#more chaos less drugging

[vypridae]

oh im so glad we got the masm episode early. back to the eps that were recorded before the confession !!!!!!! foxy is here and now he's screaming constantly like an actual fox. also moon at the end "i hate him. but i love him. i wish he'd marry me"

[pedgito]

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐁𝐔𝐒 | General Acacius x reader x Emperor Geta

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summary | living under emperor geta's rule was never supposed to be easy, but he aims to make it nearly impossible, even if he has become fond of you.

author's note | i never really intended for this to get another part, but since seeing the movie and wanting to expand on these characters and possibly writing for geta on his own, i thought i would turn this into a little passion project. i know there's a niche group of you that have asked for a second part to this, and as much as i crave chaos, i hope you enjoy where i took this and know that i am all for the crazed man that is emperor geta. (can be read as a standalone, but the first part can be read here)

content warning | 18+ mdni, DDDNE - heavy dubcon (due to sex work, ect), heavy themes of abuse under the rule of a vile emperor (mention of injury, slapping, ect), normalized degredation, exhibitionism and exchange of bodily fluids, smut galore (oral, unprotected piv, ect), choking tw, death tw, use of opium poppy, drugging tw (not against reader), named side character, marcus acacius being the real knight in shining armor. this is unbeta'd so i apologize for any spelling mishaps.

word count — 8k

You live within him, it feels. 

Geta never let you stray farther than a touch, within arms distance. 

You were no longer yourself, rather an extension of him.

He prefers you naked. But, he often dresses you up in gowns; modest sometimes, occasionally leaning toward more revealing fabric—sheer lace, high slits, deep-cut necklines that accentuate your breasts and hips, the soft but tight curve of your ass. Sometimes you wondered if he liked the clothes more accessible to his wandering hands, his fingers fluttering under your gown during public meetings, even.

The men never said a word, they wouldn’t dare.

If you were given the opportunity to be away from him, it was always under the watchful gaze of his guards, and only to complete tasks he has ordered to you—fetching food when he was too lazy to leave his bed and when you were feigning the grimace in your face, itching to wander.

Your relationship is complicated in the beginning but easier to manage as you become accustomed to his personality and outbursts, learning what makes him tick. He’s easier to manipulate with sex, something you have no issue taking full advantage of.

And he fancies an audience, usually. Other servants, less privileged women that trembled in his presence, fearful that his next move would be their last, somehow comforted by your confident and guiding touch. It made no sense to not enjoy what you could while you were imprisoned here, even if Geta and his brother did nothing to soothe the discomfort they left in their wake, making your skin crawl as his fingers drifted along your skin.

Caracalla could not touch either, his brother forbade it. An eager boy, riddled with a brain-eating sickness, he was dutiful to his brother but harmful in his own ways, fickle with thoughtful choices and often making important decisions on impulse. 

They were destroying Rome, that much you knew to be true.

-

Geta’s hand guided up your stomach, his palm curling around your breasts as he squeezed, your own hand flat against his chest as you rode him with fervor in the early morning hours, dawn peeking over the warm, lilac sky. 

In this light, he seemed almost normal. Eyes drifting shut in the silence of his quarters, just you—just him, he often made the mistake of weakening his defenses like this. He growled, low and quiet as his hands traded your breasts for your hips, spinning you in an instant and pinning you beneath him, soon his hand like a vice grip on your neck as he thrusts into you with little care or regard, a string of spit connecting his parted lips as he laughed, an eerie cackle as he came inside of you, admiring the tremble in your lip as he released his grip on your throat, subtly intaking the breath you had been deprived of as he pulls away from you, falling against the mattress and pulling the silk bed sheet over himself.

You move to do the same, but he grips the sheet.

“Make yourself come,” He demands, a sneer across his face as he yanks the sheet away completely. 

It was routine, now. You part your thighs without hesitation, leaning back on your elbow to allow him an unobstructed view, a tired but amused expression on his face as you play with your clit, fingers sliding through your folds, eyes drifting shut as they often did. 

It was easier to picture him this way, brown curls buried between your thighs and the tanned-skin of his backside as he stretched out below you, rutting his cock into the sheets as he ate you like his final meal, eyes like warm honey as they peered up at you.

Acacius, sweet Acacius. 

You were thankful you could remember his face, a memory you would pray to the gods to stick with you forever, a blissful crest of pleasure as your middle finger circles over your clit in a hurried manner, heels digging into the sheets as you feel it—fuck, it’s there, right there—

“Look at me,” He leers, his hand twisting into your hair at the crown of your head, a searing pain that makes you gasp, but your eyes fly open, mouth parted in a mix of pain and pleasure, “tell me how generous of an emperor I am to be so kind to a little whore like you.”

You nod shakily, swallowing as your mouth dries, “You have given me everything, your highness. Everything. I may never be able to repay you such a debt,” It was a script, one you’ve memorized and dare not forget, “May I—” You’ve learned to ramp up the dramatics when he’s lips part in anticipation, fingers itching as his thigh as they curled, his dick twitching beneath the fabric, “may I come?”

So fucking full of himself.

Whether you did or not didn’t matter anymore, but he allowed it. Insists. Your eyes never leave him.

–

Even as you dress, again, he hovers. 

You’ve learned the proper customs and rules, always making sure you look perfect. Pristine. Scrubbing your body down so harsh and deep that it makes your skin feel raw, because if Geta noticed anything—anything at all, it would mean punishment. 

He liked lashings, but that was too exertive for him.

His handmaidens aided the swelling and cuts as well as they could, ice and creams, clever ways to cover the wounds to your face. You were starting to feel a numbness when the anger would rise and explode, only praying that he would remove his rings before doing so.

“He’s visiting,” Geta speaks as though it was a secret, squeezing your chin between his fingers before they predictably fall to your neck, squeezing in the perfect spot to make you feel light, airy, and not in a good way, “I best not get a whiff of contempt, understood?”

“I am yours, Geta,” You knew he liked the more relaxed approach, his grip easing up, “he is nothing, nothing compares to you.”

His nostrils flare, a half-hearted smirk crossing his face as he shrugs.

“I have a task for you,” Geta teases, before his finger trails toward your nose, thumb rubbing against the soft, bulbous curve and down your lips, pushing his fingertip inside, prying your lips apart, thumb tucking against the inside of your cheek as you mouth falls open, “but, not in this moment. The timing must be…perfect.”

Your eyes squint slightly—he was up to no good, that much you could decipher. 

–

He gave the other servants a look, shooing them away as you stayed on his heels, your dress flowing at your ankles, feet bare against the marble floor. He pulled faintly at your wrist as he took a seat, maneuvering you into his lap, his own legs outstretched, fingers traveling up the center of your chest before his hands curving around the back of your head, his thumb rubbing at your jawline.

“Try anything, I will kill him first. Then you.”

You smile, syrupy sweet, playing with a thin strand of his fiery locks underneath the lip of his crown.

“You worry so much, Emperor,” Your own hand covers his, a bold touch as you stare him down, “It does not suit you.”

He’s emotionless for a moment too long, fearing you may have finally overstepped, before he breaks out into a laugh, one final squeeze before he relinquishes his hold.

The General and his entourage arrive soon after your conversation, Caracalla having joined shortly before the approach of many guests—most thanking their Emperors for no apparent reason other than because they enjoyed watching people kneel before them, confessing their undying loyalty.

It was pathetic, but what you were doing—forced or not, was no better. It was much like being stripped bare, the way the others' eyes prowled, watchful of Geta’s wandering touch.

“Quite the whore you’ve acquired,” One embolden man comments, his slimy smirk coming moments later, before calling over his shoulder, “General Acacius, you must tell me where you acquire such…toys. Such a generous gift you gave.”

You smiled with faked confidence, sat in his lap, one leg draped over his own, the other dragging along the floor where it rested through his split thighs, a kneading hand dragging along your inner thigh. Your fingers drag along his own, his tongue shoving into his bottom lip and over his teeth, a tick you’ve learned meant no good, his eyes turning quickly to rage.

You could hear the deep timber of the general over your shoulder as he is called forward, your eyes never leaving Geta, even as he straightens in his throne, his palm flattening against the arm of the chair digging into your back. You slide a hand inside his robe, fingertips dragging along his collarbone, “He knows I am yours now, Geta.”

“General Acacius,” Geta greets with a poorly faked kindness, one that Acacius returns with a curt nod and the usual bow that one of higher ranking would offer, the traditions were different for townspeople, but it was still ridiculous in any manner, “I take you have good news to share.”

Otherwise, he would not be here.

“Austria will be conquered within the next fortnight, Emperor Geta,” He explains with a rigidness that oozed discomfort, ignoring the smarmy look of another nearby general, one of much lower important, but nonetheless—

“Ah, it must feel strange,” The man suddenly interjects, a finger circling the steel goblet in his hand, filled to the brim with wine, “trading whores, doing business—rather messy…”

Geta’s jaw tenses, his anger suddenly directed elsewhere.

But, as usual, Acacius knows how to defuse a tense situation.

“She was a gift to the Emperor,” The general clarifies, “for what he does with her is none of my business, I only knew her as a loyal servant,” not a whore, never had those words left his mouth.

Geta’s chest rumbles softly, his hand squeezing painfully tight at your thigh.

Your teeth clench to silence the pain, dreading his next words as they leave his mouth.

“Call her what she is, Acacius,” He goaded, “a whore—and she excels.” 

His other hand slides through the open back of your dress, slipping one fold of fabric down your shoulder as he grins, all of the lower society bystanders having filtered out of the palace by now, leaving a large group of generals waiting for Geta's official dismissal.

“Give them a show,” He boasts, shoving you off of him rather abruptly, but you quickly plant your bare feet into the flooring, steadying yourself as you kneel before the Emperor, spreading out the spare fabric of your dress to act as a temporary comfort to your knees as you work at Geta’s robe, hesitant as you peer up at him briefly, he nods slightly, but taunting, “go on.”

It wasn’t the first time you’ve performed for an audience, feeling eerily normal now—but in a room full of generals? Acacius? You could hear your heart pounding in your ears, deafening everything else around you as you split his robe apart and dragged your fingers up the inside of his thigh, his tongue peeling slightly through his lips as you wrapped your delicate fingers around his cock, watching as he hardened under your skilled touch, despite how incredibly awkward the air felt, some of the men murmuring around you quietly.

His fingers dig into your hair at the start of your scalp, unhappy with your pace as he grips, pulling you forward until you get the idea, your tongue licking slowly along the head of his cock, the reddened tip glistening with a small drop of precome. You circle around it, slow and tantalizing before you run down the length of his shaft, having memorized every ridge and vein by this point that it has become second nature to instinctively know what pulls him toward the edge faster, easier. But, he wasn’t even looking at you. He was staring through you, behind you.

He was staring Acacius down, guiding you down his cock without much relief as your eyes flutter shut when his cock head nears the back of your throat, using practiced breathing as you focus. He didn’t like it when you gagged, eventually allowing you up for air as you claw gently at his thigh, but the process is repeated over and over again until you’re tearing up, drool collecting down your neck and chest, hand still secured tightly at the root of your hair as he pulls you off suddenly, demanding a tense, “Open, tongue out,” as he comes in short, but forceful spurts against your tongue, swallowing the heady taste of him without another thought. 

