you. It’s important to him that no one leaves his bed unsatisfied, but especially the woman who is his wife. Now not just in name.

**** 

Tears sting in your eyes as you watch your mom struggle to breathe. She’s gotten worse and it’s only taken days for her to be bedridden and unable to breathe properly. The treatments aren’t working and you try your best to offer her a smile but your heart is breaking. She’s dying and there’s nothing more you can do.

The door opens and Oberyn comes into the room, pausing when he sees you in the chair and clutching your mother’s hand. The prognosis isn’t good and he had just come from talking with the doctor before coming to visit with the older woman. “Dove.” He murmurs softly before he walks over to your mother and kisses her papery thin cheek. Her skin has taken on a waxy appearance and feel, the underlying smell of death clinging to her. It won’t be long now. He says your mother’s name and gives her his most charming smile. “You are as beautiful as the day you came to work for us.” He praises, kneeling down on the other side of the bed. “You will be pain free in no time.”

Your mother offers him a weak smile, her hand shaking as she lifts it to cup his cheek. “Look after her. She deserves love and to be happy.” She tells Oberyn and you bite your lip to stop the tears from sliding down your cheeks.

“Don’t worry, my desert rose.” Oberyn covers her hand with his own, pressing it against his cheek. “Your daughter will be well taken care of.” He promises. “She will have joy and love. She will know happiness and that you watch her from your perch with the Gods proudly.”

You feel the sob work its way up your throat and swallow harshly, walking over to Oberyn to rub his back in silent thanks for him reassuring your mother in her final time. You lean down beside him, looking at your mom.” “We will be happy.” You promise, “Oberyn has been incredible.” You assure her, “he will look after me.” Your mom nods, her eyes getting heavy and you bite your lip to stop your sob.

Oberyn holds her hand with his, feeling her body relax and there is one surprisingly strong inhale that rattles through her frail body. The exhale doesn’t come, making Oberyn sigh as he knows that your mother has gone to be with the gods and you will be inconsolable.

You stare at her for several moments, your hand reaching out and that’s when you realize she’s gone. You sob and lean in to kiss her cheek, silently saying goodbye to her and you close your eyes, trying to not break down.

Pushing to his feet, Oberyn places your mother’s hand on her chest and steps back to let you grieve how you need to. “Her pain is gone, Dove.” He murmurs softly. He won’t leave you, knowing what you are going through. After you have your moment with her, he will arrange for your mother’s body to be treated with the utmost care.

You nod, lip quivering, and tears stream down your cheeks as you watch him treat your mom with so much care. “I can’t - I need you to - to help me plan everything.” You request and he nods, “of course I will.” He promises, leaning in to kiss your hair. You know he will, he promised your mom to look after you.

“She was a good woman.” He tells you quietly. “I would come sit with her, every afternoon, after lunch.” He had never told you that. Or that he had asked her not to tell you. After the arrangement had been made, and she had started the treatments, he had made time no matter what else was going on. Even when you weren’t speaking with him.

Your eyes widen and you stare at him in shock. “You came - every day?” You ask and he nods. Your heart pounds in your chest and he reaches out to gently wipe the tears from your cheeks. You reach up to grip his wrist and he freezes, thinking you’re rejecting his touch. “Thank you.” You whisper, wrapping your arms around his waist after you let go of his wrist.

“You don’t need to thank me.” He promises. “At first, I came to see if I could talk her into getting you to change your mind, but when I saw her doctor, I knew I could never do that.” He explains, not wanting you to think that he was totally honorable. “But then I kept coming back for her, for myself. She had always been there in Sunspear but I had never gotten to know her.” It’s a regret he will carry, but he is happy for the time he has spent with her. “I see why you went to such lengths to save her.”

You are shocked to hear that he was visiting your mother. You never knew that and you swallow harshly, trying to stop the sob that’s working its way up your throat again. You bury your face in his chest and squeeze him, knowing that you want to make this marriage work. He’s your husband, your only family.

**** 

The funeral is a beautiful, somber affair. Oberyn had helped you through it all, guiding you through choosing a service and flowers, music and a dress for her to wear. He had insisted that she be buried in the Martell crypt, telling you that as his mother-in-law, she deserved to be there. Since it was housed in the basement of the building you lived in, you could visit anytime you wished. He had stood by your side, strong and comforting, opening up to you about his grief from losing his sister and how it had changed him.

After the funeral, you have grown closer to Oberyn and you are getting ready for dinner with him when it hits you. You love him. You have no idea when it happened because you didn’t want him, didn’t like him, but between the drama between you and the way he’s supported you during your mother’s death, you have fallen for the Red Viper. You stare at yourself in shock and Oberyn walks into your now shared bedroom with the towel around his waist, chest glistening from his shower. “I love you.” You blurt out, unable to stop yourself.

Oberyn stops, turning towards you with his brow dipping into a furrowed line. “You shouldn’t, Dove.” He tells you quietly. “I’m not a good man, a man who is content to live a quiet and simple life.” You know he still sleeps with others. Not just Ellaria. He comes back to you most nights, especially since your mother’s death, but it’s no secret that he isn’t giving up his ways. You look so crestfallen that he sighs, his hands dropping to his sides. “You know I care about you?” He asks. “Right? That you will be safe and find pleasure and comfort with me? That I will make sure you are happy?”

His answer shouldn’t surprise you. He’s made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t do commitment and love. You’d accepted that he shares his bed with others and you haven’t been in a mindset to think about trying that with him. “I do.” You promise, looking back at yourself in the mirror. “I just wanted you to know how I feel. Even if you don’t feel the same.” You assure him and he nods, stripping off his towel and you can’t help but admire his body in your reflection. “Oberyn?” You ask and he looks at you, “yes, Dove?” You bite your lip, “I want to share our bed with Ellaria and another. I want to experience more.” You announce, slightly nervous.

He’s surprised and cautious about your wants. “Are you sure?” He doesn’t care about his nudity as he strides towards you, picking up the bottle of wine that has been left by the maid and drinks straight from the neck. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.” He reaches out and caresses your cheek. “You don’t have to change for me.”

You nod, “I’m not changing because of you. I want to try it. If I don’t like it, I’ll say so. I want to experience something different. Can you help me do that?” You ask and he nods, a smirk on his face as he brushes your cheekbone with his thumb. “It would be my pleasure.” You smirk, turning your head to kiss his palm, “our pleasure.” Oberyn chuckles and leans down to kiss you, the taste of the wine on his tongue has you moaning and he pulls back to say “fuck dinner. I want you.” You moan into the kiss and let him drag you to the bed. He tells you everything he wants to watch you do, growled in your ear while he fucks you from behind. Your dinner reservation ignored.

After you are sprawled on the bed, dripping his cum, Oberyn caresses your hip and chuckles. “Do I call Ellaria and her lover into our bed now, or would you prefer tomorrow?” He slaps a cheek of your ass playfully. “Did I wear you out?”

You chuckle, “you have enough energy for them to come over now, husband? Or are you too old to continue fucking through the night?” You tease, eyebrows raised as you look up at him from where you are laying on the bed.

He rolls his eyes slightly and sighs. “Too old?” He snorts. “You weren’t calling me too old when you were screaming my name in pleasure while you soaked my cock.”

You chuckle at his offense and you shift to curl into his chest, “call them now. I’ll clean up and we can host Ellaria and her lover. I want to experience them.” You caress Oberyn’s sternum as you look at him.

He chuckles and reaches for his phone that is lying on the bedside table. Opening it up, he selects a number from his contacts and hits call. His fingers caress your back as the phone rings and he smiles when the sultry voice of his lover is heard. “Darling.” He coos. “Are you entertaining a woman tonight, or do you have that lover who has such an impressive cock of his own?” He asks, as easily as he would ask about a dinner date.

You listen to him on the phone, lounging on the bed as he speaks to Ellaria. “The lover with the impressive cock.” Ellaria coos her answer and you smirk, “come over.” You say since he has it on speaker and Ellaria is surprised when she speaks your name. “I want to experience you and your lover with my husband.” You declare, wanting to let her know your intentions.

Ellaria hums, wondering if Oberyn has convinced you to try this, although she knows he is not one to force matters. “We will be down shortly.” The floor where his lover and his children live is above yours, he had never wanted to be too far from the Sand Snakes. Chuckling, he ends the call and smirks at you. “Will you entertain with my cum dripping from your cunt or will you clean up?” He asks. “I think I might wear your juices on my cock.”

You smirk, shifting to kneel on the bed, and you reach for him to wrap your arms around his neck. “Do you think Ellaria will wish to lick your cum from my pussy?” You hum, leaning in to kiss his jaw, “or will she want me to be clean?”

Oberyn hums, turning his head to press his lips to yours. “She knows the taste of my cum well.” He chuckles. “I know she would love to see how we taste together.”

You hum against his lips, caressing his chest, and you moan against his lips when his tongue slides into your mouth. Neither of you hear the door open but you hear Ellaria when she says “ah, what a gorgeous sight, lover.”

He smiles against your lips, his flaccid cock twitching as he thinks about what is to come. You have never had multiple partners, so it will be a treat to see if you like that.

You smirk, turning your head to look at Ellaria and gesture for her to join. “Come here.” You coo and wave her over with her lover. Ellaria kneels on the bed and you reach for her, pressing your lips to hers, your hand curling around her neck.

Oberyn groans at the beautiful sight and he feels Omar’s hand on his shoulder. Turning and pressing his lips to the other man’s easily. He has had him before and he knows you will be pleased with his cock if you take it tonight.

You moan when you pull your lips from Ellaria so you can watch Oberyn kiss the other man. His hand cupping his cheek and your stomach twists in arousal at the sight. You moan softly and watch him kiss another man. “It’s a gorgeous sight, isn’t it?” Ellaria coos in your ear and she caresses your back until she’s squeezing your ass. You nod, turning your head to press your lips back to hers, your tongue sliding against hers while you reach up to cup her breast.

Pleasure is all Oberyn ever strives for in a sexual encounter. He wants everyone to enjoy themselves. Most of all him, but right now, this is also more about you than him. To see if you are willing to slot yourself into this part of his world, to open up to the comfort that can be found in others arms and not let jealousy come between you. He breaks away from Omar’s kiss. “Ellaria.” He rasps out. “She wants you to lick my cum from her pretty little cunt.” He informs his lover.

Ellaria moans, kissing along your jaw, “you want me to lick your pussy, beautiful girl?” She coos and you nod, falling under her spell as her dark eyes burn into yours. She guides you to lay down on the bed and spreads your legs, admiring the creamy mess between your thighs, and your chest heaves in anticipation as she shifts to law down between your legs.

Omar’s hand wraps around Oberyn’s cock and he groans, making you look over at him. He flashes you a smirk and nods towards Ellaria. “She will eat your cunt while her lover sucks my cock.”

You gasp when Ellaria’s tongue slides through your folds, her moan vibrating through you and you watch Omar shift onto his knees, his hand squeezing Oberyn’s cock as he leans closer to take him into his mouth, making your husband groan. The sight has your stomach clenching and your pussy pulse against Ellaria’s tongue. “Shit.” You choke, reaching down to tangle your fingers in her hair.

Oberyn hums in pleasure and his hand cups the back of Omar’s head as he eagerly swallows down his cock. “You are a pretty sight.” He praises breathless, both to you and Ellaria and the man who is pleasuring him. “How does it feel, Dove? Knowing that a woman's tongue can know your body so well?”

You whine, tilting your head back against the mattress as Ellaria strokes your thighs, pushing them further apart. “You taste so good.” She coos and slides her tongue through your folds until she sucks your clit. You cry out and moan, back arching as you watch Oberyn take his pleasure, rocking his hips into Omar’s mouth.

Oberyn’s head tilts back, groaning loudly as he experiences the talented mouth of the other man. Only opening his eyes again so he can watch you rock your hips down onto Ellaria’s face. “You look so good like that.” He pants. “Spread out and indulgent. Both of you are so eager for more.”

Ellaria hums against your folds, moaning when you tug on her hair. She sucks on your clit a little harder and you whine, bucking your hips up into her face. She flings her arm over your stomach and Oberyn groans as he watches you. Your eyes meet his and you whimper, “so good.”

He caresses Omar’s cheek and feels where his cock makes the man’s throat bulge. “Make her cum, El.” He pants out, knowing how talented that tongue is. “Make her cum so she can taste your gorgeous cunt.”

His words send you over the edge and you cry out, thighs pressing against her head as you cum against her tongue. She moans and laps at your folds, wanting every drop, and you shake while you moan her name, your eyes closing while Oberyn watches you.

Tapping the other man’s chin, Oberyn pulls his hips back. His cock sliding out of the hot mouth that it had been buried in and he leans over to drag Ellaria up to taste you from her lips with a groan.

You watch Oberyn kiss Ellaria and you reach for Omar, pulling him close to kiss him. His hands grab your waist and he pulls you close while Ellaria and Oberyn kiss. It’s so erotic, your cunt drips despite you just orgasming from Ellaria’s tongue.

The kiss between lovers is long, easily something that could last all day. But Oberyn and Ellaria both are eager to witness the passion you share with the other man. Turning and moaning as the sight as your hand wraps around the thick cock attached to Omar’s magnificent form. “Lover, perhaps Omar should fuck her while she licks my cunt?” Ellaria moans. “I doubt you will object to filling his ass with your cock.”

Oberyn smirks, “you won’t catch me arguing about that, lover.” He coos and he reaches for you, “you want to have his cock, my wife?” He asks and you nod, “yes.” You’re breathless and you want to sample Ellaria. He chuckles and reaches out to squeeze your ass, “your wish is our command.” He winks and Ellaria shifts to lay down. You kneel on your hands and lean in to slide your tongue along Ellaria’s thigh.

Ellaria moans your name, her eyes sliding closed and there is a very pleased smirk on her face. As if this is the outcome she had been anticipating. “Gorgeous.” Oberyn coos as Omar pumps his cock and shuffles behind you. “Fill my wife with your cock and I’ll prep you to take mine.” He grunts. “She will experience the force of both of our thrusts.”

When Omar starts to enter you, you whimper against Ellaria’s skin. He’s thicker than Oberyn but not as long. You pant as he pushes into you and you let yourself stretch around him while caressing Ellaria’s thighs. When he’s fully inside you, you timidly lean down towards Ellaria’s pussy. “I, uh, haven’t done this before.” You confess and Ellaria smirks, “just do to me what you love to have done to yourself.” She instructs and you nod, leaning in to slide your tongue through her folds.

Oberyn shuffles off the bed, watching you take the other man’s cock from a different angle while he gets a bottle of lube. The sight of your tongue timidly sliding through Ellaria’s cunt is intoxicating. He grabs the bottle from the drawer and leans down, pushing his head beside yours and letting his tongue flutter alongside yours.

His tongue tangling with yours has you moaning and Ellaria pants, her fingers tangling in his hair and her hand on your neck. “Fuck.” She curses and you moan, lapping at her clit with Oberyn until he pulls away, kissing you on the cheek.

“You look so pretty like this, Dove.” Oberyn coos as he slides back behind Omar and opens the tube to squeeze some lube on his fingers. “Ellaria likes your tongue.”

Omar groans when Oberyn presses his slicked up digits against his ass and your husband chuckles at his pleasured groan when he’s not even got started yet. You lap at Ellaria’s folds, sliding down to push your tongue into her and Omar slowly rocks into you, taking one of Oberyn’s fingers inside.

Despite having fucked Omar before, Oberyn takes his time to work him open. Knowing that he needs to be stretched so he doesn’t tear. His ass is tight and he groans when the muscles clench down around his finger. Pulling back and adding more lube before working a second finger inside him. “That’s it, lover. Open up for me and you will have my cock buried in your ass soon. You’ll like that, impaled on my cock while fucking my wife. You’ll be in heaven.”

Omar moans, dropping his head as he tries to stay still. You whine against Ellaria’s folds, wanting more but he doesn’t move until Oberyn has stretched him out. You slide your tongue up to suck on Ellaria’s clit and she watches Oberyn move to lube up his cock, spreading more lube on Omar’s ass as he kneels behind him.

“Fuck.” Oberyn groans, pressing the head of his cock against the grasping ring of muscles and starts to breach the man. Sliding his hips forward until the head is inside and he hisses, sliding his hand down Omar’s back. “Start moving.” He orders the other man. “Fuck yourself back onto my cock as you fuck my Dove.”

Just his words are enough for Omar to twitch inside you but he nods, gripping your hips as he starts to move. You whine in delight, the vibrations making Ellaria moan in pleasure as you lap at her clit. It doesn’t take long for you all to have a rhythm established and you are moaning at the way Omar pushes into you.

Once Oberyn feels the way Omar is pushing back against his cock, he knows he can ramp up the pace. The man is begging for him to hammer into his pretty little ass and wreck him from the way he is squeezing his cock like a vice. Gritting his teeth, Oberyn digs his fingers into Omar’s hips and snaps his own forward harshly, making the other man cry out in pleasure as he strikes against his prostate.

Omar is pushed into you by Oberyn and in turn, you moan into Ellaria’s cunt, making her whine. The motion back and forth continues, building up as the four of you seek pleasure and pleasure from one another. It’s intoxicating and you can understand why Oberyn loves it so much.

Leaning over Omar’s shoulder to watch you and Ellaria. Loving how eagerly you are devouring his lover’s cunt. As you hear her moans, it spurs you on, wanting to hear more from her. Ellaria paws at her breasts and tugs on your hair as she rocks her hips down, greedy for your tongue. “That’s it, Dove. Devour her. Make her cum on your tongue and then that thick cock will fill your cunt. After you cream all over him.”

Oberyn’s words make you clench around Omar who hisses and bucks into you a little harder. You slide your tongue into Ellaria and you barely need to move your head, pushed into your pussy by the two men behind you.

Oberyn chuckles, continuing his harsh pace as he spears into the other man. “That’s right, fuck. All of us are going to cum. Every one of us. Ellaria is loving that tongue in her cunt, aren’t you?” He growls.

Ellaria moans and nods, tangling her fingers in your hair to push you even further into her cunt. You lap at her clit and she meets Oberyn’s eyes. “Your wife is not as innocent as she seems. She’s going to make me cum.” She confesses breathlessly and Omar feels you clench around his cock.

Oberyn’s filthy chuckle is low, heated. “Good girl, Dove.” He praises. “Make her cum. Show her how filthy you can be. Cum on Omar’s cock. Fuck, you fit in so well. We will all fuck you until you are covered in cum. Until you are full.” He rambles as he plows into Omar, so incredibly turned on by how erotic his once prudish seeming wife is being right now. “Fuuuuuck.”

Oberyn’s words have your cunt fluttering around Omar’s cock but you want Ellaria to cum first. You suck on her clit and snake your hand along her thigh until you are pushing two digits into her weeping pussy. She cries out and you moan victoriously when she clamps down on your fingers and her back arches.

Ellaria cumming is always a beautiful sight. The gorgeous woman is enthralling when she shakes in pleasure and it’s made even more intoxicating by the knowledge that you made her cum. His wife devours her cunt like you are born to do it and makes his lover cry out in bliss, making him think that this could be a regular occurrence.

You work her through it, making you moan into her folds until she’s pushing your head away. You whine but Omar’s hands grab your tits, squeezing them, and you are sent closer to your orgasm. His hips hit your ass and you whimper when he gets the angle just right. “That’s it baby. Cum for us.” Ellaria coos, watching your face.

Oberyn can tell from the way your breaths are catching in your chest that you are about to cum. You must be squeezing Omar’s cock because the other man’s ring of muscles is pulsing around his cock. “She’s close.” He bites out.

Your hands grip Ellaria’s as she coos to you, “cum for us, lover.” You whine, squeezing your eyes shut, and you gasp when you feel Oberyn’s fingers rubbing your clit. You are pushed over the edge and moan your husband’s name as you fall apart on another man’s cock.

Oberyn twitching inside you, the pressure against Omar’s prostate makes the other man cry out. His hips lurch forward and he starts to throb. Painting your walls with ropes of sticky cum while his puckered hole spasms around your husband’s cock.

You pant, collapsing forward and Omar follows you, Oberyn shifting his knees to follow and you moan when his hand squeezes your hip while he fucks Omar harder, making the man inside you twitch despite his softening cock. “Fuck. Cum for me, baby.” You demand and Ellaria smirks, “cum for your wife, lover.”

You are pressed under the weight of the other man and Oberyn doesn’t hold back. Pounding into Omar to make the man wail in pleasure as his orgasm is pushed past the point of overwhelming. Hisses out your name as he drives into the tight hole again and again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He roars, pushing deep and flooding the man’s ass with his cum. Panting as he works himself through the intense pleasure.

You sigh, Ellaria stroking your hair as you relax under the weight of the men. It’s blissful and something you never imagined before. Omar pulls out of you as he’s soft and you shuffle up to lay beside Ellaria, turning your head to capture her lips while you spread your legs to show your husband the other man’s cum inside of you.

“Fuck.” Even though he hasn’t caught his breath, after pulling out of Omar, Oberyn ducks his head down and swipes his tongue through your cum covered folds to taste you and the other man’s combined juices.

“Fuck.” You pant, throwing your head back, and Ellaria chuckles, turning her head to pull Oberyn up so she can kiss him, wanting to sample the combination herself.

Oberyn lands next to Ellaria, tangling his tongue with hers easily and chuckling when she moans. Knowing that the other woman has become intoxicated by the taste as he has. Pulling away from his lips is a struggle but he reaches for you as well to kiss you softly, his other arm reaching for Omar to pull him closer as well. “Fuck.” He murmurs against your lips. “How do you like my way?” He asks.

You chuckle, reaching out to caress his cheek, “I love it.” You confess, “I want to do this again.” You admit and he smirks, knowing he wants to do this with you too but also keep you to himself sometimes. You know he’s going to be difficult to tame but you don’t want him to be anyone but himself, even if you were bought and paid to marry him for your mother’s sake.

[solarhysm]

DUST OF US #DRABBLE - JUNGKOOK THINKS YOU HATE HIM

> synopsis: 7 years ago Y/N broke Jungkook’s heart when she decided to end their relationship without an explanation. When they meet again at a friend's wedding, after almost a decade, Jungkook needs answers to move on.

> pairing: Jungkook x reader

> genre: romance, ex to lovers au

> warnings: explicit languages, violence, smut, cheating, nsfw, angst, +18 minors dni !!

> word count: 1.3k

MAIN STORY HERE.

*french writer, i apologize in advance for my awful english!

AGE: 17 years old.

You have become distant over the last few weeks. Jungkook has grown accustomed to having you around constantly: at lunchtime, in class, and even walking home together. But it’s been two or three weeks since you’ve started avoiding him, finding excuses.

At first, he didn’t say much—maybe you were really busy. But then he caught you with other friends. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t hurt. Over the past year, everything in his life had improved with you in it. But now, he feels like he’s bothering you every time he tries to talk. The worst part is that you keep talking to Jimin, even having lunch with him—but not Jungkook.

“I don’t understand…” Jungkook mumbles, stabbing his bowl of rice with his chopsticks as he gazes at you from afar, sitting with your friend Hyesun. You seem so happy, laughing at something she said, oblivious to his gaze when you could usually spot him anywhere. “Did I say something wrong?” he asks Jimin, who tilts his head to look at you too, sighing.

“We never know what that girl has in her mind,” Jimin says, chewing his food. “It’s not you, Kookie. You’re the kindest guy I know.”

“Then why is she avoiding me?” Jungkook frowns, making Jimin sigh and taking a sip of his water.

“Maybe she figured out that you’re madly in love with her and doesn’t feel the same?” Jimin suggests. Jungkook freezes at the words, feeling his cheeks burn.

“I’m not— I don’t have feelings for her…” He mumbles, his gaze dropping to his tray.

“Oh please”, Jimin rolls his eyes, putting down his chopsticks. “You’re a sap for her. You buy her favorite snacks, wait for her after class even when yours ended two hours earlier, and you even go to the library with her. You never stepped foot in that place before meeting her.”

“I’m just a good friend.” Jungkook frowns, trying to deny Jimin’s words.

“You turned down every girl who hit on you this year, Kookie.” Jimin arches a brow as Jungkook whines, throwing his head back, before hiding his face in his hands. He knows that Jimin is right. He hates that Jimin can read him like an open book.

“Do you really think… She’s avoiding me because of that?” Jungkook asks quietly, his face still buried in his hands. Jimin sighs, staring at his friend.

He’s been following the development of your friendship since the start. Gently, Jimin wraps his fingers around Jungkook’s wrist and pulls his hands down.

“Hey,” Jimin says softly, “She’d be stupid to avoid you just for that. You’re a great guy, Kookie. A little slow and dumb, but not in a bad way.” He teases with a smirk, making Jungkook smile slightly.

“I don’t want to lose her. If she doesn’t feel the same way, it’s okay. I can deal with a little heartbreak. But not… not having her in my life.” Jungkook admits, and Jimin’s lips curve in a soft smile. “I’ll talk to her.”

Taking a deep breath, Jungkook wipes his hands on his pants. He’s been standing outside your door for fifteen minutes. He was full of courage on the way to your building, but now it's slowly crumbling. What’s he supposed to say? Are you avoiding me because I’m in love with you? He cringes at the thought. No, he can’t say that. Exhaling softly, he knocks at your door before he could chicken out.

Your father opens the door, his slight frown shifting into a smile. He knows Jungkook. He actually loves Jungkook; he is a respectful and well-mannered.

“What’s up, son?” Your father grins as Jungkook swallows hardly, his hands sweaty. He discreetly wipes them again.

“Hello sir. Is… Y/N here?” He asks with a small voice.

“Come in, she’s in her room.” His father nods, stepping aside as Jungkook bows politely before entering. Once his shoes are off, he heads to your room. Your door is open, you’re lying on the floor, humming a song and drawing in your notebook.

You sit up and frown when you see Jungkook standing in your doorframe, still outside the room, because he didn’t have time to knock. You always seem to sense his presence whenever he's near. He called it your ‘spider-sense’.

“Kook?” You ask, getting up clumsily, feeling awkward. “What are you doing here?”

“I… uh… I need to talk to you.” He mumbles as you walk over, gesturing for him to come in before looking outside at your father, who’s smirking at you. You roll your eyes and close the door behind you.

“I’m kinda busy,” you say, avoiding his gaze, with your hands on your hips. “Make it quick.”

Jungkook's heart clenches painfully at the way you're acting. He hates it. He misses you.

“Y/N…” He starts, tilting his head to force you to look at him. “Are you avoiding me?”

“What— No!” You immediately shake your head.

“Please, don’t… sugarcoat it. If you don’t want to be friends anymore, that’s okay. But just tell me. I’ll respect your decision, but—"

“I’m not avoiding you, Kook!” You sigh, your stomach twisting uncomfortably.

“We haven't had a real conversation in weeks. You have time for everyone but me. You can’t even look at me right now.” He frowns as you finally lift your eyes from your feet to meet his gaze. “You know what? Sorry, it was stupid of me to bother you. I get it.” He clenches his jaw and steps back, turning toward the door.

He needs to get out fast. Jungkook has always been emotional. He can’t help it. The last thing he wants is for you to see him cry over this. He knows you wouldn’t judge him. But it still hurts.

 “What do you want me to say?” You bark, fists clenched at your sides as you stare at the back of his neck. You hate his chestnut haircut—you’ve told him multiple times. But that didn't stop you from falling for that idiot.

Your words make him freeze, his fingers still on the doorknob. He stares at the chipped paint of your door, unsure what to do, waiting for you to continue.

“I…” you start, shaking your head. “This is stupid.”

“You what?” He asks, not moving. But when you don’t reply, he nods, his grip tightening on the doorknob. “Alright…” He sighs, ready to leave.

“I like you.” You say in one breath, scared that if he crosses the threshold, you’ll never see him again. The confession sends a shiver down his spine. When he turns to face you, you're looking away, frowning— probably angry because you don't understand this new feeling. “Laugh at me all you want. I can’t help it.” You mutter, jaw clenched.

But Jungkook doesn’t want to laugh. His features soften as he watches you.

“Why would I?” He almost whispers, stepping closer. “Why would I?” He repeats, tilting his head to make you meet his gaze.

“Because you’re popular, and you can have any girls you want. Why would you care about someone who looks and acts like a boy?” You reply, making him chuckle softly. He pulls you into a warm hug, your breath shaky, but you stay still.

“I don’t care about them,” He murmurs, his warm breath brushing your ear as he tightens his arms around you, his nose grazing the skin of your shoulder. “I like you,” he says, and his words make you freeze for a second before you start laughing nervously. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, your arms wrapping shyly around his frame.

A huge weight lifts off your heart, and you feel lighter.

“Let me take you on a date,” he offers, pulling back as you shake your head, amused.

“A date?” You ask as he hums, wiping away a lonely tear from your cheek— the last remnant of your fear of losing him because of feelings you thought were unrequited.

“Well… I don’t have the money for something fancy, but I know you like tteokbokki.” He adds with an amused smile, his hands resting on your shoulders as you nod. “If I want you to be my girlfriend, I’ll better woo you properly, right?”

DUST OF US MASTERLIST.

WATTPAD.

buy me a coffee<3 (every chapters/drabbles are posted as soon as i'm done writing them.)

[lilasamaaa]

In the crowd | Carlos Sainz x Reader

Genres | Angst, Hurt/Comfort.

Word count | 3.6K.

Warnings | Alcohol consumption, drugs, mentions of violence.

Summary | Reader's an engineer at Scuderia Ferrari in Maranello. While attending the season's launch party, her drink gets spiked.

Author's Note | Hi all! After the longest time, I've felt the need to come back here for some silly writing. New blog because the last one got cringe. Let me know what you think!

One might think that after two years within the scuderia, the season’s launch parties would make her less uneasy. That after two years of being apart of the engineering team, she would finally be used to attending public gatherings. That after two years, she’d be a natural at walking in the open, feeling the glances slide over her figure. She is stunningly beautiful. Perhaps that's her burden. She doesn't realize it. 

When she walks across the paddock or the stands, she knows people are staring at her. She avoids meeting their gazes, feeling embarrassed. She thinks there must be something wrong with her outfit, with her gait. Why else would they stare for so long?

In Maranello, there’s a bakery at the corner of the HQ building where she stops every morning. The cashier always offers her something extra. A coffee. An additional pastry. She finds him polite, very customer-oriented. One morning, as she was freeing her croissant from the paper napkin it was wrapped in, she’d discovered a phone number scrawled in pen ink, with a hastily drawn smiley face. She’d stared at the napkin, perplexed, seated at her desk. He must have made a mistake, she thinks. It must have been meant for the customer before her. The one with the beautiful blonde curls and the Chanel perfume. She didn't call, didn't send a message. She continued to visit the bakery. The cashier never mentioned the number, proving her theory.

Someone brushing past her brings her back to earth. The party is in full swing, and she’s just not. She spots her colleagues bustling around the buffet and the bar, engrossed in lively conversations. While some don't even notice her, others wave their hands, encouraging her to join them. She forces a smiles, returns the wave. Then she tightens her grip around her clutch. Anything to make her feel like she’s in control. To make her forget that the music’s too loud, the lights too vibrant, the air too hot. 

She doesn't remember ever feeling comfortable in her body. Years of growing up in an unstable family where love was doled out sparingly do that to a person. 

"Hey," comes a familiar voice. She turns her head, her big eyes catching sight of Livio’s, one of her colleagues. "Are you not dancing?" he continues, a drink in hand. His whiskey breath hits her straight on. She discreetly glances at her watch, noting that it's barely nine.

"I haven't had enough to drink for that," she replies, trying to dodge the invitation.

"Let's go get you something then," Livio responds, grabbing her arm and heading towards the bar.

She's noticed that men always do that with her. Not just her colleagues, but people she doesn't know either. She's too kind, too gentle; she never raises her voice. So they grab her by the hips, the arms, the wrists. Anything is an excuse to touch her. She hates it.

"What do you want?" Livio asks.

Nothing, really, but she can't say that.

"Something sweet, please. I don't like strong alcohol," she replies. Livio seems to ponder her question for a second, his mouth pursed.

"I have something for you to try, wait," he continues, signaling to the bartender. "You're going to like it, don't worry."

A few seconds later, a glass of Plymouth is placed in front of her, and she looks up at Livio. Does he think I've never tasted gin in my life? she wonders, puzzled. She would like to refuse the drink, ask for the cherry liqueur she discovered last time indeed. But already, Livio has grabbed her glass and hands it to her with a big smile. "Salute," he exclaims, downing his own glass in one gulp.

Cries and applause suddenly echo in the large reception hall, causing her to turn her head. It takes her a few minutes to understand the reason for this sudden commotion. Until she sees them, a few meters away.

Charles and Carlos.

Her eyes can't seem to tear away from the two pilots making their way through the crowd to a small stage where a microphone is set up. It's tradition : to kick off the season in style, the entire team eagerly awaits the drivers' speeches. Everyone wants to hear their words, their encouragements, their hopes and goals for the season.

A friend once asked her if she knew Charles and Carlos personally. She can't really say yes. That would be a lie. She's exchanged words with each of the athletes before, giving them information about the race, their car, and the expected weather. These exchanges have always been brief and cordial. Professional. Nothing more.

Even though... No, she thinks, lightly shaking her head. That was nothing. But still...

It had happened just before the race in Singapore, last year.

A friend from engineering school had moved there at the beginning of the year, and they had agreed to meet for dinner at a fancy restaurant in the city. It was an opportunity to reminisce about the years spent at Polytechnique, studying (a bit), suffering (a lot), and getting drunk (a whole lot).

