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foxtrology · 20 days ago

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i want you, i need you, i love you (4)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 12.8k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

It had been three weeks.

Three weeks since the gallery night.

Since the bath. Since her in his robe. Since the moment she stepped into Harry Castillo’s penthouse and changed everything.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite who he was, despite who she was—they hadn’t combusted.

They’d settled. Sort of. Not into a relationship. Not into anything that had labels or expectations.

And she wasn’t in any rush to be branded. But they were something—and whatever it was, it had slowly started bleeding into the rest of their lives.

He gave her a key on a Tuesday. He didn’t make a big deal out of it.

Just set it on the kitchen counter next to her takeout container, glanced up and said, “So you don’t freeze your ass off waiting for me if I’m not home.” That was it. No smile. No explanation.

Just Harry being cold and mean in the most absurdly tender way.

She didn’t say thank you out loud, but she kissed the corner of his mouth that night a little longer than usual. And he didn’t pull away.

They didn’t talk about what they were. They didn’t need to. But the rhythms were there.

He kept orange juice stocked in the fridge because she liked it. She started leaving hair ties on his bathroom counter. And a pink razor in his shower. He bought the cereal she liked. She figured out how to work his espresso machine before he did.

And they saw each other constantly. Not every day—he was still Harry Castillo—but almost.

He texted her at odd hours. Late nights when he couldn’t sleep. Early mornings when he was at the gym at an inhuman hour and saw something that reminded him of her. Articles. Memes.

Yes memes.

Photos of outrageously overpriced apartments that had bathtubs with built-in fireplaces and chandeliers.

He had sent one at 2:13 a.m.

Old man Harry ❤️👴: Would you complain if I bought this?

You: If you bought it and never invited me over, yes.

His response came five minutes later

Old man Harry ❤️👴: You have a key. I’d be forced to.

And that was that.

She didn’t stay over every night. But when she did, she found herself waking up warm. Not just physically—but emotionally. And that scared her more than anything else.

Because Harry Castillo wasn’t easy.

He was brooding. Quiet. Obsessive in ways that only became clear the longer she knew him. But he was consistent. And that? That mattered. He didn’t lie. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. And slowly—slowly—she started letting him in.

It wasn’t until the second week that he found out about her jobs. Plural.

She had just finished showering in his bathroom—wet hair down, wearing one of his button-downs, no pants—when her phone lit up on the bed.

Marco (Flowers): u good to deliver that midtown order today or should I send Gio?

Harry saw it. He blinked. Then stared at the screen like it had personally offended him.

When she stepped out, towel in hand, humming softly to herself, she stopped dead in her tracks.

His eyes were locked on her phone.

She froze. “What?”

Harry lifted it. “Who’s Marco.”

“…Someone I work for.”

“You work where.”

She sighed, already knowing this was going to be a thing. “A flower shop. I help with deliveries sometimes.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Since when.”

She arched a brow. “Since always?”

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes—sharp and cold and maybe a little unhinged. He set the phone down carefully, then reached for his own.

“Harry—”

“I’m not mad,” he muttered, typing something.

She squinted. “You’re typing like you’re mad.”

“I’m not—” he cut himself off. “I’m just trying not to throw my phone at the fucking window.”

She blinked. “Jesus. Okay, calm down.”

“How many jobs do you have.”

She hesitated. And that was his answer.

He looked up. “How many.”

“…Three.”

“Three?”

She nodded.

Harry exhaled sharply, standing up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “You said you were a server.”

“I am.”

“And?”

“I bartend on weekends. And I do flower deliveries during the day sometimes. Under the table. It’s not a big deal—”

“It is a big deal.” His voice was low now. Controlled. Furious. “You work three jobs and walk home late at night and don’t tell me?”

Her brows lifted. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

“Don’t—” he snapped, pacing now. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn this into a thing. I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to understand why the hell you think it’s normal to exhaust yourself until you collapse.”

She stared at him. He looked like he wanted to punch a wall. She softened, just a little. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

He stopped pacing. Turned to her. “It matters,” he said, quietly now. “It matters to me.”

And that? That shut her up.

Because Harry Castillo didn’t say things like that. Not unless they were true. The next morning, he asked for the addresses. All of them. She refused at first.

“You’re not picking me up from work.”

“Why not.”

“Because you’re Harry fucking Castillo. You don’t drive. You don’t do Midtown traffic.”

He stared at her. Said nothing.

Then pulled out his phone and typed something. An hour later, she got a notification from Find My iPhone.

Old man Harry ❤️👴 has requested your location.

She stared at it. Then looked up. He smirked.

“Add me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll come find you anyway.”

“You don’t even know where my flower job is.”

“Not yet.”

She groaned, shoving his arm. “You’re insane.”

“I don’t want you walking home.”

“I have legs.”

“You have shit shoes.”

“I—”

Harry raised a brow. “Let me take care of you.”

That was it. Just a soft command from a cold man who didn’t beg.

She rolled her eyes. But she added him.

The first time he picked her up, it was raining.

Not the soft, aesthetic kind. No—it was New York level chaotic. Sideways sheets of water, umbrellas flipping inside out, cars honking like they were allergic to patience, subways getting flooded by the second.

She was soaked. Her hair plastered to her forehead, her phone dead, her hands freezing.

And then? A black BMW pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. And there he was. Driving.

She stopped in the rain and blinked. “You…drive.”

Harry stared at her, unimpressed. “Get in.”

“I thought you were allergic to steering wheels.”

He rolled his eyes. “I took a car from my old place. Get in before you drown.”

She slid in, dripping onto the leather seats. “This feels illegal.”

“Your shoes are illegal. What are those, socks with holes?”

“Don’t start.”

He tossed her a dry sweatshirt from the backseat—his, of course. “Put this on.”

She did. And the car smelled like him. From then on, it became a thing. Not official. Not daily. But often enough that she started waiting for it. Harry would show up outside her server shift around 11:15 p.m., texting her with a simple

Old man Harry ❤️👴: Here.

Or he’d pull up to the bar on Fridays, leaning against the hood like he hadn’t spent the day managing millions of dollars and threatening CEOs. Sometimes he brought coffee. Sometimes just a dry shirt and a scowl. But he always showed. And she never had to ask.

Their nights together stayed the same.

Mostly.

She’d enter the penthouse quietly. Leave her shoes by the door. Sometimes he was already home, waiting with dinner or a clean towel or just himself—half-dressed and reading on the couch wearing his glasses that make him look like an even bigger old man.

Sometimes he got home after her, muttering about meetings, his voice hoarse, jaw tense from hours of pretending he didn’t want to text her every five minutes.

But they always ended the night the same way. In bed. Tangled. Quiet. Bodies pressed close under too many sheets and not enough words.

He never said he missed her. But he texted her at 3:07 p.m. once after a brutal meeting with the board...

Old man Harry ❤️👴: This room is full of people who make me want to kill myself. You would’ve made it bearable.

She smiled when she read it. Didn’t respond right away. Let him sit in it. Later that night, when she curled up beside him, he didn’t say anything. Just wrapped an arm around her waist like a reflex.

On Sunday mornings, they got bagels. It started accidentally. She had mentioned a craving for egg and cheese one night in passing, barely awake, face pressed into his chest.

He said nothing.

Then the next morning? Bagel. Wrapped in foil. Sitting on the counter.

She blinked at it.

“Did you—”

“I didn’t want to hear you complain later,” he muttered.

So now it was a thing. Bagels on Sunday. No talking until coffee. Her in his oversized shirts. Him in sweatpants with his hair pushed back, watching her read something on her phone while chewing with her mouth open.

“You’re disgusting,” he’d say.

“You’re in love with me,” she’d fire back.

He never answered. Just stared. Like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t wrong.

Three weeks in and they still weren’t a couple. Not in public. Not in labels. But in the way he made her tea when she lost her voice. In the way she slipped notes into his briefcase. In the way he bought her new socks and refused to acknowledge it.

They were something. Something real. Something building. And neither of them wanted to name it yet. But maybe they didn’t have to.

Because Harry wasn’t used to letting people stay.

And she?

She had the key.

And Harry knew he was fucked.

It was raining. Again.

Not the romantic kind, either. Not the bullshit people wrote about in novels. This was relentless New York rain. Cold, gray, street-soaking, ankle-wrecking rain. The kind that blurred the skyline and made everything feel too still and too loud at the same time.

His office windows, floor-to-ceiling and usually pristine, were streaked with water. He could barely see the city through them. Which was probably for the best. Because if he could see the Lower East Side right now, he might actually snap and send a helicopter.

He hadn’t heard from her since she’d texted around 9 p.m., after he dropped her off.

You: Frances is being dramatic tonight 🙄

That was it. No follow-up. No photo. Not even a meme. Just that. And now it was past 1 a.m.

Harry leaned back in his chair, phone resting facedown on the edge of his desk, his thumb twitching with the impulse to check it again.

He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He already had. Fifteen times.

“Frances,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening.

Across the room, Danny—half-asleep on the leather couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table like he owned the place—perked up.

“What?”

Harry didn’t look at him. Just ran a hand through his hair, glaring at the window like it had personally offended him.

“She texted me earlier. Said Frances was being dramatic.”

Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Ooooh.”

Harry sighed. “Don’t.”

“Do you know who Frances is?”

“I assume…someone in her building?” Harry said, like it was obvious. Like that didn’t already make his throat itch with jealousy.

Danny sat up, cracking his neck. “You assume Frances is a neighbor?”

“Yes.”

“You sure Frances isn’t her ex?”

Harry froze. Very still.

Danny raised a brow, voice far too casual. “I mean. Sounds like something you'd say about someone you know well. Like an ex.”

“Don’t,” Harry warned again, but it was too late. The image was there now.

Frances. Laughing on her couch. Feet on her coffee table. Touching things that didn’t belong to him. Sleeping in a bed that did.

Harry’s jaw ticked.

“Maybe she’s a woman,” he said, but it didn’t land. Not when the image had already nested behind his eyes. Not when the silence that followed made him feel like a kicked dog.

Danny yawned, stretching. “Well, if she comes back tomorrow limping, we’ll know.”

Harry looked up so fast the pen in his hand dropped.

Danny cackled.

“Kidding.”

“Get out.”

Danny didn’t. He just flopped back down, arms behind his head. “You’re unwell.”

Harry didn’t argue. Because he was. He was so far gone he could feel it in the base of his spine. He’d sent the whole team home hours ago—mid-pitch.

He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t finish the goddamn Italy paperwork. The Italy contract—the Italy contract—was sitting open in front of him. A landmark deal.

A decade in the making. Acquisition of a sustainable architecture firm based out of Florence. Tens of millions. Possibly more, if the valuation shifted after Q2.

He was supposed to fly out on Thursday. There was a dinner with the lead architect, a walking tour of the property grounds, some presentation on green luxury Harry couldn’t pretend to care about.

They’d blocked out four days. Harry had almost signed it. Almost. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her in Italy.

He wanted her in a sundress and sunglasses she bought at a corner shop. He wanted to take her to restaurants where no one knew who he was—where they’d drink wine that tasted like cherries and share plates of pasta so good she’d groan with her mouth full.

He wanted to watch her tan—really tan—on a hotel balcony in nothing but one of his button-downs and sunscreen.

He wanted her bare legs kicked up on the dashboard of a rented car while he drove with the windows down and her hand on his thigh. He wanted her bored at a vineyard tour.

Wanted her to lean in and whisper something filthy in his ear just to see if he’d blush.

He wanted to fuck her in a hotel shower with the windows open, the Tuscan hills in the distance and her moaning into his neck like it was a prayer.

He wanted to fall asleep with her in a bed that smelled like citrus and sex, the sound of her breathing syncing with the rain on the villa roof.

He wanted to live with her. Just for a week. Just enough to make it real. To prove it wasn’t some New York fantasy.

Danny cleared his throat.

“You’re still here.”

Harry didn’t look up. “So are you.”

“Because I’m trying to get you to finish the Florence paperwork.”

“I will.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

Danny stared at him. “You’re going to see her, aren’t you.”

Harry didn’t answer. He stood.

“Jesus,” Danny muttered, grabbing his jacket. “You’re in love.”

Harry grabbed his own coat. “Drop me off.”

Danny blinked. “It’s 1 a.m.”

“I know where she lives.”

Danny didn’t argue. He just followed. They always got in separate cars. Harry always took the backseat. But tonight, he climbed into the passenger seat of Danny's Mercedes.

Danny glanced over. “You nervous?”

Harry didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The rain kept coming down. The roads were slick. The city lights blurry. But when they pulled onto her street, Harry felt it—

That low thrum in his chest. That ache. Because he knew this block. Knew it like a scar. She wasn’t just a girl he saw now. She was a rhythm in his life. A piece of the architecture.

Danny pulled up to the curb. Parked. Then turned, lips twitching.

“Good luck,” he said. “Maybe Frances wore her out.”

Harry shot him a look that could’ve killed. Danny just sent him a smirk. And Harry stepped out into the rain.

The air was sharp with that metallic wetness unique to New York downpours. Streetlights flickered against puddles. A pizza box floated past the curb like a makeshift raft.

And still—Harry didn’t rush. He took his time walking.

Her street in Lower East Side, uneven pavement, corners that smelled like cigarettes and Chinatown egg rolls—was familiar now.

He knew the rhythm of her block. He knew that the laundromat two doors down always had one broken dryer. He knew which deli overcharged for grapes.

And he knew the exact slab of sidewalk where she told him she once tripped while texting him. It was cracked slightly, a jagged edge of concrete peeking up like a warning. She’d texted him from the pavement, too.

You: You made me fall, jackass. I was smiling too hard.

That text had stayed in his phone longer than it should have.

He passed the bodega next. The one she claimed had the best dried mangoes in the city. She’d once spent thirty minutes ranting about the owner’s theories on aliens and glitter. Yes glitter.

Now Harry found himself slowing in front of the doors. Peering in. Wondering if the guy knew her name. Wondering if he knew about him.

By the time he reached her building, his shoulders were soaked. His shirt clung to his chest, collar sticking. His suit jacket was definitely ruined. But he didn’t care. He needed to see her. He hit the buzzer.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Nothing.

Then—finally—crackled static.

“…Hello?” Her voice was sleepy.

“It’s me.”

A pause. Then—

“Harry?”

His jaw clenched. “Yes.”

More static. Then a muffled, rustling sound. “It’s—uh—4C. Come up.”

The buzzer rang. The door clicked. He took the stairs. She didn’t have an elevator. Of course she didn’t.

By the time he reached her floor, his heart was hammering for no reason. The hallway smelled like weed and soup dumplings. The walls were covered in scuff marks, and someone had drawn a crooked heart on one of the exit signs.

4C had a little sticker on the door. A cartoon ghost holding a margarita. He stared at it for a beat. Then knocked.

She opened the door in one of his shirts—his black one, faded from too many washes—hanging off one shoulder, loose like a dress. Her legs were bare except for cotton boxers with tiny strawberries on them. Her hair was pulled up messily. She looked flushed. And sleepy. And worried.

“You’re soaked,” she said immediately, pulling him inside by the lapel of his jacket. “Jesus, Harry.”

Her hands were already working to unbutton his coat. “Why didn’t you text? I thought you were working.”

“I couldn’t focus,” he said, watching her.

“You’re going to get sick,” she muttered, peeling the jacket off his shoulders, tugging at the sleeves. “Come here—hold still—”

He let her work, silent. She was warm hands and furrowed brows and concern in motion.

Once the jacket was off, she yanked at his tie. “This too.”

He raised a brow. “Undressing me already?”

“You showed up looking like the stock market,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

He smirked.

She disappeared for a second, then tossed him a pair of old gray sweatpants.

He caught them. Eyebrow raised. “You keep men’s sweats on hand?”

She groaned. “They’re Maya’s ex’s. Don’t get excited.”

He stepped into the living room fully now. And froze. Because for the first time, he was seeing where she lived.

Where she lived when she wasn’t with him.

The apartment was small. Lived in. Cluttered—but in a way that made it feel warm, not chaotic. Like every single thing inside of it had a story.

The living room was split between two mismatched couches—one thrifted velvet, the other beige corduroy with a sag in the middle. There were throw blankets in every texture imaginable—fleece, knit, faux fur.

The coffee table was covered in books, old takeout menus, half burnt candles in jars labeled sandalwood, fig, vanilla.

The walls were cluttered with art—some of it clearly Maya’s, some vintage posters, The Virgin Suicides, Before Sunrise, Blade Runner, Patti Smith’s Horses album, and a random framed photo of a pigeon wearing sunglasses.

The fridge in the kitchen was a museum of magnets and notes. There was even a shopping list written in red marker on the fridge door. It read

oat milk

cheez-its

limes

incense

Maya’s weird vegan yogurt

tampons

trash bags

candles (sex ones, not funeral ones)

wine

frozen waffles

cat food

Harry blinked at the last item.

“You have a cat?”

She paused. “...Yes?”

His jaw tensed. “Frances?”

She frowned. “What?”

He turned to her, eyes sharp. “You said Frances is being dramatic tonight.”

She blinked. Then laughed. Actually laughed. And pointed behind him.

Harry turned. And saw a large, grumpy-looking tabby cat perched on the windowsill. Staring at him with narrowed eyes like it knew he’d imagined something inappropriate.

“That’s Frances,” she said, snorting. “She’s named after Frances McDormand. She’s 16 and hates everything exept my heating pad.”

Harry stared at the cat. Then back at her. Then at the cat again.

“You thought Frances was a man?” she said, grinning.

“I thought Frances was your ex.”

She covered her mouth to keep from laughing louder. “You showed up in the rain to confront me about an elderly cat?”

Harry sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Shut up.”

She kissed his cheek. “You’re a mess.”

He looked around again. At her world. At the chipped mugs on the dish rack—each one different. One said World’s Okayest Bartender, another had a faded drawing of a walrus. The scarf hanging from a coat hook was purple velvet, half-unraveled at one end.

There were keys on a lanyard that read BOSTON UNIVERSITY, and a half-full tote bag with a produce sticker still stuck to the bottom corner.

The shelf by the entryway overflowed with mail, cracked sunglasses, a tiny hand-painted dish full of bobby pins, and a single, slightly burnt birthday candle shoved into a chunk of ceramic shaped like a frog. The coffee table had three coasters but none of them matched. There were stickers slapped across the side of the fridge—Protect Roe, Biden Harris 2020, Elvis is Alive and So Am I.

In the bathroom, he passed by the open door and caught the faint scent of her perfume mixed with rosewater toner and humidity. The mirror had streaks of lipstick.

Tampons sat on the counter beside an open tin of bobby pins. Dry shampoo. A chipped compact. An old mascara wand lying next to her makeup bag that looked like it had seen war. A pack of pink razors balanced on the edge of the sink like it might leap to freedom any minute.

The hallway wall had a row of hooks, all cluttered—coats, purses, canvas totes, one very fluffy pink bathrobe, and what looked like a dog leash even though she didn’t own a dog. The floor creaked in the middle.

And her bedroom—

Her bedroom was even more intimate. Twinkly lights looped around the ceiling like a soft halo. One strand flickered near the corner. The walls were covered—Cléo from 5 to 7, Velvet Underground, a retro ballet poster, another that read Prince's Purple Rain.

Dried lavender hung upside down beside a Polaroid photo strip taped above her dresser mirror. The dresser was cluttered with rings in tiny dishes, perfume bottles in varying levels of emptiness, tangled necklaces, and an open book of poetry facedown like she’d been reading and got distracted halfway through.

The bed wasn’t made. Worn sheets. Muted floral comforter rumpled down to the foot. A stuffed lamb with one ear bent sat on the pillow beside a pile of soft, mismatched throw blankets. There was a hoodie—his—draped over the headboard.

Her nightstand was pure chaos. A cracked phone charger plugged into an extension cord wrapped in colorful washing tape. A half-eaten cookie. Lip balm. A lighter. A box of allergy medicine. A stack of receipts, one with eggs, incense, LaCroix, cat treats, cherry cough drops scribbled on the back. An empty glass, a hair clip, and a worn paperback with the corner folded as a bookmark—The Secret History.

There was an incense holder shaped like a tiny hand. And beside that, a photo of her and a little girl in matching sunglasses, both sticking out their tongues. It was soft. Lived-in. Completely her.

And absolutely the opposite of Lucy’s old apartment. Lucy’s world had been cold glass vases with eucalyptus branches, arranged like she Googled elegant minimalism. White couches no one could sit on. Art that cost thousands but said nothing. A color-coded closet and a bathroom that looked like a Glossier pop-up—sterile, spotless, unloved.

This? This was chaos and warmth and late night pizza crumbs and nail polish spilled on tile. This was home.

And for reasons Harry couldn’t articulate—didn’t dare admit even to himself—he wanted to be a part of it. Even if it scared the hell out of him.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said finally.

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “You didn’t. I mean, you did. But I’m glad.”

He buried his nose in her hair, breathing her in. Lavender shampoo. Something floral. Her. Frances meowed loudly, interrupting the moment.

She pulled back. “She wants food. Hold on.”

As she went into the kitchen, Harry stood in the middle of her room, still dripping slightly, holding borrowed sweatpants in one hand and the ghost of something warmer than he knew what to do with in the other.

He was fucked. So, so fucked. And he didn’t want to leave. So that night Harry stayed. The rain hadn’t let up.

It fell in steady sheets against her bedroom window—so constant it was starting to sound like static. Or breath. Or the thud of a heartbeat pressed against his ear.

She was in boxers and one of his shirts.

He was in borrowed sweatpants from a man who didn’t matter.

And they were brushing their teeth together in a bathroom that smelled like rosewater and lavender. She bumped into him twice. Once on purpose. Once not. He didn’t care.

He’d forgotten what this felt like. Being near someone. Really near.

Not polished. Not curated. Not part of some long game. Just… here. In a too small bathroom. In her world. She leaned into the mirror to swipe a lip mask on her lips.

He watched her. Like she was art.

When she turned, he was still staring.

“What,” she asked, mouth soft.

“Nothing,” he said, voice lower than he meant. “I just like looking at... you.”

They left the light on. Left the door cracked. The apartment was dark except for that glow and the warm flicker of the TV.