He pats at your cheek lightly when you open your mouth, showing it empty.

“Stand,” He ordered, adjusting your dress back up slightly to cover your breast, chuckling underneath his breath at how disheveled you looked otherwise, hair an absolute mess and your chest slick with spit, “oh—why don’t you give him a kiss? As a thank you for his generosity.”

Geta covers himself lazily, uncaring as if a dozen or so men hadn’t just watched him come down your throat. You turn on your heels, approaching Acacius who was simmering with rage, it was subtle, but you could sense it as you came closer.

You smile softly, a silent apology as you touch him first, fingers curling around the side of his neck as you press your lips against his in a chaste kiss, knowing Geta would allow nothing more. And it doesn’t surprise you how easy it feels to fall back into his touch, the polite press of Acacius hand at your hip catching you by surprise, feeling the faint adjustment of fabric, invisible to the naked eye, but you feel it.

Geta doesn’t appreciate Acacius reciprocity, cutting the moment short.

But, Geta is more relaxed that night after Acacius departure than he’s ever been.

He’d won. 

At least, he thought so.

–

“An entire limb seems harsh,” Geta thinks, twisting the rings on his finger as you dry from the bath he had ordered you take before lying in bed with him, always wanting you perfect and clean, “maybe a few fingers would suffice as punishment.”

You keep your silence, letting him think aloud as you squeezed the water from your hair with the cloth, but eventually Geta’s hand wanders, pulling at the cloth covering your body, forcing it to drop to the ground, “What do you think?”

Your eyebrows raise in faint shock, that he was legitimately addressing you about a concern, a choice he would happily make himself—so, why? Why was he asking?

Whatever, you’ll bite.

“What did they do?”

“The general—from the other day, who had such choice words for your dear Acacius—”

“Geta, I have told you—”

“Do not interrupt me,” He seethes, pulling at your wrist, forcing you to be done with your hair and climb over him in bed, “He assaulted a maid of ours—or Caracalla’s specifically, we had caught him up in his room, trespassing, touching things that did not belong to him—”

People, he means. But, he would never be so generous.

“And, you think a few fingers? An arm? That taking away a limb would keep him from doing it again?” You clarify, rolling to your stomach as you crawl toward him, your face level with his own as you rest your head into your open palm.

“Unless, say, you suggest something different.”

“Kill him,” You offer lightly, “If you think one less appendage would teach him a lesson, your highness, I hate to speak out of term, but—”

Geta considers the thought, head tilting to the side before he slowly opens his mouth to speak, “No…I do understand. But, he is a general. It would be something to discuss with a council.”

Your fingers slide across his chest, fingertips rubbing against the small patch of auburn hair at the center of his sternum, slowly crawling up his neck, idle movement that you didn’t think about at all anymore.

“You are an emperor. The people of Rome listen to you,” He and his brother were burning it to the ground, but that wasn’t something you could stop alone, “you are powerful—and, forgive me, but watching you command a room,” It amazes you sometimes how easily it was to play into his weaknesses, a smile spreading across his face as you boosted his ego, “—it does things to a woman.”

His hand, like a magnet, attaches to your thigh to spread you out on top of him, straddling his groin, your bare pussy pressed tight against the cloth of his robe, your hands pressing into his naked chest.

“You are smart,” Geta notices, “educated—a keen eye unlike I have seen on someone of your social status, I do not know much about you.”

“You have never asked,” You reply honestly, “though, it does not matter. I am here for one reason, to serve you.” His grip shifts your waist slightly, aiding the slow, but gentle rock of your hips against his hardening cock and if you closed your eyes long enough, you could enjoy it.

“Yet, you may be of more use to me than I suspected,” Geta teases, his hands rising to massage at your breasts, casually nodding to the maid who had peeked her head inside after a quiet knock, nodding as he answered, “—yes, bring them in.”

A line of varying women filter into the room with somber faces.

And just like that, the moment was lost.

–

Geta was such a heavy sleeper, fortunately. Gently prying yourself away as he rolls onto his side, mumbling something unintelligible in his sleep as you quietly step toward the the attached room where you bathed, pulling at a loose tile in the floor where you had stowed away what Acacius had slipped into the fold of your dress, withholding for the right moment to peek.

It was a tiny scroll, rolled up with a thin string and no bigger than your thumb, your nails pulling at the slab until it pops free, quietly unfurling the curled up paper as you read what was carved onto the thin paper, an overuse of ink smudged in spots.

It listed a place, a monument he knew you’d remember and a promise that he would visit every night after the sun set for a small window in time, hoping to catch you. 

He was still trying to reach you, to provide himself as a comfort in such a time.

You had to plan accordingly, find someone you trusted enough, and convince Geta of your undying loyalty—though, it seemed that you were breaking him down. 

And luckily, you did have a maid you trusted, to a degree—a young woman of similar age, meek but unsuspecting, she often sensed your displeasement and unease, didn’t fit in like the rest of the women that bowed so loyal to the emperors. But, she was a gossip, a troublemaker like Caracalla who she served loyally. She tended to him more regularly, often dealing with his breakdowns and tantrums caused by Geta or, lately, anything. There was never a way to know when he would blow a fuse and cause more bloodshed, he was unruly. 

There was only one hour of the day when you see her—morning proceedings, food served to their royal highness, the two brothers chatting amongst themselves as everyone moved fluidly around them. Caracalla had requested fresh squeezed juice, a rather tedious task, but you sneak away with her as the opportunity arose, digging through the oranges without prying eyes.

“I must ask you a favor,” You begin in a hushed tone, rubbing your thumb over the skin of the orange, “and I will owe you immensely.”

She looks at you curious, but expectant.

“The stuff…that helps Caracalla sleep,” You hint at out of habit, paranoia getting the best of you, “I would…I require it, for Geta. He sleeps heavily, but I need…to be sure.”

“He is insatiable as of late, that act in front of the generals—”

“Irene, I am at my end, please—do you have any remaining?”

It was opium poppy, it had many forms but the one you knew most of was powder. Easy to slip into a drink, often undetectable. It was worth a shot, even if it meant your life.

“At dusk, by dinner. Is that enough time?” She answers easily, a sigh of relief breathing past your lips as you nod, cradling a few oranges in the crook of your elbow.

You had only prayed Acacius hadn’t given up hope, that he might still be lingering in the shadows in wait, hoping for a glimpse of you again.

-

As promised Irene delivers, dousing both of the boys inconspicuously as you kept watch, tainting their wine with the sleeping drug, watch as his eyes began to tire before you as you slipped a grape between his teeth, a sated and happy smile on his face. 

You hate it, but he almost looks normal. Like he wasn’t slaughtering people for entertainment and ruling like a madman—he was still young, just beyond his teenage years and into adulthood, like yourself. You wonder where things went wrong and why, that someone could be filled with such unrestrained rage and hate.

Caracalla beckons for Irene eventually, Dundus hopping from her shoulder to his as she trails alongside him to his quarters, suddenly feeling the nudging of a sharp nose into your neck, a faint sniff and a hum as Geta appreciates the flowery smell, a faint lavender on your skin.

“I need you,” He speaks against your skin, nearly sliding your dress down then, your hands grabbing at him quickly and his reaction is delayed, almost confused, “did you not hear me?”

“Let us retire to your bed,” You suggest, dragging your thumb along his bottom lip, watching as his wine-stained tongue licks at the digit, “and you will have all night to ravish me as you please.”

Thankfully, it doesn’t take much convincing. Though, he’s less coordinated than you’re anticipating, draping himself over you lazily as he kneads at your breasts, cupping your cunt over the fabric of your dress, the silk halfway down your body as you step beyond the threshold and Geta is on you without a moment to breath, peeling his clothes of layer by layer before he’s bare before you, a surprising gentleness to his movements.

He takes a seat on the side of his bed, at the edge as he pulls you into his lap, hands spread out against your spine, fingers digging into the skin and begging to make it ache, hurt, but he doesn’t have the strength, his kisses become increasingly more lazy as the opium takes hold.

Eventually, his eyes flutter as you pull back, your lips barely brushing against his as he fights the exhaustion, but eventually succumbs, falling slack on the bed as you climb off of him, leaving him sprawled out in his bare state to your valiant amusement, given the amount of times he’s taken to shame you rather than show sympathy, it seemed fair.

Sneaking out of the palace is easier than you expect, having spent endless weeks being mindful, watchful of even the smallest of things. Paths, open windows, learning the schedules of staff and guards, it was almost too easy as your feet fell against the broken pavement, the quiet footfalls following in your quick departure, praying to whatever deity above that General Acacius believed in you enough that you would fight to see him.

–

When you show, it is quiet. Dark, not a soul in sight, tugging the cloak hastily over your shoulders, sending a chill up your spine against the bare skin underneath, a small inkling of doubt seeping into your thoughts as you stare around aimlessly, wondering if you were too late.

Your frame slumps against a nearby pillar, secluded in the shadows, the cold night biting at your feet, the faint sound of hooves off in the distance, realizing just how noisy the streets could be outside of the palace—it was comforting, in a way.

“You came,” The words come from your left, behind you as your head whips over your shoulder and he’s touching you before you have time to take him in, a gentle but firm press against your clothed arms, holding you still, “you are here, dove.”

It was a tone of disbelief, like he had lost hope.

He wouldn’t tell you that he almost didn’t come tonight. It didn’t matter, because you were here.

The visceral reaction you have at his endearing name for you is like a vice grip on your heart, mouth opening to speak but words falling short.

Eventually, the tears fell.

“I am sorry, General,” You speak with a shaky timber, “I am—that act, his performance the other day—“

The general soothes your worry, dragging his thumb along your cheekbone to catch a stray tear, “That has no meaning to me, if anything, it was his mistake for allowing us so close. Otherwise, you would not be here with me now.”

You peer at him through tear-soaked lashes, feeling as if you would be snatched away at any moment, your fingers curling into his similar clothing, a cloak covering what you could assume to be a more relaxed attire, a toga that he would often where around his home, strolling barefoot through his atrium. 

“Why am I here, Acacius?”

“You must trust me,” He urges, “that when the time is right, I will come for you.”

“We could go now,” You plead, “he would never know, he does not care enough to go after me, I swear—“

“Little dove, he cares for you much more than you know,” The general counters, “you are valuable to him.”

“He asked something of me the other night,” You speak absently, rubbing a fingertip along the frayed thread of his cloak at your eye line, “what a fitting punishment I thought would be of a man who assaulted a servant—I believe he was testing me.”

Acacius furrows his brow, “You loyalty, it seems. You are getting under his skin, I see it. He knows of your value to me and that as much as he tries, you will not be tamed. But, he is trying.”

You chew at your bottom lip quietly, a nervous tick that Acacius picked up on long ago, both of his thumbs pulling your lip away from further mutilation.

“Little one, what is on your mind?”

“I have to go back soon,” You say with an obvious bitterness to your tone, “though, I do not wish to.”

His large hand curls around the side of your face, cradling your head as you lean into the touch, warmth spreading like fire over your skin, “You will be with me again.”