She had chosen a long emerald green silk dress, slit up to mid-thigh. The perfect balance between classy and sexy. She had no intention of charming her companion - notoriously attracted to men, anyway - but this meal was the perfect excuse to leave her eternal Ferrari jumpsuits for something more feminine.

In the long corridor leading to the elevator, she'd suddenly felt on a catwalk, letting herself get caught up in the moment and rolling her hips perhaps a tad too exaggeratedly. The person emerging from the corner at the far end of the corridor surprised her, but not enough to disrupt her stride, her heels clicking against the floor.

She had recognized him immediately, of course.

Dressed in a simple fitted black polo and a pair of dark jeans, his eyes had not left hers throughout their crossing. When the two had finally reached the same level, she'd breathed out a small "Good evening, Carlos," suddenly insecure about everything. Her outfit. Her gait. The messy bun revealing her neck. The cleavage leaving no room for a bra and showing the beginning of her breasts.

He had passed her, nodding in acknowledgment, and each had continued on their way. She was certain... No, almost certain, that she had dreamt the words that had followed.

"That's one lucky guy."

Yes, she was almost certain she had dreamt it. Watching the Spaniard in the distance take hold of the microphone and tap it gently to check the connections, she became increasingly convinced. There was no chance that this man, chiseled from marble, could have noticed her. Desired her.

His accent echoes throughout the room, and she instinctively closes her eyes, as if bathed in the gentle sun of Madrid. She's not listening - not really - only catching words here and there. "Truly an honor," "Very impressed by your efforts," "Promising changes." But her mind is elsewhere, between Maranello and Singapore, tethered to the memory that makes her lower abdomen tingle in the sweetest of ways.

"And now, it's time to celebrate!" Carlos says as the room erupts with joy and anticipation.

"Earth to you?" comes a much less pleasant voice than the one that has just quieted down.

"I'm sorry, what?" she says, returning her attention to Livio.

"Oh, wow, you've got to be kidding me. Is it just me, or are you completely absorbed by this guy?" Livio replies, his mouth twisted in a grimace.

"Who?" she asks, genuinely confused.

"Sainz. You were hanging on his every word."

"I just think it's nice that they're giving an encouraging speech. Both of them," she explains, avoiding the Italian's gaze.

"Yeah, okay. Should we get another drink?" he asks, taking hold of her arm again.

She wants to protest. She can still taste the gin at the back of her mouth. It can't have been more than twenty minutes since her first drink. But Livio is already almost dragging her behind him, clearly determined not to let her escape tonight. And once again, that hand locks around her arm. Firm. Not open to discussion. She feels something almost territorial in the gesture, something that strongly displeases her, so she vows to mention it to Livio. Someday. Not tonight.

This time, he doesn't even pretend to care about what she wants to drink, ordering two whiskies straight away. She hates it. The taste, the look, what this alcohol does to her mind and body. But Livio has already slipped two bills to the bartender, and a moment later, the amber liqueur lands in her right hand.

While her drinking companion is already tilting his head back, clearly unaware that this type of alcohol is to be savored and not downed in one go, she observes the glass, intrigued by the few bubbles that are forming on the surface. I had no idea whiskey could do that, she thinks before bringing the liquid to her lips.

A few minutes later, she's managed to shake off Livio by claiming she needed to use the restroom. She crosses paths with Carlos walking in the other direction, maybe three people ahead of her, but he doesn't notice her.

In front of the restroom mirror, touching up her lipstick, her focus changes as she sees a drop of sweat trickle down her temple and slide slowly onto her cheek. I'm rather cold, though, she thinks, almost suppressing a shiver. Her head suddenly feels very light. She blames the alcohol. Putting her lipstick back in her clutch and tucking a strand of hair that threatened to escape from her bun, she pushes the restroom door open again, bracing herself to face the social world once more.

Passing by the buffet, a wave of nausea washes over her, forcing her to stop for a few seconds, leaning against the table and closing her eyes.

"I thought it was you," echoes the sunny accent in her ears. With her eyes still closed, she wishes their new encounter, one that she'd admit she's dreamed about, had happened differently. At a better time. A time when she wasn't battling a fierce urge to throw up.

"Are you okay?" Carlos inquires, raising his hand as if to support her but stopping halfway.

She takes a few seconds to push the unpleasant sensations from her body as far away as possible before lifting her head, opening her eyes, and being rewarded with the exquisite sight of his luscious hair and amber eyes.

"Hi," she manages to utter in a faint voice. "Great speech," she continues, still leaning against the table.

"You look pale," the driver responds, looking concerned.

The words escape her lips before they even reach her brain. She regrets them instantly. Something inside her just give way, like a dam.

"Sorry. I must have looked better in Singapore," she says.

Carlos widens his eyes, surprised, before letting out an awkward laugh.

"Sorry for staring at you like that, that night. You were... Well, you are...," he continues, seeming to search for his words.

She would so love to hear the rest, to know what he was going to say. But dizziness seizes her, and she feels herself tipping against the table. Well, almost, because suddenly, an arm wraps around her waist, pressing her against a chest that, yes, she's also dreamed about several times. But not like this. Not in this state.

"Hey," Carlos says, his voice tinged with worry.

"I'm so sorry, this never happens to me. I must have had one drink too many, I—"

"I saw you at the bar not even ten minutes ago," the Spaniard continues. "No alcohol hits you that fast. Not even shots."

"I'm fine," she says, and the pilot understands that she's saying it not only to reassure him but herself as well. And, as if the words had commanded it, the fog in her mind dissipates a bit. Enough for her to gently detach herself from the pilot, finding her balance on her own two feet again. She'd like to take advantage of this newfound clarity to keep the Spaniard close to her. Him, that she never crosses paths with, whom she never speaks to, and yet who appeals to her so much.

But Charles arrives. He smiles at her, asks if she's okay, if she's enjoying the evening, and oh, "I'll borrow him for a moment, I'm so sorry, sponsors, you know," and oh, once again, she finds herself alone at the buffet, watching the two men walk away, Carlos still watching her as he reluctantly retreats.

"I was beginning to think he'd never leave," Livio says, leaning against the buffet, his hip brushing against hers.

She wants to scream. Oh, how badly she wants to.

Sensing that she's not going to respond, the Italian tries his luck again.

"Should we dance? You seem intoxicated enough, now."

She doesn't even have time to respond before her colleagues guides her onto the dance floor, eagerly pressing his body against hers. His breath, previously tinged with whiskey, now betrays hints of tequila. The guy never has enough, she thinks, twirling reluctantly.

And there it goes again. The nausea, the queasiness. Spinning her around like a puppet doesn't help, she tells herself. She comes to a halt, cutting off Livio's momentum, causing some dancing couples to narrowly avoid colliding with them. Feeling vulnerable, she tries to get away, to seek refuge elsewhere. But her wrist is once again trapped.

"You don't look well. Come on, let's get you some fresh air," Livio says, heading towards one of the large glass doors.

She's often been described as naive by her loved ones. She believes that the whole world means well towards her, never suspects anyone of ill intentions. She would even say about herself that she has no instincts, let alone survival instincts. No sense of danger. Yet, perhaps for the first time in her life, something deep inside her is screaming not to follow the man. Her signals are on alert. Everything is flashing red in her mind. For her, it's a first. So, without thinking, without worrying about offending her colleague, she acts.

"I don't need to go outside," she says, trying to free herself from his grasp. She's sweating. She feels the unpleasant sensation of a thin layer of dampness creeping over her neck, her back, her hands.

Her feeble resistance is no match for Livio's strength, as he pulls her outside despite her protests. The music is too loud for anyone to hear their altercation. Divided between the buffet, the bar, and the dance floor, no one pays attention to this mismatched couple, to the determined man dragging a struggling woman behind him.

The door closes heavily behind them, stifling the sounds of the party, captured on the other side. It's cold outside, she feels it because her whole body shivers. But she, who was cold just a short while ago, feels like she's boiling. She raises her hand to her forehead, wiping away another bead of sweat that's formed between her eyebrows. What's happening to me? she thinks internally, troubled. Alcohol has never put her in such a state before.

"I'm so glad I ran into you tonight," Livio begins, either oblivious or indifferent to the young woman's condition.

She doesn't respond, feeling her head spinning, leaning against the wall behind her, gasping to try to catch her breath. Trying to control the burning heat that's engulfing her body.

"You look really beautiful tonight. Quite a change from the work overalls, huh!" the man continues.

She's not exactly sure at what moment he slipped between her legs, facing her, just a few centimeters from her face. But he's there, too close, forcing her to turn her head to the side to avoid his gaze - and his alcohol-laden breath.

"I said, you look really beautiful tonight," Livio says. "Are you not going to say anything?"

"What do you expect me to say to that?" she says, jaw clenched.

"Do you find me attractive?" the man asks, meeting her gaze.

The warning signals reappear along with the nausea. She barely has time to push the man away and lean to the side before emptying her stomach inches away from his feet. The naivety stops there. The pieces of the puzzle fall into place, realization hitting her painfully.

"What did you do to me?" she asks, her knees giving way under her weight, sending her crashing to the ground. He sneers, rolling his eyes, as she crawls a few meters, trying to put some distance between them. She's now sitting on the ground, her back to the wall.

"What? What are you talking about?" the Italian replies, offended.

"Did you put something in my drink?" she asks again.

"Come on, now. I've been helping you ever since you said you weren't feeling well. What kind of monster do you think I am?"

For a moment, her colleague's wounded look makes her seriously doubt herself. Maybe it really is just the alcohol, she thinks, trying to calm her racing mind. After all, why would someone deliberately choose to harm her? Why jump to that conclusion? Livio has always been charming. A bit clingy, but charming.

"I'm sorry for implying that. I'm gonna head back inside," she says, trying to stand up.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Livio answers, pushing her back down.

"What? why?" she asks, surprised.

"It wouldn't be very wise to parade in front of your colleagues and superiors in such a poor state," the Italian begins, his tone almost mocking. "It really doesn't give a good impression of you. It's not very professional."

"I haven't done anything, just had a few drinks," she responds, annoyed. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"You're so wasted you can't even stand. At a work event. Do you want to get fired or something?"

She opens her mouth to speak, to defend herself, but no words come out. She can't seem to figure out if Livio is with her or against her anymore. His words are harsh, aggressive, but deep down, the engineer probably isn't wrong. She struggled to secure a position here, at Ferrari. Even though she believes herself to be fairly skilled at her job and puts in long hours, there are hundreds of others doing the same work as her every day. And hundreds more who could replace her if the need arose.

She's not indispensable. She's not even that good at speaking Italian, having always had more ease in English or in French, even though she spends the majority of her evenings reading books in the language. She's just a tiny cog in the machine. She thinks about Carlos, too. What would he think, seeing me stumbling in the middle of the dance floor like a mad woman?

"Let me drive you home," Livio says, extending his hand. "Spare you the embarrassment."

She hadn't realized how tired she was. The offer is rather tempting. Getting back to her apartment, her cat, her bed. Above all, escaping the crowd. Forgetting this evening. Forgetting whatever she thought there was with Carlos, too, while she's at it. As a stronger wave of sleep washes over her, she temporarily closes her eyes.

"Come on," he says. "Let's get you in the car."

After her brain, her legs refuse to cooperate too. Her body barricades itself, trying to keep her firmly sheltered. Losing patience, Livio hoists her up, throwing her over his shoulder. She wants to protest against the position she finds herself in. That's so unladylike. Her last few connected neurons grapple over strange thoughts. I hope nobody sees my underwear, she thinks before her brain disconnects once again.

She's so far gone, yet the next words sound crystal-clear in her ears.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

Sounds like Carlos, she thinks, delirious.

"What does it look like to you? I'm bringing her home. She's wasted," she hears, and she thinks it might be Livio, because she feels his body shaking with each words.

"There's no way I'm letting you leave with her. Put her down."

"Yeah? So you can have your way with her?"

"No, so I can punch you in the fucking face," the accent-thick voice shouts.

She must have passed out for good because she doesn't remember anything else. When she wakes up next, which feels like an eternity later, she's sitting against a wall, this time indoors, wrapped in a golden emergency blanket. There's no more music. Opening one eye, then the next, she's met with Carlos' brown ones. She tries to speak but her mouth feels dry. The Spaniard hands her a glass of water, helping her bring it to her lips.

"I somehow managed to look even worse," she jokes, reminiscing their earlier encounter.

"The paramedics have just arrived. They're going to take you to the hospital for a check-up," he says and she nods.

"Thank you, Carlos," she replies.

"I haven't done the half of what I would have wanted," he says, regret filling his voice.

"What do you mean?"

"This has to be the worst timing ever, but I... I actually wanted to ask you out, before Charles interrupted us and before, well... this," he says, gesturing around them.

He doesn't see it, but hidden under the blanket, she pinches her arm. Hard. Just to make sure she won't wake up a second time. Seeing that nothing changes, she lets out a little laugh.

"If you wanted me to wear that silky green dress, I'm so sorry, but I ruined it in the washer."

"You can wear a garbage bag for all I care," Carlos replies, looking at her fondly. "You'll still stand out in the crowd."

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 10.4k

Warnings: series rewrite, season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, lightheadedness, an unwanted kiss, forced kiss, terror, near werewolf attack

Request: This just came from my own head 😊

Part 3: Blue Handprints

Part 4: Ollie's Catnip {You Are Here}

Part 5: Mieczyslaw

Monday had rolled around quicker than you were expecting. After a week of being sick and a weekend of hanging out with your friends, you want to get back to a regular schedule.

The deep claw marks imbedded in your shoulder were healed, but left puffy, red marks that would soon scar terribly. Seeing as you already had a surgical scar on your chest it wasn’t a big deal.

What was bothersome was that it started to ache. Like a bad knee on a rainy day, your shoulder was tweaking something awful. You were massaging it in your classroom as others began filing in for the infamous chemistry test.

A few friendly faces welcome you back and ask if you heard about the incident with the janitor and supposed serial killer.

You wave them off and wait for your friends to appear.

Allison walks in with Lydia, and they sit in front of you. “Hey, how are you doing?”

“I’m fine. Although I haven’t seen Scott since Wednesday so that’s another story.”

Lydia reapplies her lipstick and adjusts her necklaces, “We’ll conquer that bridge when we come to it. Remember, you don’t need him. He treated you badly and he has a lot of making up to do before you even suggest the thought of talking to him again.”

Your eyes widen ever so slightly, “That’s pretty harsh.”

“Just because you decide to hang with the dog toys on the side doesn’t mean you can’t support your girls in avoiding them!”

You look to Allison, “I haven’t told him anything besides that you’re hurt. And that you’re looking for an explanation. I won’t tell him anything more unless you want me to.”

“No,” she shakes her head, “No, that’s fine for now. I want him to stew in it for a while.”

“Oh trust me…” you flip your pencil between your fingers, “He’s been simmering in those thoughts all weekend. The poor boy is crushed.”

“As he should be,” Lydia flips her hair, confidence radiating off her. She would ace this test without batting an eyelash. “He’s the one that’s been miscommunicating and hiding things from you. You don’t need that kind of stress added to your life.”

You frown, eyeing the scribbles and carvings on your desktop. The boys were still hiding a number of things from you. The foggy trip to the forest on Saturday didn’t help much. But the drunken memory of Stiles kissing your hairline and making wolf jokes brought a smile to your face.

Wolf jokes… it was the full moon that night, wasn’t it?

You rub your left shoulder again as Stiles walks in to sit beside you. He waves to you and takes a passive stance in his seat – tapping his pencil in his hand and bouncing his leg like it was the pedal keeping his life support on.

He hadn’t spoken to you the rest of the weekend. Nothing about the drunkenness. Nothing about the flirty touches he kept initiating. Nothing about how those senior boys tried to take you away.

“How was your Sunday?” you finally try and say.

“Fine, I had to come up with an excuse why my dad had one less bottle in his liquor cabinet,” he watches the pencil flying around his fingers, “I had to convince him he had one too many drinks while trying to solve the current investigation.”

You nod slowly, “Has he done that before?”

“Yeah, so it wasn’t that hard for him to believe.” There was a rather sad smirk on his face as he says it. “Anyways, how’s the bump on your head? Rocks punch hard I hear.”

You laugh, “Thanks to your kiss it hasn’t bothered me at all.”

“You remember that?” he winces, trying to hide the pink blossoming across his nose. “You remember anything else?”

You wonder how much you want to embarrass him. “You certainly had some wandering hands…”

“Oh, god,” he drops his pencil and buries his head in his arms atop his desk. “I was hoping that wouldn’t come up.”

“It was just some harmless arm tickles,” you shrug, amused by his reaction. “And you helping me to the car. You know as far as being wasted goes, we weren’t blackout drunk. I remember everything pretty well.”

He takes a deep breath and rubs hard at his eyes, “I was worried sick all yesterday thinking you’d be mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad at you?” you laugh again, “We’re friends; I was leaning on Scott and holding onto his ankle most of the night. Friends are allowed to be close.”

“Yeah, but you told me how you like Andrew and I was worried that you’d be upset about me doing what I did when you were probably hoping that it was Andrew that was doing what I did because you want to go on a date with him… and I wasn’t sure how you felt about me being close when you weren’t in some kind of distress from your heart because so far the only times I’ve touched you has been when you were about to faint or your heart is racing or you just went through a traumatic ordeal, and seeing as being drunk and having a breakup bonfire with your friends is none of those things… I thought maybe you’d be mad at me for, you know… touching you.”

His eyes were boring into his desk, leg back to bouncing like his life depended on it. You were smiling a sweet smile. He was so adorably endearing.

You wait until you see the honey of his eyes before saying, “I’m not mad, Stiles.”

He looks to you as if waiting for a long-winded reply like his, but he settles back into his desk and whispers, “Okay.”

“I would tell you if I didn’t like how you were touching me.”

He whips his head to you again, expression open and pink as he lingers on your warm gaze and soft smile. His throat bobs as Scott enters the room and makes awkward eye contact with Allison.

He sits on Stiles’ other side, giving him a blank nod as a hello. You lean forward and put a hand on Allison’s shoulder as a little silent support.

Mr. Harris starts class right after. “You have 45 minutes to complete the test. 25% of your grade can be earned right now simply by writing your name on the cover of the blue book. However, as happens every year, one of you will inexplicably fail to put your name on the cover, and I’ll be left yet again questioning my decision to ever become a teacher.”

You finish writing your name, peeking to see Stiles doing the same in a much more frantic manner. You share a smile with him as he finds your laughing gaze.

“So let’s get the disappointment over with. Begin.” Mr. Harris starts his stopwatch and the class simultaneously open their testing booklets.

You’re quick to start answering the first multiple choice question. Being someone that spends a lot of time at home, your study habits are perfection. It was a breeze knowing the answers to the entire first page.

As you flip to the backside, you notice Allison sending looks toward Scott. You follow her gaze and notice your friend having a strange, tweaky reaction to different things in the room. He kept jerking his head in different directions and squeezing his eyes shut as if to stop them from seeing something.

You share concern with Allison as you wonder what is ailing him.

Less than a minute later Scott was running out of the classroom with his backpack. Stiles was quick to follow him soon after.

“Mr. McCall!” Mr. Harris yells from his desk, “Mr. Stilinski!”

You probably would’ve followed too if Mr. Harris wasn’t currently giving a lecture about teenage delinquents and how that was a record for disappointment during an end-of-term test. But Stiles was out there with him – he probably didn’t want more attention than that. Scott was already hurting enough.

You attempt to continue the test and take deep breaths to control the random spikes in your heartbeat. Nothing unusual.

~~~

Scott was dripping in the locker room showers, the only thing having calmed him down being the forgotten inhaler in his backpack. Stiles stood back, consoling him on the panic attack.

“I looked at her, and it was like someone hit me in the ribs with a hammer.”

Stiles bites his lip, “Yeah, it’s called heartbreak. About two billion songs written about it.” And unrequited love, he thinks miserably.

Scott bangs his head against the tile wall, gripping his hair and trying to control his breathing, “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Stiles mumbles, thoughts swaying towards you. “Well, you could think about this: her dad’s a werewolf hunter, and you’re a werewolf, so it was bound to become an issue.” He could feel you smacking him on the arm, “That wasn’t helpful.”

“You think any of that matters when I feel about her like I do?”

“Dude,” Stiles lolls his head around, “I mean, yeah you got dumped, and it’s supposed to suck.”

Scott hangs his head, rubbing at his ear as he recalls, “No, that’s not it. It was like I could feel everything in the room, everyone else’s emotions. Anxiety, nerves, hunger…”

“That’ll be the test.”

“There was something warm, like love and a feeling like someone was going to be sick.”

Stiles perks up, “Who was the one feeling love?”

“It’s hard to pinpoint it,” Scott winces, “Maybe the extra heartbreak I’m feeling is because I was feeling it from Allison?”

“It’s got to be the full moon,” Stiles shrugs, “So we’ll lock you up in your room later just like we planned. That way the Alpha, who is your boss, can’t get to you, either.”

“I think we need to do a lot more than lock me in my room.” Something changes in Scott’s eyes. He stands with a new kind of assertiveness.

Stiles starts to ramble as per usual, “What, you mean because if you get out, you’d be caught by hunters?”

“No. Because if I get out, I think I might kill someone.”

“Shit,” Stiles mumbles, screwing up his face and folding his arms. “Is this that whole the Alpha wants me to kill my old pack so I can be a part of his bullshit?” He backs away from the menacing gleam now in Scott’s face. “We’re not going to let that happen. The Alpha has already targeted each of us. I’m not going to let him sway you into doing it yourself.”

“I wonder who will be the first.”

Stiles does not like the condemning tone to his voice as he says that.

~~~

You were heading to the library after school, keeping your backpack on your right shoulder. Consoling your two heartbroken friends and avoiding the hostility between Lydia and Jackson had given you a different type of exhaustion.

But nothing a healthy dose of scientific research for your chemistry project couldn’t fix.

Having memorized the layout of the library, you knew where to look for microbial research. You select a textbook and go to the front desk to check out a school Chromebook – which happened to be the latest donation for student use that year.

You were even more surprised when you went for the couches and tables. Stiles was sitting there doing his own kind of research.

“I thought you were taking care of Scott?”

Stiles seems just as surprised to see you. There was a frantic second where he tries to shuffle around his doodle pads and books. “Uh… yeah, he sort of got tired of me ‘yapping’ at him all day.” He has a funny side smile as he laughs.

“Breakups are hard,” you nod, sucking in your lips. “What are you doing here?” You lean across his table, trying to read his research upside down.

He gets fidgety again, scratching his head and making a low sound in his throat. “Nothing! Just a little hobby.”

“Wolves?” you ask, finally pulling one of his books towards you. “I didn’t know you had an interest in… wildlife.” You snicker as he yanks the book back.

“Ha ha, yeah very funny. I do just so happen to have an… interest… in w-wolves.”

You struggle to take him seriously, “And why wolves specifically?”

His throat bobs and his eyes wander for a second, “… because they say Derek is a serial killer. But you told me that the video store manager was killed by a wolf, not a human. So I’m sort of seeing if it’s possible all the murders were done by a rabid wolf and not a man… or a mountain lion.” He says it so quickly that you’re not sure if it’s his ADHD or him trying to cover his tracks.

You itch to touch your left shoulder, “What have you found out?” You sit across from him and look eager – almost heartened that he was taking your eyewitness account so seriously.

He seems resistant for a second before losing the rigidness in his shoulders. He melts forward into the table as he speaks to you in a hushed voice. “I was looking at their hunting patterns. Wolves are very endurance based predators. They don’t need to sneak up on their prey or have the element of surprise. They’re willing to travel for miles until they find an opportunity to strike.”

“So once you’re a target you’re pretty much screwed,” you smirk – but you’re unnerved at the fact Stiles wasn’t sharing your amusement.

“Right,” he plays around with his papers, “And they’re very smart with their targets. They use visual cues, their hearing, and scent to identify the perfect prey.”

You watch his speckled face as he explains, “What makes the perfect prey?”

His warm sappy eyes find yours, “They go for the weakest or sickest of the herd first.” His voice is almost solemn as he says it, “They seize the advantage in a hunt by going for a more vulnerable animal. They are smart enough to weigh their options for the peak outcome.”

“I didn’t know wolves were so clever.”

“Clever hunters,” Stiles scoffs. “And brutal killers. They don’t have the skillset to kill their victims quickly. Their prey usually die from shock or blood loss as the pack starts tearing them apart like a mob.”

You shiver unexpectedly, “Lovely research, Stiles. I’m going to have those recurring nightmares from the video store again.”

He was watching your amused face with something hollow. He looks sad… and worried. “Sorry, I’m being morbid.”

“It’s been a strange couple weeks,” you say, flipping through the index of your textbook, “While you’re here, do you want to meet about our science project?”

“The one that isn’t due for another month? Yeah, sure,” he finally smiles, warming up at your particular quirks.

You find the page on Escherichia coli. “Well, we’re going to need a few weeks to let the bacteria grow in the petri dishes.”

Stiles makes a face, “Bacteria?”

“I want to test some food handlers rules. There are many ways to cook and defrost different meats – how do we know which is the best to kill any unwanted bacteria?” You smile wide, “We plant some foodborne illness in meat, freeze it and defrost it in different ways before cooking it. We’ll swab them before and after cooking to see what bacteria grows.”

“What bacteria were you thinking?” Stiles folds his arms, stomach starting to feel a little queasy.

“E. coli,” you beam, “It’s a coliform bacterium that can cause food poisoning and diarrhea.”

Stiles swallows hard, “And you thought my research was lovely…”

“Come on, I know Mr. Harris would sign off on us getting some E. coli samples and we can conduct it in the lab. And after we can have steak for dinner.”

“I am not eating any kind of meat that you had stuffed full of a diarrhea bacteria!”

You laugh and miss the look of marveling in Stiles’ gaze. “Don’t you have lacrosse practice today?”

He watches you take notes with your pretty handwriting, completely forgetting about his research. “Yeah, actually. I have to hit the lockers in about ten minutes.”

“Hopefully that’ll be good for Scott,” you sigh, still giving most of your attention to your notes. “It might help him get some pent up feelings out.”

Stiles was very against that idea, pulling on his sleeves and starting to bounce his leg. “Maybe. Hey, speaking of Scott. When we were at the forest with him… there was something you said…”

“We both said a lot of things that night,” you snicker, “Kind of happens when you’re intoxicated.”

“No, it was something that I didn’t think much about until I remembered it the next morning,” he bows his head to try and get into your eyeline as you continue to write. “Can I ask you my personal question of the day?”

You laugh at the use of that question since you’ve become closer friends, “Sure, Stilinski.”

“You said you’ve never had anything past a situationship before,” he looks at your bright eyes with a slanted brow, “Because they get scared about you dying. What does that mean?”

There was a shiver in your eyes, but you remain steady, “I don’t know, Stiles – we were drunk. I probably just meant the inevitable. Everyone dies eventually.”

“Sure,” he says quietly, registering your evasiveness immediately. “Especially in this town.”

You shake your head, going back to your E. coli notes. “I almost wish it was the mountain lion, so we’d at least know it was dead and gone.” You flip the pages of your textbook, “I’m going to sit with Lydia today.”

“You’re going to watch?” he sounds lighthearted at that.

You smile, “Yeah, I want to support my boys. And, you know, Allison isn’t going to be there like usual.”

Stiles nods, staring at you longer than he should’ve. He couldn’t help admiring the natural rosiness to your cheeks when you weren’t sick.

“You worried about your heart?” he asks, starting to pack up his own research. “It’ll be loud and wild.”