Her bed wasn’t big. A full, maybe. But it held them both. Barely.

She threw the comforter over them, then curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her eyes were heavy, but she wasn’t ready to sleep. He shifted beside her, body pressed along the curve of hers. Not touching yet. Just close enough that the space between them buzzed.

And then she clicked on the remote. The TV was an old one—boxy, with a DVD player built into the side. It hummed softly as the disc spun.

He blinked. “Is that Sex and the City?”

She nodded. “Season four.”

He glanced down at her, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You have the DVDs?”

“I’m not a heathen.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I haven’t seen a DVD player in a decade.”

She shrugged. “You’re missing out.”

The episode began. Carrie was monologuing. Samantha was best dressed. Charlotte was earnestly hopeful. Miranda was eating Chinese food in bed.

She rested her head on his chest, her hand splayed over his ribs. He felt it everywhere. The rain thudded gently on the window. Frances padded into the room and began eating delicately from her tiny floral bowl in the corner.

Harry reached up and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “She always eats this late?”

“She’s nocturnal. Like me.”

He hummed. “You’re soft at night.”

She smiled against his skin. “You’re not.”

“No,” he agreed, brushing her arm with his fingers. “But I want to be.”

She turned to look at him. “Why?”

“Because you are.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Her body shifted, draping over his. One leg between his. One hand under his shirt, splayed against his stomach. She wasn’t trying to start anything. She just wanted to feel him.

And Harry? He let her.

He rested his cheek against the top of her head. Closed his eyes. Let the scent of her hair—lavender and something distinctly her—anchor him.

He wanted to tell her right then. About Italy. About the dinner. The villa. The way he imagined her laughing while wine sloshed in her glass. The way he pictured her sunburnt and barefoot, dancing in a linen dress she’d haggled for at a street market.

He wanted to tell her he’d already asked Danny to add a plus one. Wanted to beg her to come. To wake up with him somewhere coastal and quiet, where he could watch her dip into cold water and wrap herself in a towel and ask him what they were going to eat next.

But instead—

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Soft. Careful.

She sighed.

“Your heartbeat’s fast,” she murmured.

“You’re laying on my chest,” he said. “Of course it is.”

She smiled. “Mine too.”

Frances jumped up onto the bed and circled twice before curling against the back of Harry’s legs. Her fur was soft. Her breathing slow.

The rain pressed harder against the windows. The radiator clinked. The light from the TV flickered over the posters on the wall.

Onscreen, Carrie was questioning whether men were biologically capable of monogamy.

Harry whispered, “Jesus.”

She snorted. “Don’t take it personally.”

“I take everything personally.”

Her hand slid over his stomach again. A slow drag of her fingers, like she could calm something inside him. And maybe she did.

Because that night—

Harry Castillo slept in a tiny bed with a woman who wore his clothes and brushed her teeth with glitter-handled toothbrushes. He slept through the storm. He slept through Carrie’s voice.

He slept through the ache of every part of him that used to hurt.

Because in her world—this small, messy, beautiful world—he didn’t have to be the version of himself that scared people. He just had to be hers. And that was enough.

The morning soon came and of course he woke up first.

She was still asleep when Harry stirred. Pressed against his chest like she belonged there.

Which—by now—maybe she did.

The light coming in through the bedroom window was soft and overcast, the kind of gray that made you want to stay under the covers forever. The rain had stopped sometime in the night, but the air still smelled like it—clean, cool, quiet.

Harry was warm. Ridiculously warm.

Frances was curled up on his feet again, the cat’s soft purring vibrating faintly against his ankle.

And her—

She was wrapped around him. One leg tossed over his hip. One hand curled beneath his shirt—her shirt—she decided to throw on him last minute before bed. Face pressed to his neck, breath ghosting over his pulse.

He hadn’t moved for hours. Didn’t want to. The bed was small, but it had held them both. Just barely. There was something absurdly perfect about that. About how they fit.

He let his eyes drift open, blinking up at the ceiling plastered with glow in the dark stars. He hadn’t noticed them last night. She’d stuck them up there, probably years ago, probably drunk, maybe high. They weren’t aligned properly—some clustered too close, others spread out too wide—but it made Harry smile.

It was so her.

Then—

The door creaked.

His eyes shot to it, his arm tightening around her instinctively. And there she was.

Maya.

In sweats, hoodie up, a tote bag slung over one shoulder and half a bagel in her mouth. She froze in the doorway, chewing slowly as she saw them both.

Harry blinked. She blinked back.

And then—

She smiled.

“Morning,” she said, voice casual, still chewing. “I got bagels.”

His brows lifted. “Maya?”

“Mmhm.” She stepped fully into the room, walked past the bed like this wasn’t completely surreal, and set a brown paper bag on the desk. “One’s egg and cheese, one’s veggie, one’s plain. I got a discount so I went wild. You're not vegan, right?”

“I’m not.”

Maya nodded. “Cool.”

He opened his mouth to respond but then she stirred beside him.

She blinked. Then groaned. “Maya?”

“Hey, you.” Maya turned, already backing out. “Don’t get up. I’m leaving again. Nate broke one of the frames while carrying it up the stairs and I have to go reconstruct it before the opening or I’ll die. Eat your bagel.”

“Maya—”

“Love you, mean it.”

And then she was gone.

The door clicked shut behind her. Harry turned slowly.

She rubbed her eyes. “That’s Maya.”

“She seems…unfazed.”

“She walked in on me giving my high school boyfriend a blowjob in this same bed,” she mumbled. “This is practically G-rated.”

Harry choked. “Jesus Christ.”

She grinned, finally stretching. “Sorry.”

He shook his head, still blinking at the door. “She left you a bagel.”

“She’s thoughtful like that.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The air was warm. The room smelled like her shampoo and toasted everything bagels.

She sat up, reaching for the bag. “You want half?”

“I want the whole thing,” he muttered, watching the way her sleep shirt—his shirt—slipped off her shoulder as she handed it to him.

She raised a brow. “Of the bagel or me?”

Harry took a slow bite of the sandwich, chewed, and swallowed before answering.

“Yes.”

She laughed—quiet and groggy—and curled back into the blankets beside him while he finished eating.

The disc in her old TV menu-looped quietly in the background. And that was when Harry realized—

He didn’t want to leave. Not this apartment. Not her bed. Not this mess of a morning that felt like something he hadn’t let himself hope for. He looked down at her, at the way she was nibbling the corner of a veggie bagel and letting cream cheese smear across her knuckle without noticing.

And that was it. That was the moment. He didn’t plan it. Didn’t rehearse. Didn’t run it through his head a hundred times the way he usually did with big decisions. Because this wasn’t business.

This was her.

“Come to Italy with me.”

She blinked. Mid-bite. Mid-smear of cream cheese.

“What?”

He set his half-finished bagel on the napkin beside them.

“I want you to come to Italy with me,” he said again, softer now. “I leave in three days.”

Her lips parted slightly, eyes searching his face like she was trying to find the joke. But there wasn’t one. Harry was deadly serious.

She swallowed. “You’re inviting me on a trip. To Italy.”

“It’s not a trip,” he said. “It’s a…thing. For work. Big contract. Private villa, vineyard dinner, all that bullshit. I need to be there to finalize some logistics.”

She blinked again.

“You want me to tag along to a work trip in another country?”

“I want you to be there.”

A pause.

“I want to see you sunkissed,” he murmured, voice dipping. “I want to watch you eat pasta with your fingers and lick sauce off your wrist. I want to soak with you in some overpriced marble tub with your legs wrapped around me, pretending we’re not real people.”

Her breath caught.

“I want you to hang off my arm and point at things in little shops and tell me they’re ugly and buy them anyway. I want you to fall asleep in my lap on a train. I want to hear what you sound like in another language.”

She didn’t speak.

Just stared at him.

“And yes,” he added, reaching out to brush a smudge of cream cheese from the corner of her mouth. “I want you there at the dinner. I want you in a dress with your hair up and that little necklace you always wear. I want to introduce you as someone who makes the rest of this shit feel worth it.”

She swallowed hard. Tried to laugh. Failed.

“You’re really pulling out the big guns, huh?”

He nodded. “I’m old. I don’t have time for subtlety.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then said, “Frances can’t come.”

He blinked. “The cat?”

“She’s bad on planes.”

He laughed—genuine and warm—and reached for her hand beneath the sheets.

“You don't need to pay for a flight,” he said. “I have a jet. I want you there.”

She looked down at their hands. His thumb tracing slow circles against her knuckles.

“Three days?”

He nodded.

“Do I have to wear heels?”

“Only if you want to kill me.”

She smiled. Bit her lip. Thought.

“Okay.”

Harry’s heart thudded in his chest.

“Okay?”

She nodded again, smaller this time. “Okay. I’ll come to Italy with you, old man.”

He didn’t grin. Didn’t smirk. He just leaned forward and kissed her hand. Soft. Simple. Grateful.

Frances leapt up onto the bed, meowing loudly.

“Guess she wants to come too,” she said, scratching behind the cat’s ears.

“She’s not allowed.”

“She’ll sue.”

“She can try.”

They laid back down—Harry still half-clothed, her shirt riding up at the hem—and just breathed for a moment. Rain tapped lightly against the windows again. The smell of warm bagels lingered in the air.

And Harry Castillo? For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about deadlines or numbers or failing. He was thinking about sunlit train rides. About her in linen. About the taste of wine off her mouth in a country that didn’t know who they were.

He was thinking about falling in love.

And maybe—

Just maybe—

She was too.

They didn’t move for a while after that. Just laid there in the warmth of her small, chaotic bedroom—bagel crumbs on the sheets, Frances purring between them, her bare leg draped over his thigh like it belonged there.

Eventually though, real life crept back in. It started with a stretch. Then a yawn.

Then her mumbling, “I should shower.”

To which Harry responded, “I’ll die if you move right now.”

But she did. Of course she did.

She slipped out of bed with that effortless, half-asleep grace, hair tangled, his shirt riding up over her thighs. She padded barefoot across the hardwood and vanished into the bathroom without another word.

Harry stayed in bed for another five minutes. Just… thinking. About Italy. About her. About the fact that she said yes. Then—he got up. Went to the kitchen to get water. That’s when he opened her fridge.

And paused.

It wasn’t empty, exactly.

Jars of random sauces. A half-used block of feta. Mismatched Tupperware with exactly two bites of leftovers. A dozen eggs, one cracked. A bag of spinach that looked like it had been forgotten in a war zone. Five different types of hot sauce. A single mini vodka.

There were ingredients. But no actual food.

And Harry?

Harry had spent the last decade with a private chef and a housekeeper. His pantry looked like an organic catalog.

This? This was something else.

She padded back into the kitchen, hair damp, teeth brushed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. “What?”

He turned from the fridge, holding up a sad little container of pickled onions. “This is your dinner?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Sometimes I make pasta.”

“Out of hot sauce and… half a lemon?”

“Adds flavor.”

Harry looked at her like she was a war orphan. She grinned.

He shut the fridge. “We’re going to the store.”

“Harry—”

“I’m not letting you live like this.”

She leaned against the counter, playful. “You trying to domesticate me?”

He walked past her, smacked a kiss on her temple, and muttered, “Put on real shoes.”

They stopped at his penthouse first.

“I’m not going to the store in a suit,” he explained as they stepped off the elevator.

She looked him up and down. He had put his suit back on after she left it hanging up to dry overnight.

“You look like you’re about to close on a skyscraper.”

He loosened his collar. “Exactly. I want to buy produce, not acquire a hedge fund.”

She made herself comfortable while he changed. Shoes off. Feet up. Sitting sideways on his pristine leather couch with Frances curled beside her in her tote bag like a queen.

When Harry emerged again, everything shifted. He was in a navy fleece. Dark jeans. Clean sneakers. His hair was pushed back carelessly, and he looked—God, he looked like a boyfriend. Like a rich, brooding, ridiculously hot boyfriend who didn’t like other men looking at his girl.

Which he proved five minutes later.

The market was close. Not some chaotic Manhattan chain store.

This place was a little upscale. A little overpriced. The kind with hand-written chalk signs and fancy cheese displays and a barista in the corner who actually knew what cortado meant.

He parked on the street and opened the door for her.

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“So why do you?”

“Because if I don’t, some other asshole will.”

She blinked then laughed. “Jesus.”

Harry took her hand as they walked inside.

Casual. Like it was just a thing he did. But when two guys standing near the tomato stand turned to stare at her—eyes lingering a second too long—Harry’s entire body tensed.

She didn’t notice. But he did. Every glance. Every flick of attention. Every half-smirk and second look.

It wasn’t just because she was beautiful. It was the way she walked. The way she moved. The way she laughed when she picked up a can of whipped cream and shook it at him.

“You ever had this on strawberries?”

He blinked. “...No.”

She grinned. “Tragic.”

He didn’t respond. Just added two pints of strawberries and the whipped cream to their basket. She pushed the cart. He added things quietly as they passed them.

Olive oil. Sea salt. Fancy cereal she probably didn’t even like but the box looked pretty. Pasta made by a brand with an unpronounceable name. Parmesan wrapped in wax paper. Fresh basil.

He let her pick the bread. Watched her fingers dance over the loaves before finally choosing one with sesame seeds. He’d never cared what bread tasted like before. But now?

He wanted to watch her butter that slice and eat it on his couch with her knees tucked under her, wearing one of his shirts again.

They turned down the wine aisle.

She held up a bottle. “This one?”

He checked the label. “You like reds?”

“I like this red.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s twenty-one dollars.”

Harry raised a brow. “That’s not wine. That’s regret in a bottle.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and added it to the cart anyway.

He followed behind her, watching the way her fingers curled over the cart handle, the way she tapped her nails when she was thinking.

A guy walked past. Looked directly at her ass.

Harry moved instantly—slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek like it was nothing.

The guy looked away. Quickly.

She leaned in, amused. “Was that possessive or horny?”

“Yes,” Harry murmured.

At checkout, she pulled out her wallet. Harry didn’t even blink. Just slid his card into the reader before she could open it.

“Harry—”

“You’re heading to a whole other county with me.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you fucking groceries.”

She sighed. “You’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

She didn’t respond.

Just kissed his jaw and whispered, “Thank you.”

They carried the bags back to the car, her arms full, the air still damp from the rain.

Frances meowed softly from her tote, swatting at the handle of the bread bag.

“Frances, if you break my focaccia, you’re not going to Italy.”

“She’s not going to Italy.”

“She’s gonna file a complaint.”

“She’s gonna stay with Maya.”

They both laughed.

Back at her place, they unpacked side by side. She tossed him a bag of spinach.

He raised a brow. “You’re gonna use this?”

“Maybe.”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t judge me.”

“I am judging you.”

She elbowed him.

He stole a piece of her cheese.

Frances curled up on the window sill.

The kitchen smelled like basil and citrus and something that could have been the beginning of a life.

Harry leaned back against the counter. Watched her move. Watched the way her fingers brushed crumbs off the cutting board.

And he thought—

This. This was what he’d been missing. Not the girl. Not just her body. But the mundanity of it.

The way she stood barefoot while she put the yogurt in the fridge. The way she hummed to herself while sorting the pantry. The way her hand brushed his like it meant nothing—and everything.

He couldn’t remember what it was like not to want this. And maybe he didn’t want to.

It was the day before they left for Italy.

And Harry was folding her socks.

That alone would’ve been enough to send Danny into early retirement if he’d seen it.

Moments like this, when Harry Castillo, billionaire, former tabloid cryptid, was sitting on a floor of a cramped Lower East Side apartment, cross-legged, carefully rolling tiny pairs of white ankle socks into little cotton donuts and lining them up in the corner of a borrowed suitcase in her bedroom—made her feel happy.

So fucking happy.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she mumbled from the bed, half-asleep, cheek pressed into the duvet.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re rolling them like they’re cigars.”

“They’re supposed to be tight.”

“They’ll stretch out.”

Harry didn’t look up. “They’re socks.”

“Yeah, and you’re acting like you’re assembling high-grade explosives.”

He smirked faintly, tucking another rolled pair into the suitcase. “I take packing seriously.”

She opened one eye. “You once told me you haven’t packed your own bag in five years.”

“That was before you made me human again.”

She blinked. He kept rolling socks. Like he hadn’t just said the most quietly devastating thing of all time.

Packing had taken hours.

Partly because she kept getting distracted and forgetting what she’d already folded.

Partly because Harry had brought over a suitcase from his place—one of those sleek matte black things with TSA locks and wheels that didn’t squeak—and she kept insisting it looked like a tiny armored vehicle.

“I can’t believe I’m borrowing your suitcase,” she’d muttered earlier that day, trying to cram a bathing suit and two sundresses into it at once.

“You didn’t have one.”

“I have a duffel bag.”

Harry looked horrified. “That’s not a suitcase. That’s a threat.”

She threw a sock at him.

He ducked, grinning.

She hadn’t traveled internationally in years. Her passport was expired until recently—she only renewed it because Maya begged her to.

The last stamp it had? Toronto. Age 20. Two broke girls, a shared Airbnb, one near-death experience on a rented bike, and a night of crying on a beach with champagne from CVS.

Now she was going to Italy.

With Harry fucking Castillo. On his private jet.

And somehow, he still got excited watching her zip up a suitcase.

They barely slept the night before the flight. Too many nerves. Too many lists.

She kept checking her phone to make sure her passport was actually in her bag.

Harry watched her, amused. Said nothing.

Instead, he busied himself in her kitchen, making tea they didn’t drink and cutting fruit they didn’t eat.

He couldn’t sit still.

Not because of the trip.

Because of the envelope.

It had come two days ago.

A thin ivory card tucked inside pale pink stationary, his name written in looping gold script across the front

Mr. Harry Castillo + Guest You are cordially invited to the wedding of Lucy & John Saturday, June 8th, 2025 2:30 PM Chatham Bars Inn Cape Cod, Massachusetts

There was a note scribbled at the bottom in faint pen.

In Lucy's writing.

No pressure if you can’t come. We’d still love to see you.

Harry had stared at it for ten full minutes before tucking it under a file on his desk and pretending it hadn’t arrived.

He hadn’t told her.

Not because he was hiding anything. Not really. But because he didn’t want to bring Lucy into this. Into them.

Not when she was standing barefoot in his shirt, trying to find her phone charger and muttering about whether three pairs of jeans were “too many.”

Not when she called out, “Did I pack underwear already?” and he responded,

“Twelve pairs.”

Not when she looked at him across the room like he was something safe.

He would tell her eventually. Just…not yet.

The morning of the flight came quietly. It was still dark when the alarm buzzed.

She groaned. “What time is it?”

“2:30.”

“In the morning?”

“You agreed to this.”

“I was in love with you when I agreed. I’ve changed my mind.”

Harry smirked and sat up, sliding a hand through his hair. Frances jumped onto the bed and meowed directly into his face.

“She’s saying don’t leave me,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“She’s saying feed me.”

She rolled over and stared at him. “Do you always look like that when you wake up?”

Harry blinked. “Like what?”

“Like someone just photoshopped exhaustion and sex appeal.”

He threw a pillow at her.

By 3 a.m., Danny was downstairs in the car, already texting.

Danny: I’m not saying we’re late, but we’re late.

Danny: I have coffee. And donuts. And two kinds of Dramamine.

Harry grabbed the suitcase, double-checked her passport, triple-checked the address with Danny, and then took one last look around her apartment.

She was saying goodbye to Frances, promising her the neighbor would stop by and that Maya would be back by sunrise.

Harry just… watched her.

The way she knelt down to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

The way she whispered, “Don’t pee on my rug just to spite me, you little demon.”

He smiled to himself.

The car ride was quiet. Rain tapped against the windows.

She curled up in the back seat with his sweatshirt tucked under her chin. Harry held her hand.

Danny sat in the passenger seat, wisely keeping his mouth shut except to say, “It’s a beautiful jet, by the way. You’re gonna be insufferable about it.”

She looked up sleepily. “Is it big?”

Harry kissed her fingers. “It’s private.”

She grinned. “I feel like a Bond girl.”

The jet was waiting. Sleek. Immaculate. Tucked away on the private runway like something out of a movie.

She blinked when they pulled up. “That’s… ours?”

Harry nodded.

Danny sighed. “Yours. I still fly commercial.”

Inside, the cabin was pristine.

Cream leather seats. Soft lighting. A tiny bar in the corner already stocked with orange juice and sparkling water and espresso pods.

Harry showed her how to buckle the seatbelt. How to adjust the window shade. Where the snacks were.

She laughed. “Are you my flight attendant now?”

“Only on this airline,” he muttered.

Once they took off, she pressed her face to the window, watching the skyline disappear.

He sat beside her, legs stretched out, arm slung over the back of her seat.

Danny popped in once. Dropped off croissants. Said something about Italian cell service and their hotel driver. Then vanished again.

They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

He watched her fall asleep mid-sentence, lips parted slightly, hair tucked under her hoodie.

He didn’t move. Didn’t work. Didn’t check his phone.

Just… stayed beside her.

And for the first time since that ivory envelope arrived—

He didn’t think about Lucy.

Didn’t think about what might’ve been.

Didn’t think about anything but the fact that in a few short hours, they’d land in a city made of light and wine and ancient stone.

And he’d get to see her walk through it.

Get to hear her gasp at things he’d seen a thousand times.

Get to hold her hand while she ate gelato and pointed at pigeons and got overwhelmed in a market stall and accidentally bought a tablecloth because she thought the vendor was complimenting her hair.

He didn’t want anyone else there.

Just her. And maybe that was enough.

Maybe it had always been.

They landed at exactly 5:32 PM local time.

The air was different. Warmer, even in early evening. The light had a honeyed edge to it—soft gold and long shadows draped across the tarmac like something out of a postcard. The jet slowly came to a stop as she blinked blearily at the window, hoodie bunched around her waist, tank top loose and clinging. No bra.

Harry glanced over at her, the edge of his mouth twitching.

"You’re going to give someone a heart attack the second we step off this plane."

She yawned. "Good. Let them die seeing something beautiful."

He almost smiled.

As soon as the door opened, the energy shifted.