He barely registers as your lips touch his, a blink and you were there, lips pressed so tightly against his own that they might bruise, leaning into him like he was the only thing keeping you upright, pulling at the fabric of his toga as his hand wanders beyond your cloak, in search of a touch.

“Dove,” He breathes at the realization of skin, “you are bare, your clothes—“ 

“I rushed,” You stare at him impishly, “I did not think, I know, but,” the general smiles, cheeks dimpling with the show of emotion as he shakes his head.

“You have me wanting what I cannot have,” He sounds somber, his hand still lingering against your hip, “I know he does not cherish you the way he should.”

You laugh softly, your stomach fluttering at his wandering hand, drifting along your public bone before the full expanse of his hand was cupping your cunt, welcomed by warmth and the sticky wet sensation of arousal that he’s been longing for, like an addict.

“General, would you like to know something?”

“What is it?” He inquires to your obvious amusement, his and cradling your head back, neck exposed slightly, thankful that the streets around you were empty.

“He likes to watch me pleasure myself,” You admit, “mostly because he cannot achieve the feat himself, but as I close my eyes I picture those mornings when you snuck under the sheets and spread my legs open,” Acacius leans forward greedily, hot breath fanning over your face as he yearns for another kiss, moving away from him tauntingly as you finish your speech, “that sweet look on your face as you taste me, thankful that you expertise was not contained to only battle—“

“Careful,” He warns, “I am not against a reminder if you continue.”

You peer over the broken set of stairs behind him, attached to an abandoned structure, eyebrows raising expectantly, “A parting gift, General?”

—

The discomfort was nothing compared to a general kneeling into the dirt and stone without a hesitation to please you, a whore, a servant—your title no longer mattered, having carried so many. 

He’s still hooded, your legs hanging over his shoulders as he kneeled against the steps, forcing you down flat against the concrete as he licked a slow line through the seam of your cunt, again, again. A teasing trace over your clit as he pressed two thick fingers inside of you, lapping at you loudly.

“Did he bed you tonight?” Acacius inquires curiously.

“Nearly,” You sigh, a high-pitched breathy noise as his pace quickens, knowing that you both were on a time limit, “he��huh—was far too tuckered to be fulfilled.”

His brows raise subtly at your choice of words.

“I drugged him,” You admit, an unexpected moan ripping from your throat as his tongue flicks over you sensitive clit, fingers digging into his cloak-covered shoulder, “seems the Emperor is not as untouchable as he thinks, and tricked by a whore—he would have a fit.”

His fingers dip into your thighs as you squeeze them together around his head, his tongue working quickly over your clit until you’re breathless and whining, feeling the rushing wave of your climax as it crashes into you, Acacius licking up the mess like a starved man.

It takes you a few moments to come back to earth, feeling a gentle tug at your hand as Acacius helps you up, readjusting your cloak over your naked body without much of a word, knowing your time with him was up.

“Wait for the bells,” He tells you, “light, delicate—look for me, I will be near.” 

You begin to speak, but are silenced with a kiss. 

A final goodbye. 

“Remember what I told you?”

Live.

You nod.

“At whatever cost, little dove.”

—

You go to great lengths to make it back to the palace before dawn, hiding behind every pillar, sneaking around corners, somehow managing to slip back into Geta’s bed without so much as a sound, his body still mostly laid out as you had left him, aside from a little rousing around.

When morning breaks, Geta wakes with an obvious grogginess to his tone, forcing his eyes to stay open.

“You stuffed me full of wine,” Geta jokes, “I cannot remember anything from our night prior.”

You’d tried to look particularly exhausted, hair slightly disheveled and the satin bed sheet askew, “It was quite a night, your highness. Such a shame,” You reply mockingly, though there’s a sweetness to your tone, almost teasing.

And if Geta suspects anything, he doesn’t say it.

It takes a day, two, silently mulling over the events.

He wasn’t a half-wit like his brother, his brain like mush beyond repair, useless by result of the infection in his loins. He was helpless, spiraling deeper into madness.

Geta had his wits about him—his eyes drag along your body, the deep swooping fabric showing off your exposed back, the soft skin and gentle slope of your spine, a look shared between you and Caracalla’s most trusted maiden.

Along with the lightness in your tone, a revered outlook, a bounce in your step that most people wouldn’t catch, but Geta—he’s just as much an observer as yourself.

He suspects, no—senses, feels, the deceit in your challenging gazes, the additional touches with an air of confidence, too cocky for someone who has been nothing more than a whore and housemaiden.

He’d always known you were particularly special; smart by means of General Acacius, knowing how to read and write and many other things that others of your station did not have the luxury to learn. And you were hard to break, though Geta had worked at it for weeks, he’d gotten you there.

Obedient, compliant, merciful. 

At least, he’d thought so.

He knows he won’t get a word out of you.

So, he goes for Irene.

-

The guards corral you at dinner, sitting silently with Caracalla as Dundus perched on his shoulder, eating quietly. They aren’t kind either, grabbing hard at your bicep as they drag you from your spot on the floor, Geta’s throne eerily empty.

Your stomach turns at the slow realization as you’re dragged down the hall, tossed beyond the threshold of Geta’s room as you stumble to the floor, groaning at the impact, head hitting the ground first as you roll over in pain, opening your eyes to an even more horrific sight.

Geta, hovered over Irene, lifeless eyes staring back as he dropped the thick cord from his hands, something he must have ripped from the curtain as one drooped down from its normal placeholder. 

There was no blood, no mess, but the light in her eyes was gone, and Geta stumbled over, crawling—hunching down to intersect your bleary eyesight as you slowly came to the realization of what was happening.

“You have betrayed me,” He announces calmly, despite the eyes of a crazed man staring straight through you, face void of any emotion, “after all I have given you.”

“Geta—“ You plead, pushing up on your palms to sit up, his foot coming in contact with your shoulder as you roll into your back forcefully.

“I AM YOUR EMPEROR,” He seethes, spitting as the words left his mouth, “YOU—BETRAYED—ME!”

And left a mess in the process, unfortunately.

“If you would…let me explain,” He stalks closer, watching as you rise slowly before his hand is striking across your face, the sting almost immediate, “I—think…that you—“

“You do not think,” He spats through clenched teeth, shaking with rage as he kneels to your level again, like a rabid dog, “whores do not think, they are fucked until there’s nothing left and then they are tossed out. Like trash.”

In desperation, the words slip out.

“I love you,” You say softly—it was a careful bundle of words that you’ve never spoken before, not even to General Acacius, “whatever she has told you, it is lies.”

His silence isn’t an answer, but you took the opportunity, unsure if he was stunned or gearing to explode.

Convince him, at whatever cost.

“She knows—of my past with the general. She was jealous of me, you. She drugs your brother, you must know. And she tried it with you too, it is why I did not leave your side, why I insisted we come back to your room.”

“But, you knew—“

You reach for him, a hand circling his wrist.

“No, no,” You speak softly, “It was small things. Your speech, it was slurring. You were drifting away, almost as if you were floating. I could see it. I have seen it before, with your brother. The nights when he is unruly, she…calms him.”

“Her story is entirely different,” He challenges, “you see my issue, yes?”

“Geta,” You challenge him, reaching forward to cradle his face, surprised by his willingness to allow it, watching you carefully, “I am loyal to you—no one else. I do not know another way to show you, but I will. I will, you must—“

“Strip,” He orders, “—on the bed,”

It makes your stomach twist, but you follow his orders.

His demeanor is unreadable as he watches, mirroring your movements before he’s climbing over you in bed.

He settles on his calves between your open legs, a blanket of silence falling over as he reaches for your hand, a surprisingly gentle touch as he brings your fingertips to his cock, slowly hardening at the sight of you.

Your fingers circle his shaft as you lean up on your elbows, ignoring his intense eye contact as you drag your palm along the velvety soft skin, feeling him grow to a stiff hardness within a few minutes—it should disgust you.

It does, to a degree. It wasn’t that Geta was unattractive in a physical sense, but the mental picture was hard for you to overlook. But, for the moment, you could pretend like he wasn’t the worst human being to walk the earth.

His fingertips brush against your cunt slightly, fortunately your body has adjusted to the pleasure of such a complicated predicament. You’re sure if you tried hard enough, you could truly enjoy it. But, you’re thankful that your body connects with the severity of the situation, quivering slightly at his touch, mouth opening in a small gasp.

“Are you nervous?” Geta inquires.

You shake your head, “No—it is only, we have never…”

“Let us try something new, hm?” He offers with a grin and you nod instinctively, feeling two thick digits dip inside of you with no warning, not so much grace as Acacius would have, but it isn’t uncomfortable.

It seems Geta has his wits about him, fortunately, diminishing you to nothing but a whimpering mess after a while, some of it a little bolstered for his benefit, but the pleasure was real. 

And god, did you crave that release.

Soon, his hand is gripping his shaft, sliding between the folds of your pussy as he coats himself, mouth twitching at the sight as he speaks, “I want you to watch.”

And you do, his cock pressing into you slowly, “It is such a generous act, you see, feeding you my cock like this,” another slow push, “you should feel special, little dove.”

The words are jarring, but you try not to react. 

“It is not everyday you are fucked by an emperor,” The dichotomy to his words almost makes you chuckle, as if he wasn’t fucking you every day, sometimes even two or three times, “you should be thankful.”

“I am.” You quickly appease.

“Then thank me,” His voice was tense again, his neck flexing with the tightness to his words.

“T—thank you, Emperor Geta.”

“For?”

One last forceful push and he’s seated fully inside of you, your brow pulling together at the pressure, lips parting open, “For your cock, for making me feel so—oh,” His thrusts are careful, calculated, your head falling back at the divine angle he’s found, “for—oh, gods—so good.”

You fist the sheets in desperation, back arching up slightly, watching his jaw tense at the way your breasts bounce, his eyes darkening over time, only a shell of himself as he thrusts into you, two firms hands on your hips slowly making their way upwards, wondering if he was following the path toward your breasts before they are bypassing and going straight for your neck, his hands encircling your throat.

It is merely a second too late before your brain catches up, too overloaded by pleasure that you don’t see the definite switch, quickly going from gentle pressure to the type of force that makes your vision white out.

You choke, gasping for air as you try to speak his name, plead, anything—his eyes are locked on your face, a sick determination as your stronger, forceful blows to his chest quick become weaker, weaker, feeling yourself teetering on that edge before he’s releasing his hold, forcing you to gasp for air.

“Do you still love me?” Geta asks.

And despite yourself, you lie.

“Yes, I love you, Geta.”

He was a sad boy, you’ve come to realize, wanting love but also craving unyielding power. He did not want equals, he wanted subordinates, fans, people that would sacrifice everything in his name. But, underneath it all, Geta was just as broken as you suspected.

—

A parade of the gladiators wasn’t a normal occasion, but it was quite the event—a way of wealthy men showing off their new toys, dangerous murderous machines out for blood.

It was the entertainment before the big show, sitting in the expansive throne room underneath the colosseum as the rich drowned in wine and food, you and several other servants surrounding the two brothers, eagerly awaiting your next order.

At least, for you, it was being obedient.

It felt like a collar around your neck, his fingers tracing along the back of your spine and up, fingertips resting against your shoulder, his thumb rubbing against the column of your throat.