“Maybe a little,” you say, “But everyone knows, and they can help if I feel faint.” You watch him stand from the table, “I’ll see you out on the field.”

~~~

Stiles was on a high. Scott was made captain, and he was now on the first line. Thank god for pinkeye.

“Are you not freaking out? I’m freaking out,” he has a stupid smile on his face, bouncing as he walks.

Scott was still brooding, “What’s the point? It’s just a stupid title. And I could practically smell the jealousy in there.”

“You’re still smelling everyone’s emotions?” Stiles stops them in the hallway, “Like from the test this morning?”

Scott is mumbling as he says, “Yeah, it’s like the full moon’s turned everything up to 10.”

Stiles, in his usual fidgety manner, awkwardly brings up, “Can you pick up on stuff like, I don’t know, desire?” He looks down the hall and his eyes warm into that sweet brown color.

It wasn’t registering in Scott, “What do you mean, desire?”

“Like… sexual desire.”

“Sexual desire?” Scott deadpans. He was dealing with a breakup and this guy has the audacity to ask him about sexual desires. His mind immediately pinpoints a moment when he and Allison were kissing on the bed. It made his blood boil.

Stiles was still talking around it, “Yeah, sexual desire. Lust, passion, arousal.”

After a huff of contempt, Scott peers down the hall and spots what Stiles is after. “From (Y/N)?”

Stiles looks toward the double doors at the end of the hall and gulps at your standing figure. You’re talking to Andrew and Danny, shocked at something they’re saying. You look towards the boys and wave, giving two big thumbs up. Apparently the lacrosse team had told you the big news about the recent promotions.

“What?” Stiles says quickly, waving back at you, “No, in a general, broad sense, can you determine sexual desire?”

Scott was experiencing a strange combination of anger and amusement, “From (Y/N) to you?”

“Fine, yes!” Stiles says louder than he means to, “From (Y/N) to me.” He bares his teeth a little in frustration, “Look, I need to know if I have a chance with this girl, okay.” He looks to you again to see Lydia appear to take you away. “I’ve been obsessing over her since getting back from winter break. She’s all I can think about!”

“Why don’t you just ask her? We’re all friends.”

Stiles twitches, “Well, to save myself utterly crushing humiliation. Thank you, Scott. I don’t want her pulling out the ‘I just see you as a friend’ line. I think I’d have to switch high schools.” He pulls on his uniform, “Please, can you just go up and ask if she likes me? See if her heartbeat rises…”

“Her heartbeat is always all over the place,” Scott rolls his eyes, “Hence the medical condition.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles grounds out, flailing his arms over his head, “See if pheromones come out or something!”

Scott turns on his heel and walks away, “Fine.”

Stiles is left in shock and pink tinging his cheeks, “I love you. I love you! You’re my best friend in the whole world.” He grips his lacrosse stick tight enough to hear the leather handle squeak.

At the end of the hall, talking with Lydia, you mutter something that sounds eerily like ‘Andrew.’ Scott didn’t let it bother him, “Hey, (Y/N), can we talk for a second?”

You play with your jacket, noticing the off color to his eyes before saying, “Yeah, of course.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, “I’ll save you a seat on the stands.” She flounces off smelling of heavenly perfume.

You lead Scott off to the nearest empty classroom, arms folded as you ask, “Are you okay?”

“I just needed to ask you something,” he says with his head bowed, sounding hurt as he continues, “Do you… do you know if Allison still likes me?”

You tilt your chin down, frowning slightly at the puppy-dog eyes he was giving you. “Of course she still likes you. I told you it was going to take a long time for her to get over you. That’s probably why she isn’t here cheering on her friends.”

“Friends…”

“I mean, yeah she’ll always like you as a friend,” you say sincerely, “I don’t think she could ever hate you.”

Scott wasn’t liking the answer. He was glowering again, all puppy-dog erased from his eyes. His hands were curling into fists as he says, “Just friends.”

You sound timid as you continue, “She doesn’t want any animosity between you, but yeah… maybe cooling off as just friends could ease the tension.”

He takes a step forward and the room feels three degrees colder, “You’re saying I should just forget all about my feelings for her?”

You take a sudden step back, your heart beginning to leap in your chest. Scott did not look like the friendly version of himself you had grown accustomed to. He was being dark and menacing, an edge to his voice that you did not like.

A hand going to your chest as it usually did to somehow contain your heartbeat, you say, “For the time being, maybe. Just see it as you’re taking a break. When you see her again…”

“Then I need to take my mind off of her somehow,” he says, creeping his way toward you – almost like he was stalking.

You were being backed into a wall, “Scott, are you okay? You seem a little off.” Your shoulders hit the wall, “You’re scaring me.”

He takes a long sniff and cocks his head to the side, “Scaring you a lot, actually.” He invades your personal space – to the point where you can feel the angry heat radiating off him. “Your heart is racing.”

You gulp and Scott eyes the pulse galloping in your neck. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to distract myself from the breakup. You said you would help me.” And his hands snap to your face, holding it in place as he crushes his lips to yours. He is stronger than you were expecting, pulling you to him with rigid arms.

You try to flail away, but Scott’s hands land on your upper arms, pining you between him and the wall. He kisses you hungrily – angrily – as he goes in for more and more. Your muffled cries of defiance are smothered in his mouth. It was bruising and intense, way more than you were ready for.

When he eventually pulls away you are quick to smack him across the face. Shoving at his solid form before running from the abandoned classroom. You sprint for the farthest restroom and find it empty.

You lean against a sink before looking in the mirror. Your hair was ratted in the back and the swollen red of your lips was a giveaway. You were just realizing you were crying when the alarm of your watch finally registered in your brain.

Your heart was still pounding in your chest and before long you’d be lightheaded.

It took nearly twenty minutes for you to calm down. Sitting on the dirty tiled floor, head between your knees, and tears running down your nose. You wonder what had gotten into Scott for him to take advantage of you like that.

Scott wasn’t that kind of guy, right?

You had received texts from both Lydia and Stiles before you made it outside. Lydia asking where you were and Stiles asking about your heart. He had gotten an alarm on his phone too.

Scott had told him it was because you were thinking about him… that you had confessed that you did, in fact, have a crush on Stiles too.

Lydia could see the closed, distraught look on your face as you climb the bleachers. “What happened? Have you been crying?” She touches the redness under your eyes.

You push her away, holding yourself and whispering, “I just had a moment. I’m fine.”

It wasn’t enough for Lydia, her manicured nails tilting your chin towards her, “Have you been kissing?!”

You rub at your lips, “Not by choice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks with a sudden lowered tone. The usual façade of the flirty popular spring fling queen was gone. “Did some guy…?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you whisper again, eyeing the field and rubbing up and down your arms. “Let’s just enjoy the game.”

Lydia was still staring at you, “(Y/N), we need to report this.”

“No, it was an accident,” you say defensively, “He didn’t mean to.”

“Who?”

“Noone, Lydia please,” you start to feel your eyes water again, “I promised Stiles I’d be here, and I don’t break those promises.”

A huff escapes Lydia, “That’s ridiculous. That idiot friend of yours would understand you leaving because somebody assaul…”

You hiss at her, “Stop! You’ll send my heart rate sky rocketing.”

She purses her lips, yanking her bag towards her and flushed with anger, “Fine. At least let me help hide the evidence. You don’t want anyone else questioning you.” She extracts a make-up wipe and a calming chapstick. “And then you’ll tell me what little bitch did this and we’ll set the dogs on him.”

You crack a tiny sad smile, “Thanks, Lydia.”

“We’ve got a whole lacrosse team that would be on your side.” She folds her arms and crosses her legs, tapping her floating foot in the air. “Jackson and Andrew would stand up for you.”

You watch Scott get pummeled to the ground, jumping back up like nothing happened. “I’m not sure I want the lacrosse team knowing.” Andrew stands as goalie, fending off all the incoming pitches. “I’m not even sure what happened.”

An overenthusiastic player in jersey #24 waves at you emphatically. He’s practically on his tiptoes as he grovels for your attention….

You know instantly that it’s Stiles.

You return his high energy with a small wave and in return his points to his chest, right above his heart, and gives you a thumbs up in question. He’s asking about your heartbeat.

After a second of appreciation, you give him a hesitant thumbs up before wrapping your arms around yourself again. Stiles grips his lacrosse stick nervously – Scott was going in for another try.

Only it ends with him clipping Andrew in the helmet, slamming him to the ground. You stand with Lydia, gasping at the sound of the impact. You’re fumbling down the bleacher stairs as everyone huddles around Andrew.

You hear Stiles’ voice as he confronts Scott. “Dude, what the hell are you doing?”

“What? He’s twice the size of me.”

“Yeah, but everybody likes Andrew. Now everybody’s gonna hate you.”

You speed across the grass, avoiding Stiles and Scott as he says, “I don’t care.” You catch his eyes and flinch away, skirting to the other side of the goalpost and to the fallen Andrew. He had a bloody nose but was probably safe from a concussion.

Stiles was stuck on the fact that you had flinched away from him and Scott. Why would you run away like that? He watches your crouching figure console Andrew, pushing your hair behind your ears.

There was still a redness to your eyes and a chapped swollenness to your mouth.

And Stiles was putting two and two together. He was slack jawed and turning to the retreating figure of Scott. Disbelief was the only way to describe what he was feeling.

Disbelief and full blown rage.

But he was more worried about you.

As they were carting Andrew away, along with most of the players and Lydia bickering with Jackson – you were left by the goalpost shaking and quiet.

He was gauging your response as he nears you. “(Y/N)?” He lifts a hand to your arm and you flinch out of his touch. It disappoints him – a punch to his gut. “What’s wrong?”

You gulp, avoiding his eyes, “Uh… it’s nothing. I’m just worried about Andrew.”

He frowns, tensing his jaw, “Did… Did something happen with Scott?”

You’re gripping your arms as you shake your head, “I told you it was nothing, Stiles. I j-just had a heart rate spike and I don’t feel so well.”

The evasiveness was getting to Stiles. He grinds his teeth, “(Y/N), I have a feeling your spike had something to do with Scott.” He wishes you would look at him, “Please, tell me the truth.”

Your eyes were starting to water, “Don’t make me say it, Stiles. I haven’t even processed what’s happened,” you run your fingers through your hair, blowing out a shaky breath, “I don’t want to think about it.”

God, he wants to touch you again. He wants to hold you. “I think I know,” he whispers, rage broiling in his veins. “That son of a bitch.”

You sniff, looking towards the sky to avoid letting the tears fall. It was stabbing a knife into Stiles’ heart.

“Lydia’s my ride home,” you say, your voice cracking, “I have to find her. I’m sure she’s still… fighting with Jackson.”

“No,” Stiles says instantly, “Absolutely not. I’ll drive you home. Just let me change real quick.” He starts stripping his uniform immediately, throwing his gloves with a little more force than was necessary.

You shove your hands in your pockets, still shaking regardless of how warm the spring afternoon was. “That’s kind of you Stiles, but…”

“If you say not to worry and walk away, I swear to god I’ll freak out,” he tosses his jersey and shoulder pads on the grass. “I see it as my privilege to escort you home. Please? It’ll make me feel better about leaving you knowing you’re safe.” His pleading made his eyes warm and syrupy. Your favorite shade of brown.

You reluctantly look at him with your red eyes – it seems to develop worrisome wrinkles in his forehead. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats, hopeful, “Okay. Let’s go.” He avoids touching you, much to his dismay, and leads the way to the parking lot.

“Don’t you need to put your stuff back in your locker?” you ask quietly.

“Nope,” he says frankly, “This is more important.” He walks beside you, giving you some distance.

You can’t help the smile that wants to appear, “Thank you.”

He holds open the jeep door for you and throws his stuff unceremoniously in the back. He’s racing out of the parking lot, tension evident in his shoulders as he sneaks quick looks at your cowering figure.

You’re huddled against the door, holding your arms again.

Stiles has his usual hand on the wheel and the other on the stick shift. His chest was tight and painful as he tries to think of something to say, “I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay again because I know you’re not. And I can tell you just want to sit and think but I got to admit it’s freaking impossible for me to sit still and be quiet. You’re scaring the hell out of me, and I just want to help. I just…” he moves the hand on the stick shift to the edge of your chair. “I want to make you feel better. I’m not good at this. I’m not good at much… except maybe talking when I’m nervous…”

You silently move your hand to Stiles’. He’s quick to grip your fingers and gasp a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank god,” he laughs awkwardly, “I can do this. Is this helping you feel better? If it is, you can hold my hand for as long as you need. I’ll hold your hand all night if that’s what it takes… I’ll hold your hand…”

“Stiles,” you say, quietly amused. “Please stop talking.”

“Sure,” he says, zipping his lip with his free hand. He mouths silently, “No more talking.”

The rest of the ride was quiet, except for the rumble of the engine and the incessant tapping of Stiles’ thumb against the steering wheel. He sometimes lifts your conjoined hands to change gears. Other times he subtly moves his thumb up your index finger, perhaps trying to be soothing.

You watch things fly past the window as you near your house. The shakiness of Stiles’ constantly moving hands was almost therapeutic. It distracts you to feel his fingers dance around your hand. You wipe at your eyes as the jeep stops in your driveway.

Stiles jumps out of the car and bangs his hip on the headlight as he runs for your side. He curses terribly and opens your door, “M’lady,” he pants in pain.

You slide out, tears smeared beneath your eyes as you say, “Thank you, Stiles.”

As he shuts the door you contemplate for about three seconds before going in for a hug.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders as you place your tearstained face near his neck. He returns the hug timidly, careful with how he’s touching you. He keeps his hands near your shoulder blades, at the top of your back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I’m going to try and figure this out.”

Your sniffles cause him physical pain. “I’ll see you later.”

He waves you off, stewing in his new plan to contain Scott’s rabid werewolf side and to get his full revenge in payback for treating you like this.

~~~

After a nap and an ice pack for your swollen face and oncoming headache, you feel more clearheaded. Oliver, the gray cat, has his front paws perched on your knee, searching for more pats to the head.

“I just don’t get it,” you say, speaking to your cat as if he were your therapist. “I understand that he’s going through a breakup, but that doesn’t give him the right to act like a jackass.” You hold the icepack to your temples, “There must be something else going on – or maybe that’s just something Scott is capable of, and I didn’t see it.”

Oliver chirps at you, butting his head into your palm.

“I know, Ollie,” you say, “I don’t need anymore stress added to my life.”

With your mom helping dispatch with a call in the forest and your dad managing the firehouse that night, you were grateful to be home alone with your problems. It was a shame they had to work so much to maintain the debt from your medical bills.

But they never complained.

The moon was full and bright like a flashlight through your window. You thought about texting Allison but thought better of it.

You were, however, texting Lydia to keep away from filing a police report. You had no idea she was so invested in your care. She always seemed slightly aloof and as if her priorities were centered around high school popularity.

But maybe she had her own set of secrets like everyone else in this town.

You continue to talk with Oliver as the moon rises in the sky. It’s dark and chilly outside and you can hear the rustling of budding branches. It gives the night a strange ominous tone. It prompts you to the open window to peer at the darkness.

Oliver purrs and finds a spot at the foot of your bed to curl up.

The ache in your shoulder reappears as you gaze at the moon. “I think I need to go back to sleep.”

There was a sudden howl on the wind, loud enough that it sent a chill through your bones. You quickly slam the window shut, staring at your scared reflection in the glass. “You need to calm down, (Y/N).”

But there was something moving in the distance that caught your attention. Something fast and on all fours. Something animal… but…

You squint your eyes, pressing against the window to look past neighbor fences and thick growths of trees. There was some kind of creature running through yards and… straight towards your house.

The breath leaving your lungs was shallow as you realize – this thing was coming at you. You watch it reach your yard and stop. It stands and all you see are yellow eyes, sharp teeth, and a furry face.

You make eye contact with the creature and panic, gasping aloud as you back away. “Oh my god…”

Blood was pumping in your ears as you flounder. Where do you go? What do you do? You scramble to find something useful, a strange clawing coming from the walls below.

Where was your phone?

Your eyes dart to your bed and you pounce. Hands frantically searching beneath pillows and sheets, Ollie grumbles and jumps off the bed. Panting, you find the cellphone under your blanket, rolling off the mattress and running out of your room.

That thing knew you were in the bedroom.

There was a louder sound of clawing and splintering wood downstairs. The squeak of metal told you that the front door had swung open. The silence that follows makes you even more terrified. You thought something rabid was entering your house, but instead it was deadly quiet.

You cross the hallway and to your parents room, closing the door as quietly as possible. Speeding towards their ensuite bathroom, you lock yourself in. You think about your options – your parents? 911? Stiles? You don’t want to sound paranoid.

You decide to text your mom, “Are you coming home soon?” and then texting Stiles, “SOS.” You weren’t going to risk talking out loud if there was a tweaking madman entering the house in search of you.

There was the familiar creak of the squeaky floorboard in the hall that usually signaled that your parents were up and about. Whatever that thing was… it was moving past your room and further down the hall.

Your phone begins to buzz with a call from Stiles. You quickly decline, stopping the buzzing sound. You do the same with the next call he tries to make.

A steely cold burrows in your skin, ears trained for any sound coming from outside. You sit on the bathmat, holding your phone so it puts an eerie light across your face. Stiles resorts to texting you.

“I’m already on my way.”

“Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Why aren’t you picking up your phone?”

“I’m right down the street.”

You tap out a reply, your breath shaky against your knees as they’re pressed to your chest. “There’s something in my house.”

You hear something from your parents bedroom.

“Are you somewhere safe?” Stiles replies. “What is it?”

You move your thumbs quickly, “It’s right outside the door.”

Your phone continues to buzz with frantic replies from Stiles, but you’re preoccupied with the slow, terrifying turning of the doorknob. It squeaks metallically as it’s manipulated. And after a few tries the creature stops.

The door then rattles with a sudden roar of noise. Scraping hands bang against the wood, the panels straining under the force of whatever is on the other side. You scream as a howl penetrates your ears.

The same howl you heard outside your bedroom window.

Fear envelopes you as you scramble to the far wall, screwing up the bathmat and knocking the shampoo bottle off the side of the tub. You resort to dialing 911 as the door bends under the hands of the growling creature.

“(Y/N)!”

Another voice comes from downstairs and you’re afraid to reply, “Stiles!?”

Heavy footfalls are coming up the stairs as the creature hesitates in its assault on the door. You pull at the collar of your pajamas, choking on your breath as your heart fails to oxygenate your body.

The voice of Stiles is so near, you fear for his safety as the creature howls again. But what Stiles says puts you into more shock.

“Scott, calm down buddy. You don’t want to do this,” he sounds full of fear, “This isn’t you, man. Snap out of it!”

You gasp for breath, clawing at your own chest as your heart works in overtime. You can barely register the things you hear on the other side of the door.

A different growl was sounding and (what you hope isn’t) Scott turns toward it. Stiles was encouraging the action.

“Go after the howls, Scott. Go join your other werewolf friends! Get out of here!”

It turns into Stiles banging on the bathroom door – with much less force than whatever power Scott possessed.

“(Y/N)? (Y/N), open the door please. It’s just me – Scott left with Derek. I promise it’s safe now.” He must’ve checked his phone because now he was speaking with a new level of panic, “Hold on, (Y/N). Just try to breathe! Focus on your surroundings – ground yourself!”

He was jumping and searching for those emergency bathroom keys that were sometimes left on the molding above the door. Thankfully your parents never took chances and kept those keys there.

Stiles was cursing himself for fumbling the key in the lock, forcing it open. He fell to the floor with his momentum, slipping on the tile to get to you.

“Holy shit – oh my god. (Y/N), you need to breathe.” He kneels beside you and puts a hand over yours holding your chest, “Just take a breath, please.” Your lips were turning blue from the lack of oxygen. Your eyes were fluttering shut.

Stiles was rubbing your hand against your chest, wrapping his other arm around your shoulders and shaking you into him. “Stay with me, (Y/N). You can’t pass out while you’re not breathing.”

You gasp something shallow, but it was the first breath he hears you take, “That’s it… god.” He puts his head against yours, “You can do it, take another.”

He holds you as you start to take more shallow breaths, each getting stronger by the second. The darkness creeping into your star-spangled vision became clearer; and the tingling in your hands and feet lessen.

Stiles is whispering quiet praises to whatever power helps you breathe evenly again. He holds up your wrist and watches your heart rate lower out of danger.

You rest against his chest, your head laying against his collarbone. You sound out of breath as you say, “You have… explaining to do.”

He chuckles solemnly, your head bouncing against his chest, “Remember that thing that wasn’t exactly mine to tell?”

“Scott?”

“Yeah,” he says, “Something happened when we found Derek’s dead sister in the woods… Scott was bit.” He was grateful for not looking at your reaction, just holding you close as your heartbeat steadies. “He was bit by a werewolf.”

You weakly smack his arm, “Bullshit.”

“Not even a little bit. Our friend is a werewolf. And so is Derek,” he says, “That’s why Derek has been invading – he’s trying to help Scott take control.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say, still sounding out of breath. Your head was aching with the lack of oxygen.

Stiles takes a deep breath, making you rise and fall against him. “Derek isn’t the serial killer attacking everyone. All those kills were done by the Alpha – that’s the big bad wolf that bit Scott and is trying to make him a part of his pack.”

“An Alpha?” you want to laugh but know it would send you into a coughing fit.

“Yes, and on the full moon the Alpha has more control over Scott. The moon has been messing with him all day, which you witnessed firsthand.”

That gives you a shiver, forcing you up from the ground, gripping the bathtub for support.

“Woah,” Stiles gets up with you, hands hovering at your back, “Take it slow.”

“You’re telling me the reason Scott has been snapping at everyone and shoving his tongue down my throat is because of the full moon?”

“Shoves his what down your what?”

You stand straight and nearly blackout until you hold onto the glass shower door. “Where is he now?” You start stumbling out of the bathroom and towards your bedroom, the perfect view of the front yard.

Stiles slips on the tile to follow you, terrified you were going to fall again.

Looking out the window, bathed in moonlight, you spy two beings on the edge of the street – heading towards the forest. Glowing eyes, pointed ears, furry faces, and snarling fangs. They were disappearing into the night.

What you saw before the home invasion was real.

“Was Derek bitten by the Alpha too?”

“Uh… no,” Stiles says, looking at you like a bomb about to go off. He was waiting for the outrage. “He was born a werewolf. He just wants to kill the Alpha for killing his sister. Scott is his link.”

You flex your hands, getting the feeling back in your fingers, “You were already on your way when I texted you. How did you know I was in trouble?” You could hear the audible breath Stiles took, the sound of him scratching his shaved head.

“To make him a part of his pack, the Alpha wants Scott to get rid of his old pack. Me, Allison, Lydia and Jackson… and you.” He takes a pause, “I knew he’d go after one of us under the control of the full moon.”

“You were doing research on the hunting habits of wolves today,” you whisper as the memory appears, running your fingers through your hair.

Stiles tries to focus on how beautiful you look in the moonlight. Beautiful and alive. Thank god Derek showed up.

“You’re right. And I knew wolves take their time with their targets…”

“The weakest and sickest of the herd,” you whisper again. “He was wearing me down today. He cornered me and… it was like he could smell the fear on me.”

Stiles swallows hard, his hands balling into fists, “Yeah. He was making a plan who to pick off one at a time.”

You fold your arms, nodding thoughtfully, wishing the headache to go away. “As far as secrets go… that is one hell of one.”

Stiles wrings his hands, “Yeah, you can see why we don’t want to rope too many people into it.”

“Who knows?” you ask, still debating your options.

“Derek and myself,” he sighs, watching your closed off stance. “But who else knows about werewolves? The Argents do.”

Your brow furrows, still staring out the window, “Allison’s family?”

“Her parents and her Aunt Kate,” he nods, “They’re werewolf hunters. Have been for centuries and it’s part of the reason they moved here.”

“Allison?”

“As far as we know, she’s clueless about the whole thing. But now that she’s spending so much time at home because of the breakup… I think her aunt my have a little too much influence.”

Your fingers dig into your arms, “Interesting.”

Stiles lets the silence hit for a few seconds before inching towards you more, “Interesting?”

You feel the hurt start to creep into your chest. The kind of aching hurt that only comes from feeling betrayal and an overwhelmingness to hide. “I think you should go, Stiles.”

He stands straight, “What?”

Tilting your head over your shoulder, you mumble, “I’ve heard enough and I would like you to leave. My mom will be home soon.” You stay where you are, feeling in need of a long sleep. “I need time to process. I need time alone. Thank you for coming for me and telling me the truth, but I want to be by myself now.”

He bites his tongue, “Are you sure?”

“Goodnight, Stiles.”

“(Y/N), listen to me. It was scary at first for me too,” he sounds nervous, “I know it’s a shock, but…”

“Please leave, Stilinski. I won’t ask again.”

He huffs his frustration, “Okay, I get it. Will you at least tell me when your mom gets here? Just so I know you’re…”

“My mom is on the same dispatch call your dad is tonight. When he gets home you’ll know my mom is getting home too.”

It was quiet after that, Stiles taking a few steps back and grinding his teeth. He was almost out the door when he says, “I’m glad you’re safe, (Y/N).”

Minutes later you watch the blue jeep drive away. An hour later you’re still standing at the window, basking in the cool moonlight. Two hours later your mom enters the driveway.

And you’re finally able to step away and lower your arms – lightheaded from your locked knees.

“Oh, hello sweetie,” Angela says at the door, Ollie at her ankles. “Why are you still awake?”

You let the exhaustion show, “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to wait until you got home.”

Your mom pouts, walking to you with open arms, “I could use a hug too.” You embrace and feel the knots of tension in her shoulders.

“Long call?”

Angela holds you back by the shoulders and inspects your tiresome complexion. “There were another couple deaths in the forest. It’s being ruled an accident for now, might’ve just fallen in a bonfire because they were drunk.”

“Died in a fire?” you say with a gruesome wince.

“Yep,” your mother sighs, “It was nice seeing your dad though. Fire department was called too.” She ponders your expression, “Why can’t you sleep?”

You lick your dry lips, “My heart has been all over the place. It’s hard to relax.”

Brows knitted, Angela puts a hand to the side of your face, “You feeling stressed at all?”

“You could say that. There’s been drama in the friend group.”

She nods and kisses your hairline, “I’ll make us some tea. Let me put my things away and we can hang out on the couch.” She’s satisfied with your small smile, leaving for her bedroom.

It was just dawning on you that she might see something when she yells…

“Hey, what are these claw marks in my bathroom door!?”

You rub harshly at your tired eyes, “Um… Ollie got into the catnip again?”

~~~

School had gotten strange the next week. It was already tense with Scott and Allison’s breakup, but now that you weren’t talking to the boys… it had felt very estranged. Both Scott and Stiles had tried to contact you, but you still need some time.

The bombshell of the things going on in Beacon Hills was a lot to take in.

It made your little secret seem minor in comparison.

You were sitting in the lunchroom, picking at your meal with your other friends. Jackson had been tense with Lydia the last few weeks and you could smell another breakup coming. His mild jackassery was starting to get on your nerves as he ignores you and the girls.

“He seriously started sending you pictures of you two together?” Lydia sneers, “What kind of move is that?”

“He’s trying to get back together with you,” you say a little melancholy.

Allison plays with her necklace, lost in thought, “It felt like he was trying to make me feel bad for breaking up with him.”

“He is completely clueless,” you sigh, “Most idiots in love are.”

Lydia squints her eyes at you suspiciously, “Speaking of idiots in love. Do you care to explain why you’re also ignoring dork #1 and dork #2?”

Your eyes momentarily shift across the cafeteria to where Scott and Stiles were eating. Stiles was shoving a chicken tender into his mouth with his usual amount of grace. The rest of his tray held macaroni and cheese… a painful memory of him telling you about the gourmet mac and cheese his mom used to make.

“Nothing just… some weird things happened.”

“Like dork #2 confessing his obvious feelings for you?” Lydia continues. “I don’t blame you for rejecting him. He’s a little weirdo.”

You snap your head to her, “You mean Stiles?”

“He’s been drooling over you since you started school,” Allison agrees, “Scott used to tell me about it.”

You shove your lunch tray away, “No! I wasn’t aware anyone was harboring any feelings for me.”

“Well, if we stick to that topic,” Lydia purses her lips, “Andrew Wickstrom is also a harborer of feelings.”

“And maybe two others on the lacrosse team,” Allison chuckles.

You shake your head, closing your eyes momentarily, “No, in fact Scott came onto me.” You rub at your temples, listening to Allison hold her breath.

“Excuse me?”

You look to her, sorrowful in how you say, “He cornered me and kissed me.”

“What!?”

“It was quick and only the one time. He said he was just trying to get his mind off you. I slapped him and everything,” you say with a little more urgency, “And obviously he’s super regretful because now he’s trying to get on your good side again.”

“What a little shit,” Lydia curses.

Allison was even more visibly upset than before, “I can’t believe that.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “I didn’t want to tell you, but you deserve to know. Scott wasn’t himself that day. He’s been really wrecked.”

“That’s not a good enough excuse,” Allison mutters.

“Has he apologized at all?” Lydia asks with an edge of rage.

You shrug, “I haven’t exactly given him the chance to. That’s why I haven’t been talking to them.” You look to Allison with slanted brows, “I’m really sorry, Allison. I tried to make him stop.”

She shakes her head, snapping herself out of whatever fogginess had invaded her mind. “It wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you.” She looks toward the boys before standing, “I need the bathroom.”

You nod, giving her space, instead watching Jackson stare down someone from across the cafeteria. Lydia was looking at him too with some semblance of impatience and frustration. In a nonchalant move, Jackson steals the green apple from your forgotten tray.

“How are you two?” you whisper to Lydia.

She scowls, “He’s been a little cozy with Allison if I’m being honest,” she picks a tomato from her salad. “We don’t talk much anymore, just the occasional make out and quickie in the car.”

You refrain from grimacing, “What is going on with everyone?”

“With spring comes all new drama,” she smiles derisively, “Springtime fever as they call it.”

Jackson suddenly stands and leaves them to gossip. Lydia follows him with her eyes, a moment of hurt flashing through them.

“I don’t think I can take much more drama,” you sigh with a fake smile, “My heart can’t take it.”

Lydia looks to you with genuine sympathy. You had grown to love the moments when she was real. “Then it’s a good thing we’re all taking a break. We’re the perfect girl squad. No boys allowed.”

You smile a little wider, “I’d like that.”

Your last period after lunch was gym, which usually consisted of you doing things for Coach since you had a doctor’s note banning you from raising your heart rate. While everyone was in the locker rooms changing, you talk with Finstock.

“I don’t care what they do today, Westbrook,” he groans, his whistle swinging around his neck, “I’m too busy drawing up plays for the game tonight. Bring out the basketballs and jump ropes and freaking hopscotch, I don’t care. Hell, let them use the pools to swim laps.” He scratches at his crazed hair, “Just make them do something for the period – and don’t come looking for me. Thanks, Westbrook.”

You blow out a whistled sigh, “No problem, Coach.” You roll out the cart of basketballs and volleyballs, a couple jump ropes dangling on the side. Your classmates start to trickle out in their gym attire.

Using your loudest voice you announce it was going to be a free workout period – they’re free to use the pools or the gym as long as they’re engaging in a sport of some kind.

Allison voices her wish to swim and Jackson is quick to agree, leading the way back to the lockers. Scott doesn’t say a word, just mindlessly follows them at a distance.

You watch many hands go for the gym equipment, a basketball falling to the floor. You catch it as it tries to bounce away.

“Hey, Westbrook!”

You look up to see Andrew holding his hands up for the ball. A smile on your lips, you pass the ball, pleased it lands right in his hands.

“How are you?” he asks, walking up to you. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

You push some hair behind your ear, “Oh, just some post sickness keeping me away. I’m all good now.” You put your hands in your pockets, his lovely curly hair in ringlets against his forehead. “How have you been?”

“Not gonna lie,” he spins the basketball on his index finger, “I’ve missed seeing you at lacrosse and keeping Finstock in line in economics.”

You fold your arms, watching the ball spin, “It is good seeing you. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you much last practice – how’s the nose?”

He puts the ball under his arm and leans down to your height, “How does it look?” he grimaces comically, “I don’t dare look – I bet it’s grotesque and crooked and completely messed up.”

You giggle, clamping your index finger and thumb around the arch of his nose, “It looks fine to me.” You wiggle his face around and shove him away, noticing the adorable dimples coming out on his cheeks. “I’m glad it wasn’t something worse.”

“Yeah, McCall was in a funk that day.”

“That’s one word for it.” You sigh, “You going to show me some moves?” You gesture to the basketball, “Any three-pointers?”

He smiles bright, dribbling the ball, “If I make a three-pointer… how about you go on that date with me?”

Your cheeks feel warm as you try to contain your smile, “It’s a deal. Shoot straight, Wickstrom.”

He winks at you and goes for the three-point line outside the black arc surrounding the basket. He dribbles the ball twice before bending his knees and taking aim. With an arm extension, the ball flies in a smooth arch right into the basket.

Andrew holds his arm in that shooting pose, turning to you with a flush growing across his nose, “Nothing but net.”

“Jokes on you,” you say in a sweet voice that was feigning confidence, “I would’ve gone out with you even if you hadn’t made the shot.”

He laughs, walking up to you once more, “Does Friday sound good? Seven o’ clock?”

You say, “Sounds perfect.”

Before he jogs off to join the shirts and skins game being created on the sidelines, he looks at you with his warm expression. “Are you coming to the game tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I might have a girls night…”

“I thought you had to help Finstock being his TA?”

“Oh, no – that’s just during school hours. I’m a regular fan in the stands during games.” You rub awkwardly at your arms as you say, “Things have been tense with some of the lacrosse players.”

He nods, his face suddenly serious with understanding. “I get it. I’m not saying you have to come… but I would love to see you there. Do what’s best for you.”

You take a genuine sigh of relief, “I needed that.” You nod your head towards the team huddles, “Now go earn your gym credit.”

“Finstock isn’t here, Westbrook,” he shrugs, already backing away.

“But he’s left me in charge; I could still fail you.”

He winks again, “You wouldn’t do that to me, sweetheart.”

You laugh as he retreats, but you know what he says is true. You were just glad to be moving on to perhaps a semi-normal relationship with someone that didn’t tangle with werewolves or supernatural hunters or murder investigations.

Stiles was sitting on the bleachers with a couple other kids not wanting to play the games. Each on their phone or reading a book or talking with a friend. Stiles was sitting between the benches, his legs hanging over the side.

He had a deep scowl on his face and twitchy fingers rotating his phone in his palm. He watches your exchange with Andrew with heat in his stomach. He was furious at the entire situation.

Upset that you hadn’t explained your distance. Angry that he hadn’t told you the truth sooner. Mad at himself for letting Scott loose on the full moon. Irritated that his life was consumed by Scott’s problems to the point that he felt like a major comedic side character. One that doesn’t usually get the girl.

But most of all furious that the guy you decide to date isn’t a bad guy at all. Andrew is kind and funny and supportive. He’s such a good guy that Stiles couldn’t be mad at him. And that made him even more mad.

~~~

Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs @iamaslytherin0 @n3muru @bethsvrse @taylorbrooke-0912

[calisources]

𝐑𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐀𝐋, 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒.

All sentences on this meme have been taking from different media and sources. They all touch on the topics of romance, difficult and forbidden love, mostly setting in the political schemes of war and peace and royal court. Change names, locations and nouns and you see fit. Some lines might have foul language.

Sometimes we hurt the ones we love, but hurting ourselves to avoid it doesn’t make it better.

Could someone treat you badly and still love you? 

Even so, in the midst of this complicated love, there is a holy union.

Love is complicated. It’s sticky. It’s bliss and it’s a mix of emotions. It’s not easy.

I hated him now because I has loved him then.

 I'm not like you. I can't afford to be reckless.

When have I ever, since the first instant I touched you, pretended to be anything less than in love with you?

Are you so fucking self-absorbed as to think this is about you and whether or not I love you, rather than the fact I'm an heir to the fucking throne? 

You at least have the option to not choose a public life eventually, but I will live and die in these palaces and in this family.

She wears a crown that never should’ve been hers.

Your wish is my command, my queen.

You can always leave my service.

Don’t you see, Diana? If I did that, I’d break not one but two hearts. For I know you love me, though you haven’t said it yet.

You do know me. I love you so much, it sometimes terrifies me.

You are going to regret that, Your Magical Regalness.

Just because I am  a prince doesn’t make my life a fairy tale.

So kiss the others for all I care, but don’t hold back with me.

You are enough to drive a saint to madness or a king to his knees.

He didn't marry you to become king. He became king because he wanted to marry you.

I know I have but the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king.

 I believe we are what we make ourselves, and as such, you, Crown Princess, are nothing.

You, what are you? The brat of lucky parents who were related to a childless king.

Rule with the heart of a servant. Serve with the heart of a king.

There’s a fine line between gossip and history, when one is talking about kings.

You can't treat royalty like people with normal perverted desires.

We kings do develop a certain ability to recognize objects under our noses.

...alone is such a nebulous state when one is queen.

I respect you as my king, and I respect you as my father, but I do not respect you as a man.

You're the most important person I've ever met.  And I should have never met you at all.

Desires are what can most easily ruin us, lovely.

I find that happiness can always be recollected in tranquillity, Ma’am.

It's almost impossible for those who have had an intimate relationship to return to a formal one.

I question if within you is any magic.

You’re my princess, right? You were always going to be my princess, no matter what you were born.

The king is a saint and cannot rule, and his son is a devil and should not.

For kings, the world is extremely simplified: All men are subjects.

A king deserves reverence when being addressed.

Yes, she had abused her title and station before, but for minor stuff, not to steal a warship.

You are a king worthy of their allegiance . . . with a queen full of fire and promise.

When God calls you into His Kingdom, your way of life will reflect royalty if you serve Him with loyalty.

My royal status is both a shield that protects me and a sword that impales my heart.

You know, for a pampered princess, you have a certain gift for violence.

I have to be seen to be believed.

Kings needn’t raise their voices to be heard.

That is your very own myth. The idea that how you are born or the name you are given dictate the sort of person you really are.

I know that names have power. That is why I cannot let her forget hers. 

You’ll have to face it, Princess. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon enough. And you can’t be this scared when the time comes.

A bad king revels in his importance. A good one hates his office. 

Crowns belong to those that serve.

She was their witch queen, and they adored her.

Beatrice is going to be queen someday.

Kings are only kings because one ancestor was quicker than another to place a crown on his own head.

Queen, do not allow a commoner to dethrone you. Own that throne. You are royalty.

A throne won in blood will soon be drenched in it.

My mother once told me that everything is fuelled by either money or sex, because both lead to power.

Even when she's dethroned by hardship, she still wears the sun as a crown.

She holds a nation’s fate within her shaking hands. She wears a crown that never should’ve been hers.

My reign has been anything but traditional. Let’s not start now, shall we?

Oh honey, someday a real man is going to make you see stars and you won't even be looking at the sky.

Every girl thinks about growing up in a palace. Few ever ponder living in a cage.

Climb up the family tree of any of them high enough and you’ll find a commoner who dared to take a chance.

Am I forbidden to do what all may do?

My arrival saved the kingdom, while his only reiterated that his blood would fill the throne one day.

Slow down there, princess. How do you know what kind of first impression you gave me?

So none of the young men we encountered during our season gave you hot pants for them?

If stubborness were all that was needed to be a good queen, I'd rule the world.

I’d decided that I was going to stop dressing like a princess and start dressing like a queen.

Don’t touch me. Don’t tell me how beautiful my eyes are, how soft my hair is, how you love to hear my voice. Don’t. Don’t pretend you are falling in love with me. 