Three black cars waited on the runway. Two assistants in pressed suits stood beside them, flanked by a driver and what looked like a security consultant in a tailored gray jacket. The woman in front stepped forward immediately, beaming like Harry personally discovered electricity.

One sign read: CASTILLO PARTY – VILLA LUMEN.

"Mr. Castillo! Welcome back. We’re honored. Truly."

Harry gave a brief nod, hand resting on the small of her back.

The woman turned to her next. "Mrs. Castillo, we hope the flight was comfortable. We’ve arranged everything at the villa. Please let us know if there’s anything else you need."

She froze. Blinked. But Harry didn’t correct her.

Neither did she.

He just squeezed her hip gently and muttered, "Let them think whatever they want."

The drive was smooth, luxurious, absurd.

The countryside blurred past—green vineyards, cypress trees, stone walls bathed in sunset. Their driver offered wine and chilled sparkling water in crystal-cut glasses. The seats reclined. The windows were tinted so deeply she could’ve fallen asleep again without anyone noticing.

But she stayed awake. Watching Harry.

Watching the way he relaxed by degrees, slowly, as the city disappeared behind them.

When they pulled up to the villa, she nearly forgot how to speak.

It was unreal.

Terracotta walls. Ivy-covered balconies. Lavender blooming along the path leading up to the entrance. White roses climbing up the columns. A view that stretched over the hills for what looked like miles.

Inside, everything smelled like lemon and clean linen. Marble floors, arched windows, a winding staircase made of stone.

Their hosts didn’t linger.

Just offered soft words, a bow, and a smile before vanishing with the promise, “Dinner will be served at eight. You are encouraged to rest until then.”

She just stared, slowly spinning in a circle, looking at every detail of the place.

"They put us in the west wing," Harry muttered, fingers lightly brushing her back as they were led upstairs.

"We have wings now?"

He looked at her. "We have whatever the fuck we want."

The bedroom made her stop walking.

A carved wooden bed stood in the middle, sheets white and impossibly soft. The balcony doors were open, a breeze dancing in. Beyond them—vineyards. Hills. A sky slowly turning the color of ripe apricots.

There were flowers on the nightstand.

A bottle of wine already uncorked.

Macarons in a glass bowl.

She lets out a sigh, closing her eyes as she makes her way out onto the balcony.

"Is this a honeymoon suite?" she whispered.

Harry didn’t answer.

He stepped behind her instead. Hands on her waist. Lips grazing her neck.

"Come here."

She turned in his arms, breath catching. His eyes were darker than usual, jaw tight. There was something restless behind it. Something feral.

"You’re quiet," she murmured.

He studied her face. His hands slid under her tank top.

"You smell like a fucking dream."

She arched a brow. "That’s not an answer."

"I haven’t touched you in days."

Her stomach clenched.

"I noticed."

He kissed her.

Hard.

Like he was angry at himself for waiting. Like he’d been hungry for weeks. Like her mouth was the only thing that could make him human again.

Her back hit the stone and he lifted her onto the bench, hands gripping her thighs, dragging her tank top down, mouth never leaving hers. She gasped when the cold air hit her chest—bare, sensitive—and he groaned deep in his throat.

"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back to look at her. His eyes were locked on her breasts, his thumbs brushing over them like he was memorizing. "You’re so fucking pretty. You don’t even know."

She bit her lip. "Then show me."

And he did.

He kissed down her throat, down the center of her chest, sucking, licking, dragging his teeth along soft skin until she was squirming. Until her thighs squeezed around his hips. Until she said his name like it meant something.

Then—

He dropped to his knees.

Right there.

On the balcony.

The breeze blew gently around them, the smell of lavender and wine in the air. Her tank top was shoved up, her shorts already pushed down her thighs. She slowly slid down the bench.

And Harry looked up at her like she was something sacred.

"Keep your eyes on me."

She did.

She watched him lick a stripe up her slit, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting something rare. She cried out, legs shaking, hands grasping for the stone railing behind her.

He groaned again. "You taste like everything I’ve ever wanted."

His tongue was relentless—circling, flicking, sucking. His grip on her thighs was bruising, grounding her, holding her open like he couldn’t get enough.

She tried to speak. Failed.

He slid two fingers inside her—slow at first, curling perfectly—then fast, then deeper, fucking her open while his mouth devoured her.

"You gonna come for me, baby?"

She whimpered.

He sucked harder.

"Say my name."

She did.

Over and over.

Until she shattered.

Until her legs gave out and he had to catch her.

He stood, scooping her up like she weighed nothing, carrying her to the bed and laying her down gently.

Then he kissed her again—messy, hungry, licking her taste off his lips and moaning like he was drunk.

"I can’t stop," he muttered. "You do something to me. You ruin me."

She pulled at his shirt. He let her.

Let her undress him like she owned him.

And when he pushed inside her, slow and deep and all at once—

It wasn’t just fucking.

It was worship.

It was raw, reverent, almost painful in its intensity. He braced one hand against the mattress and the other curled around the back of her neck, holding her gaze like he couldn’t bear to look away. Like he needed to see every twitch of her mouth, every blink, every gasp that left her lips as he thrust into her again and again, steady and deep and so achingly deliberate.

She breathed his name like a prayer, fingers tangled in his hair, lips parted with pleasure. Her body arched to meet every movement, desperate to be closer, to swallow him whole.

Harry moved like he was etching something permanent into her—like he wanted to mark her from the inside. His mouth brushed her cheek, her jaw, her lips between every breathless exhale.

"You feel like heaven," he rasped. "You feel like mine."

She whimpered at that—at the way he said it like a truth carved into stone.

He kissed her again. Slower this time. Tongue teasing her mouth open as his hips rolled in a rhythm that was almost cruel in how good it felt. Like he knew exactly how to undo her.

One of her hands slipped down, tracing over his side, his back, clutching at him as if to make sure he stayed there. As if she couldn’t take the chance he’d pull away.

And he didn’t.

He never faltered. Never let her go. Just kept moving—fucking her with care, with need, with that terrifying depth he never shared with anyone else.

She tightened around him, legs trembling, her voice breaking as she said his name, pleaded, begged.

He whispered into her mouth, "I’ve got you. Come for me. Right now. That’s it—fuck—just like that."

Her body arched, then shattered beneath him.

And he followed.

A low groan ripped from his throat as he spilled into her, thrusts faltering, his whole body shaking from the force of it. His forehead pressed to hers. Their breath tangled. Their pulses frantic.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Didn’t say anything.

Just held her.

One hand cupping the side of her face, the other stroking her waist in lazy, absentminded circles.

Eventually, he pulled back just far enough to look at her—eyes heavy, mouth soft, expression unreadable.

Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered, "Thank you."

She blinked. "For what?"

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He just kissed her shoulder, slow and reverent, and stayed there.

Outside, the Tuscan night whispered around them—

Soft. Endless. Real.

The air inside the villa was thick with the ghost of everything they’d just done. Her skin still tingled. Her chest rose and fell in slow, steady waves. She was sprawled across the sheets, hair a mess, limbs boneless, skin flushed with afterglow and the faintest imprint of the linen texture pressed into her back.

The room still smelled like sex and sunlight.

Harry was quiet beside her.

Not cold. Not distant.

Just...quiet. Like the kind of silence that comes only after something tectonic. Like he was letting the earth settle. Like something had cracked open and they were both just standing in the new air, breathing it in.

His thumb moved absently along her waist, tracing lazy circles. He was still half-hard, still close, but not demanding more.

Not yet. He just needed to be here. In it. With her.

She rolled over onto her side, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. His skin was warm and smelled like wine and her perfume and faint lavender from the villa sheets. Familiar and new at the same time.

Neither of them said anything for a while.

She let her fingers trail along the curve of his chest, nails faint, almost ticklish. She counted the moles across his sternum. He hummed at that, deep in his throat, then exhaled slowly, one big hand sliding up to rest on the back of her head.

“You’re going to be late,” she mumbled against his collarbone.

“No, I’m not.”

“You have a dinner.”

“I said what I said.”

She laughed quietly. “Harry.”

“I don’t care if we show up looking like we just fucked.”

“We did just fuck.”

“Exactly.”

She nudged his rib with her knee. “You have to shower, old man.”

He groaned. “You’re the reason I’m sweaty.”

“You’re the reason you’re grumpy.”

He cracked one eye open. “You wanna say that again?”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Shower. Now.”

Eventually, they moved.

Reluctantly.

Limbs tangled as they rolled off the bed. Her thighs ached. She was sore in the most decadent way. Her body felt loose and tender and entirely his. He offered a hand as she stepped down from the mattress—mock-gentlemanly, fake regal—and she accepted it with a smirk and a dramatic curtsey.

The bathroom was all marble and glass. Golden light spilled in from the balcony, painting the countertops in warm hues. The shower was massive—big enough for two, maybe three. Probably four if they stacked right.

She turned the water on.

He watched her.

Always watching.

When the steam curled around their bodies, she stepped in first. Hot water sluiced down her back, her shoulders, her spine.

She sighed as it hit her skin. A low sound. Almost grateful. Almost reverent.

Harry followed.

No words. Just hands.

Big hands. Careful hands. Hands that had held her like she might vanish, that had gripped her thighs and touched the softest parts of her like they were sacred. Like she was.

He grabbed the soap first.

Rubbed it between his palms, lathered slowly. Then—gently, reverently—dragged his hands over her back.

Her shoulders. Her arms. Her stomach. Her hips. Down to the back of her knees.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He washed her like she was precious. Like she was something ancient and delicate and holy. He kissed the top of her spine. The curve behind her ear. Rinsed her hair with long, slow strokes. Massaged her scalp until she leaned back into him, humming.

She returned the favor.

Lathered his chest. His arms. Dragged the soap down the deep lines of his stomach with slow, teasing fingers. She worked the shampoo into his hair, watching his eyes flutter closed. When she got to his thighs, he groaned.

“Behave.”

She didn’t.

He pulled her close, water cascading over their bodies, their skin slick and clean and flushed with something almost unbearable.

She reached for a cloth and gently wiped behind his ears.

“I’m not your child.”

“You’re acting like one.”

He grabbed her waist and yanked her flush against him.

They stayed like that until their fingers pruned.

Then—finally—they dried off.

She wrapped herself in one of the impossibly soft robes from the villa.

Harry did the same, though his looked comically small on him. She giggled when it barely covered his thighs.

“Say a word and I’ll throw you into the courtyard.”

“Promise?”

He rolled his eyes. “I have international security clearance. No one would know.”

Back in the bedroom, the air had shifted. Still warm. Still gold-lit. But now it felt like transition. Like preparation. Like a pause before the world returned.

The suitcase sat open on the bench at the foot of the bed. A half-folded silk dress draped over the edge. His suit jacket hung on a chair.

“Unpack?” she asked.

He nodded.

They worked together.

Unpacking side by side.

She folded his shirts. He folded her underwear.

Her fingers danced over his cologne bottle, the one she always associated with him. She set it gently on the nightstand beside a small glass of water. He didn’t say anything, but he glanced over. Noted it.

He placed her hairbrush beside the bathroom sink, untangling a few of her strands caught in the bristles.

She rolled her socks and tucked them into the drawer. Folded her pajamas. Lined her skin care in a neat row.

He lined his ties on the shelf like a ritual. Stacked his cufflinks in the tray she passed him.

They shared the space. Merged into it. No questions asked. No territory claimed.

She hung up her dresses into the villa wardrobe. He adjusted the hangers. Steamed the back of her dress when she wasn’t looking.

She noticed his charger cable was frayed. She pulled one from her tote and handed it over without a word.

He opened a small velvet box and revealed a delicate necklace he’d packed for her without telling her.

“Wear this,” he said simply.

She blinked. “You packed jewelry?”

“You didn’t.”

Her lips curved.

The moment lingered.

Then—getting ready.

She stood at the vanity, pulling a comb through her damp hair. He stood beside her, shaving. Both in their robes. Moving in tandem. Like they’d done this a hundred times before. The kind of rhythm you can’t fake.

She did her makeup slowly, lip balm first, then liner, then a whisper of mascara. A little blush.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt beside her, fingers methodical. Buttoned his cuffs. Straightened his sleeves.

She reached for perfume. He paused, watching.

“You use that every day huh.”

“I do.”

He leaned down. Smelled her neck. “Still there.”

Then he asked if she could spray some on him.

She smiled.

He walked into the closet to grab his belt. She watched the way his robe opened slightly as he moved, the lines of his body still lingering with the softness of their morning.

Then—clothes.

She slipped the silk dress over her shoulders. It was pale. Bare-backed. Barely structured. The kind of dress you wore in Italy when you weren’t sure if you were someone’s date or someone’s downfall.

Harry froze when he saw her in it.

She turned.

“Too much?”

His jaw flexed. “You’re not changing.”

She smirked.

He moved closer. Adjusted the straps like they were made of glass. Tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Let his thumb brush her collarbone.

“You’re going to make this very hard for me.”

“You invited me.”

“I didn’t know what I was inviting.”

“Yes, you did.”

He said nothing.

Just buttoned his shirt.

Put on his watch.

Slid into the jacket like he was donning armor. Sharp and deliberate.

She watched from the bed.

Hair pinned up now. Lipstick barely there. One heel dangling from her foot. Legs crossed like temptation.

“You look mean,” she said.

“I am mean.”

She grinned. “But you smell nice.”

He offered a hand. She took it.

They stood in front of the mirror together.

Perfect opposites.

Dark suit. Soft silk. Sharp jaw. Warm smile. Something dangerous, something beautiful.

Together.

They didn’t say much after that.

Just breathed.

The dinner.

Work.

But for now—

It was just them.

But not for long.

Because at exactly 8:17 p.m.—fashionably, just barely, late—the knock came.

Three soft raps on the thick villa door, followed by a polite, accented voice calling, "Mr. Castillo? Your guests are seated. The drinks are being served."

Harry exhaled slowly. A breath through his nose. One final glance at her.

She looked unreal.

Silk dress. Loose updo. That faint smudge of color on her lips that made his mouth twitch every time he looked too long. Her necklace—the one he picked—rested delicately on her collarbone like it belonged there.

He didn’t say anything.

Just offered his arm.

She took it.

And down they went.

Dinner was being served under a pergola lit by strands of woven golden lights. The villa’s courtyard stretched out before them like something out of a dream—white linen table, wine glasses already half-full, the sound of crickets humming in the background.

Candlelight danced across bottles of olive oil and bowls of olives, and the scent of rosemary and garlic wafted from a nearby kitchen. Cicadas buzzed low in the distance, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the rustic stone tiles.

There were twelve seats.

Ten already filled.

Harry’s partners were an intimidating mix—Italian, British, and New York-bred tycoons with slick smiles and suspiciously quiet watches. Their wives, dressed in silk and linen and quiet diamonds, turned when Harry and she arrived—eager, observant, their eyes already cataloging every detail.

Like predators sizing up a rare animal at the watering hole.

Lorenzo and Marcella sat closest to the head. Lorenzo was tall, leonine, late fifties, with thick white hair and a voice like a cello. Marcella wore a linen suit and pearls, her Italian accent soft and theatrical. She was always watching.

Next to them—Livia and Paolo. Livia had a sharp chin, a sharper voice, and a body that looked sculpted from Florence marble. Paolo wore a navy suit that screamed Milan, his cufflinks catching the candlelight.

And at the far end, Francesca and Luca.

Francesca looked like a Donna Tartt character. Blunt bob, smudged eyeliner, a cigarette nearly lit. She wore a sheer black blouse over a vintage slip and held her wine glass like it was an accessory. Her smile was the kind that knew secrets.

Luca barely spoke. Just watched. Calculating.

And then there was Danny.

"Harry!" Marcella called, standing with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "We were starting to think you’d eloped."

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’d know. It’d be on the news within the hour.”

There were polite laughs. The kind that had more teeth than warmth.

He pulled out her chair before taking his own. It was a subtle motion. Protective. Possessive. Deliberate. A quiet claim staked in linen and candlelight.

Francesca’s eyes sparkled.

Marcella tilted her head. “And this is…?”

Harry rested one hand on the back of her chair. "My girlfriend."

Silence.

Then—

Marcella blinked. "Girlfriend?"

Livia raised a brow. “That’s new.”

Paolo chuckled. “She’s beautiful. Young, too. You’ve been holding out on us, Castillo.”

Harry didn’t smile. Just picked up his wine.

“She’s not a secret. She’s just not your business.”

Marcella laughed, waving her hand. “You know us. We’re nosy. Besides, the wives are all dying to know. We have a betting pool.”

“Jesus,” Harry muttered, under his breath.

Francesca leaned over to her. “Don’t mind them. They’re all bored and drunk on red wine and old money.”

She smiled.

“I’m Francesca,” the woman said. “And you—are fascinating.”

The meal began.

Plates of antipasti. Olive tapenade, roasted tomatoes, shaved fennel, slices of prosciutto that melted on the tongue. Tiny burrata drizzled with balsamic. Warm focaccia with rosemary. Bowls of almonds and figs.

It was decadent without trying to be. Effortless luxury.

Harry stayed quiet for most of it. Sharp-eyed, tense-shouldered. Only relaxing slightly when she brushed her leg against his under the table. She could feel the energy buzzing off him—wary, protective, always watching.

She found herself in conversation with Francesca quickly.

Books.

They talked about books.

“I just reread The Secret History,” Francesca said, swirling her wine. “Still makes me want to commit academic murder.”

She grinned. “I always wanted to be Bunny. Not in spirit. In wardrobe.”

“Tragic prep chic.”

“Exactly.”

Harry glanced over at that. Quiet approval in his gaze.

Francesca lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around her in elegant swirls. “Who are your favorites?”

She shrugged. “Zadie Smith. Donna Tartt. Ottessa Moshfegh, but only when I’m feeling unwell. Lately I’ve been reading a lot of Didion.”

Francesca beamed. “You and I are going to get along dangerously well.”

Livia leaned in across the table. “How did you two meet?”

Harry stiffened.

She opened her mouth.

He beat her to it.

“Page Six is going to run that story in a week. Ask them.”

More laughter. More glances. More eyes like spotlights.

Marcella pressed on. “It’s just surprising, Harry. You’re not… known for romance.”

He smirked. “I’m not known for a lot of things I am.”

Paolo raised his glass. “Is she moving in?”

Harry stays silent, starting to scowl at Paolo.

“Soon?” He pushes. He keeps on fucking pushing.

Harry didn’t answer. But his hand brushed hers under the table.

Francesca spoke instead. “Let them be. Love doesn’t have a lease agreement.”

Marcella sipped her wine. “But surely it’s serious. You brought her to Italy.”

Livia leaned in again. "And what’s the age gap, if you don’t mind me asking?"

Harry’s jaw ticked.

“I do mind.”

Marcella laughed, shaking her head. “We’re just curious. You know how it is. Older men and beautiful women. It’s a tale as old as time.”

“She’s not a tale,” Harry said flatly. “She’s a person.”

That shut them up.

For a beat.

Then—

Lorenzo, quiet until now, finally spoke. “And what about Lucy?”

The table paused.

Her stomach dropped.

Harry didn’t blink. “What about her.”

Lorenzo shrugged. “Just surprised to see you here with this girl, that’s all. I'd thought you'd be reeling from shock over Lucy sending you an invitation to her wedding.”

How did he know.

How the fuck did he know?

She froze next to him.

Her hand stopped rubbing his out of comfort.

Harry’s jaw ticked. “We haven’t RSVPed.”

Marcella’s eyebrows rose. “Wait. You were invited?”

“Apparently.”

“Wow,” Livia said. “That’s bold. Isn’t she marrying that waiter?”

“John,” Paolo supplied.

“Oh, right. The bohemian.”

“She's not my girlfriend anymore, so stop bringing her up.” Harry said. Cold. Even.

Livia raised a brow. “But she was.”

Silence.

He stared down at Livia. “She isn’t now.”

She didn’t say anything.

But her body went still.

Francesca noticed. She shifted slightly, nudging her foot against hers under the table. A quiet, unspoken solidarity.

The conversation moved on.

Sort of.

She laughed at something Francesca said about poetry readings and obscure authors who only write in lowercase.

But inside—

Something tightened.

He hadn’t told her.

About the wedding.

About the invite.

About any of it.

She smiled. She clinked her wine glass. She even leaned into his arm when dessert was served—some kind of lemon tart with burnt sugar and pistachio.

But something shifted.

Just slightly.

A hairline crack in the evening.

Not enough to break it.

Just enough to notice.

Francesca asked her if she’d read Bluets.

She nodded. “Three times.”

They talked about heartbreak. About writing through pain. About how nobody writes yearning like Nina LaCour.

Harry kept his hand on her lower back. Gentle. Present.

But she wasn’t fully there anymore.

When Harry looked down at her later—when the stars came out and the wine dulled most of the tension in the room—he noticed it too.

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He wanted to ask.

But didn’t.

Because he already knew why.

#harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #materialists #materialists fanfic #harry castillo x you #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x reader #joel miller writing #joel miller x y/n #joel tlou #pedro pascal fandom #the materialists #the materialists fanfic #Spotify

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gnreadergames · 2 years ago

Text

Find Something to Wrap Your Noose Around (pt 1)

Miguel O’Hara x gn!reader

Plot: Miguel gets tapped with a poison that makes him feral. His relationship with the reader is a stake…but neither want to give up that easily.

Cw: Angst! It gets better in later parts though…

WC: 2820

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There was a harsh slam from the front of the apartment.

From your place in the back bedroom, folding fresh laundry, you jumped. Miguel must be home. He must’ve had a bad day.

Lyla confirms your suspicions when she pops up next to you, giving you half as large of a scare.

“Jesu-“ you clutch your heart, “Lyla you can’t ju- whatever- is he alright?” You ask, quietly as you can because you know Miguel will pick up anything he can focus on across this apartment and even through the walls with his heightened senses.

Lyla shakes her head, and your stomach drops. He’s either pissed or hurt. Or both.

You abandon the laundry to seek a more important goal.

You find Miguel clutching the kitchen island. His knuckles are torn through the suit, something hard to do with the nearly impenetrable fabric. You can see other tears littering the surface of his torso and powerful legs. You swallow.

It’s never usually this bad.

“Miggy…” you say, quietly. “What happened honey?”