Geta spots him from a mile away, that trademark white against gold, gaudy armor fit so perfectly for a man like Acacius, you bow your head at Geta’s push, the footsteps approaching steadily.

Your throat ached still, eyes slightly bloodshot. He hid your face, the evidence, speaking to the line of approaching generals as they greeted the two men with high regard.

“I commend you, your highness,” A general speaks, faceless but you sneer at his tone, fists balling into the fabric of your dress, “she is so well behaved, you must teach me your tricks.”

You bite down at the inside of your lip as Geta pets your head, tilting your head to the side slightly as you close your eyes, his thumb pressing against your cheekbone.

“There is no trick,” He retorts, “my little dove is loyal, a hard thing to find in a world full of deceit.”

It was laughable, coming from the emperor. 

The moniker is an even lower blow, knowing that General Acacius was a few feet away, the white fabric of his traditional armor dragging along the ground.

“Ah, Acacius,” Geta boasts, “I hope you have come to bring me good news.”

It best only be good news.

As he approaches, Geta’s grip tightens, curling around the side of your neck as a show of dominance as his finger digs into your skin, daring you to defy him. 

The soreness is pertinent, causing you to grimace in pain at his actions, something that Acacius spots but does not acknowledge.

“Yes, our army is nearly ready, Emperor Geta,” He nods before acknowledging his brother, “Emperor Caracalla,” but Geta is not amiss to the way his eyes drag toward you for a brief moment.

“Careful,” He warns, “doves are…so sacred, yes?”

Your sideways gaze peeks through as his eyes bore into Acacius, the subtle glimpse of broken capillaries and a plea for help as you lock eyes with Acacius is all he needs.

It would be tonight—it had to be tonight.

—

He’s a horrid mess, drunk off his ass as he drags you back toward the room. His brother and he were always more rowdy after gladiator games, riding the high of an entertaining act of violence, slaughter for mere amusement. Geta nearly topples over you as he opens the door, pointing hastily toward the bed with a slurred speech, “Naked, on the bed.”

He’s heading for more alcohol, a table tucked away in the corner of the room with a plethora of choices, pouring lazily as he stumbles, the utensils from an earlier meal falling to the floor as he bumps into it, looking displeased at your state of dress. He grimaces, nose scrunching as he reaches for the knife that had clattered to the floor, twisting it in his hand to point it at you.

“You dare—you dare to defy me?” 

Your eyes squint, narrow as he jabs at you sloppily, dodging the action with ease.

“You cannot even see straight, your grace,” You jeer, watching as he gulped down the crimson liquid, remnants trailing down the side of his mouth as he threw the glass away carelessly, the glass shattering against the floor as he charged at you, pressing the tip of the knife under your chin as he backed you into the wall, his eyes capturing the similar essence of rage when you knew there was no saving him, determined to cause bloodshed no matter the consequence.

You can hear the soft lilt of bells in the distance, the sky as black as the darkened state of Geta’s eyes—if he had any humanity in him, it was gone.

“You are…broken,” You speak to him, accepting the consequence, even if Acacius failed to save you, “A poor, poor boy with no one to love him—your confidence, it will be your demise.”

The knife knicks your skin, a subtle sting.

“Are you unaware of Caracalla’s plans?” You inquire, privy to Caracalla’s incoherent babbling, often feeling like Geta’s scapegoat, the constant source of blame. It was true, Geta had never accepted responsibility for anything in his life, “You should be careful, Geta. He has a slippery hand and a temper. If given the opportunity, I am sure he would do away with you. I cannot say I blame him—you are a disgrace of an emperor, ruling Rome like it is a playground—”

His eye twitches, the slight hesitation. It gives you enough time to react, twisting his arm away from your neck and on himself, “Unfortunate that you cannot do that as a dead man,” You bite, pushing against the force of the knife, knowing that Geta had no instinct of survival, a feeble man raised in a glass house for the entirety of his life.

The blood quickly pooled in his mouth, pouring out as his body slumped. 

You had prayed it would be slow and painful, that the misery would last.

The rustling near the window pulls your attention, the city quiet and unsuspecting of the violence having just taken place, Acacius' frame obscuring the view of the stars as he climbs through the window.

“Oh, dove,” Acacius sighs, taking in the sight of the slowly dying emperor, his fingers weakly grabbing for you as he choked on his own blood, “you have made a mess.”

“I could not survive him any longer,” You admit, feeling his arm encircling your waist as he tugged you away, “—what—what is to happen now?”

“It is a fate he would have met eventually, if not at the end of my own blade,” Acacius admits, “–—come, we must go. We only have a few moments, my lady.”

Your breath catches at the words, nodding in agreement as you allow him to tug you along, met with a few men on the other side of the wall, catching you as you dropped, draping you in a thick cloak.

“General,” You breathe, sensing his overpowering frame behind you as he grabs the reins of the horse in front of you, assisting you in climbing on the creature, “where are we going?”

“Away,” He promises, “somewhere we can both be free.”

“But, your status—does it mean nothing?”

It never did, not since the minute Geta had stolen you away.

You peer over your shoulder, his eyes soft.

“I love you,” He utters, answering your question without direct confirmation.

And for the first time, you say it as you mean it, feeling the tug at your heart, “I love you, too.”

[whytheylosttheirminds]

june gloom - part 2: is this gonna end ever?

(Rafe Cameron x pogue!reader, 6.9k words)

part 1

summary: Six months after Rafe walked out of your life, you're finally picking up the shattered pieces he left in his wake. When you accidentally find yourself working at his wedding, your thrown right back into the chaos you thought you were free from.

content: angst/smut, 18+ minors do not interact!, mentions of alcohol abuse and drugs, mentions of cheating, what could be considered infiedelity

a/n: as a fair warning, the angst only gets worse in this one. however, I promise the third and final part will see a satisfying and happy ending for these two if you stick with me. also, this one got wordy, but after struggling with it for a while i'm very happy with how it turned out. thank you to this anon for inspo and for everyone's support on pt. 1.

₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊

Crickets chirped a chorus around you as you laid back on the flannel blanket, the grass beneath making a soft pillow for your head. Your lips wrapped around the blunt, lungs expanding to welcome the smoke. You hummed in pleasure as the high-end strain went down way smoother than any of the trash you would usually get on The Cut.

“God, this is good shit,” you said with a lazy smile.

“Only the best for you,” Rafe smirked, leaning over on the blanket to pull the joint from your lips so he could join in your revelry.

He took a long drag and let it go in a smoke ring that rose above you and disappeared into the starry sky. You tried and failed to stifle your laugh.

“What’s funny?” He asked, eyes glazed over with his high.

“Nothing,” you chuckled. “Just…what frat house did you learn that in?”

“Shut up,” he teased back, making you laugh harder.

“No, I’m sure the sorority girls found that very sexy,” you continued.

“They did actually, thank you,” he joked. “You would’ve too.”

“Yeah right, I’d make a great Phi Beta Whateverthefuck,” you huffed sarcastically.

“Did you go to college?” He asked.

You’d known Rafe for about three months, spending nearly every night together since you first met at that club. You had talked about just about everything under the sun except yourselves, you were caught off-guard by this excavation into your history.

“Um, no,” you answered, taking the blunt back from him.

“Why not?”

You shrugged, taking another hit, “didn’t wanna.”

“Do you regret it?” He continued.

You sat up and pulled your knees to your chest, looking down at him with a frown.

“What?” He questioned.

“Why the sudden interest?” You said, harsher and less playful than you’d intended to.

Rafe sat up next to you, pulling his knees towards himself to mirror you. His eyes were intense on your face as he mumbled, “you don’t want me to get to know you?”

Truthfully, you wanted that and so much more, but you couldn’t tell him that. You knew this was just a way for him to pass the time until he could get you in bed again, and maybe you were okay with that. You decided you’d entertain the line of questioning, just this once, not knowing then that this was just the first of many deep, meaningful conversations you’d share with him.

You took a deep breath and said, “what do you want to know?”

He looked up at the stars as he considered the answer to that question. You took the opportunity to admire the way the moonlight reflected off of the sharp angle of his jaw.

He decided on “what’s your biggest dream?”

You bit your lip and looked down at your bare feet, digging them into the blanket, not used to this kind of conversation and yet feeling curiously comfortable opening up to him.

“I want to go to India,” you answered honestly. “I read a book when I was a kid about a little girl who grew up in India and I’ve wanted to go ever since.”

Rafe nodded in approval, “that’s a good one. You should go.”

“Yeah, as soon as I win the lottery, it’ll be my first stop,” you joked bitterly.

“Or I could just take you,” he shrugged.

You smiled at him, incredulous. 

“What?” He asked, genuinely unsure of the meaning behind the look you were giving him. You realized he might actually be serious, even though you knew it would never really happen.

“Nothing. That’s sweet,” you smiled. “But I want to get there on my own. I wanna earn it.”

“I can respect that,” he conceded. 

“Anytime you wanna lend me that private jet, though, just hit me up,” you teased.

Rafe chuckled, eyebrows raised, “oh I see…you’re using me.”

“I thought that was obvious,” you smiled coyly. 

“Uh-huh,” Rafe said, playfully shoving your shoulders so you fell back onto the blanket. 

You giggled as he climbed over you, caging you in between his arms as he held himself up, looking down at you, tucked perfectly beneath him.

“I think I’m okay with that.”

He leaned down and kissed you, his tongue sweeping over your bottom lip tenderly, lowering himself down until you were chest to chest…

“Are you listening to me?”

Your friend waved her hand in front of your face, trying to get your attention.

“Sorry, what?” You were pulled from your thoughts.

“I said they want us there at four this friday,” she showed you an email on her phone.

“Oh,” you blinked, coming back to the moment. “Where is it?”

“Some mansion on Figure 8. It’s a wedding, but they're doing like a whole weekend thing, so it’s Friday through Sunday. Last time I worked one of these I made over five hundred.”

When she first told you about the catering gig this weekend, you turned her down. You’d been carefully avoiding the north part of the island for the last six months, and a whole weekend would be a high-risk endeavor. However, you didn’t have to check your bank account to know you were near broke, and Figure 8 was where the real money was made. You agreed and ironed your white button down and black slacks, your go-to outfit for catering gigs.

As you pulled up to the address your friend had sent you, you cursed under your breath. The estate was huge, the old house immaculately kept and towering proudly under a crystal blue sky. You turned down the radio as your beat up car sputtered its way up the long, grand drive.

“We’re definitely not on the south side anymore,” you joked to yourself. 

You pulled around back to the service entrance as directed by your friend’s text and tracked her down in the crowd of other blue collar workers. Everyone was moving quickly, arranging the massive party space according to the wishes of some unseen bride and groom. 

You were put to work right away, polishing silverware and arranging it as instructed by the very specific, color-coded diagram you had been given. Tonight was only the rehearsal dinner, and there were two-hundred names on the guestlist. You chatted with your friend as you did various other chores, speculating about who could possibly be the owner of this massive property.

“Maybe it’s a crime lord,” your friend joked. “Like some mafia type shit.”

“Maybe it’s a celebrity,” you guessed. 

You didn’t have to wonder for long. 