I know you are lying, and every word you say hurts even more. 

Before the wedding, and the bedding, when I will have to take you as my lord and husband?

I may not be a king or a queen, but I'll be damned if I'm not treated like royalty.

He is fragile, like a prince of ice, of glass.

It is natural that men are going to gather round me, hoping for a smile.

Men only treat women like princesses when they want to use them like prostitutes.

You can smile when your heart is breaking because you're a woman.

I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't do anything but think about him.

Anyone can attract a man. The trick is to keep him.

To save my son, I would plot with the devil himself.

Only fools wait when their enemies are coming, to see if they may prove to be friends.

When a man wants a mystery, it is generally better to leave him mystified. Nobody loves a clever woman.

I wanted the heat and the sweat and the passion of a man that I could love and trust.

I am a fool to own it, but I am in a fever for your touch.

And you are the sort of mistress a man doesn't bother to marry. Sons or no sons.

[fanficwriterlover]

My Choice Our Consequence

Chapter 1: The Consequence...

Summary: You're a sniper/medic, part of the team 141. Everyone considers you their light, however, your light has diminished and has started taking a toll on the rest of the team because of a choice you made...now you have to face the consequences of your actions and live with that reminder forever..

Expectations: Slow burn, Breakup, Depression, Panic Attacks, Yelling, Mentions of Abuse, Mentions of SA, Romance, Slow Romance, Fighting, Violence, Blood, Killing, Shooting,Stabbing, Smut, Fluff, Flirting, Teasing, etc...

Call Sign: Hera or Lil Light

Word Count: 7.4k

A03 Version

Did you predict this would happen to you ? No...not to your full extent of your brain capacity. Were you regretting that night because you were emotional that night and took a huge risk ? Absolutely ! You wanted to kick yourself so hard for how stupid you were for not being rational, and God for bid even allowing him to keep it in. Yet, there you were, trembling in your bathroom holding a mere plastic with such simple symbols that held so much weight...

"Fuck..." you mumble to yourself. To be honest, you were horrified by this revelation, because you had broken up with your ex over a month ago, and neither of you had sex in well ages... yet during your time of solitude, you took the liberty to drown your pain with another man. Now in some cases this shouldn't be a big deal right ? I mean...just tell the man you laid with, that apparently your birth control didn't really prevent the bastards bloody seeds from entering your womb and creating a growing child. Oh yeah, with that, your ex decided to walk back into your life wanting a second chance, and he's been awfully persistent in stalking and threatening via text messages and more. Oh and to top it off...the possible father to be, had been avoiding you like the plague. So yes...everything is just lovely. You groan out in a choked sob yet you grumbled with anger. Of all people and of all times...why you ?

Over a month ago~

You had to get yourself together though, because unfortunately you weren't some mere woman who just happened to be knocked up...oh to make it worse you just so happened to be a Sargent who is part of the task force 141 as their designated sniper/medic and to make it WORSE. You were supposed to be leaving for a mission in the next hour. You dropped the plastic into your sink as you slouched down onto the cold tile flooring pressing your back to the wall and cradling your head "Oh fuck...what am I going to do" you nearly sobbed trying to hold back your tears from gushing down your cheeks.

God forbid they notice the tear stains on your cheek, or puffy eyes that are blood shot and red nose, your team will definitely be on your arse about what's got you so moody. Honestly when you noticed your mood being more...well gruff you simply thought it was due to stress. Especially what happened a month ago....all you wanted was to be left alone to eat your breakfast especially with how horrible your morning has started, the one solitude moment of peace and enjoyment. Mind you, you loved the company of Soap and Gaz (your teammates) but for some reason, their obnoxious banter and rowdiness was only making you irritable. Honestly you thought it was from lack of sleep considering a week prior your ex has been unrelenting on getting a hold of you, asking for forgiveness and wanting to try again.

He was a civilian, you knew him since highschool before you enlisted. However, this job demanded a lot and your time became few and few. Which caused a tear in your relationship, even though your ex knew of the reality of your job you always did your best to reach out to him and spend any waking hour to contact him. Sure, there was signs of distancing but you didn't know better....then after one mission, you came back early, and as eager as you were to surprise your once boyfriend, you found him on your couch with another woman. It was an earth shattering moment. In that moment of weakness you did something stupid...

I don't know how long I was standing outside in the rain...shaking and crying. An hour ? Two ? Three ? Did it honestly matter ? The image of your boyfriend in between the legs of a woman you've never seen on your couch shattered you into pieces. You were standing before the gates at your base, debating on whether to return to your bunk, but everyone knew you would be going home to your flat to be with your boyfriend. Yet the idea of confrontation by your team wasn't something you wanted to deal with at the moment. Let alone for them to see you in such a state. So you decided to do your best to sneak past everyone. Slowly dragging your feet, you made your way into the building where all the bunkers were, you could hear members laughing loudly and celebrating as you passed the lounge area. You tried to remain unnoticed and silent, sneaking by, which in the moment you thought you were successful. Drawing near as you kept walking down the halls to your door, however, what you didn't realize was a looming shadow who was watching your every move. Just as you were about to open your door-

"Why are you drenched ?" A deep Manchester voice spoke, that all so familiar voice sent a rush up your spin and it wasn't even from the cold of your soaked clothes. His voice always made you tremble and flustered. Hesitantly you made eye contact with the owner of the voice, seeing the balaclava of the skull man standing dauntingly 6'4" with his blonde lashes partially slitting his almond eyes that took in your features. Even with his eyes on you, you wanted to shrink. Mind you, Ghost and you had no qualms with one another but you always found him intimidating yet together you worked well as a team. "I- went for a walk and ended up getting rained on" you fumbled up a lie avoiding eye contact squeezing your hand on the door knob silently praying he wouldn't notice.

"That so?" He says lowly. It makes you gaze back up at him once more not fully looking in his direction as he had his arms crossed still looking down at you, you heavily gulped "Y-Yeah ?" You could see a partial shift over his eyes, it meant he raised a brow at you before approaching you more as he stood directly behind you now, his chest nearly pressing up behind you, this made you hesitantly turn to face your Lieutenant who was looking down at you more seriously. His head tilting down at your short figure his arms coming down to his sides. You had to put a hand up onto his chest to stop him from drawing any closer as your heart began to race and you immediately averted your gaze from his towering figure.

You didn't even realize he had you pinned into your door with his hand over you gripping the ledge of the doorframe as you could feel the rise in your cheeks. "You 're lying. What did he do ?'" his eyes scanned over your features. Obviously the rain did very little to hide your tear stained cheeks and the redness in your eyes. Yet you still refused to meet his gaze. For what felt like an internity his gloved hands reached up and lifted your chin slowly. The sensation of his rough leather skeleton gloves made your eyes widen as he tipped your chin up to meet his looming gaze. How could you look away now. Your eyes latched on to his menacing gaze. You can see his eyes slightly flickered with some kind of emotion...now you wouldn't consider yourself an expert on reading his expressions but you'd like to think you could a little....yet it was impossible that Ghost...the Lieutenant Ghost was sympathetic for you ?

Don't even think you realized what was happening or that he had slightly lifted his balaclava up just over the bridge of his perfectly shaped nose, that showed the hint of a scar that peeked under his mask across his strong high bone cheeks and perfect lips that has a scar slicing the right corner. You didn't even realize then, he leaned near your ear and whispered "Y/n...snap out of it" ....wait no thats not what he said.

"Oi ! Earth to y/n ! You get any shut eye ? I miss your sexy voice Bonnie" Soap snickered as you were brought back into the moment having been in position, as it seemed your mind was seamlessly going to recall that moment between you and the Lieutenant yet, your body already knew what it was doing. You had your sniper rifle in front of you with the scope brushing at your long eyelashes. You were stationed not that many klicks from where the boys were moving into action. You could see Soap stealthily moving around another building trying to move closer to the targets building without alerting the guards until they've breached their walls. Of course, the living myth and legend was leading them closer to the building, he camouflaged impressively well into the shadows for such a big guy.

Again your mind was drifting and the static in your comms rang through your ear as your Lieutenant spoke "Hera. Take the two on the west building." This snapped you to attention as you shifted your scope as he had directed, your finger moving to the trigger as you took a deep breath to stop your queasy stomach. Pulling the trigger you took down one man, who crumbled down quickly the other becoming aware of his partner down but before he could so much as spread the word you had pulled the trigger already and he was down as well. You radio into your comms "Clear. Proceed with caution Bravo 0-7, there's 4 at the back entry." You locked your rifle as you moved your eyes from the scope "Copy that Hera." He says through the comms. You had to shift positions now, lingering in one spot was dangerous, as you slid back from your spot out of sight hitting your comms "Alpha 2-8 moving positions" you swiftly made your way to another spot that gave you a different angle to where the boys were going to be entering as you got into your knees setting down your rifle.

Yet something felt very wrong. You were frozen to the spot, listening intently, your nose, due to your pregnancy, it was heightened and you could smell someone's sweat from where you were. Over the comms you could hear that Soap and Ghost had already breached the walls making their way to find the enemy hiding within the walls. Behind you, there was nothing but high grass, and you were wearing beige clothing to blend to the tall dying grass.

You pull out your knife and pistol, clicking off the safety and check it's loaded. Even now the scent was more potent, you wanted to throw up, the unwanted man was wearing heavy cologne of sorts and for anyone in the SAS that's a stupid move. Even now you could hear the ringing in the comms as Ghost and Soap updated on their movement and such.

Yet even when you heard them ask "Soap, to Alpha 2-8, what's ya status lass ? " you could hear the slight panic in Soap's voice yet right now you were remaining still observing your surroundings. Even now you can hear how frantic Soap was becoming and the deep booming voice of your Lieutenant sounded through your earpiece "Hera. What's your status." He sounded gruff and annoyed probably not to you but you did catch between the two over the comms that the enemy was not in the building and that it was a setup.

That much you already knew. You reached for the comms pressing the button and speaking softly "This is Alpha 2-8....my post has been compromised" and yet that is when you saw your stalker lunge out from the tall grass, immediately you pulled the trigger, but not before he tumbled into you having a knife in hand slicing your shoulder deeply, you yelped upon impact, tumbling to the ground, hitting the back of your head, but not hesitating to wrap your legs around the man who was trying to stab you hovering over you with him trying to push it down to your throat. You grunted trying to hold his grip as he straddled you down, you can hear Soap frantically calling through the comms "Oi! Hera ! Answer us Bonnie !" You couldn't as you grunted pushing with legs to knee him in the groin which caused him to roll off you. Quickly you reached for your dagger and rolled to where he was stabbing down hitting him then the chest, as you didn't hesitate to grab your pistol that was tossed to the side and shoot him in the head.

Panting hard you held your stomach immediately feeling sick, the blood all over your hands and face, the scent...oh God that potent iron scent. You had to move away to empty your stomach all the whole Ghost and Soap were making their way back to your last known location hearing you hurl your stomach. Ghosts loud booming voice could be heard from a distance while he hit the comms "Hera !" You began to cough more as you tried to take deep breaths. Reaching painful to the comms with your wounded shoulder "I'm good. Just had a tussle."

You were shaking looking away from the dead man, not aware that Ghost and Soap reached you. They took in the scene then you. Soap quickly approaching you seeing you look sick and bleeding "Jesus Bonnie... thought we lost you, you sure ki-" he paused mid saying "Aye...you good ?" You were going to respond but it felt like your stomach was acidic. You didn't even know. But your vision began to blur and you fainted. You could only feel strong arms quickly catch you before the fall but it was numb everywhere throughout your body. You could see the skull mask hovering and the slight glimpse of the Mohawk figure looking over you trying to get your attention. But your eyes closed.

White, a color you probably absolutely hated seeing that blinded you in every corner. Sitting in the chair your legs dangling as you fiddled with your fingers. You had recovered after you've fainted when they loaded you on the chopper, you assured the team you were just dehydrated. But of course, Lieutenant gave you that knowing glare that made you relent. You knew what the doctor was going to say, he drew your blood, tended your wounds, and checked for bruising which was on your hips, wrists, and chest.

Even now your anxiety was high as you nearly jumped out of the chair at the sight of a familiar doctor who you'd often work with around the med base. Dr.Connar. Good looking man, he was slender tallish(no where close to military big like Ghost) tustled brownish black hair, deep brown eyes and genuine smile. He was holding your chart and you knew what to expect. "We have got to stop meeting like this y/n." He snickered seeing you as he pulled up a chair in front of you as you gazed up at him waiting for the inevitable. "So...your wound isn't infected. Just some mild bruising will be gone in a couple days. You hit your head I see. Slight bleeding nothing serious though...." this was when he gazes up at you seriously over the chart we he was reading resting it on the table to the side, he leaned forward his elbows resting on his knees as he looked at you seriously

"As you know... protocol. I have to check your blood to ensure you were not given anything into your bloodstream or got an unknown infection." You nodded your head slowly not averting your eyes from his serious gaze. "Then you also know...I must give this report to your Captain of your condition? " you flinched as he considered it as a condition now looking down. His eyes still boring into you as he let out a sigh "What the fuck y/n ! You should've been nowhere near the battlefield. You could've been seriously hurt or killed !" You flinched a bit more, tears forming in your eyes as you couldn't hold it any longer.

"You don't think I don't Fuckin' know that ?!" You cry out in anger yet he doesn't so much as flinch just simply gives you a sympathetic look. "I didn't ask for this ! Any of it !" You get out of the chair huffing annoyed as you began pacing the room his eyes watching your every movement. " You know since you are my patient I'd have to put in you are suspended from combat, training, or field work. Considering even maternity leave by second trimester." He says so casually but it makes you glare daggers at him, deep down logically you know he's right but...fuck you didn't want to have everyone questioning you why you're being pulled off when you are physically fine.

"Please Peter....don't do this to me." You beg him looking at him, he stands up placing a hand on your shoulders making you look at him "Y/n... believe me. I am not doing this as your doctor. I'm doing this as your friend. If something were to happen to you-" you interjected "Nothing will, I can fight-" yet he grips your shoulders more firmly "No ! You could've lost it or your life ! I will not stand by as your doctor or friend to put your life or that child in harms way !"

Child. Huh. Funny, you just found out... could barely even consider it a child as it's just a mere embryo at this point not even a human body formed yet. But deep down, without so much thought your hand slid down touching your stomach and Peter guided you to sit into the chair. "You're my dearest friend. I know this is terrifying...but you have to think outside yourself now" you glance at him as he was boring into your eyes. You knew he was right...deep down you would want to protect your growing child. However, knowing the horrors of the world and your enemies made you terrified to think the timing was just horrible. You couldn't stop. The tears rolled down your face heavily and you sobbed into your friend's shoulder as he let you, hold you.

The next day, you were asked into the office by Captain Price, everyone was expecting you to have to hand in your medical sheet, yet you begged your friend to allow you to talk it out with your captain. You were terrified. Gazing at the door in front of you that had Price's name plate on it, you tentatively rasped your knuckles onto it. As if immediately you hear the Liverpool accent gruffly acknowledge "Enter." John has always been a comforting Captain despite his ranking he valued every solider it's why you remained loyal to this taskforce especially after being handpicking from him. He glances up from the piles of papers he was signing off seeing you enter as he gave you a content smile "Good seeing you Y/n. How are you feeling?"

He motions for you to sit as you do so nervously, "Good sir...um I brought you my medical chart" you reluctantly stretch it out within hand to offer him to look at it as he takes it, even before he opened it you spoked "Permission to ask a favor sir ?" This caught his attention as he set the file down taking in your nervous features. You looked nervous, barely looking like you've slept and definitely have been crying. He tips his head to tell you to go on "Go on..." you let out a shakey breath. "I'd like to request that...my medical condition not be shared outside this room please ?" You almost whispered the please, your eyes begging him to understand and this was a request he was taken back from. Setting the file down rather to hear it from you then read it himself . Honestly John's heart was beating so hard, it was going loudly in his ears "I'll agree...that is if you tell me what it is you have ?"

Honestly his eyes raked over your form, despite being small, you weren't exactly weak, infact he wouldn't even consider you the type to have an illness so imagine his surprise to your request yet nonetheless he was patient and understanding.

You bite your lower lip gripping at the knees of your cargo pants shamefully looking down starting to shake, John placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. You didn't realize he was sitting in front of you at the edge of his desk leaning forward. He was willing to wait until you were ready to tell, and looking into his ocean eyes you gave in "I- I'm pregnant sir..." his eyes were wide for a moment reeling from the news.

Sure he knew you had a boyfriend but you hadn't interacted with him in months that much he was aware of. He would console you some nights when you'd cry about being distant and how he doesn't treat you or touch you the same. Of course he wanted to support you, you were like a daughter to him, so he spoke softly yet with authority "I can see this is a big deal...then I am to presume..." glancing at your figure he didn't know much about pregnant women but he could tell you were no where near showing. "I will not reprimand you y/n...but I need to know." He looks at you seriously waiting.

You knew what he was asking for and it made you even more scared. Having to tell your friend was already a huge step but to tell your captain? "L-Lieutenant G-Ghost sir..." you looked down with shame.

However Price was more shocked than anything. Their Simon Riley? He wanted to gawk at this news but knew that's not what you needed right now, quite frankly he had to contain to his rank. Sitting back "You are aware of the consequences to such inappropriate conduct ? You could be stripped of your rank and court martial." He frowns at you seriously which you nod your head seldomly "Y-Yes sir" he sighs out pinching the bridge of his nose "Does he know ?" This makes you flinch. You really did not want to walk up to your Lieutenant and tell him you're possibly pregnant with his child. That's a big F no. You glance up at your Captain. "No sir... I don't think I can." He gives you a look as you respond immediately "Please Captain, I don't want to cause trouble. I'm begging you. Please make an excuse to suspend me." You gave him a pleading look.

Now under most cases he would've given into your puppy dog eyes but this was serious. You were asking him not only as a Captain but as the best friend to Ghost. To go behind his back and lie to him. He crossed his arms over his chest letting out a deep sigh "Y/n...I am not keen on withholding information from my lieutenant-" you were about to interject yet he raised his hand, which made you silence blushing heavily heart racing "However...I'll grant this request on ONE condition." You seemed hopeful with this proposition. Yet John gave you a very straight look, "I don't care when you do it. But you MUST tell my Lieutenant." He looks at you daring you to object. Now deep down you wanted to. The fear in your eyes was evident. Approach Ghost ? No way...I can barely handle his intense gaze let alone confronting him about this. You bit the inside of your cheek considering it, before relenting "I-I agree sir...when I find the right time. I will. I promise." He studies you looking to see if you were lying but he found none, if anything he just saw how fearful you were from all this so he had to trust you.

Nodding his head accepting that answer he moved back around to his chair sitting down "I will work on a reason for your suspension until you've well..." he seemed flustered to say the least as he cleared his throat. "I'll have Laswell make sure to come up with a decent reason to keep the other lads off your radar." You smile gratefully nodding you head. As you salute him then take your leave. You didn't realize how much you were holding your breath as you let out a shaky breath. Great...now how do you tell a Ghost that he knocked you up ? Grumbling softly you began walking to your bunker, by now, Price was probably working up a reason for your suspension so it seemed only right to pack. Perhaps maybe you'll find the right thing to say to him...why you....such a big responsibility on your shoulders and yet you have to make a choice. Yet depending on what you choose...will it be good ? Or make it worse ?

You make your way down the hall, heading to the food court where everyone was gathered, grabbing their trays of food. Seeing faces that were unfamiliar or people you recognize but never really got to know. Everyone was chatting with another. You took in the room, it was almost overwhelming. Especially the smell, god, the smell of men was potent. Was it always this musky smelling with different colognes drifting through the air. It made you want to hurl your stomach. That was when you felt a large arm drape roughly over your shoulders causing to grunt from the impact as you look up to meet a familiar blue eyes and Mohawk figure. Soap. “There you been lass ! Save a seat for ya’ !” You sigh inwardly “Jesus Christ Soap, I just got discharged-“ he seems to immediately look at you worriedly “You broken Bonnie ?” he studies you almost inspecting to find the source of your pain “Nah, I’m good. Just bit sick to the stomach” he seems to relax at that patting you gently on the shoulder and pushing you to go up to grab some food “Glad you good, had us worried there for a ‘ec, shoot, don’t think I’ve ever seen LT so panicked.” He wiggles a brow at you which makes you shrink and blush before batting his arm away as you grab a tray to pick out food. “Oh hush Soap…any news since-?” you ask curiously as you grab fruits and a salad then take a glance in his direction.

He was stacking his plate up with everything. Jesus that man could eat. It made you start to realize now that you should probably eat more than you’re used to since now you’ll be feeding for two. You decided based on the selection of food presented that you would think your stomach would tolerate is a simple chicken sandwich. Placing it on your plate Soap mumbles lowly “No…nothing. Fuck’n sucks. Feels like we just chasing shadows.” You look up at him sympathetically and toss and apple at him which he fumbles to catch yet does looking at you “You need to even out your diet Soap. Need some form of fruit or veggies in that belly of yours.” As you look down with a smirk to his tray. Boy this Scottish man can eat, not one not two BUT three sandwiches. You snort shaking your head dismissively walking toward where Gaz was seated at a table waving the two of you over. As Soap snaps back “Oi ! I’ll have you know I gotta feed my gains ! We all can’t be tiny and slender like you” he grumbles. This makes you blush, because already you felt you were more bloated than usual. Sure the bump wasn’t as pronounced if anything looked like you gained a few pounds. However, you were always athletic and physically in shape.

Taking a seat next to Gaz you smile at him, which he returns the gesture “Glad to see you well Hera. Had us all worried.” You blush and smile at him. Oh Gaz was probably secretly your favorite he was charming and sweet and absolutely the best kind of friend you could ask for. He is the definition of blood brother. You two always looked after each other and you were the one who mentioned his name to Price so there was a mutual friendship long before the taskforce. “Sorry for making you worry…by the way where’s Ghost ?” you cock your head looking at both men. They seem to frown at the mention of his name but Soap finally answers “Honestly…’aven’t seen him much lately…LT been very weird lately. But I bet he’ll be happy to see you up and about,” he pats your shoulder playfully smirking at you. You laugh softly. Eventually you finally begin eating, guess they seem oblivious to asking why you fainted which you were glad. They knew exactly how to make you relax, between their bickering and story telling they made you relax and feel normal and forget about the looming secret growing.

Immediately your instinct is to reach to your thigh where you usually wore your strap holding your dagger but of course. You were literally butt naked. Turning fully to look at the figure, you realize it’s none other than Ghost. You breathe out a sigh “Fuckin’ hell Ghost. Why you have to be such a creep !” you hiss out in an annoyance after nearly being scared trying to soothe your heart rate down as you look at his eyes rake over you. “You need to sharpen your awareness then. Could’ve been anyone.” He says seriously, his arms crossed over his chest looking at you. Now not only were you flustered but him correcting you at the moment really triggered you as you snap, “Well I shouldn’t need to be on guard on base !” you glare at him, yet he doesn’t so much as seem bothered by your features. Instead he approaches you, moving closer as he looks down at you. Your back pressed into the edge of the sink as he leans forward-

The day went by so quickly, you went with the boys to shoot some rounds, finally approved by your friend to hold a rifle to shoot some rounds. Of course, your aim is flawless when holding your favorite rifle It made you feel normalize in your life. After that you decided be best to take a shower as there are so few women on this base, and most the building was set up for men, you’d often wait until late as possible to be able to shower in peace. Taking a change of clothes and a towel you enter the shower room setting your bag down and undressing. Immediately your eyes scan over your naked form, for now you showed no signs. In fact you still looked sleek and fit. Yet you knew the wiser. Glancing at the side of your profile, you immediately felt insecure, the idea your body will change and expand that you’ll put on weight made you shiver. Tearing your eyes from the mirror you step into a shower stall and turn on the water. The gushing of cold hits your hand as you wait for it to warm up, now normally your body could handle such, but now you felt it was too cold to tolerate. Even with your body barely been pregnant long it already seems to be shifting to accommodate this unborn form.

You step under the warmth of the water letting it glide over your body. Its almost cleansing feeling the water graze over your body, as you comb your fingers through your scalp down to the end of your hair length. You began rubbing yourself with your bar of soap and sponge taking your time to clean yourself fully. Once you finished you turn off the water and wringing out your hair before reaching for your towel. The bathroom room was now full of your shower steam as it fogged the mirrors. You stood in front of one of them with your towel wrapped around, leaning closer you use your hand, in a circular motion to clear off the fogged mirror only to see a skull mask looking directly at you.

Ghosts POV

When they heard you over the comms tell them your spot been compromised he felt horrified that they wouldn’t have been able to get back to you on time and would’ve found you dead. Yet instead, they found you losing your stomach. It was all weird. You were if anything the most toughest women he’s met aside from Laswell, and that speaks volume. You were someone he let his guard down with, without regret. He didn’t mind showing you his darkest side, his pain, his reminders, and face. You took him in. You acknowledged him. You were patient with him too which is something he respected about you. You were someone who carried them self with such maturity, purity, and selflessness. And he…stupidly took advantage of that. From that night.

The minute you began to faint, he was immediately lunging to your side and catching you before you hit the ground. Judging by your state, didn’t seem like you were wounded extremely. Maybe some bruising. However, he found it unusual that you were losing your stomach after killing a man. I mean, everyone’s done stuff that made them sick, but he’s seen you calm and collected stabbing a man in the neck when you were lunged at one time during a mission. He always found you resilient so seeing you this sensitive seemed odd. Soap disrupted his thoughts looking down at your passed out form “Oi, Bonnie !” he immediately checked your pulse yet he knew wiser “She ‘s alright Soap. Just fainted from the looks of it.”

He then reaches to his vest still cradling her in his arms as he radios in the help, “Nikolai, bring the helo to RV. Coming in hot, Hera fainted.” He immediately picks you up bridal style, despite wearing a vest and armor you were still light. He nods his head, “Keep up Soap” as he already begins running to the rendezvous. Upon seeing the chopper lower, you began to stir in his arms and mumbles hoarsely “I-Im good. You can put me down Ghost.” He doesn’t even look down at you saying deeply “Didn’t look that way Sargent.” Yet you protest more, which he relents to setting you carefully onto the ground. His hands honestly wanted to linger over you longer but Soap came in supporting you with your arm over his shoulder “Aye ! Glad to have you back Bonnie. Gave us quite a scare !” he shouts over the loud chopper blades as they both walk in sync to load in.

Ghost lingers a good distance scanning their surroundings before getting into the chopper. He sits across from you, his eyes not leaving your frame. You seem distant... Like your mind was elsewhere yet you tried to remain present in the moment. He couldn’t help but try to read you as you made your best attempt to assure everyone you’re fine. But he could see otherwise. The way your eyes fluttered, how you forced a fake smile that seemed to work on others but couldn’t fool him. He also couldn’t help but notice how your hand instinctively went to touch your stomach.

He squinted his eyes, ‘Did you get hit in the stomach ? Is she hurt ? She didn’t seem bothered when I had my hand there carrying her.’ All these thoughts ran through his mind during the whole flight back. Once they finally returned, you of course tried to brush off that you were fine, yet Ghost wasn’t having it. You were off. He could feel it. He simply gave you a stern look and a sharp tone, “No. You’re getting checked up. End of discussion Sargent.” This made you flinch with his tone, but he had no choice. You wouldn’t have listened to reason no matter how much Soap begged or even asked you. However one thing he did admire you for, as a soldier, you always obeyed orders. You made your way to the med base, his eyes never leaving you as he wanted to make sure you actually headed that direction, yet Soap pulled him from his line of sight. “Gee, LT, didn’t have to be all ‘trict on ‘er.” Ghost side glances Soap with a slight brow raise. Then huff. “I don’t care. She needed to be told. She listened. ‘nough said” Taking his leave before Soap could say anything else he needed to get his mind off you.

Now he stands in front of you, with you barely covered before him. This was different. He could see the traces of bruising form on your shoulder. One was peeking just above your cleavage. His eyes took you in as your drenched form stood in front of him shying away from his line of sight as he was so close to you. He’d give anything to feel you again like before especially as you stand here practically exposed to him. Yet, as much as he wanted to give into his temptations... “I ‘ear you been askin’ ‘round for me,” his eyes scan between yours as you seem to gulp at this, obviously indicating it was true. “But now you loss for words ?” you bite the inside of your cheek, obviously he hit a nerve. Cocking a brow as he saw the strength in your eyes that always made him honestly want to give in. You spoke-“I was….there was something I wanted to tell you,” he tilted his head to the side narrowing his eyes a bit then nods “Well what is it ?” He takes a step back from you, his broad arms crossed as he gazes down at you.

He was leaning close to your ear, you were trembling before him, your hands out pressing onto his hoodie chest. His heart rate spiked from under your touch. Your lips said one thing but your body said something else. He watched you that day talk excitedly about seeing your boyfriend. Yet, he finds you a mess with tear stains avoiding everyone. He knew. He bloody fucking knew it. Your boyfriend was everything he hated and would even compare to as his own father. You who fought everyday, gave yourself willingly, everything as an amazing women and girlfriend. Only for that selfish prick to break it. It boiled him. To see you this way, you were their light. To see you so diminished was something he'd tear the world to bring that shine out in you. He leaned close to your ear “Say the word love. I’m here.” Your eyes looked up at him, oh those doe eyes. He would surrender to that sight in a heartbeat.

You were his weakness…

...but he also learned to see you were also his strength. You mouth slowly began to parts your eyes seemed to show a since of strength ‘Fuck…even when broken she stands strong. This women…’ he didn’t waste a minute crashing his lips onto your trembling lips. They were so plump and soft. You tasted salty from your tears, which he sucked away but the lingering taste of cherry from your lips made him want to devour you more. His hand sneaked down still holding under your chin, while the other unlatched from above the doorframe to rest on your hip. Pulling you closer to him, he could feel your hand slowly slide up his bicep to his neck. The sensation feeling of your soft fingers fleeting over it made him more riled. He immediately let go of his hold on your chin and opened the door to your bunker. He guides you in his hand pushing you in at your hips as he almost guides you to your bed in the corner. You stop just in front of the bed, his hands cupping your cheeks and neck kissing you more fiercely. You’re the one to make the first move, during the intense heat, you begin tugging at his belt loop. He can feel it. Yet-

Being practically naked gripping your towel around your dripping body was definitely not how you imagined telling him about being pregnant, however, maybe you can ask something else- “What happened a month ago... do you regret it ?” perhaps getting some kind of answer will bring out the courage to tell him. You watch for any kind of shift in his eyes yet you barely see much. However his eyes does narrow in on you, you wonder if he sees you’re dodging what’s the real reason you’ve been asking around of his absence. Just when your mind was planning to handle whatever response he gives, everything hit you like a bullet into a vest-

Wrong, because less then two days later he was making his way to the Captains office, knocking on it and telling him of his arrival. With the Captain deeply grunting to come in. What he wasn’t expecting was to see the Captain, stressed ? The man looked exhausted like he was fighting a battle of some sort. He looked as if he was atlas holding the world over his shoulder, every muscle tensed and jaw clenched using every ounce of power to keep going. Then when the Captains eyes met his, and the words came out, Ghost world came shattering. “Y/n, has quit the taskforce…” his eyes went wide, he was a man to hide any emotions but this…he wasn’t expecting you to up and leave. Did you even say bye to everyone? Were you crying your eyes out when you decided it ? But the one question that bothered in the back of his mind was; Was it because of HIM ?

He grunts a bit “Was a one time thing.” His eyes unwavering and stoic as if this is such a silly subject to be bringing up as he decided it was best to burn this bridge before his feelings got worse for you. He could not allow this to become more. He promised- now swore he’ll never get attached and he stupidly did. It was obvious for Soap to see, and if that was the case, how many others would notice too ? “It meant nothing Sargent. We both needed an escape. If this is what you wanted to waste my time for than we are done.” ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell, that should do it…’ he thought to himself, yet what he didn’t expect was to see the tears daring to form in your eyes he simply just stood there, your little fists were gripping the towel so tight your knuckles were white and your jaw was clenched. Yet, he didn’t stop there. He should have. “You’re a burden to this team…we don’t need dead weight. If you can’t get better than your no use to this team.” He said it…damages done.

The words hurt him just as much as it seemed to have hurt you. But instead of lashing out, which honestly he would have preferred you do then maybe he would’ve taken back his words. You… just stood there silent. It was worse than a ticking bomb going off. Your eyes were blazing with anger and he can see your tears wanting to crash down yet you suck in a deep breath, he honestly was expecting the worse, and you just went to grab your stuff. You began changing you didn’t even care if he would be watching or not, of course he wouldn’t dare instead was looking at the sinks only daring to listen to you as you shuffle. In matter of minutes you were dressed, holding your bag about to leave, you hand on the handle yet you stop. Looking at him ,‘Fuck…now I’ve done it. Price gonna rem me for it now’ he thought but instead you look at him with that same strength in your eyes “Good night Lieutenant.” It came out sharp he could hear it the slight venom in it but he didn’t so much aa react. He stupidly just stood there side glancing you before you finally took your leave. He then gazes back at the mirror, seeing his reflection he hated what he was seeing in himself but it had to be done. Maybe when you’ve cooled your head he’ll approach you differently. Perhaps these words would encourage you to do better. Perhaps now he won’t distracted by your alluring presence. Right-?