He doesn’t respond so you decide to gently, slowly reach a hand out to touch his shoulder. But before you can even make contact he whips around towards you and leaps with a feral snarl.

“MIGUE-“ you can’t even get through the scream of his name before he’s on top of you, red eyes glowing and fangs popping out even longer than they usually seem. His talons sink into your thin flesh and for a minute you genuinely think you’re about to die, here on the floor of Miguel’s kitchen on some average Tuesday.

Lyla has thought ahead though, and at that moment a light flashes in your peripherals a swirling portal of blue and orange. Before you can turn to look, the weight of Miguel is thrown off you to the side and a loud crack echoes across the apartment as his back meets the side of the island with a harsh dent.

Three people hop out of, what you can only assume, is a portal.

A tall man with brown hair, a 5 o'clock shadow and a small red headed child strapped to his chest, a very pretty very pregnant taller woman, and a smaller girl with blonde choppy hair all fold out in a line.

You’re still not sure what’s happening, and your brain is on too much adrenaline to think of anything other than the immediate danger right now.

Somehow, your sweet, caring, and sometimes grumpy boyfriend has become some sort of…feral killing machine.

You realize suddenly that you’re practically hyperventilating as Lyla stands over you and snaps a few times, calling your name.

“Y/N…Y/N!” She says. Her glowing form is painful to look at right now but not as painful as the shallow cuts on your arms from Miguel’s claws. You belatedly realize you’re bleeding when the younger blonde woman comes over and crouches beside Lyla to inspect your arms.

“Peter, they’re bleeding.” She calls back to the man, Peter, you assume. You glance in that direction to see him and the other woman standing over Miguel.

“What's happen-“ you try to sit up but your head spins.

‘Minorly concussed’ Lyla explains. Which also explains why you’re pretty sure you’re seeing other Spider-people right now.

Unless everything has just suddenly gotten weird.

It seems it can only keep getting worse though, as it’s then you realize that Miguel could be getting back up any minute. You turn your head sharply with a twinge of hot pain up your neck as your heart rate spikes at the thought of the experience you just had happening again.

Your fears are quelled though once you see that Peter and the other woman, Jess, you learn from the blonde one talking to her too, have Miguel in some sort of cuff like contraption he struggles against.

He’s also muzzled. You’d almost laugh if he hadn’t tried to kill you a few minutes ago.

The baby on Peter’s chest babbles and yeah, you’re definitely seeing things now because this is just so bizzare you can’t imagine how you had gotten dragged into this.

Suddenly, a large and lanky man with a scary looking Mohawk of spikes steps through the still glowing circle in your wall.

Lovely. More of them.

Peter and the man talk for a second and then you see the scary man look towards you.

No. No.

Whatever is about to happen you’re not on board with it as this strange man hoists you bridal style like you weigh nothing. You’d attempt to fight back if you had any strength left in you, but the further you get towards the glowing portal the more your brain begs for sleep.

As the man steps through, you drift off into a dream.

You wake with a start.

The first thing you notice is that your headache is much, much, worse. The second thing is that you are pointedly not in your own apartment.

You were hoping the thing with Miguel was just some sort of fucked up bad dream but judging by your bandaged arms and throbbing temples, it was all real.

The blonde woman is sitting in the corner of the room, a white and sterile looking place that you’d assume to be a hospital room if you couldn’t see an absolute amalgamation of spidermen, just like Miguel, milling about outside the glass wall on your left.

Your jaw drops.

What is happening.

Are you suddenly crazy? Have you seriously gone mad? This has to be some sort of psych ward if this is what your brain is coming up with.

The blonde woman notices your consciousness. She has another young man with curly hair beside her, a similar age you guess from their similar build and height.

“Hi, how are you feeling?” She asks as she stands from a chair and walks to your bedside.

“Am I going insane?” You ask.

She blanches at that, obviously not expecting it.

“Um- no you’re not. This is all real. My name is Gwen and this is-“ she gestures to the boy, “Miles. We’re assigned to watch over you until you wake up and are feeling better.”

You swallow. That explains almost nothing.

“But- what is this place?” You look back out the window.

“Oh! This is HQ.” Gwen says, like that means anything to you.

“HQ for what?” You say.

That seems to make it click for Gwen. “You mean…Miguel didn’t tell you?” She quirks an eyebrow seemingly genuinely confused that Miguel wouldn’t share his involvement in…whatever this is.

“No- no he hasn’t mentioned anything. I mean, I know he’s Spider-Man but there’s like- a million of you��” you drift off, shifting to sit up in your bed.

Miles laughs from behind Gwen. She shoots him a look and he blushes looking down at his feet.

“Well not a million but- yeah there’s a lot.” She says. “This is HQ for the spider-multiverse.”

“The what?” You ask, still confused.

“You know what let me just-“ she sighs and pulls up a watch on her wrist. It’s identical to the one Miguel used to wear around his arm back home. He’d always been shady about it but now you know why.

“Lyla, help me out here will you?” She asks into the watch. The familiar glowing figure pops up and it sends such a pant for homesickness into your heart that you almost want to cry. She’s an island of normalcy in a horrible sea of crazy right now.

“Hi, Y/N!” She greets in her constantly chipper voice.

“Hi…” you repeat. Gwen slips the watch off her wrist and holds it out to you. Gently, you clutch it in your hands as Lyla explains the many, many, thousands of worlds and Spider people in them. The information is shocking enough but most jarring is the fact that Miguel has been running it all almost 24/7.

You knew nothing about this.

For a brief, fleeting moment you feel slightly betrayed. He didn’t trust you with this, so what else could he be lying about?

But then you remember where you left off with him. A spike of fear shoots up your aching spine.

“So where’s Miguel?” You ask frantically, looking between Gwen, Lyla, and Miles for an answer. None of them seem to have one for you.

“Let me get ahold of Peter…” Gwen says as she lifts the watch out of your hands. You twiddle your thumbs nervously, the movement of the muscles sending tiny waves of pain up your arms.

Gwen finishes whatever call she turned to make with this Peter guy and spins back around.

“So, this is going to sound weird.”

You laugh.

“This entire day has practically flipped my world upside down. Hit me.” You deadpan. Miles laughs again but Gwen huffs a snort with him this time.

“So, currently Miguel is being held in our prison sector.”

Your heart drops.

“Why? Is he okay?” You shoot off questions faster than she can answer as you sit further and further up in the bed.

Gwen holds her hand up to slow you down and you take the signal, snapping your mouth closed.

“Ok, well here’s what I know.” She starts. “Miguel got some sort of poison from his last battle. It reacted badly with his DNA that’s part Spider and he’s currently pretty feral. That’s why he attacked you. They have him in an impenetrable cell in the holding area and he’s been muzzled for his own safety.”

You cannot believe this.

Those scratches, they must’ve been really really bad to cut through his suit like that. That must’ve been why he had come home in such a foul mood, he wasn’t thinking straight.

He must’ve been out of his mind completely when he attacked you.

“They’re working on an antidote, hopefully it’ll be ready soon.” Gwen says with a small smile. It does little to cure your nerves but it’s still nice of her to try.

Miles pipes up finally from behind her. His voice is soothing.

“We can take you to see him.” Miles says.

Gwen really does shoot him a look then. You giggle to yourself. It reminds you so much of you and Miguel’s relationship. If these two aren’t together they probably will be soon, you think.

“I’d like that.” You say, standing from your bed.

They were right. Miguel isn’t himself.

He’s huddled up in the furthest corner of the red block. The cell borders are reinforced, so you don’t fear much when you walk up to crouch next to the front wall.

Miguel smells you or senses you, something along those lines, because the minute you rest on the balls of your feet, his head swivels like a snake around to fix you in that terrible red gaze.

His eyes are practically glowing as he barrels towards the wall you’re at and slams his full body weight into it. His talons are out, clawing furiously and futilely at the screen. If this cage was even half as sturdy as it currently is Miguel would’ve killed you by now.

You can’t imagine what would make him act like this, even if his primal instincts are being tapped into. You’re his partner. Surely even in such a state Miguel would recognize you?

Apparently not, as Miguel also attempts to bite at you through both the muzzle and the wall. You sigh.

There’s something cold and unsettling about seeing him this way. He’s barely ever gotten angry at you, has never once blown up on you and it’s absolutely unfathomable that he would ever lay a hand on you. So now, seeing this side of him, it breaks your heart.

“He’s a little crazy right now.” A man’s voice says from behind you. You look up from where you’re sitting cross legged on the ground to see the same man from before, Peter, standing with his hands gently bouncing the smiling baby in front of him.

You can’t help but smile as the little girl lets out a joyous giggle, even as Miguel still tries to claw his way to you from inside the cage. You’re glad it’s soundproof, you’d probably have to leave if it wasn’t.

“You know him?” You ask. Peter takes his cue and sits next to you with a groan as he saddles his body down into the same position. You feel that same sensation, painful joints and now painful muscles with your injuries. You can’t imagine throwing the exhaustion of a kid into the mix.

You won’t lie though, you had thought about it. Miguel had mentioned a hypothetical child once or twice, but you could tell it was something he wanted more than anything. And before all of this, you would’ve given him what he asked for in a heartbeat. Seeing Miguel as a dad would’ve made you the happiest person in the world.

“Yeah I know him.” Peter finally answers your question. “I’m like his right hand man. Or I was at least. Maybe his left hand man now that I have this one,” he tickles the soft tummy of the girl and she cackles with glee. You smile at them.

“He never mentioned any of this.” You say.

“He never mentioned you.” Peter says.

That breaks your heart a little, but you don’t let it show.

On the other side of the screen Miguel has seemingly given up on trying to kill you, at least for now. Tiring himself out seems to have mellowed him slightly as he now sits eye level with you, panting and crouching in anticipation.

You sigh.

“How long will he be stuck like this?” You ask. You don’t expect an exact answer, not wanting to get your hopes up.

“I…I don’t know. We shouldn’t have let him go home like that. It was our fault you got hurt. Jess and I-“ he must mean the other woman you surmise “-we thought he lived alone, and even though he doesn’t get cut often we had no idea the anomaly could do that.”

“You couldn’t have known.” You say, trying to comfort him a little, even though you feel slightly hollow.

“We’re working on it though. We’re gonna fix this.” Peter says with a new determination. You smile half heartedly. He stands suddenly, renewed with more energy than he sat down with. “I’m going to go check on that antidote. You’re a little better right?” He gestures to your arms.

You nod. It’s the best you can give him in this situation.

He nods back and walks towards a large hallway opening.

You turn back to Miguel.

The area in which they have him housed is empty and large. His cage stands in the back part of the room. As far as you can tell, it’s just you two now.

Your arms still hurt, but your head has gotten better with some walking and Tylenol.

“Miggy…” you sigh. There’s so much built up stress just from the past few hours that it makes your entire body tense. You lean forward and place your hand on the glass-like substance.

Miguel’s eyes flick quickly to it and for a second you see a look on his face that seems almost like himself again.

It shocks you when he puts his hand back up to the glass mirroring yours.

You tear up.

“Miguel.” You beg. “Please, please come back.”

He doesn’t seem to understand, and the moment passes, as he licks his fangs through the muzzle. His talons pop out and he begins clawing where your hand just was again. You sigh.

It was worth a shot.

You stand, pushing yourself up of the ground. “Okay, we’ll- if you’re like this there’s no point in me being here.”

You turn to leave, maybe you can find Gwen and ask her to get you some food. You have a suspicion you’re going to need more Tylenol to-

“Y/N-“ a ragged voice says from behind you.

You whip around.

Miguel, your Miguel stares back at you. His eyes are wide and terrified but it’s definitely him even if it is for just a split second.

As quick as it’s there, it’s gone. Whatever is overriding his system comes back with vigor as you race towards the cage and press yourself desperately against the glass.

“Say it again- Miguel, please, say it again-“ You are breathy and panicked. He’s in there. Somewhere.

Miguel, the feral one, continues to paw at where you stand with his nails.

“I’m going to get you out.” You press your forehead up against the glass and look into his eyes.

There’s a sound from behind you and Gwen’s voice echoes from the doorway.

“Hungry?” She asks as you quickly pull away.

“Absolutely.” You say, following her.

As you leave you glance backward. Miguel stands, watching you leave.

You’re going to get him back, even if it kills you.

#miguel o hara x reader #x gn reader #x reader #x male reader #x female reader #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 spiderverse #spiderman into the spiderverse #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #Spider-Man #spiderman #spider man 2099

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gaymurdersalad · 10 months ago

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[ HOWDY Y’ALL! WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM FOR A FUN BROADCAST!

If you haven’t noticed, it’s pride month! That means we’re legally allowed to be gay for an entire month before we have to disappear into our burrows once more! To celebrate the occasion, I decided to do a fun little pride post! ]

[ I’ve gathered all the little fuckers in The Void to poke and prod at them like zoo animals. In other words, I figure they all have some neat identities and wouldn’t mind being interrogated in honor of pride month. I’ll go ahead and turn it over to them, but I’ll say now, no matter how much they kick and scream, I am definitely NOT holding them at gunpoint! This workspace is… definitely OSHA approved. Don’t let them tell you otherwise. Have attem! ]

> This is fucking stupid. Stop waving that gun at me. I’m talking.

> My identity isn’t anything special. I’m just some guy who decided he was a guy way later than everyone else did. I don’t really give a damn what pronouns people use on me because usually they just end up avoiding me at all costs or scampering away like frightened animals.

> I’m bisexual, is that anything? But, like, only bisexual in a sexual way. I could not fucking fathom living a long prosperous life with anyone. How the hell are you supposed to enjoy someone for that long? Getting married seems like a scam. I bet it is. I bet it’s like the invention of Valentine’s Day for greeting card companies. You’re not actually supposed to be in love with someone for that long, it just doesn’t seem possible.

> … My marriage with Dave does not count, that wasn’t an officiated wedding. I’m fairly certain he fished those rings out of a water fountain and pawned his dress off a hooker. I do vividly recall dumpster diving for my tuxedo.

> Uhhhhhh wuh? Hmmmm, I’onno what the hell I am, Old Sport! Fuck!

> Shit, I guess I like everyone. A hole’s a hole. Why the fuck would I discriminate? I think I got a preference for men though! They’re so fuckin’ easy to romance! Unless they’re the likes of Sportsy, then it’s the hardest goddamn thing you’ll ever seduce. He gets real gay when he’s on acid, but then again, I get real gay on cocaine. Man, our wedding was immaculate. Imma tell our kids about it one day!

> Likewise, I’ll be any gender you fuckin’ want me to be. I got like, pocket gender, I can just whip it out on request. Want me to be a dude? Fuck yeah, alright. Want me to be a pretty lady? No goddamn problem at all! I can be both at the same time or one more than the other— who gives a shit? I’m just havin’ fun.

> Good fucking lord, really? That shotgun does not scare me, you orange fool—

> … I have a complicated identity. As any other living organism does.

> I have found that over the years I do not experience sexual attraction and that I experience little to no romantic attraction. I only recall feeling romantically attracted to one person in my entire life. I doubt it will happen again. > And it may seem, uhm... Embarrassing, but I do deviate from your traditional "man's man". In laymen's terms, I do not feel particularly drawn to being male. I am very certain I was born with the intention of being a man, but my mind has refused to accept it. I am not sure why. Instead of feeling like a proper bloke, I feel rather empty. If I could have it my way, I would be some... human silhouette rather than a full fledged man. I do not know. This is idiotic. > I cringe every time someone addresses me in a masculine way. I wish I could simply have no pronouns. I can deal with them because I am indeed a grown ass... person, but I just wish it were not so. Whatever. I am done complaining.

> Oh! That’s very simple, this is really easy.

> I literally don’t have anything going for me at all.

> What with the entire fabric of time being on my shoulders and all, I don’t even think about gender or romance much. I do love being a girl! It’s one of the things I miss most about being alive, actually. Pretty dresses, playing with makeup in the bathroom, trying to curl my hair without burning my scalp— I mean, it sounds horrendous sometimes, but you can’t beat it. Feeling alive and content in your own skin. Just one of those precious things that spawned from the chance of life.

> … Uhm, Uhhh… Men.

> Yeah. I Like Them. I Think… Yes, I Could Probably Date A Man Or Two. I Don’t Know, Employee, Why Did You Pull Me Out Here? You Know I Have Copious Paperwork To Do! Some @$!# $#*@ Kid Just Fell Into The Ball Pit And Got Mauled Jaws-Style And His Parents Are Really Grilling Us For It. Dumb&@#*s, It’s Not My Fault Their Kid Heeded The Call Of The Sirens. I Swear, This Job Is Going To Kill Me Or Force My Hand Into Becoming The Next Purple Guy—

> extremely in love with my wife and my gender!

> it was actually very cute how we met, employee. have i ever told you? heh heh, we met in highschool. she was on the football team and i was a cheerleader, can you believe that? oh, i was head over heels for her instantly. she was strong, she was quick thinking, she was so hecking beautiful, employee… i never got to tell her how i felt while we were in highschool, but we were good friends. very good friends. come a few years later, some old buddies of ours want to have a get together and dish it out like old times… go vandalize and drive off into the sunset in the back of a pickup truck sipping on horrendously cheap beer and laughing off our university work or our jobs. when i get to our spot, though, i see her. i’d recently wised up to my gender, y’know, had my hair cut and fresh scars on my chest, so suffice to say i looked nothing like i did when i cheered for her during football season. she’d done the same, employee— she grew out her hair to the middle of her back in such beautiful dark curls, her bangs tied back so every inch of her perfect face could glimmer underneath the neon lights of the derelict bowling alley we’d found ourselves in. she looked at me, and i sensed instant recognition. she smiled through her bright red lipgloss and rushed up to me, wrapping me up in a hug, and i swear, she hadn’t lost any of those muscles— almost broke my ribs!

> the rest of the night, we were so… comfortable together. sure, during highschool we were close, but without saying a single word about what happened to us between then and now, we understood, and employee— i think it brought us closer. it was around three in the morning while we sat around a bonfire with the rest of our buddies when she layed her head on my shoulder and i felt an unfathomable warmth. i knew i wanted her for the rest of my life.

> … i just love her so much, employee.

> oh ok

> its rlly whatever. any pronouns any gender anybody who wants me. who cares

> oh i do have a preference for girls. theyre pretty. if you disagree u are not blessed enough to be loved by gods best creation and ur pissed about it. i can tell

> what if i was actually catholic would that be fucked up or what

> …

> … I cannot… physically stress how abhorrent sexuality is to me. What… What an utterly damning notion. Someone’s greedy hands cursing you and plaguing your with their own dirty human desires. How disrespectful. How… invasive. Why on Earth would it be my responsibility to supply someone with something to love? Am I really subject to whatever the hell people think of me? Whether they “love” me or perceive me as some… some man, some object of attraction? Disgusting.

> If I could shed every trace of a sex or gender from my loathed corpse, I would. Often times I lay awake at night and consider skinning myself for the hell of it. I’ve related this to David and he said I sounded “fuckin’ insane”. Stupid bastard. I want to be a skeleton. I wanna be a fucking skeleton! Pretty and thin and not alive whatsoever! God damn this accursed body and its… rancid flesh and unidentifiable mystery goop. Ugh. Ugh!!!! God, the biggest blight on my “life” was being cursed with gender!

> I was born as a female which was just laughably wrong, then I recall amending that and trying to become a man, but none of it worked. All of it sucked. All of it was wretched. The ideal form is a ghost or ghoul or skeletal figure. You can’t romance a ghost or ghoul or skeletal figure. Can’t have sex with that. Unless you’re really, really determined. I don’t think even David could be that serious about his sexuality.

> … I… Hope. Oh dear. Oh god, I really am unsafe from the horrors of this world. God, I wish that bear had taken me out before I showed him to his grave.

#gaymurdersalad #salad lore #not salad #pride event #direct doggo walked so everyone else on earth could run #those who know. know

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spctrsgf · 2 years ago

Text

mi luz

based off of this comment i wrote on tiktok: “he looks like he could use a hug and a shoulder to cry on.”

word count: 2.2k

warnings: nonspidey!reader, language, hurt to comfort fic (miguel needs a break. like a sabbatical or something)

a/n: ngl, i'm not too happy with how this turned out, probably because i wrote it all on a plane and it's not beta read, but i need more soft miguel fics in my life!!!

He’s tired.

He’s tired and he’s missing you. The boring, monotonous walls of his office harshly remind him of his place, the jubilant orange glow of his monitors tell him of just how much more work he’s got left before he can finally retire to your world.

Lyla, lounging atop one of his screens, watches him and his glossed over eyes, knowing exactly what the lazy flick of his fingers meant. She sighs, glitching over to bring one of his screens forward. “Miguel!” She yells, scaring the poor man out of his thoughts and momentarily extending his claws. “Lyla, what the fu- what the hell?” He growls, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“No kids are here, you don’t have to keep it PG.”

“Whatever.”

“Look, you got work to do, and if you don’t finish it soon, it'll be too late to get in some quality time with this lovely human,” she shoves the digitized photo of you up and into his face. “Before your next mission.”

He sighs, knowing she was right.

“Daydreaming about it isn’t gonna get you there any quicker,” she flickers to be right in front of his face, slapping a hand onto his nose as if she could actually touch him. “GET YOUR SHIT DONE.”

“Fine, fine! Get out of my face.” He grumbles the second sentence, swatting her away and strolling back up to his screens. His eyes catch on your photo, and he reaches to enlarge it in front of him, but—

“No,” Lyla dissipates the photo before he can even get to it, face twisted in disappointment. “No. Not until you finish working.”

“Hey! Who’s the boss here?”

“Me. Now work.” Lyla glitches out of view with a triumphant huff.

He huffs dramatically, pouting as he pulls himself together. He lets his emotions drop from his face and slides into his stoic mask, resuming the work on his screen. It’s hypnotizing as soon as he gets into it; Lyla must’ve done something to keep him focused, he supposes. She always does have a trick up her sleeve.

In what feels like no time at all, he’s done with his work. With a final, defiant tap to close down his screens, he spins on his heel, ready to leave and go home. Ready to hop in through your window— as much as you hate when he does that— and rest his head atop yours, caging you into where you’re surely stirring something on the stove.