“Hey! A little help here!” A delivery driver called to you as he struggled to lift something large and rectangular out of his truck, the mystery item protected with a large, black sheet.

You ran over to give him a hand, and he directed you to a big easel he had set out, “picture of the happy couple,” he explained. You called your friend over, informing her you were about to have all your questions answered.

Once you had set the canvas down, you asked the delivery driver if you could remove the sheet. “I don’t give a fuck, my job’s done,” he said, hopping back in his truck and driving off. You and your friend giggled as you did a little countdown and drumroll routine. You pulled the sheet away and her mouth fell open

“Of fucking course,” she immediately took out her phone to take a picture.

You stepped back to look at the giant, blown up portrait. Every muscle in your body tensed and the blood drained from your face, you grabbed the back of a nearby chair for support. 

There on the oversized canvas, smiling that perfect, crooked, arrogant, beautiful smile, was Rafe Cameron.

He had his arm around the woman you recognized to be the one he’d left you for, calling off your whirlwind love affair in pursuit of something more optically appealing to his family. He’d found it; they were gorgeous together.

Six months had passed since you’d last seen him. The first few months were the hardest you’d ever faced. At first, you went out almost every night, needing to stay shitfaced to keep your mind from wandering to him or your fingers from dialing his number. Eventually, you had to delete him from your phone, not trusting yourself in those late night moments when you missed him so much you thought you might die. No amount of booze or weed could make you forget the feeling of his hands on your body, the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes when he fucked you that last time. Your friends started getting worried. You blacked out so often, you couldn’t keep a job. After three or four months of your reckless behavior, they called a sort of intervention and convinced you to calm down. 

You decided if you were going to be alone, you’d make yourself good company. 

You stopped drinking, and even gave up cigarettes. It took several false starts, but the patch got you through it. You picked up good habits, too, starting your mornings with yoga and meditation. You were planning to go back to school, tired of career-hopping through dead-end minimum wage jobs. You stopped eating take out so much, started grocery shopping and saving every spare cent you had for a travel fund. You even cut and dyed your hair, finding freedom in the ability to change whenever you wanted, in the fluidity of answering to no one but yourself. You were still untamed, but for the first time in your life, you felt a semblance of control. You decided you’d build a beautiful life even if you had to scratch and claw your way to it. And you’d do it all by yourself.

Slowly, and with the most effort you’d given anything ever, you were finally starting to get over Rafe Cameron.

Or so you thought. Now, standing in his backyard, decorating for his wedding, you felt like you were right back where you were that night in June, lying naked on your bed while he walked out of your life forever.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” A high-pitched, angry voice startled you, pulling your eyes away from the picture.

You whipped your head around to see her, even more stunning than she was in pictures, her wide Disney-princess eyes shooting daggers at you. Your first and most irrational thought was that she somehow knew who you were. The delusion of that concept was quickly made apparent.

“The picture was supposed to stay covered until tonight,” she barked at you and your friend, who looked at you with wide-eyed panic. “Aren’t you the fucking caterers? Why are you even out here?”

“S-sorry,” you stammered out, your mind reeling as it tried to connect to your reality. You picked up the sheet off the ground. “We’ll cover it back up.”

“No, don’t touch it! Where’s your manager?” She demanded, her hands on her hips. “They need to know about this. What are your names?”

Your friend looked at you with wide eyes, you knew she needed this job even more desperately than you did. Plus, she’d stuck her neck out to get you hired and now she’d lose the money and her credibility.

“It was me,” you blurted out. “Not her. Don’t worry, you don’t need to get anyone fired, I’ll just leave.”

It wasn’t a big sacrifice, considering you were already thinking if you stayed another minute you might have a full blown panic attack. At least if you threw yourself under the bus and got fired, your friend would have no reason to question why you ran from the property crying.

“Fine, whatever,” she dismissed your act of loyalty with a wave of her manicured hand while your friend looked at you with grateful eyes. “What’s your name then?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you handed her the sheet, which she snatched from your hands irritably. “I’ll just go.”

You tried to keep your composure as you walked back toward the house, praying you’d remember your way back to your car. Your heart was pounding, your anxiety and shock threatening to bubble over, you could feel tears springing up and your hands shaking.

You rounded one of the many corners of the massive house, finally out of her line of vision, and broke into a sprint. You passed through another courtyard, where more preparations were underway. There were far too many eyes on you. If you remembered correctly, there was only one more turn before the part of the property you were parked on.

Dirt crunching under your feet, you slid around the corner and straight into something hard and large. You let out a sharp “ouch” as your face burned with the force of the collision. To your horror, you realized you’d run into a person. You kept your eyes low, looking at the man’s feet as you held a hand over your face, wondering for a moment if you’d broken your nose. Then, a familiar scent flooded your senses, and you felt a large hand rest on your shoulder. 

“Woah, I’m sorry, are you okay?” Rafe’s voice asked, clearly unaware of who he was talking to, you looked so different than you did six months ago.

You raised your wide eyes to look at him, hand still cradling your throbbing nose. You took him in through rapidly blinking lashes, begging yourself not to cry. His face shifted slowly from concern for a stranger to recognition of someone all too familiar.

He pulled his hand from you in shock, his mouth opening and closing and opening again, trying to form words that just weren’t coming. You knew you needed to get out of there before they did.

“I’m fine,” you said firmly, hoping he understood you were talking about more than just your injured face.

You sidestepped him and kept running, leaving him standing wide eyed and ashen faced as he watched you get into your car and peel away from his home, and away from him. 

₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊

The key rattled against the lock, your hands shaking as you tried to get into your apartment. When you finally got the door opened, you peeled off your clothes quickly, as if they were covered in something radioactive. You pulled on a tank and some sleep shorts, fully ready to get in bed and stay there for days. Everything in you was unraveling. The sight and sound of him undoing the steel backbone you had built for yourself. You climbed under the covers, curled into a ball, and sobbed.

You cried so hard, it knocked you out. Without trying to, your body fell into a hazy, uneasy kind of sleep, haunted by images of Rafe. When you woke, blinking confusedly at the fuzzy outline of the time on your alarm clock, it was dark outside. The clock read 11:03pm. You pulled yourself from your bed with a groan, craving something to comfort you in your post-meltdown emptiness.

As you stood at the sink, filling the kettle for some tea, your mind replayed the events of the day. He’s getting married tomorrow. The rehearsal dinner that you helped set up for was probably over by now. You pictured him saying goodnight to her with a kiss, hanging his tux for the morning, making sure he had the rings ready. You already knew you’d lost him, but the permanence of tomorrow’s events felt like a boot on the neck of the small part of you that still wondered what if.

Your phone rang out loudly on the kitchen table, making you jump, so startled you almost dropped the tea kettle, the water now overflowing. You set the kettle down on the stove and turned on the burner before looking at your phone screen, which read “unknown number.” You hit decline and let it go to voicemail. After a minute, you poured your tea and sat at the table, watching as your phone lit up again with notification of a new voicemail. You unlocked it and pressed play.

You knew the voice immediately, though it was coming out slurred and strained. You clutched the phone to your ear with both hands to hear better.

“Heyyyy baby. It’s me. I’m sorry for calling so many times, blowin’ up your phone and you’re probably out somewhere, looking fuckin’ gorgeous like always. Shit there’s probably guys lined up to take you home. Do you remember when we met? Fuck you looked so hot. I thought if you said no to going home with me I might literally die. But you said yes! You said yes and you took me home and we, fuck…god…it was so good, you’re so good. Not just the sex. I mean, yes your pussy is so perfect, but…shit it’s raining…but you were- you are…jesus Rafe get it together. I can’t remember what I was saying. I’m so drunk, I- ouch, fuck!- I miss you, baby. It's cold out here but I don’t care, I couldn’t be there anymore. I couldn’t listen to them talk about this fucking wedding. Fucking flowers and table settings and shit I don’t care about any of that…just, please…baby…I need-”

Your phone beeped loudly, the voicemail cut off for length. You replayed it, twice. Outside your kitchen window, you could see the rain getting heavy. The low was in the 30s tonight, and it was supposed to keep raining for hours. You couldn’t hear much in the background behind Rafe’s drunken rambling, but you could tell he was outside. You pictured him stumbling into a ditch somewhere. He had hurt himself on the voicemail, did he fall? You couldn’t stand the thought of him alone, out in the cold rain, hurt.

Despite every instinct, you pulled up the number he called from and texted him.

Today 11:14pm

Where are you?

Today 11:16pm

‘Unknown’ shared their location with you.

You grabbed your coat and keys and ran out the door before you had time to second guess yourself. You found him lying on the beach, his clothes soaked through from the rain that was still falling heavily. He’d clearly thrown up, just a few feet from where he was laying now. You ran to his side and quickly checked that he was breathing.

“Jesus, Rafe,” you recoiled at the overwhelming aroma of booze radiating off of him.

His eyes flew open at the sound of your voice. 

“Baby?” he groaned.

“We gotta get out of here, Rafe,” you struggled to help him up.

With an enormous amount of effort, you got him into your car. He leaned his head against the cold window as you drove, his breath fogging up the glass with each exhale. You looked over at him every few seconds to make sure he was still conscious. 

Once in your apartment, stumbling through the door with his arm over your shoulder, you led him into the bathroom, guiding him to sit on the edge of the tub while you ran the shower, water heating slowly.

You tapped his arms. 

“Up,” you instructed. He lifted his arms obediently and looked up at you through half-lidded eyes as you peeled off his wet polo, doing everything you could to avoid staring at his bare torso.

“Think you can do the rest yourself?” You motioned to his lower half.

“No,” he said with a smirk.

“Rafe,” you warned, not playing around.

“I can do the rest myself,” he said with his hands up in defense. 

You left him in the bathroom fumbling with his belt. While he showered, you brewed a pot of coffee and poured two steaming mugs, sitting uneasily at the table when he finally emerged from the bathroom. He was in only his boxers and you blushed aggressively, as if you hadn’t seen him naked a hundred times before. He caught the redness in your cheeks as you looked down at your hands, swallowing hard.

“Sorry,” he said earnestly. “My clothes are still wet.”

You pushed back your chair and walked to your bedroom, returning with folded clothes in your hands. He looked suspiciously at the men’s t-shirt and basketball shorts you gave him, cocking his eyebrow at you. You just glared back at him, tilting your head slightly as if to say I dare you to give me shit about where I got them. He didn’t push it, pulling them on wordlessly.

“Coffee?” You offered once he was dressed.

“Please,” he slumped into the chair across from you, sipping the coffee with a sigh.

“Feeling better?” You asked.

“Much better, thanks,” he said. “Never mix rum and redbull.”

You snorted, “I could’ve told you that.”

“Well you weren’t there were you?” The sentence started playfully but ended with a bite.

You sipped your coffee, wondering who would be first to acknowledge the elephant in the room. You sat in silence for a few minutes, both drinking your coffee and letting the air grow thick between you.

Finally, he caved and spoke first, “why’d you leave?”

“Why would I stay?” You responded, voice dripping with spite.

“I- I guess I don’t know.” Now it was Rafe avoiding your eyes.

“Does she know…about me?” You asked timidly.

“No,” he mumbled, before sipping up the last drop of his coffee.