…

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Dean Obeidallah at The Dean's Report:

Those are the very facts surrounding Matthew Livelsberger’s actions on New Years Day outside the Trump hotel in Las Vegas. Yet corporate media refuses to use words “MAGA terrorism”—and many are leaving out of their reporting the full details of Livelsberger’s final bone-chilling notes. We now know many of the key facts in connection with 37 year-old Livelsberger—whose Uncle explained “loved” Trump. He was a career Army Special Forces master sergeant who served three tours in Afghanistan and was decorated by the Army for valor. Reportedly, he suffered from some form of PTSD that likely drove him to take his own life by shooting himself while in the Tesla truck. Tragically, nearly 20 veterans each day in the United States commit suicide.

But Livelsberger didn’t commit suicide like many others in a spur of the moment event or in a private setting like a home. This was part of plot hatched over time. As FBI Special Agent In Charge Spencer Evans stated Friday, “It’s evident that [Livelsberger] considered, planned, and thoughtfully prepared for this act.” [...]

Livelsberger wrote point bank in a note he directed to, “Fellow Servicemembers, Veterans, and all Americans” that it’s, “TIME TO WAKE UP!” He continued on to explain, “This was not a terrorist attack, it was a wake up call. Americans only pay attention to spectacles and violence. What better way to get my point across than a stunt with fireworks and explosives?” But the corporate media articles almost all ignored other parts of his note and instead focused on his next comment: “Why did I personally do it now? I needed to cleanse my mind of the brothers I’ve lost and relieve myself of the burden of the lives I took.”

That is misleading reporting on a few counts. First, most articles leave out that in the next line, Livelsberger pledged his allegiance to Trump and the MAGA agenda and urged others to do the same. Livelsberger wrote, “Consider this last sunset of ’24 and my actions the end of our sickness and a new chapter of health for our people. Rally around the Trump, Musk, Kennedy, and ride this wave to the highest hegemony for all Americans!” (Boldface added.) Livelsberger was urging people in his last words to support Trump and other MAGA leaders. His note also amplified the MAGA agenda such as writing “DEl is a cancer” and he labeled Vice President Harris “the DEl candidate” who “thankfully we rejected.” He mocked Biden by referring to him as “Weekend at Bernie’s,” while sharing joy about Trump’s win, claiming now we will have a “real President.”

But the most alarming and sinister parts of his notes have been barely covered by the media. For example, under his call for “Fellow Servicemembers, Veterans, and all Americans” to “wake up,” he urged them to head to Washington, D.C. to “purge” the government and military from those who oppose them. He wrote, “Military and vets move on DC starting now. Militias facilitate and augment this activity.” He demanded them take control of the facilities until “the purge is complete.”

Those ominous words are made more concerning by the lines that followed. Livelsberger made it explicitly clear that the target of this purge are Democrats—who if they won’t give up power peacefully, force must be used. He wrote, “Try peaceful means first, but be prepared to fight to get the Dems out of the fed government and military by any means necessary.” He added, “They all must go and a hard reset must occur for our country to avoid collapse.” [...] In contrast, in the case of the New Orleans attacker Shamsud Din-Jabbar who drove his rented truck into the crowd on New Years Day and killed 14 people, he has rightfully been labeled a terrorist given videos showing him swearing allegiance to ISIS and his goal being to further their sick agenda. In some parts of corporate media, there has been nuanced coverage of what led him to this dark place from personal to financial issues, etc. But the coverage still includes—rightfully—a look into what radicalized him in the hopes of preventing ISIS from successfully recruiting others in the future.

The Las Vegas Trump International Hotel Tesla Cybertruck bombing was a MAGA-inspired terrorist attack, as the perpetrator Matthew Livelsberger was a die hard MAGA cultist seeking to inspire people to violently remove Democrats and anti-Trump forces from the world.

See Also:

Mediaite: ‘WAKE UP!’ Read the Trump Hotel Bomber’s Chilling Messages Calling on ‘Militias’ to ‘Purge’ D.C. of Democrats

[writingwithcolor]

Am I handling the black woman character’s murder well?

@selfdxd2 asked:

Hello! My current project is a crime fiction set in KY, USA in which the instigating action is the death of a young black woman (W), with the first half being another young woman (L) investigating her disappearance and how it correlates with the disappearance of her close friend. That friend (P) is later found alive after having been kidnapped because he witnessed the crime, and is the POV character of the second half. He is also a white man, and him being white is relevant to other aspects of the story. My intention is for the "credit" for solving W's death to go almost entirely to L (who is also a woman of color, specifically Romani), and for the tragedy to be centered around the unfair loss of life and the pain of her parents and others who knew W rather than how bad P feels about it. My main cast also has two other prominent black women with arcs that extend outside this tragedy. All of this is intended to lend to one of the story's major themes of social invisibility vs visibility. So does this exploration of that stray into harmful territory from the outset? I know successfully keeping away from any white manpain traps will take active caution while actually writing the story and I intend to get sensitivity readers as I work on it, but I wanted to get some feedback on my starting point before going too far down that road. Thanks so much for all you do!

It is important for us to know why this young Black woman was murdered to give specific advice. 

Was it racially motivated, gender motivated, or both? 

Wrong place, wrong time? 

Did someone take revenge?

Was she involved in something insidious? 

Was it truly an accident?

Depending on the reason, you should explore and acknowledge this violence and the existing societal problem behind it. For help, see the crime stats on violence against Black women.

…and for the tragedy to be centered around the unfair loss of life and the pain of her parents and others who knew W rather than how bad P feels about it.

Yes, give a voice to the people most affected by her death. Other Black women, people, and Women of Color. This will help further not make it about the feelings of a white man. He is absolutely a victim of the crime too, being kidnapped, so his trauma does matter and should be tended to. But ultimately, he gets to live.

On that note, his life being worth kidnapping vs. ending begs the question; why wasn’t he murdered while the Black woman’s life had to end? And for representation purposes, why couldn’t it be the other way around (Where the Black woman lives and witnesses the crime, and the white man dies)?

This is why knowing your reasoning for her death is so important. 

Otherwise, if she was thoughtlessly murdered, it does feel like her life was incredibly devalued in your story due to her being a Black woman. It’s a serious and true problem, so I'm not saying not to write this. This just needs careful exploring. If you’re choosing to bring this real life problem into your story, it deserves full and respectful acknowledgement. 

Please check out our resources on writing tragic material, Black suffering and abuse and avoiding exploitation. 

More reading: tragedy exploitation tag

~Mod Colette

[softpascalito]

I To Dig a Grave I Chapter 3 I

Summary: Twenty-one years after the outbreak, you come to Wyoming looking for something and end up in Jackson after a stranger saves your life.

But he doesn't stay a stranger.

Turns out Joel Miller is looking for something too. It feels like a fresh start. But when bad luck seems to follow you, Joel is the only one to turn to, forcing both of you to confront your feelings about your pasts- and each other.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 12k+ Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Age Difference, Smut, Explicit Content, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Chose not to use Archive Warnings, Tags to be added

AO3 LINK // Series Masterlist // Playlist

notes: very excited for this chapter because you guys finally get to see what a big part of fic will deal with. keeping everyone who reads on in my prayers <3 (you'll need it)

i've also added a small playlist for this fic. in case you'd like to dive in the link is above!

this fic will deal with heavy topics. please note that it doesn't use archive warnings and tags will be added as we go in order to avoid spoilers. each chapter will have detailed warnings in the end notes on ao3.

Chapter 3 - The Sky

‘‘The sky here’s very strange. I often have the sensation when I look at it that it's a solid thing up there, protecting us from what’s behind.’ ‘But what is behind?’ Her voice was very small. ‘Nothing, I suppose. Just darkness. Absolute night.’’

- Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky

The body is resting against the only intact wall of the cabin, to Joel's left. Propped up next to the fireplace, the scene around it leaving no doubt about the finality of it. Blue hair drenched in red, thick liquid pooling below and running through the crevices of the weathered and beaten wood.

He barely registers Tommy’s footsteps behind him nor that they come to a sudden halt.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath. 

Joel is the one that steps forward, kneeling down next to the fireplace, his hand gently reaching out to touch the pale skin of her hand. “She’s already cold. Must’ve been a few hours,” he whispers, his voice dangerously close to cracking.

“We need to alert the others. What if these guys are already at the gates? Maria has no clue-”

“Tommy-” Joel gently tries to stop the rambling of his brother, but he can't bring himself to take his eyes off her. But the other man is barely listening, his feet shuffling anxiously as he reaches for his rifle.

“Joel, goddamn it, I mean it. Get up. They may be waiting for the moment to attack-”

“There is no attack,” Joel says, again, and his voice feels too calm for what he’s implying. 

He stalls for a moment, the realization coming to him that he’s gotten too good at this. He’s gotten too good at being in the presence of death, likely better than he ever has been in the presence of people.

He carefully leans forward, using his free hand to gently push the fabric of her hoodie out of the way, glancing down at the wound and giving a small nod. He doesn't need to see the way Tommy’s shoulders fall. He feels the air shift as his brother comes to the conclusion Joel has found much faster. They both know why he got there quicker. Takes one to know one.

“Why would she-” Tommy breaks off, turning his gaze away from the thing he doesn't understand. “I don't know,” Joel mutters under his breath. It hasn't hit him yet, the full force of what this means. Of the consequences it will draw. “We need to get her back to Jackson.” But he can’t really focus on that. Not when he has your best friend’s lifeless body next to him without a clue where you are.

“Do you think-” There's a heavy pause. “Did she do this alone?” Tommy asks, placing his rifle next to the door and beginning to look around the cabin for something useful.

Joel immediately knows what he's asking. But he shakes his head. “I don't think she would have- There's no sign anyone else was here.”

His head is spinning, screaming at him to do the one thing he knows. He needs to find you.

And then he doesn't. Because before they can even begin to move the body, he can hear hooves approaching outside. He recognizes the fast gallop of your horse even before you call their names.

“Lane?! Joel?! Tommy?!” Your lungs hurt from calling them. It was easy enough to follow the tracks, spurring your own horse on much more than you dared on any patrol so far. The mare almost seems relieved when you reach the two other horses and you slide off her back in one quick motion.

It's at the same moment that the door flies open, Joel crossing the small veranda in a few strides. You freeze in your tracks. “Where-?” The words die in your throat. Joel carefully makes his way towards you, his steps slow and controlled. Your eyes fly to his hands. They’re bloody. He has almost reached you when you find his eyes again. There is a gentleness in them that confuses you for a split second.

And then it all makes sense. You don't want the blood, you don't want that look in his eyes, you don't want any of it once you realize what it means.

“No.” Your voice comes out all wrong and you don't know if he heard you. If anyone can.

“It's okay. Come here,” Joel mumbles as he reaches you, carefully sneaking his arm around you. He tries to pull you close and he's not sure whether it's for your or his sake. Maybe both.

“No. Joel, where is she?”

He shushes you again, readying himself to catch you if your knees give out, his grip around you tightening ever so slightly.

Joel Miller has come to know you fairly well over the past years. At least he likes to think he does and you've rarely caught him off guard. But today you do.

“Where is she?!” Your knees don't give out. Not even close. They bend just enough for you to slip past the broad man in front of you, taking off with a run towards the door of the cabin.

It takes him a second to register what has happened. Then, he’s storming after you as fast as his legs will allow him.

“Tommy!” he yells out, hoping that if he won't be able to stop you, at least his brother will. But it's he who catches up with you just as you take the first step onto the veranda, roughly pulling you back by your arm, hard enough that it sends both of you tumbling to the floor.

He barely registers the way the wooden step digs into his ribs and knocks the air out of his lungs. Instead, his fingers stay tightly wrapped around your arm. “Fucking let go, Joel! Let me see her!”

He doesn't know what to say. He can't tell you that he simply can't. That it would stay with you forever, even more than this will anyway.

“Come here,” he just repeats weakly, bringing his other arm around to pull you in. One of your knees is bleeding, your jeans ripped open where you hit the floor with full force. Joel makes a mental note to clean the wound later.

Your body is trembling much harder than you thought possible as you let Joel pull you into his arms. It has nothing to do with the cold. You don't even feel like you're able to recognize temperature. An absurd concept, that your body would adjust to any of it, that it would ever stop shaking and trembling. Joel's arms feel like he's all around you, wrapping his body around yours, sheltering you from what is only a few feet away. 

Your lungs that were burning just a minute ago seem to not be a part of you anymore. They in- and exhale in their own rhythm, one that feels too fast and too slow all at once. You hear Joel muttering into your ear, but you can't make out the words. Your cheeks are wet. You don't know why.

The world dissolves around you and you briefly wonder if you’re dying. It's not a shocking idea that gets you up and fighting. You wonder about death the same way you would about whether or not they have soap at the store. The world has almost gone dark when you realize you are not, in fact, dying. But, even as the strength leaves your muscles and you collapse against the body next to you, you are aware that something has.

***

You regain consciousness, just for a moment. There is a steady rise and fall around you and at first you think it's your lungs expanding and deflating. But as you open your eyes enough to catch a glimpse of your surroundings, they move. Up and down. Slow and steady.

You're on horseback, pressed against a broad chest that has to be Joel’s. His arms are pulling you tightly into him, keeping you upright, making sure you won't fall off. You don't think you could bring yourself to care. It probably wouldn't even hurt. In fact, every part of your body should hurt with the way you were running earlier, with how you fell onto the stairs, bone crunching as it took the blow to your side. But oddly enough, it feels like you're floating, like your mind is far away from your body and equally far away from Joel. There is a disconnect, a faulty wire. One that simmers, undetected, till it snaps one random afternoon and sets the whole house on fire.

You still feel like you’re drifting in and out of consciousness when the movement below you slows and you feel yourself being lifted down by strong, steady arms. They are a constant around you, a shield that protects you from what is beyond.

Word about your disappearances has traveled fast but not fast enough for no one to ask any questions. There have rarely been any runaways in Jackson, except for the occasional teenagers who usually show up again the day after- and the couple last year. The bodies Joel had found in the abandoned hotel. Why was he always the one to find them?

People approach, some calling out to the odd group arriving. Tommy leading both horses and shushing those who call out to them while Joel holds you close, staring down anyone who so much as tries to approach him.

“I’ll go and fetch Maria and we can-” Tommy pauses, his gaze wandering from his brother's face to the curled up body below it. He can't bring himself to say it. Not like this, not in front of you. 

Joel gives a curt nod, understanding. “Tell Maria we're at my place. And-” A small sigh escapes his lips. “Make sure she arranges for a group immediately.”

The younger man swallows hard and turns away. Infected will happily devour any meat they're given, no matter if they've hunted it down themselves. He doesnt think he could bear going back and finding a scene like that. His steps speed up.

You only catch glimpses of the people around you, words being whispered, conversations being started and then abruptly breaking off. And you still feel light, so light that you think you could just float away, disappear into the blue until you’d reach the horizon and whatever lies beyond. But you're wrapped in the dark leather coat that keeps sliding off your shoulders, wrapped in Joel’s arms, and so it won't happen. He won't let you float away. 

For all you know, all of the sounds and glimpses could be figments of your imagination, something like a dream or a fleeting memory of a book you’ve read as a child, one that you remember the cover and smell of, remember that it made you feel something, and yet, the story won't come to mind anymore. Above all, this can be, needs to be, something that is unreal. Because otherwise, you dont think you’ll be able to get through it.

You don't move. You let Joel carry you down Rancher Street, you let him nudge your head further into his chest as you realize you must be passing the corner of the graveyard. It seems impossible that you walked by it just a few hours ago, with your mind on the library and which exams to set and dinner this weekend. It all feels like a lifetime ago, a memory that doesn't belong to you but rather someone else.

The morning fog sunk back into the earth hours ago, the rays of the sun forcing it to clear. The sky above you feels close enough to touch, a vibrant and comforting shade of blue spanning from the tops of the wooden houses to the mountains in the distance.

You were just a baby when your father put up a swing in your backyard, strong ropes tied to the branch of an old oak tree. You must have heard the story a million times. Him, getting out his tools while you were watching from your blanket on the grass, not quite able to move your head on your own yet. But he insisted that your large eyes followed him around, contently staying where you were as he worked. 

You didn't understand, when hearing him talk about it, why he'd build a swing for someone too small to play on it. It only set in years later that he'd simply been that excited to bring home a little daughter and build something for her and fill the backyard with children's and adults' laughter alike.

That evening, he put you on his lap, one arm securely wrapped around the tiny form that was your body then, gently moving both of you back and forth. You’d fallen asleep almost instantly.

It became your favorite spot, and the way he talked about it years after you had left the house and the garden behind, it had been his too. You loved kicking your feet or spurring your father on to push you harder, watching as your legs soared towards the blue sky.

It seemed to you, back then, that you were miles above the ground, imagining what it'd be like to let go and drift off into the sky, to go up, up, up until your house would be nothing more than a small square below you, surrounded by green.

Joel carries you into the living room. He doesn't seem to want to leave you alone. And he seems restless.

He gets on his knees in front of you, soft brown eyes taking in your face. You avoid meeting them, curling further into the couch. His lips are moving but you can’t hear what he says.

After a few moments pass, you can tell he’s waiting for a response so you nod, almost in slow motion. He seems satisfied with that, saying something else before getting dinner started. It probably smells good, but you don't think you know good anymore.

You get through two potatoes, a bit of salad and chicken before you push your chair back, hurrying down the hallway as Joel scrambles after you.

You make it to the bathroom just in time, falling to your knees in front of the toilet as your stomach begins emptying itself. A sharp pain shoots through the knee that collided with the stairs of the cabin earlier. At the thought of the cabin, another wave of sickness hits you. It's violent, the way your throat convulses, your body trying to empty itself of whatever is inside.

But there is no purging the things inside of you. The thoughts and the memories and the images- god, the images. Lane, hunched over a table. Lane, holding a knife while you make dinner. Lane, laughing. Lane, placing a gun to her head. Lane, crying.

The steady flow of scenarios provided by your brain is broken by another wave of nausea, even though this time it is just dry heaving, your stomach already empty. Your head is not.

You don't hear the rushed footsteps behind you, but you feel the calloused hands pulling your hair out of the way and rubbing your back.

“There you go, get it all out,” Joel coos quietly. It's not his fault. That he doesn't immediately connect the dots as you start sobbing, choking for air. The sobs, your lungs demanding air, your stomach blocking the way, clearly insistent on getting everything out of your system.

You’re positive that the noises coming out of your mouth do not sound like yourself or, for that matter, sound human at all. They're a mix of gasping and heaving, back and forth, as your fingers clench around the toilet seat so hard you feel like it may break.

Joel is very lost and very determined not to let you notice. He has never seen you in this much pain, not when he washed you in the bathroom upstairs nor when you were seconds away from being ripped apart by an Infected. He cannot know that on the first night spent with Lane you were hunched over a toilet just like this, throwing up the blueberry muffins that had been too much for your starved stomach to handle. He cannot know she held your hair like he holds it now, fingers firmly wrapped around it, occasionally sweeping a loose strand behind your ear.

You're not sure how long you sit there like this, the cold tiles uncomfortably pressing into Joel's already sore knees, when he carefully leans you against the wall as he fetches a few towels, letting the water run until it's warm, to wet one of them and wipe your face.

His eyes fly over your features, concern etched into every part of his face. You weakly try and raise your arm to take the towel from him, unwilling to just sit and watch. But he shakes his head firmly, his gaze determined. “Let me, okay? You just focus on breathing.”

As he reaches for another towel, you feel your empty stomach filling again. With a heavy, uncomfortable guilt, one you wish you could throw right back up. Tears shoot into your eyes again but this time Joel doesn't hesitate.

“What's going on? Tell me what you're thinking,” he mutters, his thumb brushing over the side of your face as his other hand uses the towel to dab over your chin, carefully wiping the remainder of the vomit away.

“I wasted your food,” you half-whisper, your voice raw. Joel's face falls, for a moment.

“Nothing is ever wasted on you, you hear me?” he mumbles quietly, moving on to wipe your cheek. “I can always make more.”

He doesn't seem to mind that you cry again at that.

***

It must be past midnight when you wake up the next time. The room is only dimly lit now, and a blanket is tucked around you, your eyes facing the worn-out fabric of the couch Joel set you down on earlier. Earlier feels very far away.

You turn, slowly, glad to find that your stomach seems to decide to give it a rest for now. It still lurches slightly as you squint into the dining room, seeing two figures hunched over the wooden table.

“Joel?” you try to call his name, quietly, but your throat feels dry and the word turns into a cough instead. Your fingers rub your throat, willing it to calm down and relax, as Joel appears in front of you, kneeling down beside the couch and offering you a glass of water. You nod your thanks, using both hands to bring it to your mouth and take a few sips.

“Better?” He hums softly, taking the glass back. You give another nod. If he minds the non-verbal communication, he doesn’t let it show. Instead he turns around, returning with the glass refilled. You gratefully accept it again.

It's only after he's placed it onto the small coffee table that your eyes land on Tommy, leaning against the wooden column separating the two rooms as he watches the scene in front of him. He gives you a swift nod when your eyes meet and something that seems like it was supposed to be a smile but, given the circumstances, fails miserably.

Joel motions for him to come closer. “Come on, it's- have a seat.” Their eyes meet and they seem to communicate silently, no doubt continuing the conversation where they left off.

Tommy sits down. He shuffles his feet, his fingers anxiously tapping the lid of a plastic container that holds some food. Courtesy of Maria, no doubt. Joel takes the spot next to you on the couch and you inch towards him, glad for any kind of support even though you have no clue what is about to happen.

“We- We’re still trying to piece everything together,” Tommy says, his voice quiet and solemn. You tense ever so slightly, listening intently. You're not sure you want to know how or why or any of the other details that will undoubtedly make this more real.

“There was a note in- with her,” he goes on, seemingly choosing his words very carefully. “She said she left you a letter, back at home.” Your eyes automatically fly to Tommy’s sides, half expecting him to pull a piece of paper out of his pocket. He seems to notice your train of thought.

“We're still going through her room, just to make sure- we just want to be certain this happened the way she says it did,” he finishes quietly. You can feel two pairs of eyes on you, but you just nod. Of course. Someone could’ve murdered her and staged it as a suicide. Somehow, that idea didn’t cross your mind. Maybe because you don't think anyone could ever truly hate Lane nearly enough to wish her harm or maybe simply because you already seem to feel in your stomach that her life ended on her own terms.

Joel and Tommy exchange a few glances until Joel awkwardly clears his throat and reaches out to take the plastic container from him. “I'll put this in the fridge.”

The younger brother keeps his eyes on you as you listen to Joel rummaging in the kitchen. His hand awkwardly reaches for your shoulder, hovering above it for a moment before patting it lightly. “I'm so sorry, kid.”

“Thanks, Tommy,” you manage to press out, your own gaze fixed on the opposite wall. You don't want to see the look again, the same one Joel had back at the cabin. In fact, you think you may never want anyone to look at you ever again.

You're still staring at the same spot when the two men head towards the front door a few minutes later. Their voices are low and they must be standing half outside, if the cold creeping into the house is anything to go by. You know their words are not meant for your ears but you still stay absolutely still, listening.

“I’ll bring the letter by tomorrow, okay? Let her get it over with,” Tommy mumbles and you think you hear him shuffling his feet again.

“Yeah, yeah, you do that,” Joel responds, equally quiet. There is a moment of silence. They haven't had a moment to talk about all this, for Joel to consider if he of all people should be the one to take care of you. 

Tommy seems to think along the same lines, even though you can't begin to guess the depth of their seemingly simple words.

“Are you okay to-?” 

Joel gives a shaky nod. “Yeah, ‘ts fine. She needs someone and- Ellie’s staying with Dina for a few days, until we've figured things out.”

Tommy doesn't know what to say. He carefully takes in Joel's face, or at least what he can make out of it in the dim light of the porch. He goes for a hug instead, wrapping his arms around his brother for a fleeting moment, a hand rubbing over the older man's back. “Either of you need anything, we're all here.”

His voice has dropped enough for you not to overhear the last part.

Maybe it's because Joel's own hearing is bad, but he doesn't seem to realize you've been listening when he comes back into the room a few moments later. “I'm sure they'll be done tomorrow. But we should all try and get some sleep now.” He takes a step towards you, gently running his hand over the top of your head. “I put some fresh sheets onto the bed upstairs while you were out. I don't want ya sleeping on the couch.”

You're too tired and exhausted to protest. Besides, you know it would be a waste of time. So you let him help you upstairs, let him wait right outside the bathroom door as you brush your teeth and let him tuck you into bed, the soft sheets a stark contrast against your dirty and scratched up skin. Joel looks down at you for a moment, his fingers tapping against his leg.

“Do you want me to stay here?”

It's almost embarrassing how fast you jump onto the offer, nodding as you finally meet his eyes again. He looks concerned and sad and you hate that you're the cause of it. But you also want his company, more than anything.

Joel turns off the lights and climbs into bed with you shortly afterwards. He’s changed into pajamas, made up of a pair of brown plaid pants and a cream-colored, worn shirt. Compared to you, he actually looks put together. You can see his outline beside you, the candle on his nightstand the only source of light left in the room. It gives everything a dim, orange glow, distantly reminding you of a sunset.

You're suddenly aware of how very heavy your head feels, far too heavy to be held up by your neck. There are too many thoughts in there, you think, they don’t have enough room to breathe. Or to make sense. The faulty wires are back. And they keep your synapses from connecting correctly. Nothing makes sense. 

‘We just want to be certain this happened the way she says it did.’

“Can I ask you something?” Your voice comes out small and still, it seems too loud in the quiet around you.

“Anything,” comes the response, equally quiet even though Joel's voice sounds more steady than yours. You ponder your words for a few moments and you feel him shift beside you, propping his head up on one arm to get a better look at your face. “What is it, darlin’?”

“They brought her back to Jackson, right?”

Joel seems to consider his words for a moment, then he nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, they did.” Even in the dim light, you can feel his eyes on you, searching your face. You turn your face away from him, staring at the stacked records in the corner instead.

“Why would someone go through all that trouble? Bringing her so far out?” The words coming out of your mouth seem as much a surprise to you as they are to Joel. You can hear him suck in a breath beside you. The mattress dips below his weight as he sits up.

“Can you look at me for a moment?”

You obey, turning your head and resting your cheek against your shoulder. You can see Joel's face above you. He looks like he's about to cry. You must be very tired, you think to yourself. Joel Miller doesn't cry.

Before your eyes and mind can drift away again, he swallows and speaks up again, the southern drawl in his voice more present than ever.

“Honey- No one made her go.”

His words are slow, carefully chosen. He knows he is treading a fine line here.

“She did it herself, darlin’.” A small frown has spread over his face, his eyebrows knitted together. “I told you earlier, downstairs. Don’t you remember?”

You shake your head, painfully aware that the gentleness in his tone is back, the same one he’s had earlier at the cabin. You think you know all the things he’s telling you, but you can’t recall Joel saying it. The picture of him in front of the couch appears before your eyes, but you can’t make out the words coming out of his mouth. Again, you find yourself surprised that you're the one who speaks instead.

“Did anyone check her?” 

He pauses at that, the frown deepening. “What do you mean?” 

You take a small breath, your fingers pulling at a loose thread of the sheets below you. “I mean, did they check if she's really-” You pull a little harder and the thread breaks, the thin piece of fabric remaining in your palm.

You wonder if they have wrapped her up yet. If someone’s put fresh clothes on her. If anyone has checked her pulse.

“What if she's not dead?”

“I need you to listen to me.” His voice is slightly more urgent now. “I saw her. And she's gone. I'm so sorry and I wish she wasn't and I know-” His voice comes dangerously close to breaking but he only gives a tiny shake of his head and presses on.

“I know how difficult this must be but you need to understand this. She's gone. She's not coming back.”

if you enjoyed the chapter, please consider reblogging/sharing or commenting, i promise it will be the highlight of my day <3

[dreadsuitsamus]

Lost Part Six | Vegeta x Reader |

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

author's note: we're getting very close to the end, y'all! thank you so much for your support and patience 🩷

pairing: vegeta x fem!reader

warnings: canon typical violence, does not follow canon timeline of events

"Don't expect to see this ship again soon, if ever." You murmur while carefully holding baby Trunks as Bulma unhooks various computers from the ship.

She falters in her movements for a brief moment. "What are you planning on doing?"

"Finding my son."

"That much I figured." Bulma rolls her eyes and glances over her shoulder. "You're not coming back?"

"I will for the Androids; I've already promised as much to Goku."

"You don't…" The tired mother resumes her work, doing her best to stay on task before Vegeta shows up. "I wasn't asking you to leave."

"I know that. But it's best for everyone involved if I do, don't you think?"

"No, I don't."

"Why's that? Without me, you have your perfect little family." You look down at little Trunks, who is nearly fast asleep as he rests his little head on your chest. No doubt he finds your arms to be like a warm blanket, all thanks to your Saiyan trait of running like a furnace in August, and you can't help but think to yourself just how cute he is. "Vegeta can't find V without my help, so he won't be able to kill him. I've trained and powered up in ways I never imagined, much less my son's wildest dreams. I can conquer him myself, I know it."

"And what about Goku and his family, and all they've done for you?"

"I will never be able to repay what they've done for me. And they do deserve better, but time is of the essence and all I can promise is to ensure that Gohan will not be doomed to that future your son warned you of. In four years, I will return and make sure of it."

Bulma's quiet for a moment, and it isn't until the ship is about ready that she speaks again. "Thank you. And… I'm sorry for all you've lost."

"The only thing I have still is my hope that my son isn't on that list. I love my husband and I want nothing more than to have him and be the family we dreamed of being so long ago. But my time with Vegeta… It's passed." Tears sting in your eyes, and you turn away from the woman that's being handed the fruit of your dreams on a silver platter, though you still hold her son carefully. "He's not been very good to you, I know. But Vegeta can and will be a good father and husband for your family. He was for mine, in our short time as one."

"You don't have to do this." Bulma says softly.

"I do. Perhaps the karma of my race's sins is falling on me and my family." You sigh to yourself and hand away the sleepy baby to his mother's loving arms, noting to yourself that your husband has quite the habit of making the most adorable babies. "Saiyans… We are proud, and perhaps we shouldn't be. The things Vegeta and I did…" You shake your head. "We are truly hellbound, Bulma. And maybe with you… Vegeta can avoid that fate. You're a good woman, and the people here are good. Vegeta needs that, and my son needs me."

"Just bring him here." Bulma's eyes are sad, much to your surprise. She's truly a wonderful woman. "That way everyone can win."

"To do that would be to doom him to death and seal Vegeta's fate in hell. V's my baby, and he's waiting for me at our old training grounds, I'm sure. I need to go now; Vegeta won't be down much longer."

"... Alright." Bulma sighs and after a quick summary of how to fly the ship, she steps aside and slips a pair of headphones over Trunks' gentle little ears to protect them from the loud noises of the ship. "So… Why do you think he's at the old training grounds?"

"It's where he always wanted to be. He's a true, full-blooded Saiyan, after all. We couldn't train on the planet we made our new life on, and he was always so happy when we made the journey to one of the planets King Vegeta decided to keep for the royal family's benefit. That same planet was my husband's favorite as well."

If only my boys could meet… They'd be so close.

You adjust your white gloves, pulling them tightly onto your hands and flexing your fingers a bit. Your son will never see the power that resides beneath these palms coming, and the thought does put a bit of a smirk on your face. He may think he's powerful, but his mother surely isn't one to fool with. Turning to Bulma, you give a quick two-fingered salute before closing the hatch to the ship and settling into the captain's chair for takeoff.

With an oddly calm and quiet mind, you start up the ship and aim for the stars, the image of Vegeta's smile dancing behind your lids as you relax back into your chair. He used to smile all the time, and since finding him again, you're not sure if you've seen him smile once. Will he ever smile again? you wonder as you widen the gap between your hearts.

I hope you're ready, V. Mama's coming home with a helluva chip on her shoulder.

Panic and fear flood Vegeta's mind as his eyes open up. His skull burns with a particular throb at his temple, and his back isn't faring much better as it aches with a scorching pain that climbs his spine during the dizzy scramble to his feet. What in the hell did you do?! Why?

"That woman…" He seethes and falls to his knees as his head swims. You got him good, that's for sure. He's certainly concussed and he curses lowly as he buries his face in his hands to will the nausea away.

He damn sure meant it when he said he wasn't going to let go, and despite your best effort to sway him, you will. Not. Win.

A special scent catches his nose, and it's only now that he realizes you've left your replenished lady's favor in his palm. A smirk raises his lips as your natural smell eases away his nausea and pain, which you surely must not have intended. His victory is short-lived, however, and a snarl forms as he grits his teeth with a low growl. How dare you do this to him? To yourself??

Careful not to burn your favor, Vegeta bursts through the roof of the cabin in his powerful Super Saiyan form and rushes back to Capsule Corps with a scream so raw it destroys his throat and so loud it could likely break the barrier of space and time. You've gone and fucking done it now, and the next time he sees you (and he will see you again) he may not even hesitate to get his lick back and deliver a concussion of your own.

"I will find you, woman, and you better be fucking ready to dodge!"

His landing is rough, and his stomach turns as he touches down. If Bulma let you go, so help him he'll burst into a frenzy and her poor lab won't make it out alright—

Bulma.

There's no doubt in his mind— she's the one that revealed the Androids to you. You'd been living with Kakarot and his family for months and miraculously had no knowledge at all, and after the heiress of the Brief family fortune felt slighted she had to have told you everything! What a petty, vindictive, sore loser of a—

You did threaten to kill her.

His taste in women could not possibly be worse.

Pushing through his concussed fog, Vegeta stumbles into the house loudly and isn't exactly surprised to be met with his second son's mother holding a gun at him. A small part of his heart finds the humor in it, remembering her story of shooting at Kakarot fondly. In another lifetime and universe entirely, she'd be perfect for him.