But as he turns, he’s face to face with none other than Hobart Brown. A look to the left reveals his partners in crime; and Miguel knows he’s in for a ride. At least a ten minute detour, as it always is with the four of them.

“What?” His hands come to rest on his hips naturally, trying to become bigger to them as if it would make the next words out of their mouth more blunt and less angering. “We have a slight problem—” Gwen starts, before Pav butts in.

“It's not slight. It’s a pretty big deal!”

“Mate,” Hobie huffs. “That’s not helpful.”

“I’m trying my best!”

"Yeah, and that's going great-"

“Okay, stop it, all of you,” Miguel interrupts before they can go down the rabbit hole, trying to keep his already strung thin patience steady. “What’s going on?”

“There’s another fight going on.” Hobie gives the answer blunt, to Miguel’s satisfaction.

“Cafeteria?”

“Main hall. Sector D.”

The huff that erupts from his lips draws a colorful picture of his current emotions as he hops off of his elevated platform. “I’ll fix it.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Miles brings himself to stand in front of the man. “We’re not gonna hurt anyone, right?”

“I can’t make any promises.” He brushes past the kid, dismissing him with a shake of the head.

“Miguel. Don’t take your anger out on them–” Gwen tries, but all it gets is his recoil and daunting stalk towards her.

“I will do whatever the–” the swear word is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. “I will do whatever is needed, but violence is not my first course of action.”

“Please be nice to everyone,” Pav says, peeking over Gwen’s shoulder. “It’s been a long week for all of us too.”

Miguel sighs and brushes past them, saying nothing. He brushes off their words in silent agreement. He didn’t really want to hurt anyone either.

By the time he reaches where he'd been informed the fight was, there was a mosh pit encircling the brawl, a mass of blue and red and spidermen. He approaches from behind, the tide parting for him as each person registers his presence.

When he meets the pearl in the oyster, the hotheaded spiderman hasn’t noticed him quite yet. He’s got the other spidey— one of the many spiderwomen— beneath him, gnarly fist raised to land another punch. Miguel sighs, grabs the back of the man’s elbow, and dragssss him off.

“Everyone get away now.” His tone squeezes the air out of the room and leaves no room for discussion, not that anyone would dare to object. The spidermen flee the scene before he can even finish his sentence, and by the time he’s turned back to the perpetrators of it all, they’re gone too.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, murmuring a low cálmate under his breath as he moves to regain his bearings. “Lyla,” he waves the said woman near. “Find those spidermen and remind me to get to them when I come back.” She sputters to focus in front of him, dipping her head in an obliged nod before sputtering off again to wherever she found herself needed.

Miguel shakes and unclenches the fist he’s made with his free hand and stalks back to his office, rubbing the palm of his hand where his claws had taken purchase amidst anger.

Sometimes, he regrets putting himself in charge of all of this… shit.

But… he’s the only one who can do it. No one had the vigor, the dedication, the understanding of why and what had to be done to keep the multiverses in line and make sure what happened to him never happened again.

It’s tiring. It takes his nights and his days and chips at his brain until he’s sure there’s nothing left in the expanse of his head. For someone who appears naturally angry, he’s quite good at keeping all the real anger in.

The downside of this: he bottles it all up. But the bottle isn’t big enough, doesn’t last forever, cracks at the seams, and then shatters in a explosion of tears. It enjoys crumpling him into the floor, loves the way his hands shiver in the cold breeze, shakes him to the core and, for all his confidence, makes him doubt.

Lyla’s only seen him like this once, when he couldn’t get away and instead had to sequester himself into his office, not quite getting to hardwiring her nosy personnel to do something else.

No, he doesn’t rely on her, as he normally would with other problems. He doesn’t trust her, he doesn’t even trust himself with post breakdown Miguel, no.

He goes to you.

You. The lovely, kind person he’s had the great privilege of calling his. His love, his support, his everything, or better yet; mi luz. My light. The light at the end of the tunnel, at the end of the world, when he feels like the walls are caving in and there’s really nowhere else to go and nothing more to lose.

You calm him, like you always do. Effortlessly caring, eternally so. Never afraid to give, to let him take and take until he’s stuffed whole. You know little things about him, take the time to learn them. Like where to get his favorite empanadas— much better than the ones in the spidey cafeteria— and that he loves when you press your fingers into his shoulder blades. He loves your massages.

He loves you.

Tapping insistently at the shitty gadget on his wrist, he mindlessly pulls up the coordinates for your dimension. Second nature. He’s walked himself into some obscure corner of the building, but he isn’t processing such mundane things at the moment. He can feel himself slipping, the mask fracturing. He can’t be left alone right now.

You.

The portal is up now, flashing and glitching in an assortment of colors, beckoning him in with its delectable light, like a halo. Miguel wastes no time giving in, diving into the portal and tucking himself tight like a torpedo.

Multiverses zoom by as he glides through hexagons and hexagons, thousands of people in each. Worlds that he keeps steady, safe, perfect. Normally, he’d stop to smell the flowers, observe and appreciate the sereneness of every special home in front of him. Pride himself in the fact that there was a special home for someone to come home to.

But not this time. No, this time he keeps his eyes screwed shut, he wouldn’t, couldn’t get distracted by the novelty. The bottle is cracking now, cracking into long and sharp spikes aching to slice across his chest. He’s so close, all he could get himself to do was focus on his breaths. In and out, in and out, in and out—

The abrupt warning of your multiverse approaching pinches his wrist, reminding him that this whole mess was very much real. He stumbles into your living room with a not so quiet thud, startling you. You drop the spoon you were stirring something with— smells like some sort of sauce, yum— and whip your head towards him.

He’s got his arms wrapped around you before you can even process that it's him, burying himself in your neck and inhaling the calm scent of you, a mix of your perfume and your detergent, so very you.

“Miguel.” You sigh into his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his waist as the initial shock of his intrusion wears off.

He slumps into you, only trusting himself to let out a low grumble of your name.

“What’s going— oh,” your brain puts two and two together. “Oh, Miguel, shh. It’s okay, I got you.”

And he breaks. Because he knows you mean it. He knows you have him. You always do.

The tears are bubbling over the rims of his eyes and splashing down his cheeks, his hands are twisted up in your loose shirt. He’s sure his claws have made an entrance too. One of your hands reaches to turn off the stove, the other rubbing incandescent patterns into his back.

You were always so careful. Never leave the stove on, Miggy. Don’t wanna burn the food. He loves that about you.

“Hey,” your voice wisps in through the fog of his mental breakdown, of the end of the world. “Hey. It’s me. Just me. Your absolute favorite person on this planet.”

“Multiverse.” He manages through sob induced hiccups.

“Multiverse,” You smile, breathing out a soft laugh as you toil him in closer. “Breathe, my love. I have you. Nobody is here but me, and I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”

He nods, lets himself weigh more onto you.

“That’s it, I got you,” you coax. “Get it out of your system.”

He gives all the tears he has to give. He’s sandwiching you between the counter and his stature, but you don’t seem to mind. Your spilling words, mindlessly, talking until he’s done and ready to attach himself to them, the soft baritone of your voice.

And it takes time, but he gets there. He’s in the tunnel, the walls are caving in, he’s believing he's given all he has to give, but you’re there, and you’re telling him no, no you have not. You don’t get to lose, because you have SO much more life to live.

His light.

The tunnel lets up, opens up the walls, lets him bathe in you, in the way your arms are still hooked tight around his waist and you’re going on about how there was a new episode of your favorite show that he had to watch.

And of course he would watch it.

He’d do anything for you, anything you asked whenever you wanted. And he knows, in turn, that there wasn’t a damn thing in this god forsaken reality that would stop you from doing the same for him.

You tell him as much. To his face, into his hair, with the dance of your fingers on his back, in the way you guide him to the couch, when you place down some food and a cup of water— you just cried out your backup supply— and again when you place yourself down next to him.

“I’m so beyond lucky to have you.” He murmurs to you, some fifteen minutes into the episode of your show, something about this dude with a metal helmet and a green baby? He can’t recall the name.

You turn, a smile gracing your features. “You deserve me. You deserve everything the multiverse has to offer and more. Dunno what I’d do without you.”

“You’d have one less person bothering you.”

“Ah, yes,” you laugh, swatting his cheek. “Like you’re such a nuisance.”

He laughs, actually laughs. It’s nice.

You tilt your head onto the girth of his shoulder, snuggling in tight as your attention is again sucked into the screen.

He smiles dazedly at you, finally feeling at peace.

Mi luz. My light.

is anyone else still obsessed with him or is that just me

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara x you #miguel ohara fluff #oscar isaac #oscar issac characters #oscar issac x you #oscar issac x reader #oscar issac imagine #spiderman: across the spiderverse #across the spider verse

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try-set-me-on-fire · 2 years ago

Note

How about odd socks for the soft prompts?

Eddie tries to write his vows. Poem excerpts from E.E. Cummings’ [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in], Mary Oliver’s The Mango, and Pablo Neruda’s Finale. Plain text version on AO3 here and under the read more!

Dear Buck oh its not a letter

Buck

Evan Buckley (?)

From the day we met, I

I take thee to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part except I don’t want to stop loving you when either of us die. I don’t want to part. Till the glaciers have melted and the oceans have dried up, till Mount Whitney (the tallest mountain in California, I looked it up) is eroded to a molehill, till the heat death of the universe do us part. Maybe that will be enough time

I keep thinking about that time you wore those fucking socks to work and Bobby and everyone were trying to really gently asses if you were having a breakdown because we just see AND YOU’RE GOING TO DIE on your ankle and then you laughed and pulled up your pants and it said “GET LOST IN NATURE AND YOU’RE GOING TO DIE” which like I still think is kind of a fucked up thing to put on a sock but you just did one of your beautiful sunshine grins (we weren’t even together but god I still got light headed looking at you) and were like “I thought it would be neat to remind people the importance of safety in nature” and I was kind of teasing and annoyed and laughed about it and that was like three years ago Buck and I still feel guilty about it because if you were going through some kind of crisis I don’t ever want to be annoyed and laugh about it, I want to be there for you no matter what and I hope I’ve proven that to you over the years, that I don’t just love you on easy days, I love you every single day all the time even when everything’s fucked even if I can’t write wedding vows to save my life christ this is terrible

I love your nose and your birthmark and your eyebrows and your hair and your shoulders and the bends of your elbows, and your wrists and hands, and I love your nipples and hip bones and cock and ass and knees and your shin, I love the scars on your shin, I love every scar you have because none of them killed you

How about

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

But this was a rich house, and clever too.

After salmon and salads,

mangoes for everyone appeared on blue plates,

each one cut in half and scored

and shoved forward from its rind, like an orange flower,

cubist and juicy.

When I began to eat

things happened.

your head on the pillow,

your hands floating

in the light, in my light,

over my earth.

It was beautiful to live

when you lived

The world is bluer and of the earth

at night, when I sleep

enormous, within your small hands.

Before the ceremony I told Shannon “It’s going to be okay” and in the moment I believed it because I had her and I was scared but she was my best friend and up there in front of her parents and mine I said the regular vows but I think that first one was what counted even if it didn’t end up being true. Maybe I’ve been telling you my vows for years. You can have my back any day. There’s no one on earth I trust with my son - with our son - more than you. Every time I tell you I love you, isn’t that a promise?

I’ve been happy before in my life, despite everything I don’t think I was an unhappy man, not always, only sometimes, but you make me happier than I thought was possible. That kind of feeling when you laugh too hard and you’re not getting enough oxygen to your brain. Isn’t that romantic, you give me hypoxia

Here’s the thing you know I’m going to get up there and just start crying immediately so I don’t know why I’m trying so hard to find words I won’t even be able to get out

No hi this is me two hours later of course this is important you’re important you knowing how much I love you is so important to me and I will stand up there blubbering at you for hours if that’s what it takes

I trust you. I love you. I am happy with you. I want to wake up beside you always, Buck I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you next to me first thing in the morning (or night or afternoon or whenever we’ve finished sleeping), touching your warm body with your lungs breathing and your heart beating and the solidity of you feels like a miracle

I’ll buy you socks so your feet don’t get cold and I’ll bring you fruit because you like to eat sweet things and wherever I live will be your home and I’ll be by your side as long as you do me the honor of wanting me there and everything I have and am is yours and I

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 abc #asked and answered

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months ago

Text

Helping Hand 14

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of divorce, manipulation, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, 40s reader

Part of the Bookstore AU

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You stare at the wall. Your eyes are too dry to cry. The pain, the memory of the night before, the reality you find yourself trapped in, cannot bring the swell to surface. A blur moves along the edge of your sight and your eyes come into focus.

You watch Jonathan plant the lap desk over your thighs. He pauses to pet your head and kiss your forehead. You grit down and turn your attention back to the plaster.

“Can’t have you fussing over breakfast,” he purrs, “doctor’s orders that you relax.”

You don’t respond. He hums, disappointed, but doesn’t reproach you. You almost prefer your ex and his bluntness. At least he would tell you what you did.

You sit in the fog of painkillers and disbelief. It still doesn’t seem real. Jonathan. The refined businessman, the proper gentleman, entirely above you, and yet he’s entirely twisted. Last night, the way he touched you, the way he ignored your pain and used it against it, it’s not so different than every other man you’ve known.

It’s your own fault for believing there were decent ones left in this world. Or that they ever existed at all.

He returns and lays out a generous meal; orange juice and coffee to be certain you have whatever you like; crepes rolled and sprinkled with sugar and drizzled with syrup, berries glistening, yogurt and granola in a small cup on the side. It’s all perfect. Just like everything else in his life. Can’t he see that you are anything but?

“There you are, darling,” he proclaims as he backs up.

He stands and watches. His blue eyes no longer remind you of the summer sky, rather they are icy and cold. You look down and lift the cutlery.

“Thanks,” you murmur as he clears his throat.

You eat. Not because you’re hungry but to keep yourself from sinking any further into horror. You don’t taste it. If this was anywhere else, you might be in awe of the culinary precision and medley of flavours. You can hardly think through the drug-laced nightmare.

You finish and he takes away the tray and lap table. You lean back into the pillows and grown. There’s a new pang in your hip. It started when he had himself over you, rolling against you, your legs splayed beneath him.

You close your eyes and slump. You don’t hear him return. The world shifts as he moves you to lay on your back, removing a pillow to reposition you.

“Darling, how do you feel?” He brushes his knuckles against your cheek. “The doctor recommended a hot bath? How about it?” You groan and stay hidden under your eye lids. He bends and kisses your forehead before he stands again, “very well.”

You sense him back away but do not look. You've known this helplessness before. During your first marriage when you truly believed you were trapped with Andy forever. You can only hope Jonathan tires of you just the same, but what then? Starting over again with even less time.

You hear the distant splash of water on porcelain and wince. The jolt sends electricity down your spine. You groan and grimace in pain.

His footfalls mark his return. Your eyes open as he approaches and sits on the edge of the bed. He undresses you as you put up no resistance. What’s the use in it? It only hurts more.

He removes the sling gently before he strips away your other layers. When you're naked, you don't even have the strength to be ashamed. Maybe the stretch marks might scare him away.

He gently slips his arms beneath you. As he lifts you, you moan. He coos at you, hushing your pain. You lean into him with no other choice but to let him do what he wants. So very much like your first marriage.

He takes you into the bathroom and lowers you into basin. You can't help but be soothed by the warmth of the water as it laps down. The futility keeps you there.

He shifts, his shadow moving beyond your eyelids. It isn't until he touches you again, that you react. Your lashes flick up and you wince as tension strings up your muscles.

He gently slides his hand under your uninjured shoulder and sits you forward. He's naked, a striking realization that has you even more rigid. He angles in behind you, easily, all too smoothly, moving to sit against the porcelain as he brings you over him. Your eyes dart to the ceiling and stick there as he eases you back. You're horrified at the feeling of his flesh against yours. The heat is even more intense than the water.

He sighs as he embraces you from below, your head on his shoulder, and his hands crawl around your hips. Mortified, you keep him from touching your stomach. He stops but runs his hands in the other direction, tracing along your pelvis and kneading your thighs.

You reach for him again and he brushes you off. You're uncomfortable and not because the pain. He's touching those parts of you that are ugly. The ones marked with age and fat. The ones your husband hated so much. The ones that drove him to another.

“You needn't punish yourself any longer, darling,” he reprimands, “I'm only trying to give you all you deserve.”

You scoff and feel him stiffen. He once more frames your hips and hums, “what?”

“Nothing,” you mutter.

“No, tell me what is so amusing.”

“What I deserve? To be thrown on the floor? To be kept in a bed all day at your beck and call–”

“It was an accident, darling, we both were there–”

“You know it wasn't,” you sneer furiously and try to sit up, “ahhhh!”

You fall back, heavy enough that you feel the air rush out of him. He steadies you with his hands on your sides and you groan and snivel. You hate this. You hate feeling this helpless. You never wanted to be trapped again, yet here you are.

#dark jonathan pine #dark!jonathan pine #jonathan pine #jonathan pine x reader #the night manager #series #drabble #bookstore au #au #helping hand

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itskenickie · 10 months ago

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Gendrya Masterlist

The list is from newest to oldest.

When I'm With You

“Got room for one more?” The sudden and unexpected voice made Arya to sharply turn around. Her eyes widened at the figure standing before her with a cocky smirk, “Gendry? What are you doing here?”

can you feel the things I feel right now with you

“You’ll be sorry!” Gendry wasn’t afraid of Daenerys and her empty threat. She is powerless without her dragons and he doubts that Jon and his sisters would allow for his execution solely for rejecting the title of a lord.

The Bull and The Wolf

It was Tryion, who was hidden behind a large chair in front of the fire, still drunk out of his mind from the feast earlier, who spoke up, “I do believe the hound meant that mating season had come early for the wolf and the bull.”

I Think Your Love Would Be Too Much

It had been too long. Too long from being away from Arya. He missed her so much.

M'lady

When Arya Stark walked out of the forge after showing Gendry her wish, she felt like she could breathe again. Like a weight was lifted off of her shoulders. She was expecting many things once she returned to Winterfell; reuniting with her siblings, avenging her deceased family and protecting her land. But she never thought that she would reunite with Gendry.

Pen Pal

Arya signs up for a pen pal because Mademoiselle Margaery says so.

Pink

The love of his life is his best friend’s sister. She was the tiny girl with a lot of spunk who played football and the guitar. She also loved getting down and dirty while fixing up cars. And, Gendry is going to be cringy for a bit, she was the emo princess of his dreams.

Him

The sound of Valyrian steel swords crunching through the bones of White Walkers was all that Gendry could hear for they were louder than the cries of the dying men.

Scar Tissue

His hold around her tighten and right when he noticed she was about to doze off, he kissed her head gently and closed his own eyes. Thoughts of Winterfell and Arya on his mind.

3 times arya stark wasn't scared and the one time she was

Lommy, Hot-Pie and Podrick try to scare Arya.

Clueless

Arya met the strangest men while visiting her brother Jon up North.

A-Z

A list from A to Z on why Arya Stark loved Gendry Waters and vice versa.

Instagram Thirst

Just then, Arya’s phone beeped. Indicating that she had a new notification on her phone. She fished out the silver device from her phone and swiped on the notification which took her to Instagram and showed her a post from one of the accounts she followed who posted a new work out video. She smiled to herself, or she thought, while double tapping the screen and a big red heart appeared before her.

A Lady and A Smith

“You know, you’re just like your mother.” Gendry chuckled while twirling Lyanna. “How? I thought Ned looked like mommy and I looked like you?” Her eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.

Prince Gendry

Gendry Baratheon. A man who is dubbed as the handsomest in all of the seven kingdoms. Rumor has it that when he was born, the first children had gifted him with eyes that were forged from a gemstone that was known as Blue Apatite.

Shy Encounters

The sunlight shining through the train's window illuminated her skin, making her glow, as if her skin were made of tiny diamonds.

The Titanic

The ship stood tall and grand at the harbor unlike anything Gendry has ever seen. The orange and black funnel of the ship almost covering the bright sun. A rare sunny day that bestows Winterfell. Basically, the Titanic AU that no body asked for in which Arya is Jack and Gendry is Rose.

Heaven

Sometime around the afternoon, Gendry was sitting on the white love couch with Arya’s head on his lap, his tanned fingers were running through her brown locks. Lips turning upwards at whatever it was on T.V that was making Arya laugh loudly. Those same tanned fingers then began tracing the thin arms when Arya quieted down from laughing. This is Gendry’s favorite way to spend his free time, watching his lover being happy. Laughing and smiling without worrying about the smallest of things. It made Gendry feel lightheaded from the amount of adoration he felt when watching his lover. Gendry heaved a pleased sigh as Arya laughed again.

#gendrya masterlist #gendrya #arya x gendry #got fic #got masterlist

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chonitopaz · 1 year ago

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You sighed to yourself walking up to the Gallaghers door hoping and praying that Fiona wouldn’t be the one to answer the door. You knocked twice before stepping back from the door pulling a pack of cigarettes out of your pocket lighting one. It felt like you were out there forever till the front door opened and you were met with site of Fiona.

You took a long drag off your cigarette pushing past her letting yourself in, “Before you say anything I’m here for lip.”

She nodded following you into the kitchen, “It’s good to see you.”

You turned to look at her for a split second before turning your head to the side not wanting to meet her gaze.

“I guess you’re not gonna talk to me?”

You sighed turning to look at her, “I have nothing to say, I basically told you all I had to say the last time I was here.”

Fiona chuckled shaking her head, “Can you at least tell me if we’re even still together?”

You stayed silent as you walked over to the ashtray sitting on the kitchen table putting out your cigarette, “You hurt me Fi.”

“I know and I feel shit for what I did and I miss you like crazy,” She said stepping closer to where you were standing fiddling with the hem of your jacket.

“Fi, please don’t make this any harder than it already is,” You said trying your hardest not to give in to the temptation of the woman standing in front of you.

You looked at her for a split second and you wanted nothing more than to kiss her, she looked at you with those big brown eyes wrapping her arms around your neck.

You inhaled deeply taking a step back because you were scared that if you stood there like that with her then whatever were to happen next you wouldn’t be able to help yourself, “You didn’t let me finish.”