“And where does she think you are right now?” 

“My bachelor party.”

“We should get you back there, then.” You stood and collected both mugs, bringing them to the sink.

Rafe scoffed, “you’re kicking me out again?”

“I never kicked you out, Rafe. You left,” you said, clutching the edge of the sink, bracing for an argument.

But he didn’t argue, he just let the silence settle between you for a long moment before finally saying, “I wish I hadn’t. I miss you.”

You turned, expecting to find him still slumped over the table, but he had stood and was now startlingly close. You jolted, squaring your shoulders in defense as he got closer to you.

“Don’t say that,” you pleaded. “I can’t do this with you.”

“Then why’d you come get me?” He asked, his eyelids low as he looked down at you. “Why’d you bring me here?

“Why’d you call me?” You asked back.

“I asked you first,” he said, no playful smile to match his childish words.

“Why does it matter?” You sighed.

“‘Cause it does, it matters to me, please just give me a reason,” his voice grew more desperate as he stepped even closer to you, his looming body caging you against the sink. He searched your face as he waited for you to respond, needing an answer you couldn’t give him.

“Are you gonna marry her?” Your words tightened the tension already growing between you, causing Rafe to close his eyes in frustration.

“I don’t want to talk about her,” he shook his head. 

Rafe lifted his hand slowly, placing it on your waist. He squeezed gently at the soft skin of your side. You leaned into his touch for just a second before coming to your senses.

“Are you? Going to marry her?” You repeated stubbornly.

“Yes,” He said, eyes falling from your face to his hand on your side.

“Then you shouldn’t be touching me,” you grabbed Rafe’s hand and lowered it from you. “I won’t be a mistress. I won’t be that dirty pogue who fucks a married guy, I wanna be something better than that.” 

You slipped out from between him and the sink, pacing to the other side of the room, but his body turned aggressively to follow you.

“You are. You’re so much better,” his voice cracked with urgency as he rushed to reassure you.

You shook your head in anger, raising your voice as you snapped, “then why are you marrying someone else?”

“Because I have to!” He matched your heated tone, as if he was the one to have something to be mad about.

“We’re going in circles, Rafe! We are in the exact same spot we were six months ago! Except I’m a different person now. It changed me, losing you. I got better, I got healthy, I got sober. I got over you!” You were yelling now, searching for the words to make him understand that he wasn’t the only one who had something to lose now.

“Well I didn’t get over you,” he stated simply.

“No, you got engaged,” you pointed out.

“Fuck that, fuck her, you know I don’t love her!” He scoffed. “You saw her today, you know she’s a bitch.”

“That’s really nice, Rafe, you should put that in your vows,” you huffed sarcastically.

“Oh c’mon, she doesn’t love me either,” he rolled his eyes. “She still fucks around, everyone knows it.”

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but it took you by surprise. You searched his face for a sign as to whether it was true or just something he made up to make you sympathize with him. The way his eyes fell to the ground and the apples of his cheeks blushed slightly told you it was true, she cheated on him, and he was ashamed of it. It made you sick, the thought of someone having him so close and caring so little. The only thing worse than the thought of her treating him like that was the thought of him accepting it as if it was what he deserved. You should’ve felt sad for him, but it just made you angrier.

“Then why, Rafe? Why?” You knew you were becoming a broken record but you just could not wrap your head around his choice. “Why are you still with her?” You hated the way it made you sound like you were blaming him for her actions, but you needed to understand.

“Because I’m going to have to end up with someone like her anyway, I may as well just get it over with,” he said with a resigned shake of his head.

“That’s fucked up, Rafe,” you said, even though you knew he already knew it.

“It is what it is,” he shrugged, defeated.

Your eyes caught the clock on your stove. It was almost 1am. Rafe was supposed to be saying his vows in twelve hours, and you knew if he stood here in your apartment for another minute, looking at you so helplessly, you’d crumble for him.

“I think you should go home,” you said, trying and failing to mean it.

“Not yet,” Rafe said, his tone implying there was something more he was waiting for.

And even though you wanted to, you just couldn’t give it to him. 

Mustering the last of your pride, you took a deep breath and said, “If you’re waiting for me to ask you not to marry her, we’re both gonna be disappointed. I’ve been doing good, Rafe. I got my life together, and I won’t be responsible for ruining someone else’s. It’s not on me, you have to decide. If you don’t want to marry her, then don’t marry her. But do it for you, because I’ve got me covered.”

Rafe considered your words, standing completely still as they washed over him. He had to choose. He could either ruin his reputation and potentially lose his family to be happy with you or keep the lifestyle he’d grown so accustomed to and be miserable with her. He looked so sad, and you desperately wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but you stayed silent, wanting him to say what he was feeling all on his own for once. You needed a simple answer.

But Rafe Cameron never did anything the simple way.

He didn’t say anything,  he just started walking toward you. Once he was close enough to touch you, and your back was against the wall, he reached up to touch your face gently with one finger, silently asking if you were still in pain from your collision earlier. When you didn’t wince or push him away, he leaned down, bringing his lips dangerously close to yours.

“Just one more time, please. Don’t kick me out, be with me one more time,” he whispered against your skin.

You shook your head slowly, whispering back, “I won’t kick you out, but I also won’t let you touch me and then marry her.”

“Fine, I won’t touch you.” 

Rafe leaned back, only slightly, pulling his face away so you were level with his chest. He folded his hands behind his back to show you he meant it. You could smell his familiar musk, his chest so close to your face you could hear his heartbeat as you looked up at the pulsing veins in his neck. His hair, still wet from the shower, flopped messily over his forehead. A single drop fell from his bangs and landed on your collarbone. Rafe’s eyes darkened as he tracked the droplet rolling across your exposed skin, down your chest, over the curve of your tits and finally disappearing into your tank top.

Eyes locked to Rafe’s, you lifted your hand slowly, placing it over the spot the water had fallen, sliding your fingers delicately down the drop’s path. When you reached the neckline of your tank top, Rafe’s eyes consuming every movement, you reached up with your other hand and lowered one of the straps of your top slowly. You dragged your hand down further, cupping your breast through your lacy bralette and biting your lip at the pressure.

Rafe’s jaw clenched. He put one hand on the wall next to your head to steady himself, bringing his body impossibly closer while still not touching you. His other hand fell to his side, moving dangerously close to his dick.

“You better not touch yourself either, or I swear to god I’ll stop,” you warned him.

“Don’t stop,” He brought the drifting hand up to the wall on the other side of your head. “Please, baby.”

Butterflies erupted in your stomach at his voice, raspy and strained with need. With two hands on the hem of your shirt, you pulled it slowly over your head, leaving you in just the see-through undergarment. 

“Take that off too,” Rafe tried to sound dominant, but his voice cracked, betraying him.

“You’re not in any position to make demands,” you scolded with a shake of your head. “And you’re not going to see me naked. You have a fianceé for that.”

Rafe was pained by this, his nostrils flailing as he clenched his jaw in frustration. You ignored him and put your hands back on your body, palming both of your tits again before trailing lower over your stomach. Rafe’s tongue darted out of his mouth and licked his lips as he watched the way your stomach flexed with anticipation, hands finally landing on the waistband of your sleep shorts. One hand pulled the elastic back while the other slid beneath it slowly. When your fingers ran over the fabric of your panties, teasing your clothed clit, your head fell back against the wall and your jaw fell slack. Rafe ran one of his hands through his hair as he watched pleasure flood your face, desperate to touch something, anything. The hand still on the wall closed into a fist. You started rubbing circles over your clit through your panties, the fabric already soaked through, wet since the sight of him in his boxers. Your breath hitched when you found the perfect rhythm and you closed your eyes tight, a melodic moan rising from your throat.

“Fuck baby, you’re so fucking sexy,” Rafe growled through gritted teeth.

Your eyes flew open and you pulled your hand from your shorts, suddenly very aware of the lack of space between you and the vulgarity of what you were doing. You slid under his arm and hurried to the other side of the kitchen.

“You should go,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around yourself and shivering at the sudden loss of his warmth.

Rafe stayed still, trying not to spook you. His head dipped low, looking down at his ringing hands.

“I missed you,” he mumbled helplessly.

“You mean you missed fucking me?” You asked spitefully.

One agonizingly slow step at a time, Rafe crossed the room. You turned from him as if to push him away, literally giving him the cold shoulder. But he wasn’t deterred, he just got closer and closer until he was right behind you, close enough for his breath to sweep across your shoulder as he said, “yeah, what if I do? I miss it so much. There’s not a day that passes without me wishing I was here, fucking you so good you scream my name.”

His arrogant words made you so fucking angry, and so fucking wet.

What little resistance you had mustered disappeared. Breathless, you whispered, “what else do you miss?”

“I miss your little moans,” he continued, the corner of his lips raising slightly at the sight of the goosebumps that shot up your arms. “I bet you still cry out for me when you make yourself come, don’t you? I want you to show me.”

“We can’t do this,” you shook your head.

“No, I can’t do this,” he corrected you. “You can do whatever you want.”

No fight left, you took his suggestion, and soon you were laying back on your bed, your shorts thrown on the floor, your hand moving feverishly under your panties. Rafe laid next to you, his body drawn in as close as it could possibly get while keeping his promise not to touch you. You’d made no such promise, the hand you weren’t rubbing over your slick folds gripping his arm for purchase as you moaned at your own touch.

“Talk to me,” you begged.

“Yeah?” He said excitedly, as if he had been waiting for permission. 

You nodded desperately, bringing your eyes to his as one of your fingers dropped down to enter yourself.

“You remember the first time we fucked?” He began. “Right here on this bed. I took you from behind. You were so tight around my cock, like you were fucking made for me.”

You added a second finger, driven by his filthy words. His jaw clenched, restraining himself with more effort than he’d ever given anything as he watched you writhe.

“Keep going,” you whined, eyes squeezed shut.

“I had to turn you around, I had to see that pretty face when you came for me for the first time,” he recalled. “God, I bet you wish it was me stretching you out right now, don’t you? You wish it was my cock pounding you into the mattress until you can’t breathe, huh?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, lips pouting, overwhelmed by the memories and your need to feel him.

“Best pussy I’ve ever had,” he groaned, feeling himself twitching in his pants, desperate for his own release but committed to yours. “I need to see you come, baby, one more time. Please come for me?”

You cried out as you clenched around your own fingers, their size so inadequate with him so close, knowing what he could be doing to you. But you meant what you said, you couldn’t let him touch you, not while his bride was sleeping just across town, no idea her groom was in some pogue’s bed, begging her to come for him. Maybe it was sick, but the thought of him being so desperate for you that he was risking everything with her made your thighs clench around your hand, nearing the edge.

“Tell me about the first time you saw me,” you pleaded, the rasp in your voice warning him you were close. 

“Holy shit, baby, you were so fucking sexy,” he said, rising up from the bed and propping himself on his arm to hover over you, the proximity throwing you into even more of a frenzy. “Dancing in that club, the way you move, shit, I wanted to lay you down on that dancefloor and fuck you right there. So did every other guy in there. But they didn’t get to have you, I did. And I’ve never been the same since I first touched you.”