But any world you exist in destroys the possibility.

"If you shoot me, all it's gonna do is wake the baby." Vegeta slurs, vision hazy as his body fails to fully recover from your assault. The number you did on his back is just as powerful as the crack you knocked against his skull, rendering him unable to even stand to his full height as he crashes against a wall.

"You bullshitting around will wake him too." Bulma hisses and drops the gun to her side, hurrying to kneel beside Vegeta as he slides to the floor.

"Being heavily concussed is not bullshitting." Vegeta slaps his palm to his face, your old handkerchief willing the sick-to-his-stomach feeling away once again— it does not, however, dissuade his rage. "Where's my wife?"

Bulma can't help the sting and the sinking feeling in her stomach; Vegeta had obviously made his choice, and though she knew the chances of really being chosen and wanted were incredibly slim… it's still painful to hear after all she's gone through with him.

"She's gone." Bulma mumbles as she examines the forming bruise on his temple.

Vegeta's eye twitches as his blood boils, the vein at his forehead bulging at her words. She let you go and he's lost you again.

I cannot accept this.

"Get me a ship." The prince seethes, trembling as he does his best to detain his wrath and desire for vengeance. Bulma's intentions were surely selfish, but reasonable all the same. He's a bad, horrible man that's only brought havoc among those around him, and so he might as well just keep on with the destruction until he's satisfied. "Now."

"You can't even stand, much less travel through space." Bulma hisses and pushes her knuckle harshly to his bruise, her point proven as his eyes cross and the room spins. "And she did this for a reason. The mother in me can't just let you fuck that up for her."

"What, like you're friends now?" Vegeta buries his nose into the handkerchief yet again, closing his eyes to still the world around him. "I find that incredibly hard to believe."

"She knocked you out cold to get the hell outta dodge, and you think I'm lying?" Bulma picks up her pistol from the carpet and tucks it into her waistband, the cool metal chilling her heated skin. "I'd never call us friends in this lifetime. But I do respect her, that's for sure. Maybe you should try that out?"

"How dare you." Vegeta huffs into your handkerchief. "You told her about the Androids, didn't you?"

"Damn right I did! Trunks came back to us for a reason, Vegeta! Do you wanna die to those bastards?" Bulma's eyes are fierce, her conviction planting her feet firmly to the floor and her fists curl tightly at her sides as she remembers the pain in her son's voice when he gave his terrible warning. "And don't try and feed me any bullshit that we'll win and it's nothing to worry about— YOU ALL FUCKING DIED!"

Even in his slurry, wrathful state he can see the worry behind the rage: the tears in her eyes are more than a dead giveaway. Ever since his son traveled back to deliver his warning, she's been fretful and more than a little clingy. She truly has such little faith in Vegeta and the others? Do they train for nothing in her eyes?

"I have survived more dangerous things than a couple of robots. We've been warned sufficiently, and by the time they're a threat to us we'll have three Super Saiyans."

"You had three Super Saiyans then too. Take this seriously, Vegeta! I can't beg you enough, I can't make you understand!" Bulma's thin frame trembles in the midst of her duress and her cheeks are flushed a bright red. It's now that Vegeta realizes the weight she's lost as she rubs at her temples, her cropped tank top pulling up slightly— her ribs are more visible than they once were.

Vegeta's jaw sets tightly. "I understand the situation, Bulma. But understand this: the boy will have very little if he doesn't have his mother."

Bulma falters for a moment, cutting her eyes to him with slightly parted lips; Vegeta never calls her by her name. He's still crumpled to the floor and the old lady's favor is pressed closely to his cheek— she can only assume it's some odd Saiyan thing. And for the first time out of several nights together, she truly gets the sense that they are parents and having adult discussions as them.

How terribly cruel is her fate of loving a man that's never been hers and never will be.

"That would only happen if I died, Vegeta."

"Dying on a battlefield isn't the only way to do so. You'll worry and stress yourself to the grave like this— I trust you to be a good mother. Trust me to be a father. I've already promised to amend my mistakes, haven't I?"

"Forgive me for not knowing if I can trust that." Bulma snaps at him, face reddened again at his lecture. Is he telling her how to be a parent?? The audacity of a man! "The thing about trust is that it has to be earned, y'know."

Vegeta gnashes his teeth together and looks away, the guilt of his past actions hitting like a shotgun blast to the chest as it bites his ass in this dreary long run. "What do you want me to do then??"

"Try being a dad, like you were before all of this happened? If you don't want to be with me-" Her breath hitches just a bit in her throat, but she still perseveres, proving to be braver than almost anybody Vegeta's ever known. "Then don't. I-I love you, but… It's not what I need the most. It's not what Trunks needs for a healthy childhood. To even have a childhood at all, he needs you around. Please, Vegeta… Please don't abandon him." She closes her eyes and turns her head in a failed attempt to hide the tears that fall, a shudder taking her entire body in very lightly chaotic loosening of her emotional lid. An heiress to the most fruitful fortune on Earth has never been more in need of a break.

With a deep inhale, Vegeta pushes himself up from the floor and, with the grace of mercy winning against his throbbing concussion, he pulls his son's mother into a close embrace. His hand at the back of her head, Vegeta tucks her face into the crook of his neck and closes his eyes at the feeling of her tears on his skin.

"To say I hold no love for you is a lie." His deep voice buzzes against the shell of her ear. "You cared for me when no one else has, and even at my most selfish I didn't take it for granted. You are special, Bulma. I will return to raise my son— Nothing in this galaxy will stop me."

She may end up the fool again, but the conviction in Vegeta's words is far too believable for her to deny. He'll come back and protect Trunks' future, and young Gohan's too. He's not the cruel man he was when he first came to Earth— and he hasn't been that man for a long time now.

"Now…" Vegeta murmurs into her ear. "Get me a ship."

The planet's as quiet as it's ever been, and it's unsettling. Only in his wildest dreams could he imagine the way his people trained here, getting stronger and preparing themselves for any battle or hostile takeover they launched. The Saiyans would surely have ruled the galaxy, had they been given the time to build a true dynasty. It would have been magnificent.

But instead, he lives his life in this desolate place, with no purpose or even another person that understands him in sight. His father's been long gone and his mother…

Is a complicated problem of his.

V's jaw ticks as his anger swells him into Super Saiyan yet again. His whole life has been a lie— it only took you well over ten years to admit it. And he gets the strange feeling that it was all due to an accident, and that you'd have never willingly let the truth come to light.

V's just come home from a training binge, and from the moment he touched down in his ship, the energy was… off. He sprints home, a tickle of fear and adrenaline rushing his heart as he nears the house he grew up in. Bursting through the door, the sound of your cries hits his sharply-tuned ears and his arms feel light and cold now as he fears the worst.

"Mom!" Your dutiful son follows the noise to your bedroom, dropping beside you hastily as he realizes your position on the floor. Clutching your heart, you're curled into yourself with tears streaming along your cheeks. He's never seen you cry before. "What's wrong?! Are you hurt?!"

"He's dead." Your voice is hoarse, a barely-there whisper as you tremble like a leaf.

"Who?" V gathers you carefully in his arms, holding you gently as you did him when he was a young boy. He's grown up quite a lot, gotten stronger and taller and he'll kill anyone that's hurt his mother like this. You're all he has to cherish.

"Vegeta." Your eyes are near-glassy, and surely you're delusional now. V himself isn't dead, and the only other person you could possibly be this sick over is…

His father, Vegeta the Fourth, that's been dead for almost twenty years now.

"What do you mean?" V mumbles. "My father died a long time ago."

"No…" Your nails dig into the flesh of your breast, your poor heart cracking and pulling apart as your blood sears your veins and pumps a horrible migraine that throbs at your temples worse than any concussion you've ever had.

There's no other possible answer: your soul itself is dying, and it's not entirely unfeasible that Vegeta didn't die. He was always a rebel type, so who was to say that he hadn't ignored the regrouping order sent out? Hell, you certainly ignored it yourself when you were informed by your father-in-law, the King himself, to come back home with his grandson to meet with King Cold.

"Mom, be serious now!" V frowns; you're out of your mind. "We need to get you to a doctor."

"He's dead, he's dead, he's dead…" Your broken voice chants and stars flood your vision as the image of your husband, particularly from the last day you saw him, settles at the forefront of your mind. This pain is a far cry from anything you've ever felt— the broken bones, bruises and even giving birth could never compare.

V lays you on your bed, covering you with your favorite blanket that's got a strange, orange and black striped animal printed on it. "I'm gonna get some help, okay? Stay here, Momma." His icy veins throb with panic as he scrambles to someone that can help— you've never been sick before, and until now he didn't even think mothers could be sick.

Your homey little planet is small, and you've never socialized all that much with your neighbors. Enough to be friendly and have an occasional dinner together, but never enough for you to let V have a sleepover or even some sort of field trip without you being close by. He doesn't know if this is typical of Saiyan mothers or if you're just different, but either way it's biting him in the ass now as he struggles to think of anyone who—

Your energy fades further and he's got no choice but to go knocking at every door he can until someone cares enough to hear him out. And it's the odd old lady a few houses down that answers his call, and he must have quite the look on his face for her to look so shocked.

"Vegeta, dear, what's wrong?"

"My mom- I-I don't- I think she's dying!" Tears fill V's dark eyes and without much preamble, he's scooping the old woman into his arms and flying back home as fast as he possibly can, his force unintentionally though uncaringly shattering the windows of all the neighbors that didn't open up to help him.

Dizzy, the elderly neighbor holds her head once V sets her down by your bedside. You clutch your heart still, crying and repeating yourself as if you've gone mad; and maybe you have, at this point.

"My father died when I was young, but she keeps saying he's just died." V explains as he takes your hand and prays to any deity that will listen to his plea.

"Hmm." She examines the mating scar on your neck, but it's more than enough to tell her what she needs to know. "You're Saiyans, yes?"

"We are." V mumbles. "How did you know?"

"I knew since the day your Momma brought you here." She murmurs to him. "You're a unique set of people."

"Well, do you know what's wrong with her??"

Her face is too grim for V's comfort. "She's telling the truth: her mate has died."

"Vegeta…" You whimper, a fresh slew of tears cascading your cheeks.

"That doesn't make any sense! He died years ago, when I was little!"

"She's dying of a broken heart. This behavior is like most species that can bond. You see how she holds her heart, hear how delirious she is? This is the risk of bonding, boy, and why many cultures outlawed the practice."

"So I have to let her die?! There's no way to save her?!"

"There isn't."

And then you recovered a few hours later, and just kept on lying and denying it all. Dad's alive. Mom's a liar. Or is Dad alive? He must be after all, if you're still breathing. And he knows you are; he reckons he would've felt something inside of him snap if he'd killed you all those months ago. A mother and son duo so close could never not feel such a tragic separation.

"I don't want to kill you, Mother." V mutters darkly as he stares a hole into the ground. "I just want the truth."

The hairs on the back of your neck stand as you approach your son's stomping grounds. It's been years since you last set foot here and all you hope for now is that you'll be able to leave it after this fight, with your son in tow and thoroughly reminded of his place.

Once you're out of the ship's hatch and your boots crunch on the hardened, reddish-brown clay surface, you're automatically searching for V's energy. Even with your zenkai boosts and the mastered Super Saiyan form in your back pocket, the sheer power he carries is still intimidating. You're not sure if you ever truly believed your son would be so naturally strong, even though you certainly hoped he could be. Your boy is likely what Frieza was so afraid of when he ruined your home planet to mere bits.

But despite his power, yours is nothing to scoff at. Rage motivates a Saiyan like crazy and lord only knows how pissed off you are now. You haven't struggled this much and come this far even with everything that stacked against you to die at the hands of your own son. He will not win as long as you have a say in things.

It takes but a moment to locate his energy, which is pinpointed right at the center of the field you two used to run miles and miles on during training. You always beat him in tests of speed, whereas his strength overtook yours gradually as he grew up into the incredibly strong young man he is now.

As you approach, the feeling of his energy increases. He's certainly been training on his own time, as always, and he's managed to make good progress all on his own. Watching your son take your techniques and guidance and morph it into his own power and tools made you a proud Saiyan as much as a proud mother; he's inherited Vegeta's battle prowess and your creativity and blended it into a Saiyan that would've been a legend among the rest.

They took everything from us, but instead he chooses to harm me.

"Have you come to tell the truth?"

V lands before you, tall and intimidating with eyes that are cold and guarded, when they once looked at you with love and trust that was endless. You've lost your only baby and this is what remains— your heart feels the weight of your desperation to beg him to just stop this madness.

But your rage swiftly nips that in the bud.

"It's all I've ever told you, V. I don't know what kind of fantasy you'd rather me spin, but I never told you stories as a child and I don't intend to pick up the habit now."

V shakes his head slowly, taking a slow, deep inhale through his nose before looking at you once more. "Maybe if you'd told me stories, I'd trust you right now."

Okay, ow.

"I found your father."

It's not a sentence V was prepared for you to say, obviously judged by the way his eyes widen and his fists lose their tight curl. "Really?"

And there's that boy I raised.

"I sure did. And he's none too happy to hear what you've done."

And then the incredulous look is lost, hardened up into something terrible and violent once again. "And I notice you came here alone. So either you're lying again, or Father isn't the guy you said he was."

"Vegeta certainly wanted to join me, make zero mistakes about that, child." You cross your arms and stare unflinchingly at V: you refuse to be afraid of something you made with all your love and hope. "But he wanted to kill you and I said not a chance in hell to that."

"He'd kill his only son, just like that?"

"V, baby…" You sigh to yourself. Do you break the news to him? Do you anger his uneasy heart more, ruin the visage of Vegeta you've painted for him throughout his life?

"I would've welcomed him to try." V sneers, taking a step closer to you and forcing you to tilt your head back even more to still see his face.

"It's in our blood to fight, but family is off the table for us, Prince." You remind him firmly of your positions, as the Royal Family that still lives beyond the bounds of the lost planet your husband's name originated from. "We aren't low-class Saiyans with no tact or notion of civility. I taught you this many years ago."

"Hard to tell what's true and what's not when it comes from you."

"And what reason would I have had to lie to you? You've never given me much of an answer on this."

"You'd have to tell me! I know you hid things but you won't just come out and say why! You almost died because my Father did!"

"Oh, not this again!" You turn away, perhaps foolishly taking your eyes off of your well-presumed opponent. "I don't know what happened that day, V. I truly believed in my heart that your father died when our planet was lost. It wasn't until I saw him with my own eyes that I realized that wasn't the case. What do you want me to say? I'm sorry? Because I definitely am. I'm sorry you grew up the way you did. I'm sorry your father wasn't in your life. If I knew there was even the slightest chance he was alive, I would've found him for your sake before even my own. But I didn't know he was alive. I can't change that, and I can't tell you anything other than this and call it the truth because this is the truth."

"No! You knew that day he was dead for real, and then brushed it off like what happened was normal! You felt it in your soul and almost died too. You can't tell me half of a truth and think it's acceptable! I'm not an idiot, and I'm done letting you treat me like one!"

A snarl curls at your lips. Here he goes again with this song and dance, insistent you knew something you didn't and taking the word of a delirious woman before taking the one of a very sane and present one. "And I'm tired of having this same conversation with you. Mind your mother, boy."

"My mother died four years ago, the day my father did." V's fist reels back and you're quick at the ready, meeting his force with your own and a shockwave ripping through the air and disturbing the ground beneath you.

V's quick for another punch, this time aimed at your stomach and it's almost too easy for you to block it and dive your elbow down on his arm, forcing him towards his knees long enough to take a solid jab of your knee to his face. He's unphased by the pain of the bloody nose, however, as a result of your training being so thorough. Pain alone can't stop him.

His superior strength proves itself as he grabs your ankle and flings you away as if you're a gnat buzzing around his face, your back making a crackling contact with the post of one of the training ground's obstacle courses, the solid tree trunk knocking the wind out of you upon impact. And just as you taught him, V capitalizes on his advantage and presses forward with a gut punch that lands this time.

Base form isn't enough to beat him, something you already knew. Powering up into Super Saiyan isn't new to your clashes with V, but now with its optimization he has far less opportunity to take you out, now that you've negged the energy drain. Your son can use Super Saiyan himself, but without a room of space and time, there's no possible way he could've mastered it entirely like you have.

Your golden glow that reflects off of his face reminds you briefly of the very first time you ascended to the legend. Your broken heart caused such a response, and you still feel it break further as you're forced to use such a power on the boy you birthed. He cannot see reason on his own or by words alone, and if being beaten into submission is the only way, then so be it.

He will know his place.

The stars are familiar as Vegeta presses the ship as fast as it can go, Bulma's words ringing out in the quietness of his mind.

"She said something about the old training grounds. The one you liked the most. Apparently the kid likes it too."

His heart jumps when the reddened clay of the planet comes into view. There's no mistaking it— this is where you are, and just as importantly, where his long lost son is. Despite his infractions and how he's lost his damn mind, Vegeta can hardly contain the bubbling feeling inside of him at the prospect of reuniting with the boy he lost the chance to raise. His heir is so close, for the first time in twenty years.

Hopefully you've got the situation handled— Vegeta's trip started a few hours after yours, thanks to the lack of senzu beans at Bulma's and Korin being a stingy thing. But he knows these stars well, knows the way to a home that doesn't exist anymore and his gift of navigation doesn't fail in an abyss so vast.

From the moment he breaks into the planet's atmosphere, he feels it. Your familiar energy amped up by Super Saiyan and another, incredibly strong energy keeping up a good pace. That's his boy, so strong and powerful? You've trained him so well, made him exactly what he was destined to be had Planet Vegeta lived on. And perhaps that's the root of V's downfall— he has all the training and yet none of the experience.

But he's aiming to kill, and you're not. And such is your downfall.

The hackles of your tail rise, and so does your son's. It's enough to warrant a pause in your battle, one that's gone on for so long you've lost track of time. Stamina was never a question though, never something meant to be an obstacle for Saiyan elites and it certainly isn't proving to be one now.

"Who the hell is that?" V mutters to himself as your heart battles between soaring and shrouding.

"Vegeta." You swallow thickly and feel a trickle of ice in your veins. How is he here, and—

Bulma. That pain in the ass!

Vegeta's out of the ship as soon as he can be, flying out and locating you both with ease.

"Father?" V's face briefly loses its rage and in what's left, you see the boy you raised. The one who could only dream of knowing his father, the one that would ask for stories of Prince Vegeta IV.

"That's right, son." Vegeta's eyes water. His boy, his son has grown into exactly how he'd envisioned; a spitting image of himself, and bitterly he realizes how much taller V is. How unfair for his son to take on his grandfather's genes, whereas Vegeta himself took after his own mother…

V's brief glimmer of starstruck doesn't last. His hands glow, gathering energy once more. "This doesn't concern you; my whole life never has." His growl loses a bit of punch as an unavoidable tear glides down his cheek. To finally meet his father…

"On the contrary," Vegeta quickly powers into Super Saiyan, quietly hoping it'll give him enough power to subdue his firstborn. "V, I think it's way past time I be a parent. Starting right now. Stand down and mind yourself, boy."

"Who are you to threaten me?!" V's temper flares again, this time sending a beam of deadly light at Vegeta. Vegeta's eyes narrow, brow creasing angrily at the attack, and with a flash he's dodged it and has V by the collar of his uniform.

"Your father. Me and your mother, mostly her, brought you into this world, and where your mother has her maternal instincts not to kill you…" Vegeta leans in closer to his son's face. "I will take you out of this world without another thought if you threaten my wife. One. More. Time."

"You don't have enough hatred." V spits out and knocks Vegeta's hand aside.

Anger flares up in your husband's eyes and his blood boils. Oh, the nerve of this child! He's as cocky as… Vegeta himself. He was always going to be this way. And Vegeta likely would've been proud, had your lives gone in the direction he planned.

"I've got a spare son to raise, so try me all you want, boy!" Vegeta releases V's shirt, backing up and crossing his arms over.

And that, right there, is the moment V's heart truly broke.

"You've got another kid??"

"He does." You mutter darkly, eyeing Vegeta with the eyes of a mother bear, daring him to lay a finger on your precious cub. "And he should've stayed on Earth with that child."

"I'll be back for Trunks, make no mistake. But if you think you'll cast me aside again, woman, you're wrong." Vegeta turns to you and is in your face now, angry and attractive and it burns you hotter than any sun to see him here and destroying the sacrifice you made.

"I left you behind for good reason." You hiss at him, mirroring his Super Saiyan glow. "You will not lay a hand on him."

Vegeta tips his fingers up beneath your chin, his lips a hair's breadth away. "If he minds himself, then you've got a deal, Princess."

"You should be training for the Androids."

"How about I will when you do?"

"Vegeta-"

"This running away thing is done. You will return to Earth with me, as my wife, and if the boy can carry himself as the man he should be, he'll be right there with us." Vegeta's fingers carefully grasp yours, holding your hand tightly as he turns to look at his son, satisfied as your hand curls with his.

"What will it be, boy?"

V's chest heaves and your aching heart cries to comfort him. His first experience that he'll remember of his father, and the asshole has shoved in his face he's got another son! You'd forgotten how cruel Vegeta's temper could be.

"Vegeta." You hiss sharply. "Do you really think this is how you should approach-"

A monstrous, angry roar deafens you and your husband. V's power swells and the glow of Super Saiyan bathes him, your entire little family now officially ascended to the legend. Hatred burns in V's eyes now, more prevalent and angry than ever as his increased speed gives him the chance to blindside you and Vegeta with a heavy tackle that makes your head rush.

Blinding light from his palms force you to cross your wrists over your face to shield your eyes, but its sudden disappearance sends your heart into freefall.

Opening your eyes reveals your husband and son in a brawl, their near-identical faces portraying a common ideal.

Fight to kill.

[wingedblooms]

A different sort of strength

Elain had always been gentle and sweet—and I had considered it a different sort of strength. A better strength. To look at the hardness of the world and choose, over and over, to love, to be kind. She had been always so full of light. (acowar)

-

I whipped my head toward him. “You think I stifle her?”

Rhys held up his hands. “Not you alone.” He surveyed the study as he thought. “But I wonder if everyone has spent so long assuming Elain is sweet and innocent that she felt she had to be that way or else she’d disappoint you all.” He sighed toward the ceiling. “With time and safety, perhaps we’ll see a different side of her emerge.” (Feysand bonus)

Many have assumed Elain is as all she appears: lovely and gentle and sweet. Feyre believes her loving nature is a different sort of strength, and it is. Love is powerful. In Sarah’s stories, love alters fate time and again in every world. But to Rhysand’s point, this perception of Elain—as lovely and gentle and sweet—is incomplete.

When Amren said there’s no going back to human in acofas, I think Sarah was preparing us for her evolution as a character. That’s why she has hinted Elain isn’t all she appears; a different side of her will emerge. Her family intervention is coming and it will push her to grow and embrace all the layers people can’t (or refuse) to see.

That doesn’t mean she will become something unrecognizable. In an interview, Sarah confirmed that Elain is a quiet dreamer, so her evolution will remain true to the different sort of strength she possesses. For example, she may learn to operate as a spy and courtier and ambassador in Mor’s place on the continent. While she can act like an otherworldly soldier-assassin when needed, as Amren once was, Elain doesn’t need to use violence to change fate.

…intelligence is in the knowledge business. Sometimes it might be useless. Sometimes enough to blackmail someone. And sometimes, just sometimes, it influences battles, sways governments, and changes the fate of the world.

-

In the intelligence world, a spy is strictly defined as someone used to steal secrets for an intelligence organization. Also called an agent or asset, a spy is not a professional intelligence officer, and doesn’t usually receive formal training (though may be taught basic tradecraft).

Instead, a spy either volunteers or is recruited to help steal information, motivated by ideology, patriotism, money, or by a host of other reasons, from blackmail to love. From an intelligence perspective, their most important quality is having access to valuable information. For this reason, a government minister might make a great spy—but so might the janitor or a cafeteria worker in a government ministry. (spy museum)

A spy’s most important quality is having access to valuable information. We already know Elain has access to valuable information through her powers, and her information repeatedly helps and protects others.

she tells her court leaders about Vassa, an ally who brings fire and brimstone to the war effort, and Koschei, a looming threat;

she locates the Suriel from across the world to help Feyre gain critical knowledge,

she miraculously neutralizes Hybern before he can kill Nesta and Cassian (which we will likely learn was planned and executed through a combination of her powers), and

she shares information about Nesta’s interests and skills so they can be utilized by her court and her mate, leading to the consummation of their bond.

Elain has influenced quite a bit and only needed to wield a knife once—a lethal blow that no one expected—to change fate. Her gifts are well-suited for accumulating secrets. She may even be able to gather secrets about people on sight, like other seers.

Spies also try to blend in with their surroundings to avoid getting caught. And in the Hewn City, Eris and Cassian dismiss Elain based on her appearance. Hewn City is described as rotting darkness and Elain wears a dress that leeches the life from her appearance. She looks plain. Boring. And no one really pays her any attention as a result.

In the very next chapter, Nesta is shocked (again) by Elain’s sudden appearance and wonders if she is training with the spymaster or her friends, the spies. I don’t think we’ve seen Nuala and Cerridwen use violence once as spies. They have access to valuable information in their roles as handmaidens and their abilities as wraiths allow them to truly blend into their surroundings. It’s possible Elain has learned to move like a wraith from them and depending on the extent of their powers, she might have also learned how to alter her appearance or even wear different bodies. @offtorivendell and I think this could explain, if it becomes canon, how Elain could’ve appeared as Balthazar to help Nesta and Emerie.

Elain also learned how to prepare food from her spy friends, which is another method to influence or disarm others. We learn Elain is working on an herb garden right around the time she learns how to prepare food. Conveniently, herbs can harm as well as heal. She doesn’t need to wield a sword when she has natural weapons growing in her garden.

As the sweet and gentle gardener, no one would suspect Elain of spying or growing plants that could help her access even more knowledge (or protect herself against potential aggressors). But we know, thanks to Rhysand, that gardeners are used to getting their hands dirty, and we know, thanks to Feyre, that Elain won’t hesitate to wield hers for a pretty result.

[absurdthirst]

The Songbird and the Spaniard {Pero Tovar x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 13K

Warnings: Mafia AU, 1960s, threats of violence, greed card marriage, mentions of communism (McCarthy-ism era), violent assault, anger, rough sex, loss of virginity, communication issues, mentions of infidelity, confessions, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex

Comments: Pero Tovar has a problem, he's being deported. So he solves it by threatening you to marry him. A marriage for a green card, quickly complicated by the possessiveness of the mob boss and the rough taking of your virginity.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.

|| MasterList || Pero Tovar MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The lounge is reminiscent of a 1920’s jazz club. It was the vibe that he wanted and what Pero Tovar wanted, he got. The velvet cushions on the chairs were always bearing the weight of people who wanted to come and have a good time. To gamble, smoke, drink and sometimes fuck in a club that was taboo because it had rumored ties to the mafia. Only people that know that it’s true are the people that work there. As one of the headliner singers, you are well aware of how dangerous the man you work for is, and you despise him. 

You smile at the crowd as you sing, your nerves fading as you serenade the drinkers, the gamblers, the lovers. You have been working at the club for a few years, hired by William, and you love it. The 60’s is in full swing and your mini dress sways around your thighs as you sing. Pero is sitting at the booth in the back, his dark eyes crinkling as he laughs at something William says to him, whiskey in his hand and cigarette in the other. “Boss. There’s a man here for you.” Rita, the coat check comes over to Pero, nervous since he has been cold to her since he fucked her a few nights ago in the cloak room. 

“Why don’t you send him over?” Pero asks, tapping his cigarette on the side of the ashtray. Rita nods and gestures for the man to come over. The man sits, setting his hat down on the table, “you’re a hard man to find Pero Tovar.” He says and Pero narrows his eyes slightly. “And who has been looking for me?” 

The man chuckles, “my name is Mr. Taylor. You’ve received letter upon letter from US immigration. You’re being deported. You arrived from Spain in 1937 as a refugee from Franco but you have failed to disclose if you’re a communist. You have ten days to book your ticket from the US otherwise we will remove you ourselves.”

Pero growls, stubbing out his cigarette and leaning over to grab the wad of cash out of his pocket. “How much to stay?” He demands. “I am no communist, I’m a business owner. This club.” He tells the bureaucratic prick. “I cannot go back to Spain, my life is here.”

Mr. Taylor snorts, “no amount of money will fix this. You have evaded me for too long. You have a week to get your affairs in order before I come back to escort you to your plane. I cannot be bought. We cannot have a communist here and you have not applied for citizenship. You will be leaving the US next week.” Mr. Taylor says as he stands up and hands the letter to Tovar. “One week. I’ll see you here or you will be arrested and detained.” He says before he spins on his heel and exits the club.

“Fuck.” Pero hisses, itching to reach for his gun but it would only make matters worse. William, knowing his friend and business partner, reaches over to take the gun from him under the table so none of the guests will see. “I told you that you shouldn’t ignore the letters.” He snorts, shaking his head and smirking slightly as Lin Mae watches from her sit across the room. His lovely bride is the security for the place and is far better at keeping the peace than even the threat of the mafia. “It’s an easy fix.” He tells the Spaniard easily. “Marry a citizen. Then you can stay.”

Your eyes find Pero and William, a man walking away from their booth, and you see the thunderous look on Pero’s face. He’s pissed off. You smile against the microphone, loving to see Pero not getting his way for once. The band finishes the song and you smile at the applause. “Thank you. I’m going to take a break but I’ll be back in five.” You announce and step off of the stage to walk over to the bar, ordering your vodka soda.

“What about Rita?” William suggests, the bastard laughing at the entire situation and making Pero want to smash his fist into his perfectly straight teeth. “Fuck no,” Pero snorts, motioning for the waitress for his section to bring him another whiskey when his eyes land on you. “Bitch’ll think that I really want to marry her and spit out babies.” He had avoided her after she had been clingy after the fuck in the coat closet, he doesn’t like that kind of shit.

“Thanks, Frank.” You smile at the bartender who  hands you your drink. You sit down on the stool and have a sip, glancing around at the club. It’s busy for a Wednesday but not as busy as the weekend. “What about…?” William jerks his chin over to the bar where you are sitting. “She definitely doesn’t want to have your babies.”

Pero snorts, his eyes sliding along the sleek lines of your dress and caresses every curve hungrily. “She would rather cut my heart out with a spoon.” He grunts, admiring the hatred you seem to harbor for him. It just makes him want you more. To possess you and watch you spit and hiss under him until you start to moan and writhe in pleasure. “That’s perfect.”

You set your empty glass down and make your way back to the stage but before you make it, Tovar steps in front of you. “Excuse me, Tovar. I need to get back on stage.” You huff, wondering what your boss wants. He’s been chasing Rita around the club lately so you don’t know why he is stopping you from getting back to your set. “I need to talk to you in my office.” He grunts and you roll your eyes, “don’t you want me back on stage?” His dark eyes stare at you, showing he’s not interested in an argument and you huff again. “Fine.” You stride onto the stage, whispering to the guitarist to keep playing until you come back. “Boss wants to see me.” You explain and Rico waggles his eyebrows. "As if." You wrinkle your nose and make your way off the stage, down the hall to Pero's office.

Sitting behind his desk, Pero wonders exactly what he needs to say to get you to marry him. Hating that he finds himself in this damned situation, but he needs to stay. He hasn’t been to Spain in nearly thirty years, his home is here and he’s not leaving.

“You know, I was in the middle of a set. William won’t be happy that I’m not out there getting the old men horny so they buy more booze.” You shut the door behind you to see what he wants.

“This is more important.” Pero motions to the chair in front of the desk and makes a show of pulling his gun out from the holster at the small of his back and setting it on the desk before he lights up a cigarette and stares at you for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to tell you. Being blunt is his nature and he decides to go with that. “You will need to be here tomorrow at ten in the morning in a white dress.” He orders, pointing at you with the cigarette held hand. “We are getting married.”

You stare at him for several seconds. “You’re fucking joking, right?” You choke. He stares back at you and you laugh, throwing your head back. Your chortles echo off of the walls of his office until you notice he’s not joking. “You’re not joking.” You choke again, “you’re not joking. Why- what the hell, Tovar? Explain.” You demand, shifting closer to his desk.

“You want to keep your job?” Pero growls, shooting you a dark look. “Fuckers from immigration are trying to deport me. You’re a citizen. We get married, I can stay and you can keep singing in my club.” He snorts. “And I don’t have to worry about you wanting to stay married after I get my green card.”

You shake your head, “I could go and get another job in another club. It’s the 60s. Women have freedom. I don’t have to be married and shoved into a kitchen anymore. I could easily get another job.” You scoff, unable to believe he has the gall to demand you marry him. Pero picks up his gun and aims it at you, making your eyes widen, “you can’t easily get another life.” Your stomach twists at the look in his eyes, cold and emotionless like he could pull the trigger and carry on about his day. If you don’t do what he wants, you’re dead. “O-okay. I- I- I’ll do it.” You whisper, eyes still fixed on the gun that you know has killed many men.

It should upset him that you would believe that he would shoot you, but it doesn’t. He’s getting his way and that’s all that matters. “Tomorrow.” He growls, slowly setting the gun down. “We get married so that prick can kiss my ass when he comes back to try to kick me out.” He smirks and takes a drag off his cigarette. “You can go finish your songs now.”