You cleared your throat looking down at your hands fiddling with your fingers, “It’s hard enough being here being around you.”

You paused before saying your next words, “It’s taking everything in me to not grab you and kiss you, to take you upstairs to your room and have makeup sex with you.”

“Then why don’t you?” Fiona questioned with a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“Because then I picture Jimmy’s smug face and you kissing him which is what’s keeping me from doing just that.”

Fiona looked like it was taking everything in her not to cry, “Okay. Well are you at least still going to come to Carls birthday thing tonight at the house?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea Fiona.”

“He really wanted you there. Look you ain’t gotta go for me just do it for Carl at least. Please?”

You really didn’t want to go because it was really hard being around Fiona. You can’t help, but thinking back to the night she told you her and Jimmy kissed. You wanted to say no or just tell her yes that you still plan on coming then just not show up, but then you started thinking about Carl and how much you really care for that boy.

You inhaled deeply running your hand through your hair, “Okay, I will for Carl.”

Fiona nodded shooting you a soft smile. You stood there awkwardly for a few moments, you were thankful though when you heard foot steps coming down the stairs. You turned your head to see lip.

“Yo,” He announced attempting to throw on a jacket.

You kept your gaze on your shoes trying your hardest keep your cool. Lip went over to the fridge pulling out some orange juice. He looked between the two of you with a raised eye brow.

“You guys all good?” He questioned looking at you then back at Fiona for a response.

“Yeah man,” you said.

Fiona nodded shooting lip a dejected smile.

“So where are you two off to?” She questioned trying to change the subject

“I asked her to help me with this piece of shit bike I got in yesterday. Figured I could use her mechanic knowledge.”

You couldn’t stop looking over at Fiona no matter how hard you tried to keep your eyes on anything else, they always ended up back on her.

“I’ll be outside,” You said abruptly looking over at lip.

He nodded, “I’ll be out there in one sec,” You heard him shout before you closed the back door.

“Pass me that wrench,” You said pointing over at the tool box beside you, still keeping your full attention on the mess of a bike in front of you.

Lip did as you said handing you the wrench, “You see what I’m doing here?” You questioned

“Yes boss,” He said with a slight chuckle.

Causing you to chuckle, while flipping him the bird. “Thanks for showing me this stuff. Brads been on my ass about this bike for days.”

“Anytime man,” You said tightening up one of the last screws.

“So you and my sister still on the outs?”

You stopped what you were doing reaching over for the rag next to you wiping off your hands, “Think we’re a little more than on the outs.”

Lip nodded taking the cigarette he had sitting behind his ear before lighting it, “You know she feels like shit for what she did, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this upset”.

You sighed, “I miss her I do, but I don’t think I can trust her.”

Lip took a long drag off his cigarette, “Look I hate to say this because she is my sister. I know she doesn’t have the best track record with loyalty, but I was there that night. She made him leave and she didn’t take it any further than the kiss.”

You inhaled deeply taking in what Lip said, you knew about Fiona’s past relationship endeavors and she was honest with you about everything, but you didn’t know if you were going to be able to take her back after this.

Lip chuckled bringing you out of your thoughts, “Cat got your tongue?”

You chuckled, “I appreciate what you’re trying to do. This is between me and your sister though.”

He nodded putting out his cigarette, “Just don’t dick her around, if you’re gonna call it quits just do it. It’s driving her crazy not knowing. Shit that’s all I’ve been hearing about for the past week.”

“I got it covered man,” You said patting his shoulder.

“And don’t worry even if things don’t work with your sister and I. You can still come stay with me every weekend champ. We also wanna let you know that we still love you very much,” You joked.

“Funny,” Lip said flipping you the bird.

You laughed going over to the tool box stealing one of Lips cigarettes, “You uh comin to Carls party tonight?” Lip questioned leaning up against the tool box.

“Yeah I guess I am,” You said taking a drag off your cigarette.

“Good.” Lip said.

As you and Lip entered the Gallagher house you started to feel a little overwhelmed, because you knew that people were going to ask questions pertaining to you and Fiona’s relationship status.

You took a deep breath only exhaling till you made it halfway into the living room, Where everyone was dancing around with beers in their hands. You were just about to make a beeline for the kitchen, when Debbie stopped you rambling about some girl she’s been seeing.

You chuckled, “Debs I just got here let me grab a beer before you unload your girl drama on me.”

Debbie groaned going over to the couch where Franny was sitting picking her up. You watched her as she disappeared up the stairs a little relieved to not have to play gay therapist.

You made your way into the kitchen grabbing one of the beers from the box off the counter twisting the cap off and tossing it to the side. You leaned up against the counter watching everyone dance around. You scanned the living room your eyes landing on Fiona, you smiled to yourself when you saw what she was wearing.

She had on a long sleeved V neck showing off a lot of cleavage and those damn leather shorts she knew you loved. You were almost positive she was wearing them to get your attention. You watched as her and V danced to some pop song you didn’t recognize, you couldn’t take your eyes off her you let your eyes travel down her body.

You wanted nothing more than to pin her up against the wall and mark her neck with hickeys. You set your beer down about to give in to the temptation, or at least you were until you heard someone clear their throat beside you.

You turned your head to see Carl, you smiled at him relieved, “Sup birthday boy.”

“Sup,” He said giving you a fist bump.

“You get the gun I asked you for?” He questioned almost causing you to spit out your beer.

“Dude your sister would kill me.”

He sighed, “I’m seventeen, she’s always got a stick up her ass.”

You chuckled passing the boy a beer, “Not a gun, but it’s something.”

He twisted the top off clanking his beer bottle against yours, leaning beside you on the counter. You let your eyes wander back to the brunette you cannot seem to get off your mind. She was still dancing with V laughing at something crazy the woman probably said.

“You and Fiona back together?” Carl spoke up.

You jumped a little forgetting that the boy had been standing beside you. “Uh no it’s kind of complicated.”

He nodded, “Do you still love her?”

You turned to look at Carl shocked to be having this conversation with the boy. You remembered when he was just a little kid running around terrorizing neighborhood animals and lighting things on fire, but he wasn’t that little boy anymore.

“Of course I do, things are just rough right now.”

“The thing with Jimmy?” He questioned chucking a little.

“Yeah the thing with Jimmy.” You said the man’s name leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

“One thing you gotta understand Jimmy is like a roach. You think he’s gone, but he always comes back and he’s hard to get rid of. Fiona loves you though and she fucked up there’s no denying that, but I really think you should talk to her. Let her know where you guys stand because it’s really eating her up. Plus it would suck to not have you around.” Carl said taking a quick swig out of his beer.

You smiled at the boy ruffling his hair, “Where’d all this wisdom come from?”

He swatted your hand away rolling his eyes, “Growin up in this house you learn a thing or two.”

You chuckled wrapping your arm around the boy.

“So since I possibly helped fix things with you and my sister?” The boy questioned.

“I’m not getting you a gun dude.” You said before he could even finish his sentence.

The younger Gallagher smacked his lips wiggling his way outta your grasp, “You guys fuckin suck.”

You shook your head as you watched the boy disappear back into the sea of people in the living room.

You stood there still debating on whether or not to go talk to Fiona. After about two more beers, and a shot you eventually worked up enough courage to go talk to her.

She was still standing with V her back turned. You inhaled deeply as you approached her. V looked at you then at Fiona causing the woman to turn around. Her eyes went wide when she saw you, almost like she was in shock.

“Hey,” Was the only thing you could think to say.

“Hey,” She said nervously.

“Can we talk?” You questioned.

“Outside?”

You nodded while following behind her.

The two of you stepped out back shutting the door behind you. You sat down on the steps as you turned to look at Fiona who followed your lead.

“You came.” She said breaking the awkward tension that was very noticeable.

“Told you I wouldn’t miss it,” You said keeping your gaze on your shoes.

“Guess you thought I’d bale?”

She chuckled, “I had my doubts.”

Before you knew it the awkward silence was back. You looked over at the woman for a split second before averting your gaze back to the ground. Your eyes landing on a twig, you picked it up tossing it into the distance.

“Look if you’re not gonna talk I’m going back inside,” Fiona spoke up lifting herself up off the steps.

“I love you, Ya know?” you said barely above a whisper.

Fiona froze, “I love you too.”

“Then why? Why did you kiss Jimmy, I thought this shit with him was over?”

“I don’t know,” She said running her hands through her hair.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” You said trying your hardest not to raise your voice.

“We have history. Okay?”

You shook your head trying really hard to control your temper, “Fi I have loved you from the moment I met you. I’ve been there through majority of your past relationships, Jimmy’s a dick, I don’t know why you always fall for his shit. Am I just not enough?”

“You’re more than enough.”

You stood up getting off the porch, you reached into your pocket pulling out a cigarette from your pack. You inhaled deeply then exhaled watching the smoke dissipate. Fiona stood up making her way over to where you were standing.

“I know I fucked up, but I don’t wanna lose you. You’re the only good thing I got goin in my life right now.”

You took another drag off your cigarette turning to look at her, you felt her icy hand rest on your cheek as she looked at you with those damn big brown eyes that have always been your weakness.

You grabbed both of her hands, “Your hands are freezing.”

“Everything on me is freezing right now,” She said moving her hands from yours. You felt her hands slide into your jacket pocket’s causing your breath to hitch as you realized just how close the two of you were.

“Fi,” You said as the gap between the two of you was on the verge of closing.

“Hmm?” She hummed.

“We shouldn’t,” You said as her lips grazed yours causing your brain to go into over drive.

Before you knew it your lips were on hers, you wrapped your hands around her hips pulling her closer. Her hands made there way to the button on your jeans.

You pulled away abruptly, “I can’t.”

She looked at you confused, “Why not?”

“Because I’d be doing the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t.”

Fiona shook her head, “I’m going back inside and you know what? You can take your ass home. I’m done trying to show you that I really do love you and that I really do care about you. I’m trying to be a different person, I’m trying not to fuck things up with the one person who has actually been honest with me, that’s actually treated me like I matter.”

“Guess I fucked that up though.” Fiona mumbled turning around.

You stood there as you watched her make it up the first step, too busy battling with yourself to even try and stop her. You took one last drag off your cigarette discarding it onto the ground. Your eyes were still on Fiona, you watched as she made her way up the fourth step stopping in her tracks, she turned to look at you tears streaming down her face.

It made your heart ache and for spilt second nothing else mattered. Jimmy’s smug face didn’t matter, you telling yourself not give in didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered right now was Fiona.

“Damn it,” You mumbled jogging over to the porch.

As you made it to the fourth step Fiona threw her arms around your neck, you let your hands find their way to her waist.

“I really do love you,” Fiona whimpered.

“I know and I love you too.”

Fiona pulled away to look at you as you brought your thumb to her cheek wiping the tears that fell, before bringing your lips to her forehead.

“Does this mean we’re still together?” Fiona spoke up her tone slightly uncertain, but hopeful.

You took a deep breath bringing your hands back to her waist. A small smile creeping onto your lips as you looked at the woman in front of you.

“Yeah I guess it does.”

You awoke the next morning to the sunlight shining through the window practically blinding you, you yawned looking around the room that definitely wasn’t yours. Memories of the night before flashed through your mind.

You rolled over only to be inches away from Fiona’s face. You smiled to yourself as you listened to the sound of her light snoring bringing back a sense of comfort that you didn’t realize you needed. You brought your hand to her face moving some of her hair behind her ear causing her to stir around.

“Stop staring,” Fiona said her voice a little raspy.

“I can’t help it, I forgot just how hot you look in the morning.” You chuckled wrapping your arms around her waist.

She groaned bringing her head to rest on your chest, “You know as much as I’d love a round three, I’m still pretty exhausted from the other two rounds from last night.”

“Ah giving up are we, thought Gallaghers didn’t give up?” You joked causing Fiona to giggle.

“We don’t.” She yawned.

You chuckled bringing your lips to the crown of her head, “I love you.”

Fiona moved her head to look at you with a soft smile, “I love you too.”

You brought your hand to Fiona’s cheek running your thumb across her bottom lip, completely mesmerized by just how beautiful the woman truly looked in the morning, even with bed head and bags under her eyes she still looked like a dream.

You couldn’t even deny that you missed mornings like this because to you and Fiona nothing else mattered. It was just the two of you too wrapped up in your own little bubble to care about anything else.

“You don’t know how much I missed this, how much I missed us.” Fiona spoke up her voice filling the silence in the room.

Instead of saying anything you leaned in till your lips connected with hers. The kiss was slow, but passionate although it did begin to escalate from there. Before you knew it you were on top of Fiona as your lips trailed down her neck, you were half way under the covers when you felt Fiona’s body jolt.

“Damn it Carl!” She yelled angrily.

You took that as a sign to throw yourself on the other side of the bed making your way out from under the covers. You looked over at the boy who was standing in the door way with a smirk on his face.

“Dude knock next time,” Fiona sighed running her hand through her hair.

“This mean you guys are back together?” Carl chuckled which only irritated Fiona more.

“What do you want?” Fiona snapped.

“Frank’s in the kitchen trying to clean himself in the sink again,” his smiling fading to a look of disgust.

Fiona groaned, “You guys can’t deal with it?”

Carl shrugged before walking off.

You chuckled watching as Fiona stood up picking your black polo jacket up off the floor throwing it on.

“Fuckin Gallaghers,” she mumbled.

You shook your head as Fiona tossed you your t shirt, “Man I missed gettin cock blocked by your family.”

Fiona huffed looking over at you with a sour look on her face as she attempted to get her sweats on, “Meet you downstairs?”

“Yes ma’am,” you said bringing two fingers to your forehead saluting her.

Fiona rolled her eyes letting out a slight chuckle, “You’re such a fuckin dork.”

“But I’m your dork!” You shouted as the girl made her way out of the room flipping you the bird.

As you made your way down stairs you couldn’t help, but smile at the familiar sound of the Gallaghers bickering. That was one thing you never thought you’d miss, you made your way into the kitchen adjusting your jeans.

“There’s the woman of the hour!” Ian was the first to greet you lifting up his coffee cup like it was a beer.

You chuckled attempting to make your way over to the coffee pot as you watched Fiona swat Frank with a news paper.

“So I guess you two made up?” You turned your head to see Lip who was coming down the stairs with a cigarette dangling between his lips.

You were about to answer the man until Carl beat you to it, “I heard them fuckin makin up all night last night.”

You nearly spit out your coffee at the boys comment.

“Yeah you guys are loud,” Debbie chimed in picking up Franny sitting her at the kitchen table.

“Alright enough,” Fiona said walking over to where you were standing as you pulled her into your side.

“Don’t you guys got somewhere to be?”

“Why got some more makin up to do?” Carl joked causing the other Gallaghers to burst into a fit of laughter.

“Bet you didn’t miss this?” Fiona said gesturing to all the chaos going on around you.

You turned your head to look at the woman, “Believe or not I actually did.”

Fiona chuckled shaking your her head, “How did I get so lucky?”

“I’m the lucky one,” You said pulling her closer to you kissing the crown of her head.

In that moment you felt like you were home because to you Fiona was your home and you were hers.

#fiona gallagher #fiona gallagher x reader #shameless #jimmy lishman #frank gallagher #veronica fisher #kev ball #lip gallagher #ian gallagher #debbie gallagher #fan fiction #ao3 #ao3 writer #wlw love #carl gallagher

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llovelyclouds · 2 years ago

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notes on cristabel oct

here's all the relevant info on cristabel i took note of during my tlt reread, in one place!

you can find the rest of the posts in this project here!

CRISTABEL OCT

titles:

Mercymorn’s cavalier, first gen, founded the eighth (with Mercy)

name meaning: in latin the meaning of the name Cristabel is: beautiful christian/follower of christ

notes from harrow the ninth:

The reason Mercy is the Saint of Joy (htn. pg. 177)

Mercy won't talk about her to Harrow, even though John thinks she would, and that her name would upset Augustine (htn. pg. 177)

Augustine doesn't mind talking about her though, and says: "A total delight. Effervescent. Kind to animals and children. A master of the sword. Did not have the intellect you'd ordinarily find in a sandwich or an orange, and was a sickening twerp into the bargain. The Eighth House will never see her like again." (htn. pg. 177)

“‘You know what I feel… you know I don't think she was the best influence on Alfred… you know I think they brought out the worst in each other, and I don’t think you disagree.’ God said, ‘They were very similar people.’ ‘No,’ said Augustine. ‘They weren’t, John. She was a fanatic and an idiot- yes, she was, Mercy- and he… was a man who regretted he wasn't. It took surprisingly little to lead my brother astray.’” - Augustine and John, discussing whatever happened between Cristabel and Alfred (double suicide, maybe?) (htn. pg. 274)

Augustine hated her for sure, but he’s ok with pretending he didn’t for dios apate reasons (htn. pg. 279)

"Cristabel always said I was tidy." - Mercymorn (htn. pg. 410)

"you picked the wrong man to enter a suicide pact with. I hate 'em. Cristabel might have undone all my good work with Alfred, but here comes the reckoning." - Augustine (htn. pg. 487)

notes from nona the ninth:

"The only other people I put through that damn trial were Mercy and Cris, because only Cris didn't mind being trepanned on the regular."- Pyrrha, about her and G1deon's trial at Canaan house (ntn. pg. 84)

Was Mercy's nun best friend pre-resurrection (ntn. pg. 128)

"I was worried I was going to get the Antichrist bit from her too, but she was just like: stop doing this! Read your Bible! This was Christ's whole problem! I was like, What are you talking about, Jesus cured the lepers and everyone was all, Hooray, thanks man. M-'s nun was all, Are you kidding, Christ never said no and never asked anyone to pay and got everyone to pay way too much attention and brought the heat down on everybody, Christ didn't keep to office hours, she said. Don't do that." (ntn. pg. 190)

“Me in my bedroom with a nun and a migraine, her thinking that if she pushed me enough we’d instantiate the Trinity and we’d all be saved.” (ntn. pg. 399)

“Eventually it was the nun who changed things. She knocked on my door and said very nicely, John, how are you doing? And I said, Not great, honestly. She said, John, how close are you to finding the soul? And I said, I can’t, Sister, It’s too big. I don’t understand why it’s so huge. I can’t find the soul inside the body, I don’t know where to look. I don’t know what I’m doing. She prayed over me, and then she went away for the longest five minutes of my life. [...] Then the nun came back and knocked on my door and said, John, I think I have it. I know you’re very scared right now, but I’m going to help you. Please let me in. He said: I let her in. She’d brought P-’s gun. [...] She just smiled at me. She said, John, don’t misunderstand. I want to help you. I truly believe that in our most terrible hours we don’t instinctively reach out to God; we push ourselves away from Him. Don’t feel bad for not rising heroically to the occasion right now, Fear doesn’t help us achieve a state of grace; it deafens the heart. John, I truly believe you can save everyone. So concentrate, please. She said, Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for our sinners, now and at the hour of our death. And she shot herself.” (ntn. Pg. 404)

#junos silly little locked tomb thoughts #tlt #the locked tomb #tlt meta #tlt analysis #gideon the ninth #harrow the ninth #nona the ninth #alecto the ninth #ntn spoilers #gtn #htn #ntn #atn #cristabel #cristabel oct

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bunskiper · 9 months ago

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The Sentence

Chapter 2: House of Grief

The walk back to my new home is interesting but very unnerving. I feel like I’m on the set of Halloween Town. Trees stood tall and looked dead, covered with just vines and crows but no leaves. Fog lingered in the air. There was no one in sight. I found myself jumping at footsteps that weren’t there. I believe animals were scurrying but I couldn’t help constantly checking over my shoulder. Every time I did I could tell Mammon was staring. But he never mentioned it or tried to calm me. If he’s not scared I have no reason to.

This place didn’t seem real. It looked nothing like any place in my country. It seemed like the dead of winter, but there was no snow and the air was quite warm. The moon looked even bigger outside I couldn’t help but be thankful for its presence. Even if the sight of it was unnerving it illuminated this path that would otherwise be chilling to walk even if I wasn’t alone. But I can’t help but wonder where the hell am I? These people could have built up a whole society somewhere people barely are. Maybe Antarctica? I kept my arms crossed as I trudged behind Mammon. He seemed just as awkward. Stomping with each step he took. We haven’t spoken a word since we left. He puffed out a sigh rolling his eyes then narrowing them. Not really at anything just showing his annoyance. We kept walking. He signed again, rolling his eyes once more. This time he kept glancing over to me, waiting until I looked at him, and then quickly looking away annoyed. What the hell is he doing? With one more sigh, I realized he wanted me to ask what was wrong.

“What’s,” He interrupted me with an UGH

“I don’t believe this. Of all the rotten luck…” I nodded chewing on my lip. I had no idea what to say.

“Why should I have to look after some human? It’s insulting, that’s what it is!” I hate how they keep calling me Human like they aren’t human themselves. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the roleplay of this group.

“That rotten bastard... Does he really think he can scare me into doin’ whatever he wants?” Mammon seems to be speaking aloud his inner monologue. I don’t think he cares if I’m listening or not. He stopped in his place turning to me placing his hands on my shoulders twisting me to look his way. God, this again.

“Listen up Human! Just so we’re clear… it’s not like I can’t say no to Lucifer, okay!? I only agreed to babysit you because, um… Well, you know, because.. Uh…” Mammon trailed off trying to find some excuse to make me believe he wasn’t scared of him. I didn’t care if he was scared of him or not I just wanted him to take his arms off me.

“Anyway!” he shouted out taking me aback. “It doesn’t matter! Just don’t go thinking that I’m scared of Lucifer or anything! Because I’m not!” I wasn’t really listening to what he was saying and in all honesty,

“I really don’t care.” I did not mean to say that aloud.

“WHAT?!” He screamed offended. God damn it. I really have to watch my mouth. “Oh, now you’re REALLY in for it…!” He stopped removing his hands from my shoulders and placed one hand on his jaw. “Although come to think of it, I’m surprised you’ve got the guts to talk to me like that. You’re not scared?” I shook my head. No, Mammon, I’m not scared some neurotic man.

“I mean, that's just surprising. You get that I’m a Demon? Right? Like you understand what I am?” I nodded my head. Sure of course you’re a demon. He huffs in reply. “You’re one strange human, I’ll give ya that.” He grunts turning and walking. “Whatever. Let’s move on we’re almost there.” And we continued to walk on the path.