It was all too much, his words, the memory, the sensation of your fingers sliding in and out so easily, the way he was talking making you so wet. Your high crashed into you like a truck, your back arching off the bed, your chest bumping into his as you came with his name on your lips.

“There she is, that’s my girl,” Rafe exhaled as you rode out your high. Eventually, your muscles gave out from the pleasure and you slumped back into the bed.

He watched you in rapture as your chest rose and fell with labored breaths, struggling to recover. Neither of you knew what to do next, the shock of what just happened washing over you. Your body was so exhausted from the chaos of the day and the aftershocks of your orgasm, all you wanted was him, and you were too tired to fight it.

“Rafe?” You whispered into the darkness of your bedroom, the light of the moon the only thing illuminating the small space.

“Yeah?” He whispered back.

“Can you hold me?” Your voice sounded so small, and you hated the vulnerability of your request, but at this moment the only thing you wanted in the world was to feel his arms around you.

“I thought you didn’t want me to touch you?” He teased gently.

“I said I’m getting better, not that I’m perfect,” you smiled, turning your body towards him. “And I want to know what it feels like to fall asleep in your arms. Just once.”

“Is it gonna be an issue?” He asked. You knew what he really meant was, “are you going to regret sleeping with an engaged man?”

The answer was yes, but you didn’t care.

“Just let me be a little selfish,” you said, turning around so your back was against his chest, pulling his arm around you. “I had you first.”

“You still have me,” he whispered against your neck, pulling your body into his.

“Shhh,” you said, lifting your fingers gently to his lips. “Go to sleep, Rafe.”

He smiled and did as he was told.

₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊

The sunlight landing on your face is what woke you from the deepest and sweetest sleep you’d had in six months. Your first instinct was to smile, humming in satisfaction as you stretched your well rested muscles.

Your second instinct was to reach for him. 

You shouldn’t be surprised, shouldn’t pull your knees to your chest, shouldn’t be crying alone in your cold bed. Of course he left. He was always going to leave.

Some small, pathetic voice in the back of your mind said, “maybe he just went to break things off with her.”

Even though it made you feel like the most pitiful girl in the world, you checked his location, still available from the night before. He was on Figure 8, the address you had gone to yesterday. He was at his wedding. 

He had wanted you to ask him not to marry her. He never would’ve said it, but you could see it on his face. He had too much to lose, too many people depending on him, too much weight on his shoulders. But maybe he would’ve given it all up, if only you’d asked.

You threw your phone across the room in frustration. Maybe you should’ve just asked him to stay with you, maybe you should’ve put your pride aside this one time, maybe this was all your fault. 

You were up and out of bed before you had time to talk yourself out of it. You pulled on your catering clothes from the night before. Surely, they wouldn’t let you in the gate if you looked like some wedding crashing pogue, but maybe you could slip in undetected if it seemed like you still worked there.

You don’t even remember driving there, your stomach on fire with nerves and something that might even be excitement, as you raced across the island. The clock in your car read 1:03pm, and you prayed to whatever god was listening that the ceremony had started late.

As you planned, they let you right in the gate when you said you were with the caterer. You didn’t even bother to park at the service entrance, your tires squealing as you came to a stop right in front of the house, leaving the engine running as you ran towards the ceremony site. You could hear music playing in the distance, hoping it was the processional. 

But when you turned the corner, you heard a large crowd break into applause. You came to a halt, backing up to hide under the cover of a tree a few yards from the end of the aisle. You watched as Rafe appeared, his beaming bride on his arm. He dipped her low, giving her a kiss as the crowd cheered again, the gold ring on his left hand glinting in the sunlight.

You were too late.

₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊

pt. 3 coming soon

[betweenstorms]

Part Two of Where We Part (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

Time has a funny way of slipping through your fingers, doesn’t it?

The years passed as they do, quietly, relentlessly and somehow, unintentionally you followed Simon Riley’s advice, no matter how much it stung during that particular summer night.

You grew older, wiser, or at least you hoped you did. 

At the end of that warm, suburban summer, you left Manchester behind, moved to London for university, found yourself caught up in the complexity of adulthood, chasing dreams, making mistakes, falling in love, losing it. You lived your life, embraced its peaks and valleys, and let it sweep you along. Some days were golden, like those late summer days in your twenties when laughter was easy, love felt endless, and the world seemed filled with promise. You travelled with your new friends from university, gelato dripping down your wrist as you laughed under the bright Sicilian sun, the loud conversation with your girls echoing across the cobblestone streets. You invited your parents to London several times, playing tourist with them, showing them your new apartment, savouring moments of connection between the gaps of your new life and their old one. And then there was the day your boyfriend knelt before you, a ring glinting in the rose gold streetlights of Paris, asking you to be his fiancée.

Oh, it was the kind of moment you had always dreamed of, the fairy tale that every little girl secretly hopes will come true.

But life isn’t all dreams, is it?

You wept like a child, your heart shattered when you found out about the affair. Your fiancé, with your college roommate of all people. It felt like betrayal layered upon betrayal, and the sadness you carried then weighed more than all the joy of your past put together, manifested in the hollow echoes of your aching sobs in the shared flat you once called home. You moved out shortly after that incident.

Unfortunately, there were other disappointments, too. Failed job interviews, missed opportunities, the loneliness that seeped into your bones in those years after university, when friends began to drift away and the beauty of childhood transforms into a fading memory. But you picked yourself up. You always did. Because that’s what you did. That’s what you knew best. You kept moving, because the alternative, sinking, was unthinkable.

But through it all, you lived.

And you wouldn’t change a thing even if you had the chance.

You threw yourself into your work, into the messy and beautiful chaos of life. There were still some moments where you felt like you had the world at your feet, laughing with your high school mates over beers in dingy pubs, watching the sun set over London’s skyline, those spontaneous trips to the coast where you tasted freedom in every salty breeze. And you moved forward, not necessarily because you wanted to, but because time forced you to. But that was fine by you.

And in the quiet corners of your mind, Simon Riley became a distant thought—like the chorus of a song you used to know like the back of your hand. You thought of him less and less as the years went by, as your life became more complicated, more full.

You took his words to heart, didn’t you?

You left him behind.

But still, he lingered.

There were those times, in the early years, when your parents would call, giving you updates on Manchester, on the neighbours, on the old street you grew up on. You’d ask about the Rileys, casually, as if it didn’t really matter. You weren’t prying, not really, just curious. What had become of Simon? Of Tommy? Your parents mentioned Simon had joined the military at some point, which didn’t surprise you. He always carried a soldier’s weight, even as a boy.

They told you about Tommy too, how his life had spiralled out of control with drugs and the wreckage of his past trauma. Your mother sighed when she mentioned Mrs. Riley and how she had hit rock bottom. But Simon, when he returned from deployment, finally helped them rid themselves of Mr. Riley for good, breaking the cycle of abuse that had poisoned their lives for years.

Your parents even got a bit more involved in the Riley’s lives after that—dropping in with food, attending Tommy’s wedding with a kind soul named Beth, helping with little Joseph, their gorgeous newborn, who your mum absolutely adored. She’d tell you about him during your weekend catch-ups.

However, as time went on, the Rileys faded from your thoughts, a chapter you had quietly closed.

Your own life was blooming in London, despite the mistakes you made along the way. You loved fiercely, lost greatly, and found your way back to yourself time and again. The more you lived, the less you thought about the boy who once lived next door.

Until that cold November afternoon.

The air was ice cold, but not just from the weather. It was the kind of chill that settled deep in your bones, the kind that gnawed at you long after the sun had set during winter.

The day had been unremarkable at first—work was its usual rhythm of meetings and emails, the sound of your co-workers chattering as a familiar background noise. But then your phone rang, your mother’s weak voice trembling on the other end like the fragile crackle of dry leaves in the wind during autumn.

You had heard your mother cry before.

The grief at a relative’s passing, the heartache of a goodbye too long drawn out—but this was different. Her sobs were frantic, her rushed words spilling over each other in terrified, broken fragments, so hurried you could hardly catch the meaning.

“The Rileys… oh God, love, the Rileys are gone…”

It took you a moment to grasp what she was saying.

Gone? How? You sat frozen, the world around you blurring as your mum’s words came in and out like waves crashing against the shore.

“Dear Lord, some maniac... a psychopath… some madman…” she choked. “He killed them. Killed them all. Tommy, Beth, even little Joseph, an innocent baby, Oh God…”

You could hear your mother’s quiet anguish, but it was as though you were outside yourself, hearing everything from a great distance.

The Rileys. Dead. It didn’t make sense. Mrs. Riley, Tommy, Beth, the child—how could they be gone? The thought was too large and too grotesque to fully comprehend. It was like a nightmare, one you couldn’t wake up from.

“And… Simon?”

A name you hadn’t uttered in years.

A name that had always lingered on the edges of your memory, like a shadow cast by fading light.

Your mother’s breath caught. “I don’t know. Oh, love. He wasn’t there… I think he’s still in the military, but… we don’t know, we were asleep, didn’t hear a thing.”

She was crying again, her sobs muffled by the phone. Her sobs broke through, and she confessed, through gasps of guilt, that she and your father had been sound asleep when it happened, oblivious to the horror just next door. The sanctuary of your childhood, the quiet safety of the neighbourhood, shattered in a mere second.

Your mind raced, your heart thundering in your chest.

Oh, all those years, all those moments where you hadn’t thought about Simon Riley, and now, now the past was clawing its way back, forcing you to confront something you had thought you’d left behind.

Your coworkers looked up, sensing something was wrong. One of them asked if you were okay, if you needed anything, but you barely heard them. You wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything, but all you could do was tremble. Your hands squeezed as you gripped your phone, trying to keep your voice steady as you told your mother you’d drive up to Manchester right away, that you’d be there soon. When the call ended, and you were out the door before you had time to gather your thoughts. The moments after that were a blur, your body on autopilot as you stumbled to your car. The urgency to get there, to understand what had happened, burned through you, like liquid fire in your veins.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Pain hit you suddenly, sharp and overwhelming, something you’ve never felt before. It started as a dull ache in your lower stomach, but it intensified rapidly until you were doubled over, gasping for breath. You couldn’t drive, you couldn’t think. By the time you finally made it to your flat, the pain had become unbearable. Something was wrong, you knew. Terribly wrong.

You had to call for an ambulance, your hands shaking as you dialled the number.

However, you weren’t thinking about yourself as they wheeled you into the hospital, weren’t listening to the doctor’s voice as he explained the situation—appendicitis, nothing lethal, a routine surgery, and you’d be fine but you had to stay still.

Throughout your surgery, all you could think about was Simon. The boy who had grown into a man who you barely knew anymore, the man who had lived through hell and had come back to face it once again. Was he back in Manchester? Was he grieving? Or had he been claimed by the same nightmare that had taken the rest of his family?

After the surgery, you lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, tears streaming down your face. It wasn’t the pain of your own body that made you cry—it was the helplessness, the not knowing, the fear that somewhere out there, Simon, your childhood friend, was lost, alone, and there was nothing you could do to help him.