You narrow your eyes at him, knowing that you’ll do everything you can to make his life hell when you’re his wife. He doesn’t know what he’s signed himself up for. You won’t be some little wife cooking his meals and cleaning his apartment. You stand up and spin on your heel, not saying another word as you leave his office and go back to the stage but not before grabbing another glass of vodka soda. 

****

You sigh as you stand there, the only white dress you own goes down to your calves and it sways as you stand in the club, waiting for Pero who is late. He walks in and you huff,  “you’re late.” He chuckles and you hate that you like how he looks in the blue suit with his hair slicked back. He looks good. “I had to celebrate my last night of freedom.” He smirks and you scoff, “like you’re not going to fuck every whore from here to Harlem anyway.” You shake your head and grab your purse, “can we get this over with?”

“Eager to be my wife, hermosa?” There are witnesses milling around, so Pero grabs your waist and hauls you close to him. He can see the way your eyes widen slightly, your breath catching in surprise. You’re scared of him and while it might annoy him later, right now it’s useful. “Don’t worry, soon you’’ll be mi esposa and I will have you in bed screaming my name.” In order for Pero to stay, immigration must believe that the marriage is real, so he’s already sent guys over to your apartment to pack it up. You will come live with him.

“Screaming to get away from you.” You whisper, knowing you need to sell this otherwise you’ll be going to jail and he will be deported. Or you’ll be killed. His arms tighten around your waist in warning. You lean in to caress his cheek. He’s shaved and you press your lips to his cheek, your eyes open as you do it. “Let’s go get hitched.” You say with a smile on your face but your eyes burn into his.

The entire process is fairly simple, and it doesn’t take long before the two of you are standing in front of a magistrate. Pero holding you close and plastering a happy look on his normally dower face to prove that he’s wanting to do this and not just stay in the country.

You recite your vows, your hands on his and you are surprised when you see the ring he slides onto your finger. You didn’t imagine he’d have one and he hands you the one for you to slide onto his left hand. The magistrate declares you husband and wife and you don’t get a chance to prepare yourself as he leans in to press his lips to yours.

Your lips are soft, much softer than he imagined and the surprise parting them allows him to take complete control and kiss you like he wants to. His tongue sweeps into your mouth to take possession and map the inside with strong, determined strokes while your fingers dig into the jacket of his suit.

Your mind blanks when he kisses you so thoroughly. You never imagined him to be such a good kisser and you are disappointed when he pulls back until he offers you a cocky smirk that makes you barely refrain from glaring at him. After you sign the marriage certificate and Pero hands over some money, “to expedite this beautiful creature having my last name,” you leave the courthouse. “So, I guess I’ll wait until we meet with the immigration agent. I’ll see you at work.” You say, adjusting your purse and spinning on your heel to get away from him.

Pero snorts and grabs your arm, dragging you back against him. “Where are you going?” He demands. “I cannot have someone thinking this marriage is a sham.” You snort but he smirks at you. “My men are packing up your dresses and panties, hermosa. You live with me.”

Your eyes widen, “living with you? Fuck no.” You hiss and he shakes his head, “you have no choice. Unless you want to be six feet under.” His smile drops and you swallow harshly, “fine but I get my own room. I’m not sleeping with you. Or fucking you.” You growl, pressing your chest against his to show him he can’t control you.

While he might not have expected you to fuck him, Pero doesn’t like rejection. He likes to be the one to call the shots. Grabbing your chin, he hisses at you, his dark eyes narrowing in annoyance. “Who said I wanted you?” He spits. “I like soft women, warm and pliant, not a cunt so cold it would freeze my dick off.”

You wince at the way he grips your chin, keeping you close to him. “You have plenty of options you can pay for.” You hiss at him, “you can’t buy me. I’m doing this to stay alive.” You remind him, “let’s go. I want to change out of this dress and prepare for my set tonight.”

Pero lets go of your chin and snorts as he steps back from you. “That’s right.” He straightens his suit jacket and pins you with a dark look, almost glaring at you. “Remember who you are married to now.” He warns you. “I won’t tolerate you being a whore while you wear that ring.”

You want to spit back at him that you’re a virgin. You wanted to give yourself to the man you love but it looks like that won’t be happening anytime soon. You snort, “you don’t own me.” You try to rebel even under the dire circumstances. “That’s where you’re wrong, esposa. I do.” Pero declares and you huff, striding off to his waiting car without looking back at him.

Pero watches you walk away, admiring your ass and hissing between his teeth. You’ve made it very clear that you cannot stand him, yet out of all the women at the club, you are the one he craves. To tame you, temper you. Or maybe he just likes the spit and vinegar you give him, instead of just falling to his feet. Now he has you in name, but he cannot touch you.

You slide into the car and Pero follows, immediately lighting up a smoke when the car pulls away from the curb. “Can you open the window?” You ask and he rolls his eyes, rolling down the window but he exhales away from you. When you arrive at his apartment building, you’re impressed. It’s in a nice part of town. Certainly nicer than your place in Brooklyn, and you sigh when the driver opens your door after he pulls up to the curb. You walk in and the doorman greets you. “Harold, this is my new wife.” Pero introduces you, the cigarette long snubbed out but the smoke clings to his jacket. “Wife?” Harold is shocked and you lean into Pero to sell it, “we wanted to keep it private, you know, because of the baby.” You say, sliding your hand down to your belly and Pero hisses through his smile. “Come on, esposa, let’s get you settled.” He says and his grip on your waist tightens as you head into the elevator. “What the fuck did you say that for?” He growls and you giggle, leaning against the wall. “Wanted to have some fun.” You smirk and Pero shakes his head, “he’s going to know when you don’t get bigger.” He points out and you shrug, “shit happens. He doesn’t need to know.”

Pero lets go of you and stares at the numbers on the elevator as it goes up. Annoyed that you caused more drama than you needed to. Starting to regret this, but then he remembers that he has to have you as his wife, for his future here in America. “Mierda.” He hisses to himself and sighs when the door opens on the top floor, the penthouse suite of the building. “Home sweet home, esposa.”

Your eyes widen as you step out of the elevator, a view of Central Park ahead of the floor to ceiling windows and you are in awe of the luxury he lives in. "No wonder you don't want to leave." You murmur, taking note of the expensive furniture. You walk into the living room and find the door to the kitchen, gasping at the beautiful appliances and space that is almost the same size as your apartment. "Oh, I want to cook in here." You squeal, excited by the fridge and the top of the range stove.

Pero smirks, shucking his jacket as he listens to you go through the kitchen, exclaiming over the latest modern appliances. Even the microwave with the turntable and an electric can opener. He chuckles at your change of attitude but he doesn’t point out that it’s a wife’s job to make meals for her husband, knowing you wouldn’t appreciate that.

You turn to look at Pero as he walks over to the bar cart, "you want a drink?" He asks and you nod, "gonna need one after this morning." You take the glass of whiskey after Pero pours it into a crystal glass. You take a sip, "so where is my room?" You ask and he doesn't say a word as he escorts you down the hall to your bedroom, your things already there. "How did you- never mind." You scoff, knowing he's powerful enough to move mountains...just not regarding his immigration status.

He had anticipated you asking how the hell your things are all here, but you apparently figured it out. He smirks slightly and pulls out a key from his pocket to set it down on the table near the door. “This gives you access to the penthouse.” He tells you. “Don’t lose it.”

You turn to look at Pero after he sets the key down, “I won’t lose it.” You promise and he stares at you. Those dark brown eyes. If he wasn’t such a demanding asshole who chased women, you’d want him, but he’s too wild to tame. “I’m going to settle in.” You declare, hoping he gets the hint, and he does. You shut the door behind him and sit down on the bed. Your ring catches the light and you wonder what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.

It’s strange to have a woman in his apartment. He never has before. Not to sleep. His liaisons normally happened at the club or a lesser apartment he kept for activities, preferring to keep his actual home for himself. He pours himself another drink and listens to you start to move things around in your room and he huffs to himself. Deciding that he should just go back to the club and work so he won’t dwell on the fact that he has a wife and a sham marriage.

****

When you arrive at the club, Tovar is already there. He left hours ago and you thought you had to figure out how to get to the club on your own but you’re soon told by the doorman that there’s a car waiting for you. You arrive at the club and walk in, his ring on your hand, and your head high when you see Pero talking to the bartender, a glass of whiskey in his hand. You walk over to him, “hello, husband.” You greet him, wondering if he’s told the rest of the staff about his new status.

Pero lifts a brow, unsure if you were wishing for the staff to know and glances back at the bartender to see his reaction. “Vodka soda for my wife.” He grunts at the man. “Twist of lime.” He knows your drink, watching you more often than you realize and turn back towards you. “I’ve moved your set up.” He tells you. “You’re performing first tonight.”

“Why?” You huff, knowing that the crowd is always difficult for the first person on stage. He has the jazz trio who usually go first and they warm up the crowd for you. You hate being first. Frank hands you your drink, his eyes flicking down to the ring on your hand and he raises his eyebrows. You shake your head and sip the drink, turning back towards your husband for his answer.

Of course you would be annoyed. “So you can leave early.” He had thought he was doing you a favor, letting you leave the smoky club before the wee hours of the morning when you normally finish, but you aren’t appreciative.

You huff, knowing he only wants you to leave early so he can chase Rita or one of the cocktail waitresses around. “Fine. I’ll go on first.” You down the rest of your drink and make your way to the stage, speaking with the band who are confused that you’re up first. “Boss’s orders.” You tell them and a few minutes later, you’re singing. You can feel his eyes on you, watching you from the front row. It’s not Pero watching you. It’s another man. His eyes burning into you, licking his lips as you croon to the song. You try to ignore him, finishing up the first set and you make your way over to the bar for another drink. 

“You sing beautifully.” A voice coos in your ear and you turn your head to see the man from the front row of tables. “Thank you.” You offer him a polite smile and he leans closer. “Can I get you a drink?” He asks and you hold up your still full glass. “Already got one.” He nods, “maybe when you’re done with that.” He gestures to Frank to get him another round. “So…what’s a beautiful woman like you, doing singing in a club? You should be in an expensive home, my home, having my babies.” He smirks, thinking you should be fawning over him but you wrinkle your nose. 

“I have a rich husband.” You flash your ring at him and he grabs your hand, “that’s a piece of tin. I could get you a bigger rock. And a bigger cock.” He chuckles, his other hand finding your back and his palm slowly slides down until it’s on your ass.

Pero had watched from his booth until the stranger had ordered you a drink. Growling under his breath when the bastard sends you a cocky smirk that makes him get up and start striding over to you. Feeling jealous and territorial over you, even if you are only his wife on paper. You flash him the ring but the bastard just scoffs. His mistake is when he touches you, making Pero see red as the hand reaches your ass and he decides he will break every one of the bastard’s fingers. Not bothering with niceties, he grabs his hand off your ass, not saying a word until the man turns in surprise and then cries out in pain when Pero snaps his wrist before letting go and slamming his fist into his smug face. “Didn’t your mamá teach you not to touch another man’s wife?” He growls, grabbing his neck and slamming his face into the bar before he can react, spewing blood everywhere. “My wife.”

You stumble back in shock, eyes wide at the blood splattering on the counter and Pero doesn’t stop. He gestures to Frank, “get it for me.” He demands and Frank nods, not hesitating to grab the hammer from under the counter. Tovar grabs the hand that touched you, keeping it pinned to the counter and the man cries out in pain from his broken wrist. “You need to learn you should not touch what doesn’t belong to you, cabrón.” Pero growls and grabs the hammer, bringing it down on the fingers of the man who dared to touch you. You can’t breathe, can’t do anything but watch as the violence continues, your husband smashing the man’s digits with the hammer while he screams in agony. 

“Pero.” You choke out, knowing you shouldn’t say anything for fear of your own safety but you need to stop this before he kills him. “Enough. That’s enough.”

Pero doesn’t stop until he has smashed all five fingers with the hammer, aware that the music has stopped and everyone is gapping in horror at the scene. The man’s hand is mangled, bloodied - ruined. His dark eyes slide over to your terrified face but he looks back at the bastard who has pissed his pants as he sags against the bar. Pero drops the hammer and grabs his jacket lapels to yank him closer, ignoring the man’s whimpers of terror and begging for his life. He’s pathetic and no longer the cocky braggart of a few minutes earlier. “Touch her again and I will kill you.” Pero hisses. “Look at her and I will carve your eyes out of your skull.” Sobbing, the man shakes his head. “I won’t, I won’t, please- just- just let me go.” Pero grunts in disgust and pushes him away, letting him fall to the floor as his men surround him. “Get him out of here.” He growls and grabs your hand to drag you towards his office.

You let him drag you to his office, still in shock from the display of violence. You’ve seen hints of it. A punch here, a shove there, but you’ve never seen anything like that. Pero shuts the door behind you, his chest heaving and you stare at him. “Why did you do that? I had it under control.”

“His hand was on your ass and you had it under control?” Pero roars, grabbing you by the arms and pushing you against his desk. Crowding you with his body and trying to get himself under control but he’s failing. Losing his mind at the idea of that bastard touching you when not even he has touched your ass. “No one touches my wife.” He growls, crashing his lips to yours violently.

You should push him away, you should scream at him, but the possessive way he kisses you, the way he owns you. It has you pushing yourself against him, gripping the labels of his jacket as you kiss him back.

He would stop if you pushed him away. That’s what he tells himself as he grabs your hips and throws you up onto the surface of his desk. Hungry for you, his veins still swimming with violence and passion, fusing together and coming out as lust. His cock is already hard and he drags your panties down after pushing your slinky dress up to your waist. Pero’s tongue maps your mouth brutally and he swallows your moans and grunts as he unbuckles his belt with one hand, the other between your thighs and pushing two fingers inside your cunt.

Your cry echoes off the walls of his office as he pushes two thick digits into your shamefully wet pussy. You should push him away, tell him no, but you can’t. His display, his animalistic claim over you has you needing more and when his fingers curl in your pussy, you gush with need and desire for your newly minted husband. “Fuck me.” You beg, not knowing what you’re asking for other than to feel more of him.

Your words snap what little self control he has. Growling as he tears his lips away from yours, he bites along your jaw and down your throat as he pulls his cock out of his trousers, the same ones he had worn when he married you and slots himself between your thighs. He doesn’t ease into you, he can’t. He drives into you with one harsh, demanding thrust and groans your name as he claims you.

Your scream is smothered as you bury your face in his neck, the pain of his intrusion fading after a few moments but he doesn’t stop, pulling out to thrust into you without giving you a second but you cling to him. The pain fading and you moan when he starts to feel good as he moves inside of you.

“You’re mine.” He hisses in your ear. “My woman, my wife.” He knows that after this moment of insanity, you will be spitting and striking at him again, pushing him away. For now, right now, you are his to take. To protect. His lips continue to kiss and his teeth continue to nip your skin. Gorging himself on you while he fucks the tightest little cunt he’s ever had. Groaning your name when you flutter around him, it just makes him fuck you harder, the desk shaking under you from the intensity of his thrusts.

Your nails dig into his back as you slide your hands behind his back under his jacket. His cock pistons in and out of you, his eyes black as he stares at you, words of possession falling from his lips and you shouldn’t find this as hot as you do. He’s an animal but your walls are taking him eagerly, gushing around him with each moan of your name. Your hands let go of him and you lay back on his desk, arching your back as you knock the pen holder and papers from the surface, your eyes closing as the pleasure builds in your belly, his pelvis rubbing just right against your clit in this new angle.

You are gorgeous and pliant under him. Yielding to him in a way he never suspected and he can’t even stop to tell you how sexy you are. Grunting as he holds tight to your hips and uses you as an anchor. He watches you, wanting to push more of those moans out of your pretty mouth as he rocks into you. Looking down to watch his cock push in and out of your cunt, he twitches and ramps up the pace, knowing he will cum soon. 

Your hands find purchase of the edge of his expensive oak desk, your chest pushed up and heaving as he fucks you hard. Any venom you had for him seemed to leave your body as soon as he starts fucking you. Your thighs start to shake and he grabs them, pushing them back towards your stomach, sinking even deeper inside of you. “Oh shit!” You cry when he hits something indescribable inside of you. “To-Tovar. I’m going to - I think it’s-” You can barely speak as his hips hit the back of your thighs and seconds later, you’re clamping down on his cock.

He hisses, eyes rolling back as your walls grip his cock like a vice, feeling the tingle at the base of his spine. Happy that he had made you cum and soak his cock before his own orgasm. You are so tight around him that he can only give another three thrusts before he is pushing deep, kissing your womb with his cock as he starts to paint your walls with his seed. Grunting and groaning as he fills you. 

You open your eyes to watch him as he cums, jaw clenched and eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks as his cum fills you up. You relax, slumping on his desk as he rocks through it until he stops, his hands caressing up your thighs and you shift to sit up as soon as he pulls out. You stand on wobbly legs, his hands gripping your waist to steady you and you manage to pull together enough balance to bend down and grab your panties, pulling them up your legs to keep his cum from dripping down your thighs. “I should - I need to get back to my set.” You choke out. His hand comes to grab yours but you manage to evade his grip, “wait-” He says your name but you’re already slipping out of his office, heading to the bathroom to process the fact that you just had sex with your maniac boss who is now your husband.

Pero frowns as he stares at the door you had left opened, confused by the way you had just run away like he was the devil. You had told him to fuck you, begged him, and now you couldn’t get away from him fast enough. Clenching his jaw, he tucks his cock away and looks down at his hand, the skin bruised on his knuckles from where he punched that asshole. “Hijo de puta.” He hisses, storming out of the office in need of a drink.

You step back on stage after you clean yourself up, another drink in hand, and you are starting your song as Pero stalks through the club to sit in the booth where William is. Your voice seems boxy in your ears as you try to focus on your performance but you’re constantly watching Pero. You shouldn’t have given in to him. Nothing good can come of it. He will be on to the next shiny thing when he’s done with you. When he got what he wanted: his citizenship.

“You made a scene.” Willam comments as Pero downs his first drink and then motions to Rita to quickly bring him another. He cuts his eyes back over at his friend and reaches out to take the Irishman’s drink. “So?” He grunts and William smirks. “Because he touched her?” He asks, making Pero growl, “she’s my wife. You would have killed him if she was Lin Mae.” That comment just makes the other man laugh even more. 

“So why is she watching you now and you are drinking like you are trying to forget?” He asks as the waitress brings another drink over with a sultry smile for the Spaniard that he completely ignores. She pouts as she saunters off and Pero stares down at his drink for a moment before he answers. “Fucked her.” he admits, tossing back the drink in one gulp.

William keeps his expression neutral to not tip you off since you’re watching but his eyes widen slightly, “you fucked her? You know…shit, brother. She’s not the type you fuck and walk away from.” William shakes his head and Pero snorts, slamming the glass on the table. “She walked away from me. Left before I could even tuck my cock away.” 

William sighs, “you better know what you’re doing. She’s not the kind of woman you fuck around. Not like Rita. She’s too good for you.”

His eyes find you up on the stage again, crooning into the microphone and he sighs. “I know it, cabrón.” He admits quietly. “I’ve always known it, that’s why I wanted her.” He pushes his drink away and leans back in his booth, watching you from the shadows as he was meant to do. You had the spotlight on you, he lived in darkness. He had let the darkness touch you because of his own greed and he couldn’t do that again. Not when you wanted to leave just as soon as he got his green card.  

You finish your set and take your place at the bar again, ordering a club soda, no vodka. You need a clear head. Pero doesn’t come over to the bar, and thankfully no one else does. You see Rita rush down the hall to Pero’s office and sigh, knowing that she will always be in his head. She’s a good time and you’re…complicated. When you don’t see Pero, you decide to head home. Grabbing your purse, you figure you’ll use the subway, leave the car for Tovar since he will probably be home late. You have a bath after you arrive back at his penthouse, soaking in the tub with a cigarette to relax and clean yourself after he fucked you. You’re sore, aching, and the hot water does wonders.

“Come on baby- I can suck your cock.” Rita pouts and licks her lips as Pero pushes her away. He had gone to his office after your performance, not interested in watching the band and the clingy bitch had followed him inside. Obviously not getting the hint when he told her to bring him a drink from the bar, she continues to annoy him. Wanting more than he is willing to give. 

“I’m married.” Pero shakes his head, waving her towards the door. “I’m not fucking you again, or letting you suck my cock.” 

“Come on baby. Don’t be like that. She doesn’t have to know. Why the hell did you marry that cold bitch? You could’ve had me. Whenever you wanted. I would’ve given you the world. Kids. Blowjobs.” She smirks, shifting to sit on his desk. “All you have to do is ask and I’ll be yours. You can keep your little wife but I want to be your whore.”

Pero narrows his eyes dangerously, pissed off that she would insult you. “Get the fuck out of my office.” He hisses. “You’re fired.” Her mouth drops open in shock and she gasps. “What? Pero- baby-” Slamming his fist on the desk, he shoots out of his chair. “Get out!” He shouts, making her flinch in fear. “Don’t ever fucking come back!”

She scrambles off of his desk, knowing the look in his eyes is one to not be fucked with. He’d never hurt a woman, his mamá would smack him from her grave, but Rita doesn’t know that as she rushes out of the office, getting her purse and practically sprinting out of the club in tears.

William walks into his office right after Rita runs out, staring at Pero like he’s lost his mind. “Tell me you didn’t-” He starts but the Spaniard cuts him off. “Fire her? Yes, I did.” He grunts, gathering his papers and stuffing them into a rarely used briefcase. “Cut her last check, pay her cash, I don’t fucking care, but she doesn’t set foot back in his club again.” 

William nods, “I’ll get the guys to give her cash. Jesus Christ, my friend. You have got it bad. You need to get this under control before you lose it all. Go talk to her. I’ll make sure everything is closed up here.”

He grunts, sure that his friend is being over dramatic. He’s not going to lose anything. Because of his marriage to you, he will be able to keep what he’s worked hard to build. Still, he nods and strides out of his office, needing to get home and find out why the fuck you ran away from him.

You are in a robe, preparing a cup of tea when Pero arrives home. Much earlier than you thought he would, and he sets his briefcase down on the kitchen counter. “Rita didn’t take long then.” You snort, pouring out the hot water from the kettle as Pero stands there.

He ignores the barb that you throw at him, watching as you make yourself a cup of tea. “You left without letting me know.” He grunts, wondering why you get under his skin as much as you do. Looking softer than you had before, he likes this look on you.

You turn to look at him, “I figured you were busy and I didn’t want to disturb you. I saw Rita heading into your office so I didn’t want to walk in on something I don’t want to see.” You shake your head, turning back to your tea, putting the tea bag in. “Do you need something?” You ask, not looking back over at your new husband.

He frowns at your back, unsure why you keep bringing up Rita like he was still fucking the girl. It was one time. “She’s gone.” He announces, “fired.” Moving over to the cabinet, he gets out another tea cup for himself since you didn’t offer him a cup.

You feel guilty that she’s fired but then you remember how she would brag about sleeping with the boss. “You fired her? She - she used to say that she was sucking your cock every day.” You hand him a tea bag, unable to be too cold to not help him with a cup of tea.

Pero snorts and pours the still hot water from the kettle into his cup and adds the tea bag with two cubes of sugar. “I fucked her one time. In the coat room.” He admits. “She didn’t suck my cock everyday and when she pushed me to fuck her tonight, I fired her.”

You shake your head, knowing you shouldn’t care. Not this much. “Why? She was offering herself to you on a platter. Most men would have taken it.” You stir your tea, looking down at the cup. 

“I’m not most men. I’m married.” 

You frown and look at him, “I never expected you to be faithful.” 

He scoffs, “my mamá would kill me. She taught me that you don’t hit women, you don’t cheat on your wife, and you protect what’s yours.” Your eyebrows raised, shocked at the way he has more morality than most men around. “I- I never would’ve - you seem like the type to love ‘em and leave ‘em.”

“When I was single, I fucked who I wanted.” He shrugged slightly and doesn’t mentioned that he wanted to fuck you and he had to marry you in order to do that. “While you had to marry me and despise me, I will not shame you with affairs.” He promises. “But I expect the same.” That is a warning for you and just a statement of fact. Anyone you slept with, he would kill.

You scoff, “you don’t need to worry about that. I’m not - that isn’t something I do. I was a virgin.” You confess and he frowns, “who did you lose your innocence to?” He asks, wondering why you’re telling him this. “You.” You whisper, staring at your cup of tea.

Pero freezes, dropping his spoon into his cup with a clatter and stares at you in horror. “I- you gave me your innocence on my fucking desk?” He rasps out, feeling horrible that he had not known nor shown you any kind of tenderness when he had touched you. “I- Mierda. I should have treated you better.”

You shake your head, “I didn’t protest and - and I wanted to see what all the fuss is about. I was saving myself for the man I love but with marrying you, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen anytime soon so I figured I’d get it over with.” You shrug like it doesn’t mean anything.

Your words hit him like a bucket of water being dropped over his head. A stark reminder that you hate him. “Right.” He grunts, picking up his cup. “Now you know what it’s all about.” He spits before he turns and walks out of the kitchen stiffly.

You watch him leave and lean against the counter. You don’t know how you’re going to survive being married to Pero. He’s complicated and you regret your words. You sip your cup of tea and decide to take it back to your room. You’re Mrs. Tovar now and you will need to navigate your complicated faux marriage.

****

“I have to say that I’m surprised to see this.” Mr. Taylor’s lips are pressed thin in displeasure as he inspects the marriage certificate thoroughly, as if expecting to find it to be a forgery. “I was unaware you were engaged.” Pero arches a brow and leans back in his chair, taking this meeting in his office and blows a puff of smoke up into the air. “You did not ask.” He points out, his other arm wrapping around your waist and tugging you closer on the arm of his chair. “But you cannot deny I have taste.”

“You certainly do, Mr. Tovar.” Mr. Taylor says, his eyes trailing along your form and Pero pulls you closer, his possessive nature on display. “He’s too sweet.” You murmur, leaning in to press your lips to Pero’s turning his cheek to ensure you can kiss him properly. His tongue pushes into your mouth and you pull back a second later, pecking his lips. “So…this has become a green card situation. One that I find to be very convenient since this is dated after our meeting.” 

Mr. Taylor tilts his head as he looks at you, “would you say your husband is a communist?” He asks and you scoff, “a communist? Mr. Taylor, my husband escaped Spain to avoid being in Franco’s army. He is a pure patriot to our country. He loves America. He loves freedom. He would never be a commie. He abhors the very ideology.” You explain, shaking your head and Mr. Taylor hums, his eyes darting back to Pero. “Very well. It seems that things are in order but any word of you joining a local sector of the communist party or if I get a whiff of anything amiss, I’ll be back.” He promises, signing a piece of paper and handing it to Pero.

Pero snorts and snatches the paper away from the little prick. “Then it will be a pleasure to never see your face again.” He grunts. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Mr. Taylor stands, packing up his briefcase and you offer him a hand, helping him pack up. “Thank you. My husband is very happy to stay here and I’m happy he is. Especially for our family.” You say, sliding your hand down to your stomach. “Congratulations.” The immigration officer says and makes a quick exit from Pero’s office. 

When he’s certain the man is gone, Pero tuts, “can you stop telling people you’re pregnant?” He huffs, taking another puff of his cigarette. “Why? It sealed the deal. He won’t deport the father of an American born baby.” You raise your eyebrows, “just selling our happy union, baby.” You coo sarcastically. Ever since that night that Pero took your virginity, you’ve barely talked. Just a few words here and there between meals and going to the club.

He snorts and shakes his head. He knows you aren’t pregnant, the box of feminine napkins in your bathroom making it clear you had bled since he had taken your innocence. He had been surprised to be disappointed by that knowledge but he hadn’t said a word. “I should get back to work.” He stubs out the cigarette and looks back down at the paper Mr. Taylor had left. “Are you singing the last set tonight?” He hadn’t taken charge of your times since that first night, giving you control over when you perform.

You nod, “yes. Me and the guys have been working on some new songs. I think the crowd will love them.” You say, grabbing your purse, “so I guess we will be divorced as soon as your green card comes in.” You walk out of his office before he responds, not wanting to hear the answer.

Slumping down into the chair, Pero hisses a curse and reaches for his cigarettes again. The silent stalemate between you two is apparently still ongoing and he doesn’t know what to do. He hates that you can’t wait to be away from him. Hates that you are counting down the days until you are no longer his wife.

You are nearly done with your set when your husband comes out of his office to sit down with William in their normal booth. He gestures for a drink to be brought over and you start the song you’ve been practicing with the guys. “Looking out to the morning rain.” You sing, your eyes sweeping across the crowd as you croon the song, “‘cause you make me feel like a natural woman.” You sing the line and look over at Pero.

His grip of his glass tightens as you seem to sing to him. Leaning forward and watching you with the intensity of a starving man hunting his dinner.  The low whistle beside him turns into an amused chuckle but he doesn’t take his eyes off of you. “Still obsessed with your wife, I see.” William teases Pero. “Have you told her you love her?” He asks, making the Spaniard snort. “She wouldn’t believe me.” He murmurs, still watching you as you continue to sing the ballad. “Waiting to divorce me.”

You finish the song to a roar of applause, your eyes still on Pero as he stares at you and your set is over. You take a bow and thank the band before you walk off the stage, making your way over to Frank to get another drink. You feel him before you see him, his body warm behind you as he leans over to snub his cigarette out in the ashtray on the counter. “Are you ready to go home?” You ask him, turning your head to look at your husband. You’ve been traveling back and forth together since that night you took the subway.

“Yes.” Pero nods and glances at the bartender to make sure he doesn’t need anything. “Are you changing, or wearing your dress home?” Some nights you want to change, some nights you want to get home as quickly as possible.

“I’ll wear it home. I’m ready to get out of here. It’s been a long day.” You tell him and he nods, getting one of the girls to grab your coat and purse while you finish your water. William comes over to bid you goodnight, “have fun, kids.” He winks and heads over to see his beautiful wife who is running security. You snort at the Irishman and Pero holds your coat up for you to slide your arms into it. "Thank you." You murmur and he nods, escorting you outside to his awaiting car. "Did you like the new set?" You ask when he is beside you, the streets passing by.

“It was moving.” He loved it, but he also hated it, knowing it wasn’t for him. You hate him and he’s honestly expecting you to quit the club after you divorce him. “The crowd loved it. You did a great job.”

“Thank you.” You murmur, looking out of the window. You wanted him to say he loved it. It was for him. During your time living with Pero, you’ve come to discover the smallest details about him. He donates money to the families of the neighborhood he lived in when he first came to the States. They are struggling so he helps them out. He has noticed what food and drinks you like, ensuring that the housekeeper has them stocked for you at all times, even your toiletries. He listens to the radio intensely, especially love ballads. Something you never expected. Each day, he chips away at the hatred you had for him and shows you the man he is beneath the harsh exterior, the shell he’s had to build to survive in this city. You could even dare say you’re falling for him. That’s what makes this so sad. He will ask you for a divorce as soon as he’s able and you’ll be back in your tiny apartment in Brooklyn wondering what could’ve been if this was real.

The drive is silent and Pero wishes you would say something. Even if it’s to rage at him. The politely stiff, cold semblance of manners between the two of you irritates him. Making him long for the days that you would rage and spit at him. He drums his fingers on the car door and sighs when it pulls up in front of the apartment building. Neither one of you speaks on the elevator, and when the doors open to the penthouse, you move to step out. “Are you hungry?” Pero asks, breaking the silence and making you turn towards him. “I’m hungry. Thinking about making something to eat.”

You nod, “yes. Starving. I didn’t eat lunch because I was rushing to get my hair done for when Mr. Taylor arrived. I wanted to look my best for him.” You confess, “and for you. As your wife…pretend wife.” You add, making your way through the penthouse to the kitchen after kicking off your heels in the hall.

He hates when you make little comments about being his pretend wife. Rubbing it in his face that you don’t want to be around him but he forced you to. Feeling guilty because you are so obviously unhappy even living in the most luxurious apartment he could give you. He follows you and shakes his head. “You go change.” He shrugs out of his suit jacket and starts to unbutton his sleeves. “I will make us dinner. I know you want to get out of your dress.” You told him once that you enjoy dressing up but you preferred being comfortable and he agrees with you. You look gorgeous in the shorts and little shirts you wear around the apartment. Liking it better when you wear no makeup.

“Thanks.” You make your way to your bedroom, taking off your jewelry and you reach behind you to try and pull down the zipper of your dress. You’d barely managed to get it on earlier in the day. “Pero, can you help me?” You call out, grunting as you try again to pull the zipper down but failing.

Pero had been heating up the pan, the chopped vegetables and chicken the housekeeper had prepared labeled in the Tupperware. He sets everything down and walks towards your bedroom. He has stayed away from your bedroom and it’s the first time he’s been inside since you’ve moved in. Your back is to him and you look over your shoulder, almost giving him a come hither look that makes his cock twitch. “Your dress, hermosa?”

“Yeah. I zipped myself into it. Can’t get myself out of it.” You chuckle softly and turn your head so he can see the zip at the nape of your neck. His fingers grip the zipper and slowly he pulls it down. You can feel his warm breath on your back as your skin is exposed, his knuckles dragging along your spine as he pulls the zip down. “Thank you.” You whisper, closing your eyes at how close he is to you, you can feel the warmth from his body.

“You’re welcome.” He murmurs softly, resisting the urge to caress your waist. He is already half hard and steps back. “Chicken and vegetables good?” He asks, wanting to make sure you just don’t want some eggs or something.

You nod, "that's good. I'm starving." You say and let the dress drop. He is your husband so you don't care if he sees your bare back and underwear. You walk over to the dresser to grab some shorts and a t-shirt, feeling his eyes on you. "Are you going to make dinner?" You ask, turning to look at him after you pull the t-shirt over your head.