It wasn’t long until we arrived at the huge castle-like house. It was fucking massive. Grey brick fence lined the outside. Gravestones were just past the black spikey gate that Mammon pushed open. The house was church-like and stunning. Huge glass pane windows and bright orange lighting illuminated the path. There were people home.

“Well stop gawking at it, let's go!” Mammon yelled from the door.

“Sorry,” I mumbled taking my eyes off the house and over to him speeding up my pace.

He held the door open for me pushing me a bit as I walked through.

“This is the House of Lamentation. It’s one of the dorms here at RAD.” He raised an arm and presented the room to me. Wow. Despite the kidnapping, this place is gorgeous. They had to be rich. Large gargoyle statues sat next to the two staircases that led up to the second floor. Multiple paintings lined each wall. The wallpaper was a beautifully designed purplish-blue. I believe the stairs were made of marble. We stood on a brown rug that led down the hall between the two stairs.

He clicked his tongue. “Well, it’s not JUST one of the dorms. It’s the dorm reserved for student council members. Consider yourself lucky to be placed here.”

“You know, Lucifer, Asmo, and the others take every chance they get to insult me. Callin’ me scum, sayin’ that I’m a money-grubber and stuff… but I’m an officer on the student council, same as them. The elite of the elite, the top of the RAD social pyramid.” He placed his hands on his hips and triumphantly raised his head. “In other words, I’m a big shot. A REAL big shot. Like, even regular big shots are impressed by what a big shot I am. So don’t you go thinking that I’m just some ordinary demon. I’m nothing like those other peons walking the halls here.” I’ve got to be honest, having someone tell me exactly how cool they are really doesn’t make me think they’re cool. Still, I put on a polite smile. Hoping he stops talking soon and shows me to my room.

“Oh, and by the way. Diavolo is even MORE of a big shot. He’s so important that he’s got his own castle. That’s why he doesn’t live here with us.” He pauses thinking for a second. “Anyways, the long and short of it is that us seven brothers all live here together. Now, it’s time I show you to your room..” He takes his hands off of his hips and pivots his feet in the direction I assume my room is. I notice on one of the walls there’s a bulletin board. There are a couple of photos and flyers. One of them mentions a part-time position. Thats interesting. This has to be one big community. I’m assuming they’ve been around for a while. I think the big boss man is the Diavolo guy. Perhaps his dad or his grandpa started it with lots of money and it’s carrying on throughout the generations. Interesting.

“What in the Hell are you doing standing with your jaw open? Hurry up, or I’m gonna leave ya behind. If there’s something you wanna ask me, you’d best do it now.” Maybe I’ll check out the job listening to see if I could get a break from this place and make some money. God that sounds stupid. But I would like to check out the rest of the town.

“What’s the job listing?” I said pointing to the board. He shakes his head.

“Huh? If you’re curious then why don’t you read the flyer yourself? You can read can’t ya? Go ahead and read it later once I’m done showing you the room. But before you even think about getting a job let me tell you this one survival tip: If a demon looks like they’re gonna kill ya… run away. Either that, or die.”

“Do I look like a demon that’s going to kill YOU Mammon!?” A boy with blue hair and yellow eyes screamed from the top of the stairs. His uniform seemed to be sloppily put together. Only one button was buttoned on his overcoat and his undershirt had the two top buttons unbuttoned despite the fact he was wearing a tie. Maybe it was a style choice. He skipped multiple stairs as he raced down presumably toward Mammon. I gotta hand it to him he’s running without a single fear of falling. Good on him.

“Oh Fuck, Levi!” Mammon's eyes widened. “Uh… l-listen up, human! This here is Leviathan, the Avatar of Envy. He’s the third oldest of us brothers.” He was skipping and stuttering on his words anxious to leave. “Since his name’s sorta hard to say, you can just call him Levi! Okay then, come on your room let's go!!” He grabbed my arm and started to drag me.

“Ow! What the fuck let go!” I pulled my arm back trying to loosen it from his grip. God damn this guy is strong.

“Mammon, give me back my money. Then go crawl back to your fuck ass hole and DIE.” Levi pushed himself in front of Mammon who finally let go and put his hands up in defense.

“Come on, I told you I’d get it to you! I just need a little more time. … And you still want me to die even after I give it back? Come on Levi we’re brothers that’s really harsh!”

“How much more time could you need jackass!” Levi was practically fuming I think I see smoke seeping out of his ears.

“Just a little more okay!?”

“You’ve been saying that for 200 years!”

“200? It has been 260 years get it right, Levi!”

“Unbelievable. Seriously Mammon, you’re,” Levi was cut off by Mammon shouting in his face.

“I’m What? Scum? Is that what you’re gonna say? Because I’ve heard it,” Levi then cut Mammon off screaming louder. What a way to be introduced to my new home.

“You’re a lowlife and a waste of space.”

“Hey! That’s even worse come on!” Mammon looked down ashamed no longer yelling. Levi threw his hands up in defeat.

“Whatever…. Just give me my money. I need it to buy the Blu-ray box set of Journey to the Devildom: The Tale of Little She-Devil and Her Reluctant Companion. The initial round of copies includes promotional tickets to a live event as a special bonus” What an oddly specific title. How did he even remember all that?

“I’ve got no idea what you’re even talking about, Levi, but it doesn’t matter! Because I don’t even have any money to give you. How am I supposed to give back money I don’t have, huh!?” Mammon shrugs.

“So then, you’re telling me you refuse to pay me back?”

“That is NOT what I’m saying. Are you just looking for a fight? Is that it?” Damn. I like this. I’ve got my own Jersey Shore playing out in front of me. Maybe if I yelled world star they’ll start beating each other's asses.

“Listen up human! Remember the advice I told you about with demons? Well, get ready. It’s time for you to die because it’s either me or you and it’s gonna be you!” He shoves me into Leviathan taking off. Levi then shoves me back away. I feel like a ping pong.

“Ew what... What the fuck. Mammon! You ass... He just ran off. Do you realize what just happened? Mammon used you as a distraction to get away from me. He used you as a sacrifice.” Levi was shaking his head. Wow, making Mammon my protector was such a good idea. “I’ll admit that Mammon is one of the scummiest scumbags you’ll ever meet… a total lowlife. But still, that was pretty dumb of you letting him use you like that.” He breathed out a really exaggerated sigh. “This is EXACTLY why humans are…” He stopped mid-sentence. I truly don’t understand anything these guys say. Why do they keep calling me human? Did Lucifer not tell them my name?

“WAIT A SECOND..” Leviathan yelled. Jesus fuck. “Humans.. Yes, that’s it…” He started rubbing his hands together maniacally. The only thing this guy is missing is a cat to stroke. “Suddenly, I’ve got an idea!” Holy shit I see the light bulb shining above his head. “Listen, are you free right now? Of course, you are. You’ve gotta be, right? It doesn’t matter! Either way, you’re coming with me.” I opened my mouth to respond when the phone in my pocket buzzed.

“One second sorry,” Levi sighed again tapping his foot impatiently. It was Mammon.

Heya, I suddenly have business to take care of sorryy. If you have questions ask Levi! He sent a little demon emoji winking with a star. That’s cute but he’s a dick. Oh, and just make sure… Don’t go around tellin’ stuff to Lucifer, ya got that

He then sent me an angry bird thing. I scrunched my face. Should I tell Lucifer? I really don’t want to talk to him. I clicked on the emojis I also had the cute demons and weird birds. I pressed the one that had a little ok with stars. He then texted me a little purple demon with big green horns blowing me a kiss. I blushed. No, I’m not attracted to him I just don’t take flirting well. I’m fine this is fine I don’t have Stockholm.

“Umm... Hellooo,” Levi broke me from my thoughts. Thank god. The last thing I need is to develop feelings for my kidnappers. Come on I have to think smart.

“Yeah sorry, let’s go I guess.”

“Great uh…” He looked down at my hand. I’m pretty sure I saw him shiver. “Yeah… um just follow me.” He twisted his heel and started up the stairs. I followed close behind. When exactly will I find out where my room is?

Once we got to the top we took a sharp left and immediately we were there. Before he twisted the handle he dramatically looked to his left, right, and behind him. Then he pushed the door, shoved me in, and quickly slammed it shut.

“What the..” I murmured.

“What’s that? Oh I see, you want to know why I looked around to see if anyone was watching before I closed the door? Why do you THINK I did it?! Isn’t it obvious!? Imagine what would happen if someone saw me inviting you into my room! A human who doesn’t even look like an otaku, but a NORMIE! You know what people would say, right!?” His long ramble allowed me to see how beautiful his room was. The ceiling and wall was like an aquarium. How was that possible? It seemed to have actual water and fish that swam by. There wasn't a normal light he had a chandelier of jellyfish lights. There wasn’t a bed but a bathtub.

“I asked you a question,” Ok snappy.

“Are you worried people might gossip or something?” Buddy turned Bright red and covered his face with a hand. He continued to stutter over his words.

“Of.. No Of c-course of No! That’s that’s crazy! There’s only room in my heart for one person and she’s animated! I am completely faithful to my lovely, sweet Ruri-chan! Always!” His eyes widened as he removed his hand. He’s kinda cute. “Why would people gossip?! I mean, me and some non-otaku-some normie!? And not only that, a THREE-DIMENSIONAL one from the real world!? It's insane, that’s what it is!” Another long explanation I have listen to. I turn to the bookshelf next to us. There are posters and collectible figures on top. I look over at the books. There’s this huge thick one. The spine reads the tales of the Seven Lords: The Lord of Shadow Awakens

“What is it, human? What’re you looking at?” He speaks to me like a dog as he traces where I’m looking.

“Wait.. that’s… you’re looking at The Tale of the Seven Lords. Are you a fan of that, too?” I couldn’t stop my face twisting to confusion.

“I’ve never heard of it…” He looks offended.

“... Excuse me? You don’t know TSL?! And you call yourself a human!! Just how clueless ARE you?! How could you not know ?!”

“I don’t you guys do,” I snapped back.

“That’s not the point… Just the fact that you don’t know TSL alone is proof that you’ve been wasting your life! So, I’m going to do you a favor and teach you about TSL. Make sure you pay attention.” He motioned to the bean bag chair next to his bed allowing me to sit. He then proceeded to tell me the entire plot of the books in an even pace back and forth. It was kind of alluring how much passion he had for this show. I love it when people love something so much they can’t help but ramble when it’s brought up. I tried to pay attention as much as I could but he talks fast and a lot. I continued to pass gaze around the room. He had a huge wall of posters and another bookshelf this time surrounding his PC. I was sat in front of a glass table where a bottle and headphones lay. He had multi-colored tiles throughout the whole floor. He had such a captivating room. I loved it. I tuned back in to his ramble when he ended it with

“I want to shout it at the top of my lungs! … actually, you know what? I want to BE Henry!” he shouted at me.

“Maybe someday you WILL be Henry,” I spoke not really knowing what else to say. He was passionate I’ll give him that.

“Stop it. You’re just saying that to make me feel better. Don’t lie to me. Alright enough. This is starting to depress me. Anyway, I didn’t bring you here to tell you about TSL. I don’t think there’s any harm in just coming out and saying what you already know is true: Mammon I a complete and utter scumbag. It’s very important that you understand this. So, I’ll say it one more time. Mammon is a hopeless. worthless. SCUMBAG! I lent that scumbag money, and now I want him to pay me back. But being the scumbag that he is, he won't do it. I wish I could force him to, but despite what a rotten waste of space he is, Mammon’s still the second oldest. As the third oldest, no matter how hard I try, I don’t stand a chance against him…”

“When did this all start?” I ask. Why is Mammon Levi’s sworn enemy?

“It’s a long story but… sure I’ll tell you, human. Once, a long time ago, Mammonn won a prize in a convenience store promotional campaign. If you bought something, they let you reach into a box and pull out a piece of paper that told you what you’d won. And the prize Mammon won was a Seraphina figurine, something I would’ve died to have. But, despite the fact that Mammon had no interest in it at all, he refused to give it to me. Why? Because I wanted it... He just wanted to be a dick for the fun of it. He’s such an ass. I knew that that scumbag wouldn’t take care of this pristine figurine so I sneak into his room in the middle of the night. Come to find that he had just thrown it straight to the floor! Still in the packing one a dirty floor that obviously hadn’t been cleaned in months. I was so pissed I marched my way to his sleeping body and brought my heel down straight on his stomach as hard as I could. In a flash he was no longer in his bed… no he was behind me. Grabbed me, picked me up, and slammed me head-first into the floor. He was butt fucking naked too! I was passing out questioning why he slept nude. He couldn’t wear some underwear or something? I have no memory of the rest of the night. I’m thinking if a human can make a pact with Mammon, and bound him to their service… then he’d have to do whatever that human told him! This means in order to get the money back I need you to make a pact with Mammon. He would have no choice but to do it.”

“What is a pact?”

“You haven’t seen the movies? The demon lends his strength to a human to make their wish come true in exchange for their soul.”

“I don’t want to give up my soul…” To be convincing I need to go along with what they’re saying. I just need to keep reminding myself this when they say weird shit.

“That isn’t always necessary. It depends on what’s in the pact. But you need SOMETHING to the exchange with the demon to make the pact happen so it’s pretty much inevitable. But if you don’t want to give up your soul, then I’ll tell you how to negotiate with Mammon. Not to mention, having a powerful demon as your servant could be extremely useful. Don’t you agree?”

“Yeah! I can do that,” I had a bright smile on my face!

“Are you actually this optimistic or are you just that stupid to know what you’re getting into? I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you think. What’s important is the plan I’m going to explain to you right now so listen close!”

Looking for chapter 1? Here's the link! https://www.tumblr.com/bunskiper/756204493300006913/the-sentence?source=share

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soobjvn · 10 months ago

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TULIPS 🌷⁎︎° ✳︎ CHAPTER 27 : “ mission success (pt. 2) ,, ( smau + written )

— cw: none afaik!

[ prev. ✧︎ toc. ✧︎ next. ]

THE GROUP HAD been walking around the park for another two-ish hours after getting off quickcoaster, stopping at every cliche game tent and taking every possible photo op. as the sky turned from light blue to vibrant pinks and oranges, the mood continued to lift. especially between yn and yeonjun.

“what do you mean you’re scared of butterflies? they’re like the least scary things ever.” the two had fallen behind the group, walking so closely any passerby was sure to perceive them as a couple. truthfully, yeonjun had totally done this on purpose. he’d watched a few guys give yn ogling looks, and had to do something to show she was off limits. or, she would be soon; wishful thinking on his part.

“no, no, jun. you’re so wrong. have you ever seen a magnified picture of them? if aliens are real, they’ve already infiltrated our planet, and are flying RIGHT above us.” he laughed at how passionately she spoke about her irrational fear of butterflies, and, as he’d learned, all bugs. “well don’t just stare at me like i’m crazy.” but his gaze was certainly not filled with judgement.

“i dunno, yn, you definitely sound a bit crazy right now. aliens?”

“whatever, you’re scared of roller coasters.”

“okay, that’s just, like, not even comparable in the slightest,” yeonjun scoffed. “the cart could totally fly off the tracks or something. but what’s a butterfly gonna do, huh?” yn was prepared to spit out another sassy response, when yunjin called out to the pair.

“hey, do you guys wanna get some funnel cake?”

“um, duh!” yn ran off to join the rest of the group, leaving yeonjun to smile at her in adoration. taehyun paused to let yeonjun catch up to him.

“you doin’ alright?” taehyun put a hand on his shoulder as they began walking. “well, i know you’re doing more than alright. how bad is it, i guess i should ask.”

“definitely more than alright. and yeah, it is pretty bad, tae.”

“look,” taehyun began, sighing. “i know i act all… i dunno, like i’m uninterested in your guys’ relationship. because, well, listening to your cousin flirt is gross. but i do really care about and want the best for you both, genuinely.” taehyun offered a small smile which yeonjun reciprocated.

“wow, that was beautiful, taehyun, i could cry.” taehyun rolled his eyes when yeonjun wiped a fake tear from his eye.

“but, yn’s my family. if you hurt her i will put instant mashed potatoes in your front lawn.”

“i live in a dorm, but i get the sentiment,” yeonjun said, grinning.

“whatever.”

“i think i’m gonna tell her tonight.” he watched taehyun’s eyes widen in shock, but he hummed in affirmation.

“you have my blessing.”

“yn… she likes me too, right?” taehyun grinned at the pleading look in yeonjun’s eyes.

“well there definitely wasn’t another guy, as i tried to tell you, idiot.“

“yeah, yeah, i get that now.”

“but you should tell her. she might feel the same. or not. dunno.”

“i hate you, you know that?” taehyun laughed, and the two walked towards the group when yn impatiently called out their names.

“c’mon, we want funnel cake!” she and beomgyu stared up with childlike excitement at the menu of sugary treats. “ok, i’ll get the regular, gyu, you get the one with chocolate drizzle, aaand,” she turned to face yeonjun, pointing to him commandingly. “you get the strawberry one. then we can all share.”

“yes ma’am,” yeonjun saluted.

“love it.” beomgyu reciprocated her eagerness excitedly. “yeonjun’s paying!”

“hello?” yeonjun crossed his arms, ready to protest, but he stopped when his eyes fell on yn. “um yeah, sure. whatever.”

“thanks, man.” beomgyu held up a hand to high-five yeonjun, but put it down when yeonjun didn’t reciprocate the gesture. “buzzkill. anyways, you and yn can save our spot in line. yn, i’m actually gonna go sit with the others! yeonjun will order mine for me.” he winked as he walked to sit at the picnic bench where the others were seated, where the boys attentively tuned in to whatever gossip yunjin and winter were rambling about.

“thanks for buying, jun!” yn said as yeonjun stood next to her in line. “still a gentleman.” he didn’t have time to reply, though, as it was their turn in line. yeonjun repeated the order yn had recited, handing his card to the cashier.

“you guys are a cute couple,” the cashier said when she handed them their order, a bright smile on her face. “young love. ah, i miss it.”

“oh, we’re not-“

“thanks!” yeonjun cut her off, an innocent grin on his lips. “love to treat my girl.” he gave yn a pat on her head as she looked up at him, confusion painted on her face. the lady was also visibly confused by their conflicting answers.

“seems like you two need to have a conversation…” yeonjun laughed when yn put her head in her hands. “well, have a nice night, sort-of-couple.”

“thank you,” yn quickly said, grabbing the bag of food and escaping the uncomfortable conversation as fast as possible.

“um, what was that about?” yn asked, walking towards the bench their friends had been sitting at.

“just felt like teasing you. you’re cute when you’re all flustered like that.” yeonjun ruffled her hair, leaving yn’s face even redder.

“freak,” she muttered.

“you really aren’t good at whispering, yn.”

“wait, where’d they go?”

“hm?” he turned his attention from yn to the empty bench, which they were both certain their friends had been gathered around only minutes before. “oh. weird… group bathroom trip?” he shrugged.

yn pulled out her phone to send a text to their group chat, but realized it was unnecessary as she read the text yunjin sent her.

those sneaky bitches.

clearly they’d planned this out well, as all of her friends’ locations were disabled. yeonjun was right: they truly were determined to get them to talk.

yeonjun had seemingly received a similar text, looking up from his phone to yn. “guess we’re on our own for a bit. um… what d’you wanna do?”

yn smirked as she looked at the line for quickcoaster, which was significantly shorter than the first time they rode it.

“oh no. no, no, no. the first time was bad enough yn.”

“shh, i have an idea!”

“oh god.”

“i’ll give you 20 dollars if you don’t scream the whole ride.” she smirked, putting her hands on her hips.

“yup, goodbye.” he turned to walk away, but yn swiftly grabbed his hand and he turned back around.

“you can do it! you already know where all of the drops are and what they feel like. and, i won’t make you pay me if you lose. it’s a win-win situation!”

“uh, what’s the other win?”

“junnie, pleaseeee,” she dragged out, yeonjun’s heart melting at the nickname. “i don’t wanna ride it again on my own.” he sighed in defeat. he truly was incapable of saying no to her.

“fine.”

“yay!” she kept her hand in his, dragging him behind her as they got in the line.

she’s totally gonna be the death of me. quite literally.

IT WAS AN hour later, and yeonjun and yn sat on a park bench, a seat that gave them a perfect view of the sky as it was placed at the egde of the fair, no attractions present to block the sight. it was well past 9 now, and the sky was dotted with stars.

after riding quickcoaster again (and yn, to her shock, losing 20 dollars), the two had played a number of fair games, took a few pictures at a photo booth, and spent an unnecessary amount of money buying matching bubble guns.

but now, they were completely out of energy. they had sent the group their location and were told they were on the way, so they decided to sit and wait.

yn sat with her legs curled up to her chest, trying her best to keep her eyes open. yeonjun had won a plush for himself at the claw machine — which he named yeonjun junior in “retaliation,” he said, for the time they were at the market and yn had criticized the name — and yn was resting her head on it.

“this was fun, yeonjun,” she said after a moment of comfortable silence. “why are we so stupid?” he laughed, realizing she was talking about the whole tweet miscommunication situation.

“we really are. i can’t believe you were so jealous you ignored me for five days.”

“hey, you were jealous too. you could’ve texted first.” his heartbeat quickened at the use of “too.” he watched her eyes widen as she realized her slip-up. “i mean—“

“oh so you admit it? you were jealous?”

“whatever.” yn turned her head away from him. yeonjun grinned, using his finger to turn her chin, forcing her to face him. she parted her lips slightly, her eyes sparkling with bewilderment. the thoughts going through her head were scattered and indescribable. but in short, she was totally whipped.

“yeonjun—“

“don’t you know?” she swallowed, using any strength she had left in her to form a coherent response.

“d-don’t i know what, jun?”

“that you’re the only one i wa—“

“oh, there they are!” yeonjun dropped his hand and the two turned their heads towards the sound. beomgyu. “mmm, i can smell my funnel cake from here.”

yeonjun was seriously gonna murder this kid.

“hey guys!” kai waved. “sorry, we got a bit lost.” he giggled, and yunjin took a seat next to yn.