“Yes.” Pero spins on his heel and rushes out of your bedroom, cock pressing against the zipper of his trousers and he reminds himself that you haven’t wanted him to touch you since that one night he took your virginity. He goes back to the kitchen and moves the pan back to the flame.

You sigh when he leaves your bedroom and you head into the ensuite to wash off your makeup. By the time you arrive back in the kitchen, dinner is cooked and waiting on a plate for you. "Thank you." You smile at Pero, "this looks great." You take a bite and groan, starving after a long day at work and you practically devour the meal. Pero remains silent, watching you while he eats his food. "That was great. Thanks baby." You say without even thinking about it.

Pero nearly chokes on the bite of chicken, coughing slightly and he wonders if you are trying to torment him tonight. “You are welcomed.” He grunts and tries to not look at you, knowing he will stare at your pretty, bare face and want to touch you. He's thought about nothing else but showing you how he should have made your first time, but you’ve not wanted anything to do with him. Not that he blames you.

You stare at him, watching him eat, and it hits you. You love him. You don't know when that happened when you used to think the man was a monster, beating men up without a thought, and the womanizing. He hasn't been with another woman since you've been married, as per his word, and you believe him. Your eyes widen at the revelation and Pero is none the wiser. "When do you think your paperwork will come through for the green card?" You ask, leaning back against your chair.

Pero has a secret and it’s one that will piss you off. He’s had the paperwork for a week. He’s sat on it because he doesn’t want to divorce you yet. Hoping that some kind of miracle will happen to make you realize he would be a good man to you, you will never believe that. He huffs slightly and shrugs. “Hopefully this week. You will be happy, eh?” He smirks slightly, hiding the way it makes his heart hurt. “Have your freedom back and now that you are no longer pure, you can fuck who you want.”

Your heart shatters at his words, knowing he has used you completely. Your body, your heart, your nationality. “Yeah. I can fuck Johnny the new bassist. He keeps asking me to come over to his place.” You say, venom in your voice as you jab back at your husband.

Pero’s fork clatters to the plate and he pushes back from the counter so hard the barstool scrapes on the floor. Not caring, he dumps the dish into the sink, ignoring the way the plate breaks and he whirls around. “I’m going back to the club.” He growls.

“Why? So you can find someone to fuck? The virgin wasn’t enough for you? I gave you my virginity because I - because I wanted you and you’ve never looked at me since. Haven’t touched me even though I just practically stripped off in front of you. I know English isn’t your first language but fuck, do I need to spell it out for you? I wanted you to touch me. I have - I have been hot and cold but that’s only because I didn’t think you wanted me again and now you have the audacity to be mad because I want someone to want me.” You finish your rant, chest heaving as you stare at him.

Pero clenches his jaw, breathing heavily and he growls when he rushes forward and grabs you. “You think I don’t want you?” He hisses, shaking you slightly. “You hate me. You tell me every chance you get that you cannot wait to be rid of me and I hate that I was not gentle with you.” He confesses. “That I didn’t treat you like the fucking exquisite creature you are.”

Your eyes widen at his confession and you shake your head, “I don’t hate you. I never hated you. I hated how you behaved. The skirt chasing, the way you would speak to me. I never hated you. I - shit - you know what I hate now? The fact that I love you.” You choke, “and I thought you were the one who wanted the divorce. That you wanted to be rid of me so you could go back to your ways.”

“I chased skirts because I couldn’t have you.” He tells you. “I’m not a good man. I’m a killer, a thief, a liar, but you are the only woman I wanted so badly I would lie to her to have.” Your brow furrows in confusion and Pero shrugs. “Would have never laid a hand on you if you had refused to marry me.” He confesses.

You stare at him, absorbing his words, and you can’t help it. “You are an idiot.” You surge forward to press your lips to his, your hands cupping his cheeks and you press your body against his, wanting him to know how you feel.

Pero grunts in surprise, expecting you to hit him, not kiss him. Wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly tight against his body and kissing you back with a hunger that shows you every time he’s ever thought about you.

You moan into his mouth, your hands sliding up to mess up his slicked back hair, your tongue sliding against his. You’ve thought of him every night since the night he took you on his desk. “Pero.” You whimper when his lips slide along your jaw, “I don’t care about - about - you being a good man. I just want you. The good and the bad. You’re a good man. You don’t let people see it but I do. I want you.”

Pero pulls back and he stares into your eyes. “Let me take you to bed, hermosa.” He begs softly. “Show you how I can touch you. How you deserve to be loved.”

​​You nod, “take me to bed, esposo.” You order, sliding your hands down to start unbuttoning his shirt, you want to see all of him. You want to strip him down and have him on a bed instead of his desk.

He bites his lips and watches you so he doesn’t grab you up and carry you into the bedroom to immediately undress you. “I love you.” He murmurs quietly, his eyes dark.

Your breath catches at his confession. Something you never thought you’d hear him say. “I love you.” You murmur back, caressing his chest once his shirt is unbuttoned. “I want you to make love to me, like a husband does.”

Nodding, he reaches for your hand and leads you towards the master bedroom. His bedroom. He wants you there. “I have never had sex in this apartment.” He tells you softly, hoping you understand the meaning behind it. “You are the only woman to be in this bed.”

Your heart thumps at the news and you smile, leaning in to kiss his clavicle once you’re in his bedroom. “I love you, baby. I need you.” You whimper, sliding your hand lower from his chest so you can squeeze his cock through his pants.

Pero groans and grabs your hand. “No, hermosa.” He growls softly. “You are my precious little virgin.” He tells you with a smirk. “You are going to strip off your clothes and spread your thighs so I can eat your pretty cunt.”

His words make you shudder with lust and you nod, letting go of him and stepping back to reach for the hem of your shirt. You pull it over your head to expose your tits to his gaze for the first time.

“Fuck those are pretty tits.” Pero groans, reaching down and palming his cock. “My wife is gorgeous and I am a lucky bastard.” He will try to give you sweet words, knowing you need them.

You love his compliment so you push your shorts down your legs along with your panties, stepping out of them to stand naked in front of him for the first time. “You are.” You smirk, “and so am I.” You walk backwards to his bed, crooking your finger at him before you lay down on his sheets. “Come on, show me what you got.”

Shrugging off his shirt, Pero drops it onto the floor and unbuckles his belt. Sliding it out of the loops and smirking as he watches you as he bunches the belt in his hand. “I should beat you.” He growls playfully. “For teasing me. Taunting me everyday.”

You scoff, “teasing you? I haven’t done anything. I’ve been a good girl.” You shift to sit up on your elbows. “You wouldn’t dare beat me. I’d get William to kick your ass.” You tease, spreading your legs to show him your pussy.

“Your perfume.” Pero groans, flicking open his pants to relieve the pressure. “It fills my apartment, driving me crazy. Your face, clean and make-up free is beautiful.” He reaches out and grabs your ankle, kneeling on the bed.

“Pero.” You look up at him as he hovers over you, his dark eyes burning into yours as his hand trails along your calf. “I want you. I need you.” You murmur, wanting him to know exactly how you feel.

He smirks as he nods. “You have me, hermosa.” He coos, fingers sliding over your knees and up your thighs. Humming as he combs through the neat patch of hair covering your cunt. “Now let me show you what I’m going to do with you.”

You moan when his fingers slide through your folds and your head tilts back, your eyes closing at how he’s making you feel already. “Baby.” You whimper when his fingers rub your clit. You’re already wet for him, you need more from him.

“I’ll take care of you.” Pero promises, flattening himself onto the bed and pushing your thighs farther apart. “I promise.” Winking at you, he lowers his mouth to your cunt and slides his tongue through your folds.

“Oh my - shit.” You hiss when his hot tongue flicks over your clit. “That - that feels amazing.” You confess, sliding back on your elbows to lay flat and you look up at the ceiling as his tongue laps at your cunt. You’ve never experienced this before and it feels better than any book has described it to be.

He hums, curling his tongue around your clit and flicks it sharply. Watching your tits heave and your hips rock down. You are exquisite and he’s eager to taste more. Wrapping his arms around your thighs, he holds you open and licks deeper into your cunt.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, a moan escaping your lips as his tongue pushes into your cunt, curling while his nose presses against your clit. “Shit. You - it feels so good. Keep - keep going.” You order, feeling powerful that this powerful man is between your thighs, worshiping you.

He’s not stopping. Nothing in the world would have pulled him away from your cunt right now. He growls into your folds before he pushes his tongue deep into your cunt and presses his nose to your clit.

You cry out, thighs trying to press against his head but he keeps your legs open for him so he can tongue fuck you. His nose presses against your clit and he moves his head from side to side.

He wants to devour you, to completely overwhelm you and make you cry out. He groans and doubles down on how vigorously he licks into you.

“Shit. Pe-Pero. Oh God. I’m - it’s good. So good. Oh baby, I’m gonna - fuck!” You cry out, thighs shaking as you cum, soaking his chin as you fall apart under his tongue.

Pero groans, lapping up every drop of your orgasm with the slow flicks of his tongue. Working you through the release until your moans turn breathless and you are squirming under his tongue.

Your fingers pull on his hair, “come here.” You order and he reluctantly pulls back from your pussy and he shifts up your body. His lips pressing kisses along your stomach until he’s taking your nipple into his mouth. You reach down to squeeze his cock through his pants, wanting to see all of him. “I want to see all of you, baby.”

It makes his smirk turn even more wicked and he pulls up to his knees to open up his pants the rest of the way. Standing on the bed and pushing down his trousers and briefs together to kick off.

Your eyes widen at the sight of his impressive length, uncut, and throbbing. You shift onto your knees, your eyes on him as you grip his cock, pushing the foreskin down so you can flick your tongue over the leaking slit. His groan emboldens you and you wrap your lips around the head, taking him deeper into your mouth:

Pero groans your name, pulling his hips back and making you whine softly. "You should not." He pants quietly. "I won't last."

You pout after you let his cock drop from your mouth. He shifts to kneel, grabbing your waist to lift you up onto his pillows and your hands caress his back, feeling his muscles move as he kneels between your hips. “I love you.” You murmur, “my husband.”

He hums, caressing your waist and he gazes down at you softly. "I love you too, esposa." He leans down and presses his lips to yours. "Now, I will make love to you." He whispers against your lips as he rolls the foreskin back and lines up to slowly sink inside you. Taking his time and pushing in a fraction of an inch at a time.

You moan as he pushes into you. You’re wet enough to take him but there’s still a slight pinch from the girth of his cock. “Oh.” You exhale, eyes closing as he pushes deep, rocking into you inch by inch until his hips are pressing against your thighs, your legs wrapped around him.

"You are so tight." He groans, softly, pushing his arms around your body and pulling you close. "I should have known you were pure."

You caress his shoulders up to his hair, tangling your fingers in to drag his face to yours, pressing your lips to his. His cock twitches inside of you and you whimper into his mouth when he pushes your leg higher up his hip so he can sink deeper inside of you.

Pero groans and kisses along your jaw. Slowly rocking into you and setting a sedate pace. Making love to you rather than fucking you. Kissing every inch of your skin that he can reach while he fills you.

He's taking over your senses, consuming your body with his and you moan when he picks up the pace a little. "Yes. Oh shit. You feel so good, my love. Can't believe - can't believe we wasted so much time. Could've been fucking each other."

He chuckles quietly and nuzzles into your neck gently. “I love you, mi amor.” He murmurs, loving how soft you are for him right now, how you are moaning his name.

He's so different from the man who roughly took you on his desk after destroying another man's hand. This Pero is gentle and loving, a man you're proud to call yours, and you rock your hips up to meet his, finding the rhythm he has set.

The violence is still there, simmering under the surface but he would never hurt you. He would kill for you, hurt on your behalf, but he would never put you through any kind of pain.

His jaw clenches when you start to flutter around his cock. His pelvis drops so he is grinding against your clit, and you grab his hand bringing it to your neck. You want him to squeeze, to show you that he'd never hurt you but he's capable of killing others who would do you harm.

His eyes widen and he nearly drags his hand away but you make a sound of protest. Making him keep his hand there and he starts to squeeze ever so lightly.

You moan when he starts to squeeze, giving you what you want. To know that he'd never hurt you, never do anything to harm you, has you clenching around his cock. You're so close.

You are like a vice around his cock and Pero groans your name, enjoying how dirty you are. How filthy his innocent little wife is. “I could snap your neck right now.” He growls, squeezing a little harder.

His words send you over the edge. The knowledge that he could kill you but wouldn't, has you soaking his cock and you moan his name, shaking beneath him as you cum.

It’s the most beautiful thing that he’s ever seen. Watching you fall apart under him while he slowly rocks in and out of you. Sliding his hand from your neck to your cheek, cupping it gently. “That’s it, hermosa. Cum for me.”

You shudder under him, closing your eyes when the pleasure overtakes your body, and you whimper his name as he works you through it. He slows down, in no rush for this to be over, and you catch your breath. "I want to ride you." You murmur, pushing on his chest slightly.

“Really?” He groans at the idea and slowly pulls out of you. Turning onto his back and reaching for you again. Eager to touch you as much as he can now that things are different between you.

You shift, straddling his thighs and you reach between you, gripping his cock. You lift up to position him at your entrance and you slowly sink down onto him. He feels so much bigger in this position and you gasp, "goddamn." You murmur, "you gotta- show me what to do." You request, not wanting to disappoint him.

You could just sit on his cock and he would be happy, but he slowly starts to grind you down into him. Holding your hips and rocking you onto his cock and twitching inside you. “Fuck, amor.” He grits out. “So tight like this. My wife, riding my cock like a whore.”

You playfully slap his cheek, "only yours. Your whore." You smirk and lean down to kiss him, changing the angle inside of you, and you moan against his lips. You rock back onto him, picking up the movement from his guidance, and you gasp when he smacks your ass cheek.

He chuckles quietly and slaps your ass again. “Ride me then.” He grunts. “Make yourself cum on my cock.” He smirks. “Tomorrow you can ride me at the club. Sit on my cock while I do paperwork.”

"Yesss. Want everyone to know you're mine." You confess, shifting to sit up straight. Your hands on his chest as you rock your hips. "Fuck, Pero. This - it's so good." You confess, throwing your head back. Pero surges up, his hands on your back as his lips wrap around your nipple. He bites and soothes with his tongue, making you cry out. "Fuck baby. I - shit." You choke, your fingers tangling in his hair. His hand slides between you to rub your clit and you're gone. Shaking above him, you clamp down on his cock while he rubs your clit to work you through it.

Pero groans against your breast and takes over. The way you cum for him has him chasing his own end. Bracing his feet, he thrusts up into you harshly. “Te amo, esposa. I love you.” Pero starts to babble, losing control of his mouth. “You’re mine. Always mine. Never letting you go. Didn’t- didn’t want to tell you I have my paperwork. Didn’t want you to leave me.” He presses his face to your chest and moans your name, pushing deep and filling you with his seed in hot, pulsing waves of pleasure.

You collapse against him, panting to try and catch your breath as he fills you up and he kisses along your neck, relaxing beneath you. You take a few moments to recover until you are pulling back to look at him, “wait…you’ve had the paperwork?” You ask, a frown on your face.

Pero’s eyes slide away from you guiltily and he huffs slightly. “My paperwork came in last week.” He confesses, knowing you will be upset at him. “My green card is in the safe here in the apartment.”

You push back from him, sitting up, and you shake your head. "Why didn't you tell me?" You ask, pissed at him for lying to you. "I - I thought you'd leave me. I thought you'd want to divorce and I wanted to delay the inevitable." He confesses, "I didn't want to endure the heartbreak." You stare at his remorseful expression, those dark eyes soft with emotion and you forgive him. His actions were bad, but his intentions were good. "You stupid bastard." You murmur, cupping his cheeks as you lean down to kiss his lips. "No more lies. No more secrets. Otherwise, we are over. I can't handle your lies. I can handle everything else."

“Honesty.” Pero promises, holding the back of your neck to drag your lips back to his once more. He has lied to get you to marry him, hidden his true intentions from you, nearly killed a man for touching you - but the best thing of all is that he has managed to steal your heart. Pero Tovar is a dangerous man, but you are the songbird that has tamed him. He is yours.

[notmorbid]

still born.

dialogue prompts from still born by guadalupe nettel. this book deals directly with infant loss / illness.

nothing will happen to you while i'm here.

in friendships like ours, there's no room for hypocrisy.

they say that violence begets violence.

the more we love a person, the more fragile and insecure we feel because of them.

if you disappeared, a part of me would go with you.

i can't take any more of you.

can i bum one off you?

what was it like to live with ____?

i didn't come here to argue with you.

i've got you to love. i don't need anyone else.

can you talk? i need to tell you something.

it's a long story. you'll need to pay attention. do you have time now?

did you just get back from school?

i just went for a walk around the block.

why don't we go to the park this afternoon?

i talk to myself, too.

did anyone tell you what happened?

what did i do wrong?

there's nothing like looking at a lake to calm one's thoughts.

do you mind if i smoke?

i promise you i won't leave until it's better.

the city is full of dangerous people.

i can't imagine what it would feel like to be in your place.

there's no word for a parent who loses a child.

did you used to play in the street when you were little?

it's not healthy to wallow in pain.

what should i have done differently?

i can't keep explaining it over and over again.

talking about it made me feel better.

anger is nothing but a screen for avoiding pain.

you're totally unreadable.

you're smoking again?

being a mother means being worried about someone else all the time.

love and common sense are not always compatible.

some music fuses with our selves, we've listened to it so much.

cohabitation is one of the hardest experiences to survive.

i wouldn't mind a vodka tonic.

some people are more awake at night.

what did you used to like doing before you shut yourself in?

i don't want kids, even adopted ones.

you forgot how to be happy.

there's nothing for you here. go away.

it's easier to blame others for what we can't tolerate in ourselves.

you look like you've gone back in time.

you can spend the day with me.

it's not right, but sometimes it's worth doing.

what i want is for you to stop meddling in my life.

i need to know so i can help you.

it's as if ____ needs to suck my life force to grow.

all i feel is worn out.

normal mothers don't think those kinds of things, do they?

i'm not sure 'normal mothers' exist.

you'll judge me. you always do.

there are people who consider misfortune an infectious disease.

we tend to see our mother's mistakes as the source of all our problems.

you're always questioning the past.

if you don't leave home, you suffocate. if you go too far, you lose oxygen.

from hereon in, anything that happens is a bonus.

i'm here to help you, not to fight you.

i like to say things straight.

there's always a way to renegotiate debt.

i can't believe you hid this from me. it's like staying quiet when there's a fire in the house.

you're not on your own. we're a family now.

i ask myself why you stay sometimes, too.

are we going to stay like this for the rest of our lives?

blood ties don't guarantee anything.

the biological family is something that's been imposed on us. there's no reason we should settle for that if it doesn't work for us.

i can't stand being in my head.

is it your voice in your head, or someone else's?

what do you do when your thoughts bother you?

you've got space inside you where you can go and hide.

we have the children that we have, not the ones we imagined we'd have.

what could someone so young know about despair?

don't leave my side for a minute.

i feel like an absolute worm.

do you think you'll be able to fall in love again?

don't be nervous. whatever has to happen will happen. no one gets out of that.

[misscammiedawn]

The Strange Case of Murder Alters

CW: Discussions of real life murder, sexual violence and heavy stigmatization of the mentally ill

-

It's not easy writing essays about positive representation for complex dissociative disorders in fiction.

Even the most compassionate cases of intentional representation have flawed elements to them. There is no perfect depiction of plurality in popular culture as even those who specialize in the understanding and treatment of dissociative disorders do not have a full understanding of what it is like to live with conditions like this and those who do are often disregarded.

That all goes without noting that it is a highly subjective experience. There are as many presentations of plurality as there are plural people.

In writing this essay series I want to avoid murder alters because I hate how they are used to harm the most vulnerable people in our society.

But at the very least I can do my best to try and understand why people have this horrible view of others such as we...

Because behind the misunderstanding of our condition there is another issue at play.

The zeitgeist.

Today I want to talk about the social impact of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson.

-

Released in 1886, the story is a mystery about a lawyer named Gabriel John Utterson who is investigating the suspected extortion of a his friend and client, Dr. Henry Jekyll by a thug named Edward Hyde.

It is so popular a piece of fiction that it has been adapted over 100 times.

See, the book is a mystery in which a lawyer uncovers the truth about the miracle elixir that allows Henry Jekyll to alter his appearance so that he may drop his social obligations and act without fear of consequence, knowing he can live his respectable life as Jekyll and any depravity within his soul can be exorcised within the guide of Edward Hyde with the Jekyll name unsullied.

The reveal that Jekyll and Hyde are the same person does not happen until the final pages, after Utterson discovers Hyde's body in Jekyll's lab, dressed in Henry's clothes and with a confession letter explaining the whole affair. It concludes that he can no longer control the physical transformations and that he will either be executed or have the courage to commit suicide. Either way the consequences fall onto someone other than himself.

Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? or will he find courage to release himself at the last moment? God knows; I am careless; this is my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself. Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.

Henry had compartmentalized enough of his undesirable impulses and emotions that he stored them in an entirely other vessel, dissociating himself from the actions of Hyde enough that he ends his confession that they are the same with the notion that the consequences of their actions falls on someone other than himself.

Dissociative Identity Disorder has long been recognized as a condition though it was not fully understood, even by today's clouded understandings. The International Society for the Study of Trauma and Dissociation (ISSTD) has medical journals dating as far back as 1831 on the topic.

Though the concept of "dual personalities" was a curiosity to the medical community it was often discussed in the same breath as hypnotism, spirit mediums and possession. It was still understood and studied at the time.

Stevenson was clearly obsessed with the concept of duality of the soul as Jekyll and Hyde was his third attempt at writing a story which centered on the war of Good and Evil within a single soul.

His previous attempt at the concept, Markheim, is a short story about a man who commits a murder of passion while shopping for a gift to get his fiancee.

The story heavily features the concept of mirrors with the titular Markheim terrified of his own reflection, noting that there is nothing within a mirror that he wishes to see. After killing the store owner he searches the house for money and is approached by a stranger who debates with him on the concepts of good and evil, acting as a spiritual mirror that Markheim must see himself within until he stops trying to deny and obfuscate his responsibility in the evils he has committed.

The story ends with him woefully confessing that he has lost the love of good but still hates evil and confesses for the murder, allowing himself to be arrested.

The stories less focus on dissociated personalities and more upon the way a person can self justify unspeakable acts to themselves by avoiding their own reflection.

I'd mentioned that Jekyll and Hyde had been adapted over 100 times?

Perhaps I misspoke. You must forgive me...

You know, I'd imagined this essay as a video. I simply have never dabbled with the form and am concerned I would take to the form with the grace and skill of James Somerton. It's far easier to stick with the devil that I know, namely typing an irresponsible number of words at my Tumblr audience.

Indulging the mental image a moment, however, the prior segment having us (Camden potentially?) bathed in golden light wearing a suit and a top hat, speaking in a refined and elegant version of our English accent before switching to me (Dawn) in red light disheveled and looking oh so slutty and talking with a little bit of our old cockney twang.

You'll forgive my distraction for this little aside, I am simply too vain not to paint that mental picture as I type.

See, there are hundreds of Jekyll and Hyde adaptations. The issue is they are adaptations of Thomas Russell Sullivan's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is a stage play that ran for 20 years with its run starting with Madison Square Theatre and Lyceum Theatre in New York and London respectively.

The stage play tells a neat chronological story focused on Dr. Jekyll rather than an investigation which flits between events as in the book. Moreover the play goes to lengths to sharpen the contrast between Jekyll and Hyde, a trend which would continue down the decades, allowing for Jekyll to be more socially active and Hyde's evil to be more random in its cruelty. The play also introduced women to the narrative and allowed for Hyde's depravity to include sexual violence. The original novella lacked any sexual motivation for Hyde and Stevenson outright denied that Hyde's "unspecified crimes" included sexual violence.

The other major change between the play and the book is that the lead actor, Richard Mansfield, insisted on playing the dual role. In fact the play was commissioned specifically to allow him this opportunity.

To quote a review in The Times (August 6th, 1888)

There is but little scope for acting in what has been described as Mr. Stevenson's "psychological study." As applied to the dramatic version of Mr. Stevenson's book, the accuracy of the word "psychological" is open to question. There is no transfusion of thought or character between "Dr. Jekyll" and "Mr. Hyde." In look, dress, and action they are wholly distinct individuals; and Mr. Mansfield's appearances, now in the one part and now in the other, involve no more psychology than the "business" of a "quick-change artiste" in the music-halls. There is much more psychology, for example, in Mr. Irving's impersonation of Mathias in The Bells, where the conscience-stricken burgomaster leads a double life - one in the society of his family and friends, the other in the solitude of his chamber. But except in the hands of a master, psychology is of small account on the stage, which deals much more effectively with the cardinal passions. It is with no regret that we note the absence of the psychological element from the dramatic version of "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."

In the book the transformation was a physical change that allowed for Henry to act without repression allowing for an exploration into the psyche of an individual caught between actions which one can look at themselves in the mirror performing and those which they simply cannot accept as part of themselves.

In the play the transformation still plays out but it is one man acting both parts and using the weight of performance to mark them as separate characters. A transformation between good and evil spurred on by the elixir. As it was the first major adaption, however, the transformation was not displayed in light until the third act, allowing the twist and its shock to be preserved.

But still an act before the finale.

With every adaption, it seems, the contrast between Henry and Edward's good and evil sharpened and more and more of the audience entered the fiction armed with the knowledge of the transformation.

The gap grew wider.

As the elements changed the story became less about the war of desires versus reputation within a single man and more about a paragon divide between good and evil. A divide which allowed Henry to become more philanthropic and Edward to become more depraved. The further from the original we drifted the more wholly divided the parts of Jekyll became.

The play itself was a success and as noted all subsequent adaptations of the material would go on to focus on the chronological telling of events with the good doctor and his evil alter ego as the central figures, often dismissing Gabriel Utterson from the narrative entirely.

But there is one other element at play.

(if this were the video essay I'd dreamed it as then this would be where I snuck in a clip from Murder, Murder from the Jekyll and Hyde musical)

In 1888 a series of murders caught the public's attention. Known colloquially as The Whitechapel Murders these crimes are more well known in association with the legend surrounding the suspect Jack The Ripper.

The 11 murders carried out between 1888 and 1891 are a crime and a tragedy that truly did occur in the streets of London. With all the cartoon representations of Spring Heeled Jack, the walking tours and the general romantic gothic ethos that has prevailed through history it is important to remember that.

Particularly as the lasting sensationalism from late 1800s London still carries lingering sentiments in the public psyche.

The first of the Whitechapel murders occurred on August 7th 1888. 3 days after the play opened in the Lyceum Theatre.

The press of the time were quick to jump upon the similarities. The Irish Times in September of 1888 were quick to make the moral accusations, decrying Hyde's depiction as murdering for the fun of the thing. The article, linked above, takes great glee in crafting a comparison when none had existed and in time the association caught on.

Enough that Richard Mansfield himself was suspected of being the murderer in question.

Days after the Irish Times story the following was published in The Star

“MEANWHILE,” writes an eccentric correspondent, “you, and every one of the papers, have missed the obvious solution of the Whitechapel myst-ery. The murderer is a Mr Hyde, who seeks in the repose and comparative respectability of Dr Jekyll security from the crimes he commits in his baser shape. Of course, the lively imaginations of your readers will at once supply certain means of identification for the Dr Jekyll whose Mr Hyde seems daily growing in ferocious intensity. If he should turn out to be a statesman engaged in the harmless pursuit of golf at North Berwick - well, you, sir, at least, will be able gratefully to remember that you have prepared your readers for the shock of the inevitable discovery.”

Another went as far as to claim that the victims being women was enough to link it to the character from Stevenson's book, a book which lacked female characters or victims.

The fact that a woman was the victim in each case, and that she was poor, takes away the suspicion of robbery and suggests some unutterably fiendish motive such as that which is supposed to animate the mystical character of Hyde in Mr Stevenson’s book. When the devilish nature of Hyde was pictured in the novel nobody could believe that his prototype could be found in real life. These atrocities and apparently cause-less murders show that there is abroad at the present time in the East End a human monster even more terrible than Hyde.

(source of these quotes and a far more detailed analysis of the Mansfield/Jack connection, please read The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Saucy Jacky by Alan Sharp)

The legend had shifted and the idea of Hyde had been solidified in the public consciousness and forever linked with the murders within Whitechapel.

In adaptation these days Edward Hyde is depicted as wearing a big long black coat, a top hat and a cane and coincidentally the vision of Jack the Ripper in the public perception has followed a similar path.

It was only in adaptations where Jekyll and Hyde shared an actor that they also shared a sense of style and the disguise had to take a certain gentleman dressed in shadow approach.

The original book makes a big point of Henry's attire being different from Hyde's as their size difference is enough that during the unexpected transformations they must fashion a way to look presentable. Lanyon describes Hyde's attire as "the trousers hanging on his legs and rolled up to keep them from the ground, the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar sprawling wide upon his shoulders."

Yet the public perception had found a tidy visualization of Hyde and the visualization of an unknown killer shared that same picture.

And so too was the concept of "dual personalities" linked with murderous intention.

Thus was born the murder alter.

In other Media, Myself and I entries I have worked hard to avoid murder alters. In our very first essay we opened with a passage noting that we wished for positive depictions of dissociative disorders in fiction. Breaking that rule today is a matter of understanding why so many pieces of fiction tend to lean so heavily on the idea of an evil alter ego who kills "for the joy of it".

Because as Jekyll and Hyde's adaptations became more influenced by the culture surrounding their own reception within the public canon, so too did the inspirations take leaps and bounds.

The concept of duality and split personalities was in the public consciousness and focused entirely on the concepts of Good and Evil.

But that only introduced the concept to the public psyche. Even with the links and public fascination with Hyde and Jack the Ripper it was still a matter which existed only in the public's collective imagination.

It was in 1957 when Ed Gein was convicted of a number of violent and horrific crimes that the conversation and assumption become twisted into the stigma that we all endure today. Gein was sentenced to life in a mental institution after being declared unfit for trial by reason of his schizophrenia diagnosis.

His crimes and life were scrutinized and sensationalized at the time and used heavily as inspiration for a number of thrillers including and most famously the novel Psycho by Robert Bloch and its movie adaptation by Alfred Hitchcock and the character of Buffalo Bill in both book and movie versions of The Silence of the Lambs.

The titular "Psycho" from the movie and novel, Norman Bates, is revealed to have an alter personality modeled after his mother who murders any women who get close to him and Buffalo Bill is a serial killer who wishes to become a woman by kidnapping young women and taking their skin.

Both characters would go on to contribute a lot of stigma to both the mentally ill and those who exist outside of the gender binary.

and... that's just sad. Obviously we know that not every person who experiments with clothing outside of their rigidly state assigned gender allocation will have murderous intention. That's absurd.

An often underlooked line in Silence of the Lambs regarding Bill's gender is Clarice noting "Dr. Lecter, there's no correlation in the literature between transsexualism and violence. Transsexuals are very passive."

Ignoring the over simplification and generalization, it speaks against a public perception of AMAB transgender individuals. The stigma claims that trans women are prone to violent and displays of sexual aggression but the reality does not correspond with this perception at all.

The same is true of those with mental illness, especially when associated with childhood trauma.

Though Psycho does not include a throwaway line that makes him out to be an outlier, the story does depict him forming the evil "Mother" personality through the abuse of his own possessive and controlling mother wanting to keep him away from any other women.

Even in the midst of the stigmatizing depiction they were able to show Norman being meek enough to "never hurt a fly" and having been pacified by the abuse he received at his mother's hands.

The fact is that those with dissociative disorders are known to be far more likely to be the victims of violent crime than the perpetrators.

People with these conditions often had to endure horrible mistreatment, neglect and abuse at the hands of those who were supposed to care for them and that society lets us down by holding these violent and dangerous stereotypes is simply inexcusable.

Even those who have alters capable and willing to use violence, they are formed through self-preservation and do not act "for the fun of the thing" as the Irish Times correspondent put it, much of their violence is turned inwards or used to ward off people and prevent them getting close.

Another highly publicized case that adds to the stigma pool is that of Billy Milligan, convicted in 1975 and formally diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder, his life and story have been directly adapted several times, including the infamously stigmatizing Split. Airing this year is a TV adaptation of Milligan's life starring Tom Holland.

It's clear the fascination and assumptions are still well and truly alive. Fact is the murder alter is likely not going to go away anytime soon. It is far too useful a narrative crutch for crime stories where a suspect does not even realize they are the guilty party and though there are only a small number of high profile cases, they have latched on to the public's imagination and been adapted multiple times with those adaptations inspiring further stories.

It's why we need good representation. It's why we want to highlight that good representation as much as we can.

-

Media, Myself and I is a series of Tumblr posts I make to highlight good representation of dissociative disorders in fiction. I do not claim to be the best at academia or research but I care deeply about the topic.

Originally I was going to use the Jekyll/Hyde stuff to build up to the only murder alter I respect but I think we can wait for another day to hear her laughing wav.

Please scroll the tag if you'd like to see more or click on any of the below essays:

Discworld and Plurality Incidental, intentional and accidental representation Gender, Dissociation and Clinical Stigma in The Third Person Recontextualized Memories in Umineko Derealization in Night in the Woods and Metal Gear Solid The Dangers of Hypnotic Personality Play in Penlight System Origins in The Incredible Hulk Relationships with Systems in The Incredible Hulk The Healing Journey in Mr. Robot

Thank you for reading.