“yup. big fair here,” yunjin added, wrapping an arm around yn’s shoulder. she leaned in to her ear.

“i need full details, yn. the second we’re home.” yn couldn’t hide the smile forming, but it quickly faded when she realized what could have happened had she and yeonjun not been interrupted.

“i think we call it quits. not sure what you two did, but i’m exhausted,” soobin said, yawning.

“yup. good idea. beomgyu, let’s go, yeah? i’ll walk with you!” beomgyu stopped stuffing his face, getting the idea this was much more than a friendly stroll. he cleared his throat and closed the box.

“um, yeah, for sure.” yeonjun stood up, walking in the direction of the parking lot with his arm around beomgyu’s shoulder. soobin trailed behind, resembling a tired father. yn laughed thinking about the scolding yeonjun was going to give beomgyu.

“yeah, you definitely had a good night,” jay said, grabbing the car keys from his pocket as the group approached the car.

“i really did.”

“mission success!” kai cheered from the passenger seat.

the cashier lady was definitely right. she and yeonjun desperately needed to have a conversation.

TAGLIST 🌷@bangchansbae @raehyun-byeoll @yyawnjun @junhuicosmo @n034sy @wintertxt @fanfangying1304 @crystal-jellies @gyuszie @lightprincess-world @hyuneyeon @tocupid @cookiehaos @222brainrot @choi-beomgyulvr @hyehae @yunwonie @you-make-skz-stay @mrsyawnzzn (bold couldn’t be tagged)

— pssst, feel free to use my asks / comment here if you’d like to be added to the tag list <3

A/N 🌷 are we… actually getting somewhere…

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local-loudmouth · 1 year ago

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Portals gone wrong!

(“The 4 servants Au” & “time beats a dead man Au” ((collab w/ @mikey-rottmnt)) Crossover fic!)

2/???

Tbadm universe, 12:38pm.

“uh..not to like, complain or anything but-“

“Why am i TIED UP?!?” Leo demanded, squirming in the rope. “because, you look ugly. And we don’t trust you.” Bendy pulled the rope tight, making sure it was secure. jeez, what a crazy day. First he had to calm down a guilt devoured Koi, now these Weridos fall outta the sky and invade their camp? What’s next, Someone loses a leg??

“I kinda feel bad for tying them up..” Dale whimpered. “WHY??? the little orange one was gonna attack us!!!” Chip reminded her, trying to be the reasonable one here. “Yeah but.. Besides that, they seem really nice!! and look at that one!! It’s got cool red paint on its face!!”

“as much as I love a complement, this isn’t paint. It’s my skin, thank you very much.” Leon smirked, sparkling as usual. Except there were literal sparkles..- what the hell???

Chip just..observed carefully. wow, this guy was gayer than him and mugs combined. And that’s really saying something here. Though he hated to admit, these guys did seem kinda harmless.

‘I’m sure the grown-up’s could take these bozos in a fight, anyway. So..whats the big deal?? What’s everyone so afraid of?’

Chip, being the observant guy he is, decided to go check on the others. Since everyone was acting a little bit off. And suspicious, he might add. “Come on.” He Signaled Dale to ‘follow his lead.’ And within seconds, the siblings were on a investigation.

———————————————————————

it was quiet. too quiet. Why you may ask? Well, I’ll let cup answer that one.

Cuphead Stares at raph. No conversation, no movement, just an intimidating cold stare. Raph couldn’t even bare to meet his gaze, so he turned to face the tents wall. As this starring contest continued on, the 2 bystanders looked at eachother with concern.

“cup, lay off dude. It’s been like 5 minutes. You’re scaring the poor guy!!” Mugs suggested. No one dared move.

another couple minutes go by, and mugs tries again. Again, not movement.

She tries again and again, and like every time before..

Nothing happened.

“UGHH!! WHY CAN YOU JUST LISTEN TO ME?!” He shouted, readying up a punch to the face. “Hey, hey! Mugs, calm. Down. Anger will not fix anything.” Boris reassured him, in a desperate attempt to calm her down.

“Tell me, Bucko. Why’re you really here??” cup finally spoke up, building up the tension. Raph finally Met eyes with him.

“I don’t know, ok?! Look, one minute I was hanging out with my brothers, watching a Jupiter Jim movie, and then-“

”wait, who’s Jupiter Jim?” Mugs asked, not expecting to be heard. But of course..

He was.

“ah! Jupiter Jim is the main protagonist in me and my brothers favourite movies! He’s so cool, and also have a red panda sidekick!! But there’s also comics, fan fics, graphic novels, spin-offs, fan made episo-“

“Ok can you shut up? We don’t wanna hear about your nerdy lil sci-fi show, uh..whatever you are.” Raph went completely silent after that, slightly embarrassed.

“Dude. I-“ mugs sighs.

“Ok, move it boy toy.” He attempts to shove cup outta the way. But uh..

Cup snickers at his brothers failed attempt to move him.

“Keep trying, toothpick. One day maybe you’ll be able to make me move an arm” he howls with laughter. Mugs rolled his eyes. Tsk, at least he wasnt an overachiever study nerd.

Raph Just Watch the 2 siblings, letting out a small laugh.

Cup immediately turned his attention back to raph, looking kinda..pissed..off? Uh oh..-

“Find something funny?” his voice was low, as he inched in closer to Raph’s face. He stares at him again, narrowing his eye.

“n-nooooooo…?”

“just leave the guy alone. You’re being a bitch.” Mugs told him off, putting a hand on her hip.

“WHA- I AM NOT!! THIS GUY COULD BE POTENTIALLY DANGEROUS!!!” “Cup, he doesn’t even have any weapons.” this seems to get cup upset, he rolls his eyes and storms out. What a baby. Mugs scowls at him as he leaves, soon turning his gaze to their unexpected visitor.

“Sorry..a-about him. He’s just..very cautious..of people..”

“Well, can you blame him?” Boris stepped in.

“you and him have been through a lot together. He’s just trying to protect you.”

Well, this seemed to get to mugs. He thought for a moment. She hated to admit it but..Boris was right. Maybe they’d been acting like a jerk to cup.

As he got lost in his thoughts, Boris glanced at their prisoner.

this was gonna be one hell of a day, huh.

Welp…

It’s time to prepare.

PREV MASTERPOST NEXT

#<3 #tbadm #tbadm au #tbadm mugs #tbadm cup #tbadm boris #babqftim au #t4s au #T4S leo #T4S raph #tbadm bendy #Tbadm dale #tbadm chip

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dykebeckett · 1 year ago

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I think blue no matter who people are stuck on fear and have not thought about stuff beyond that. ie it is very scary to imagine a second trump term, especially the more you learn about project 2025 or whatever the fuck their sinister machinations are called, and yeah that’s definitely something I agree with but I would love for you guys to think further than that please. think about. and I know this is tough when you’re scared. but think about stuff that effects people and places beyond yourself because there are a lot of those and they are just as human as you and a lot of them are scared too. a lot of them are more scared than you even if you can believe it. like. I promise I get it. I live in marjorie the gathering’s district I am well aware that republican officials suck shit. nobody doesn’t know that. but I feel like you should have a higher bar than “he’s in the club I’m in” or “not convicted of crimes” or “I have imagined without evidence that the orange one will aid and abet this genocide somewhat more than my preferred old man is currently aiding and abetting genocide so it is a moral imperative to let the current one continue the slightly smaller amount of weapons dealing”

#local and smaller elections are hugely important and there are genuinely a lot of really good dem candidates in smaller races. there might #be one in your area. unlike the presidential race you are going to have to do research yourself because unless a candidate becomes a big #name it is not going to be on the tv so you are going to have to read stuff.#but you cannot just accept that biden is the best that this world can offer. I am begging you to hope for better and demand better.#you fools and cunts.

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 2 years ago

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Self-Indulgent Fic Snippet: Corruption

Tim Stoker. Who is legitimately magical?

The King in Yellow. Made vulnerable?

Kayne.

Fear gods.

Getrude Robinson.

A Whole Freaking Mess.

There's a threesome except it's really not?

P.S. This is not explicit. Just Tim Remembering Stuff that did not go the way he thought.

-------------------

What’s happening? John gasps. Where’s… what’s happening?

Tim gasps, too. He can see.

Which maybe means John cannot?

The hangar is huge, and almost entirely rusted orange. It’s not too dark; both front and back walls have been completely torn out, though it’s anyone’s guess if that happened before the devil got here. Rusted-out farm equipment and random junk lie all over the place, and Tim really hopes his tetanus shot is up to date.

What a stupid thing to think. He’s not surviving this.

And also? The devil is a guy.

Just… a guy, a man, just crouching there, wearing an absolutely boring suit with the shirt slightly unbuttoned, all of it rumpled as if he’d been out all night drinking to celebrate The Business Deal.

If not for his bare feet, which seem to be smoking, he’d be nearly unremarkable.

“Oh, he’s really freaking out now,” the guy purrs, and smiles like a hurricane. “I should’ve done this with the other one! Place swap! Ooh, maybe I should give him your body?”

“What?” says Tim, voice cracking.

The guy’s face… twitches. It’s not a good look. It matches his words exactly, conflict and amusement and rage. “Fuckin’... John. You had to go and make me laugh. Damn it.” He gets up and starts pacing again.

Tim stares at him.

That is obviously not this guy’s body. No fucking way - but he moves it well.

He moves like a tiger. It’s not human motion; it’s too smooth, too controlled, like he’s made of power and violence.

Tim would absolutely have hit on him in a pub.

He suddenly wonders if he has hit on (and succeeded) with non-human things in a bar.

“You have,” says the laughing beast without even looking at him.

“How do you know?” says Tim. “Wait. You?”

The devil laughs. “Sweet summer child. No. You’re alive and sane (though they’re both not a given at the moment), which is not a thing after I have had my way. So, no. You have not been fucked by me. Also, I just got here! New kid on the block!”

Just got there.

Because of the book that Tim opened.

“Oh, gods,” Tim moans.

What? What’s happening? says John in a panic.

“Oh, and sweetums? Call me Kayne. Not that I hate the laughing beast (better believe that’s going on some booty shorts), but the titles are getting distracting.” And then he grabs Tim’s rope and drags him across the uneven, littered ground.

The cleat hooks catch on things. They dig in. Tim cries out.

Then Kayne tosses him onto the manky old armchair, and a cloud of spores or whatever the hell rises.

Tim coughs, choking.

What? What’s going on? John demands.

Kayne flops in front of Tim, elbows digging into his thighs, chin propped on hands, and beams up at him.

Eyes watering, Tim freezes.

“So, my darling yellow coward… how’ve you been?” says the devil, says Kayne, who apparently intends to drag this out.

John makes that low, wordless sound.

It is not a good sound.

It’s terror, vocalized.

Tim doesn’t know why he speaks up, except that no one deserves to be treated this way, even if they are fucking Cthulhu. “He’s scared shitless of you. He can’t fucking answer.”

“Are you scared shitless of me, then?”

“Uh, yeah?” Tim can’t help the sarcasm.

“But you’re talking. He’s not.”

“Maybe I talk when I’m scared,” says Tim, which is true. “Besides - you said he’s been running away for two thousand years. Give him a minute.”

Kayne snorts at him. “Hey, want to know what you fucked?” he says, and Tim is smacked in the brain with memory.

Of the adorable couple in the pub in Fairfield, positively impish smiles, getting all his jokes -

Of the three of them coming together like some wild spring bloom, all different petals and colors and all grassy-sweet -

And Tim’s memory, all him, of Carlin inside him and Darcy on top, of a rare and beautiful intimacy of no-holds-barred and everybody satisfied, of laughing in the bedroom (Tim loves that best) and top-ten-orgasms-ever territory -

And then, Tim sees what it really was.

Not a couple at all. Not human at all. Some kind of long, moss-covered thing, with deer’s antlers and an emotionless human face, with many openings and a segmented body and at least ten arms with hands on each, pinning him down and fucking him stupid (and being fucked, too, which somehow matters?), and lifting a scorpion tail above him, ready to strike -

So clearly about to kill him, stretching him out, tail poised right over his willingly exposed throat -

And Tim, being Tim, laughing in the middle of illusory bliss and saying, “Happy birthday to me!”

And the thing (Male? Female? Did it even fit in one category?) just out of curiosity saying in a dual voice, “Is it your birthday?”

And Tim, being Tim, nerves singing, brain ringing, saying, “Naw, but if it was, I’d sell tickets.”

And the thing… laughs.

Because Tim bleeds charm, and Tim is weirdly cute, and the way Tim says this is so ridiculously endearing that the scorpion tail retracts, disappears, is put away.

The thing still takes its pleasure from him, but he doesn’t die.

And in his memory, he felt besotted, and then sad as the couple (not a couple, not at all a couple) told him they had a good time, but they were just passing through, and they left before he woke.

What? says John, sounding shell-shocked. A Sela? No! He doesn’t have antlers. I would have noticed!

“It would’ve given me antlers?” says Tim weakly.

“Nope! Hastur went stupid for a moment and thought you weren’t human. See, what the Sela does is take your seed, give you its seed, and then it kills you! Stabs you through the throat so your blood can water things. Then you become a tree, and it gives birth to a thing that looks like you, but with antlers. When it grows up, the cycle begins again.”

From nowhere comes the light piano theme of The More You Know.

Okay, Tim has stroked out and this isn’t happening. Cannot be happening. Cannot. “Oh, of course that’s what it does. Naturally, should have guessed.”

“You really do talk when you’re scared, don’t you? And no, you’re not stroking out, but that’s an idea. Bet you’d both love that,” says Kayne.

No, says John, which is when Tim finally grasps that Kayne showed this memory to him, too. The Sela doesn’t spare people. This is bullshit.

“Yet it did. And who the fuck are you to argue, anyway? Hey, Timmy. Hey. Do you want to know what Hastur was doing today?”

Tim is busy being so grateful for condoms he almost misses the question. “He… was going to take my body?”

“Pfft, hahaha!” says Kayne. “I mean, Yeah, he was leaning toward it, but guess what? He made himself an arbitrary roadblock.”

John is silent.

It takes Tim a moment. “What are you talking about?”

“He likes you. He set a bar for magic ability that’s really absurd, and had decided if you weren’t gods-damn Merlín, he wouldn’t go through with it - all couched under the guise of not good enough for him.”

They’re both silent.

Kayne rises and speaks right against his ear. “Then you opened the book and damned him. You just know he’d thought better of you, right?”

Tim feels sick. Shamed. “I don’t know why I did it.”

“Uh-huh, we’ll get to that. Hey, John. Did you even notice yet? Did you? No… so fucking self-centered. He got marked, mon petit roi, while you were dicking around playing Humane Society.”

What? says John, sounding startled. Nonsense, I would have -

John makes a choked noise.

“Marked?” says Tim, thinking bruises, cuts -

“By a god-eating entity of complete and utterly personal destruction,” says Kayne. “By the one who Consumes All. By That Which Sets Ablaze to treasured things, feeds that fire with its flesh, and laughs all the way to ash and ruin.”

And Tim feels… a flutter.

An echoed anger, a whispered call to finish what he’d already started.

That is not his desire.

Yet it sort of is. It’s his hopelessness turned to poison, his pain weaponized, his blunt-edged anger bent to hammer-headed rage.

“Fun, right? I’ve never seen the Desolation called to someone because of something inside their own body. He loses control of that again, you’re both dead, and I’m pretty sure it’ll hurt.”

Kayne sounds like he just saw an intriguing trailer for a movie.

What are you going to do to me? And that voice, John’s voice, is so afraid that it dumps water on that rising alien rage.

“Kill you! But oh, you know what’s really funny? I might not have if you hadn’t run. Might’ve ignored you. Or just hurt you for a few centuries. I didn’t particularly care, Hastur - until you ran. Until you actually thought you could get away from me. Until you had the gall to stay hidden.”

Tim is shaking by the end of this, even though it’s not directed at him.

The malevolence in every word is like spider legs, crawling all over him, tips of fangs just pricking his flesh and threatening venom.

John (Hastur, whoever) makes that low groan again.

Tim isn’t sure what to do.

The simmering rage wants to poke, to tease the spiders so they sink their fangs in.

The quivering fear wants to stay silent in hopes only John dies today.

Neither of those are who he wants to be.

Who he thought he was by default until all of this - a good guy, just one of the good ones, someone people could trust in a pinch, who didn’t molest or steal or ever hurt another person.

So it turns out that isn’t him.

When things got bad, he grew so angry that he opened the book, knowing others would suffer.

Disgust at himself is just one more wiggling worm thrown into the bucket of himself, but he can deal with it later. For now, he can at least try to do one good thing.

“Sounds boring,” he says.

John doesn’t have a body to stiffen, but he sure gives that impression, anyway.

“Oh really,” says Kayne.

Kayne probably heard that entire thought process.

Tim decides to act on the assumption that he has. “Seems to me the movie trailer would be the more entertaining option. Better than just canceling the show mid-season.”

John’s bafflement almost tickles, it’s so strong, and Tim suddenly wonders why he can feel John’s moods, but apparently, John can’t feel his.

You’d think the guy kipping in his body would have a better chance of hearing his thoughts.

“You know, you are charming?” says Kayne as if the words smell bad. “Kind of wholesome. If I’d just found you wandering along the side of the road, I would absolutely hit you with a truck and never look back.”

“Even with the Desolation thingummy?” says Tim. “Thought that was a good plot twist.”

Kayne laughs, low. “You don’t even know what that means yet - but you know, you have a point? In that case, I’d rile you up and drop you in the middle of an orphanage. Thing is, that’s not all you’ve got going for you. Don’t forget your cowardly passenger.”

Fuck, is he serious? But Tim knows he is. Burning children might be funny to this guy.

There is, from nowhere, a sudden smell of burning meat.

Tim gags.

What’s happening? demands whatever his name is.

“If it hadn’t got you, this would already be over,” says Kayne. “I don’t do reruns. I already saw this show. Cancellation was so…. Mmmm. Fucking good.” And he shudders, eyes lidded, violently illicit. “As it is, Timmy, you’re right - I haven’t decided.”

You killed him, says John, so very quietly.

Him? thinks Tim.

“I did. Eventually, I’m going to kill you, too. The only question is whether it’s now.”

John is silent.

“Nothing? Heh. All right. It’s time for Final Jeopardy.” Kayne leans in.

Tim rears back.

“Hastur,” says Kayne. “The truth, now. Why did you use ‘John?’” And, very low: “If you lie, or if you hold the truth back, it’s over. Right here, right now.”

Tim can’t help him with this one.

Kayne pats his cheek. “No, you really can’t. Be quiet. Hastur. I’m waiting.”

I…

“The. Truth.”

Vicious words, absolutely cold. Merciless.

Because I miss him, John whispers, and in the end, he never needed me at all.

Tim’s eyes go wide.

A spouse?

Something else?

There’s a another feeling in there, now. John - Hastur, whoever - might be crying?

“Gods, you are making some faces,” says Kayne to Tim. “All right - I’ll accept that answer. It’s close enough, and it hurt you to say, which, let’s be fair, is what I was after. So!” He claps his hands.

It causes thunder. Big, booming.

As if the universe is responding to whatever Kayne’s decided.

“Starting tomorrow, you begin a countdown. And starting today, I have a whole new world to play in here that I have utterly ignored because the gods were gone,” says Kayne.

“What?” says Tim, because what?

“Shh. And I have you two, which could have been boring… except you’ve both already fucked it up. You’re infected.” He tweaks Tim’s nose, making his eyes water. “He’s evil.” He pokes Tim in the chest, but it’s John who grunts. “The entities that dwell here are very interested to munch on a deity they haven’t tasted yet. I wonder how long you can stay alive?”

Tim stares. “What?” he says.

“I wouldn’t count on him to do it,” says Kayne to Hastur. “That infection is going to get him. You know that.” And he smiles. “Going to eat up that goodness, burn that wholesome charm like kindling. It’s a matter of time. You get to lose him. Slowly. No matter what you do.”

Tim doubts very highly that’s much of a motivator.

“And you are going to be stupid enough to think he can change, or is changing, or come to be trustworthy. You’ll grieve, and try to save him, and give yourself away, and it’ll be a stupid, selfless mess. Yuck.” Kayne taps his chin. “Honestly, I know how it’ll go. It sounds dull. I’ve seen this before. It’s TV tropes all over. Still…”

Tim stays quiet. Very still.

He’s sure, somehow, that anything he does right now will tip the scales the wrong way.

“See, right there,” says Kayne. “There is something here I don’t understand. You shouldn’t be picking up on his moods. You shouldn’t be guessing how I feel and adjusting accordingly. You shouldn’t have instincts like that. But you do.” He flicks Tim’s forehead.

“Ow!”

“Something I can’t… quite see, and that might make it interesting? Might. Fuck, there’s not enough audience for this - and like I said, I don’t do repeats. I mean - I am going to kill you, Hastur. You know that. Don’t you? Come on, now, be honest!”

I know, whispers John.

“Do you want a stay of execution?” says Kayne so sweetly it’s stomach-turning.

Yes, whispers John.

Tim’s pretty sure if Kayne offered John an extra week of life in exchange for Tim’s right now, he’d do it. He swallows.

“You’re not on the table, Timmy. You’re the only part of this that might be interesting. Of course, if I’m wrong, and you’re not, fuck it. I’ll just kill you anyway. But you’re lucky, Timmy. Ask me why, Timmy. Ask me why.”

This might as well happen. “Okay. Why?”

“Because I don’t care about you. You didn’t make me mad.”

John is… trembling?

“See, right there. You can’t do that. Shouldn’t be able to feel that. This is… intriguing.” Kayne grips Tim’s hair tightly and looks him in the eye. “Nope. Don’t see the cause. Weeeeell… try not to bore me, you two. Oh, and don’t get eaten, since I’m pretty sure that would be as bad? Who am I kidding - I don’t even have a storyboard. Ciao!”

And Kayne is just… gone?

Just gone.

After rambling madly and threatening and being absolutely horrifying, just gone.

“What the fuck just happened?” Tim demands, and realizes he’s still tied.

#tma #tma fic #malevolent #malevolent fic #fic in progress #wip #amwriting #corruption fic

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