You spent the first few hours after the surgery drifting between sleep and wakefulness, your mind clouded with both painkillers and the overwhelming ache of uncertainty. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw flashes of the past—memories of Manchester, the Rileys, Simon. The years blurred, and for a moment, you could almost feel the gentle summer sun on your skin again, hear the distant murmur of a time that seemed too far gone.

But the present was relentless.

Your parents arrived in London as quickly as they could, your mother staying by your side, fussing over you as she had when you were a child. Her hands were warm, but her eyes betrayed her fear. Fear for you, fear for what had happened back in Manchester. She stayed while your father left for the funeral—the collective service for the Rileys, held only a week after their brutal end.

You couldn’t go, of course. Fucking appendicitis.

The thought of missing that final goodbye gnawed at you. You couldn’t let it go. Therefore, you wrote. A letter. A really long letter. In the small hours of the night, with the hospital lights dimmed and the distant hum of machinery as your only company, you penned a letter.

The words didn’t come easily.

What could you possibly say to Simon Riley, after all these years? What could you write that would bring him any semblance of comfort, any understanding in the face of such senseless tragedy? How could you explain to him how sorry you were? Sorry for what had happened to his family, sorry that you weren’t there when he needed someone most, sorry for all the years you’d spent avoiding the memories of your childhood, of him. But you had to try.

You wrote with a trembling hand, pouring everything you couldn’t say aloud into that letter, every apology that had been lodged in your throat for years. You tied it to your father’s soul, knowing he would deliver it to Simon, wherever he might be. And your father, with his quiet strength, promised he would.

When the day of the funeral came, you lay in your bed, imagining the cold November air, the way the ground must have looked under the grey Manchester sky. You pictured the small crowd, neighbours, and friends from the community, all standing in sombre silence as the Rileys were laid to rest. But what haunted you most was the image of Simon—if he was even there at all. You wondered if he stood apart from the others, his broad shoulders hunched, his face unreadable as ever. Or maybe he hadn’t come at all, disappearing into the shadows once again, as he always had.

The week crawled by, each day dragging longer than the last. Your mother stayed by your side, but the quiet weight of what had happened in Manchester pressed down on both of you. Your father returned, but there was no news of Simon. Your dad told you that they didn’t talk much. No sight of him after the funeral. No trace of him in the days after. He had vanished, leaving behind an empty house and a tragedy too vast to comprehend. And when you finally recovered enough to leave the hospital, you made the trip back to Manchester with your mother.

The familiar streets felt like a ghost of themselves—places once filled with memories now overshadowed by the grim reality of what had happened. The Riley house stood empty, its windows dark, the air around it thick with loss. You stood at the gate for a long time, staring at the house that had once been so full of life, of pain, of everything in between. But now, it was nothing. Just a shell. Just another haunted corner of your past.

There were no answers. No signs of Simon.

And in the end, after a week of trying to help your parents, after a week of grieving and remembering, you left. You packed your things and drove back to London, promising yourself you’d never return. The city you had once called home felt cursed now, and the memories it held were too heavy to bear.

You couldn’t escape the past, though. Not really. 

The promise you made to yourself all those years ago, to never return to that godforsaken city, was one you kept for a long time. It wasn’t out of spite or bitterness, but rather out of a quiet resignation. You had moved on, created a life in London that was full of both the mundane and the extraordinary. And after your parents moved to Wimbledon, following your father’s cancer diagnosis, the ties to Manchester became even more frayed.

It wasn’t until your thirty-fourth birthday that you found yourself heading back to the place you swore you’d never return to.

Not for family, not for closure, but for something as trivial and absurd as a fucking high school reunion. It had started with a sudden phone call from one of your old mates, the same group you used to run around with in your youth.

You hadn’t heard from them in years. Well, apart from the occasional likes on Instagram posts or an awkwardly short birthday text.

“Fifteen bloody years,” your friend had said, her voice bright and insistent. “You’ve been stuck in London with your fancy life, and we’ve barely seen you. Time to get your arse back here and have a pint with the group, eh? It’s been too long, girl.”

You laughed it off at first, citing your tight work schedule and your responsibilities. But the more she talked, the more you realised how long it had been since you’d even thought about that part of your life. A simpler time, before the complexities of adulthood and all its responsibilities weighed on you.

So you agreed. You didn’t really know why, maybe out of a sense of pure nostalgia or maybe out of some lingering guilt.

The drive up to Manchester was long, and your nerves sat uneasily in your chest. What would it be like to see those familiar faces again, to walk the streets that had once been the backdrop of your childhood? Would it feel like home? Or would it feel like you didn’t belong anymore, a ghost walking through memories?

However, by the time you saw the familiar landmarks, something in you began to settle. The nervousness faded, replaced by a strange calmness, as if the city itself recognised you and offered some kind of unspoken truce. You arrived at the pub where your reunion was being held—the same one you used to frequent during your teenage years. It was a dive, the kind of place that hadn’t aged well, but that’s exactly what made it feel like time had stood still.

Inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of beer and the hum of conversation. And then there they were, your dear friends, sitting in a corner, laughing just like they always did. The moment you walked in, it was as if no time had passed at all. They greeted you with familiar smiles, pulling you into tight hugs and offering you a pint almost immediately.

The conversation flowed easily, old jokes resurfacing, stories being retold with exaggerated details and you found yourself chuckling. No, truly laughing, in a way you hadn’t done in what felt like ages. The weight of the years melted away, and for those brief hours, you felt like you were a teenager again, full of life and possibility, untouched by the heaviness that had since followed you. Oh, you hadn’t even realised how much you missed it, missed them. The simplicity of it all. The foolishness of youth.

As the night wore on, you found yourself drinking more than you should have. The beers went down easy, their familiar taste blending with the warm laughter and nostalgia. You hadn’t had a drink in a while, not properly, and it didn’t take long for the alcohol to loosen your limbs and soften the edges of reality. You felt light-headed, slightly detached from your surroundings but in that comfortable way that comes with the perfect level of drunkenness. Your words were slurring a bit, your laughter louder, but you didn’t mind.

Not tonight.

Eventually, the haze became a bit too much, and you excused yourself from the table. You needed fresh air, a moment for yourself to step away from the heat of the pub and the noise of the reunion. You fumbled with your jacket as you headed for the back of the building, where the designated smoking area was. It was behind the pub, near the dimly lit, empty parking lot, and as you made your way there, you nearly tripped over a discarded bottle on the ground.

“Bloody hell,” you muttered under your breath, the curse falling easily from your lips. Even small inconveniences seemed dramatic when you were tipsy. Some habits never died.

When you reached the smoking area, you were grateful to see it wasn’t crowded. Just one man, standing off to the side, leaning against the wall of the building, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he took a long drag. The tip of the cig glowed bright orange in the darkness. His silhouette seemed larger than life, almost unreal in the way he stood. He was massive, the kind of bloke you’d notice even in a crowded room, let alone in the quiet of the night.

Tall as a statue but built like a brick wall—shoulders broad and thick with muscle, his frame nearly filling the space between the wall and the edge of the lot.

At first, you stopped, startled by his size.

He was the sort of man you’d expect to see guarding the door, maybe a bouncer or a security guard. That made sense, considering how much physical strength he had. You nodded at him out of politeness, the way you do when you make eye contact with a stranger and want to acknowledge their presence without committing to a conversation. His gaze lingered on you, sharp and calculating.

Why was he looking at you like that?

You quickly turned away, feeling oddly self-conscious, and pulled out your cig, attempting to light it. But of course, as your luck would have it, your lighter chose that moment to give up on you. No matter how many times you flicked the damn thing, it refused to spark.

“Seriously?” you muttered, cursing your luck again. The bravado of the alcohol in your system pushed you to turn towards your only companion, flashing him an awkward smile. “Hi. Hello. Any chance you’ve got a lighter, mate?”

The man didn’t speak at first.

He just watched you, observed you, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark and reflective under the dim light of the parking lot. There was something oddly familiar about the way he held himself, something in the way he stared at you that sent a ripple of recognition through you, but you couldn’t quite place it.

Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a black, well-worn lighter, and flicked it open. The flame sparked to life, small but steady, and he leaned forward, offering it to you. You stepped closer, holding your cigarette to the flame.

As you did, you couldn’t help but take a better look at him.

His face was mostly obscured by the dim lighting, but his features were hard and chiselled. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken more than once, with a small scar running through his upper lip. His lips were thin, pressed into a line that gave nothing away, and the faint lines around his eyes hinted at a man who had lived through more than most. However, it was his gaze, those beautiful hazel eyes, that stopped you cold. They were sharp, almost piercing, and there was something else behind them—an intensity that made your stomach tighten.

For a moment, you thought it might just be the alcohol playing tricks on you, but the longer you looked, the more certain you became. There was no mistaking it.

Those eyes, guarded and haunted, belonged to Simon Riley.

“Thanks,” you muttered, taking a quick drag from your cig, stepping back, trying to act casual even though your heart was racing.

There was something about his presence, something that felt both familiar and distant at the same time. It had been years, after all. You’d moved on, or so you thought. But standing here now, the weight of the past pressed down on you, the memories flooding back like a tide you couldn’t hold back. This random bloke before you… yes, the resemblance was mad uncanny. You stole glances at the giant man, unsure, your mind buzzing with uncertainty and the effects of the alcohol. Was it really him? Could it be?

You hesitated, your hand trembling slightly as you took another drag from your cigarette. You wanted to ask, but the words stuck in your throat, too afraid to sound foolish. Too afraid that if you asked, you’d break whatever fragile moment this was. But before you could find the courage to speak, the man sighed.

That sigh.

It was unmistakable—quiet, irritated, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders and he was tired of carrying it. It was the same sigh you’d heard all those years ago, on that warm summer night beneath the street lamps.

“Fuckin' hell,” he muttered under his breath, the deep, rough rumble of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “S’me. Stop gawkin'.”

[crazerk]

When you find yourself among the few women chosen to become a concubine in the Imperial harem, you have a chance to carve your place in court.

The life of a concubine might seem luxurious and idyllic, but behind the silken curtains of the harem, dangerous games are played. Games where the wrong words will cost your life, betrayal, lies and secrets are commonplace and gaining the shah’s attention is paramount to your survival.

Start out as a princess, disgraced noble or captive.

Intrigue, intrigue and more intrigue.

Dramatic events on par with a soap opera

Revenge, backstabbing, forbidden love, plots and more.

Rise the ranks by outsmarting or eliminating your rivals.

Produce and raise heirs to secure your place.

Influence politics through the emperor or seize power for yourself.

Learn fire magic or join a cult of chaos.

Live a life of leisure and the pursuit of higher education or a life of hedonism.

Inspired by the Sassanid dynasty and Persian mythology.

Shah Khazunef

He is calm, perspective and far less ruthless than his father before him but they share the same cunning nature and intimidating aura. Khazunef has deep brown skin, dark hazel eyes and silky mid length black hair that frames his face perfectly.

Fang

A former slave whose fighting prowess earned him freedom. He has since become a close friend of Khazunef and they regard each other as brothers. He serves as an informal advisor and spy to the shah but shirks any formal duties. Fang is charismatic and extroverted with copper red hair, rose skin and blue eyes.

Persa

Her name means dove and fits her gentle demeanor. She was raised a princess in a land of mountains and snow that was conquered by Shah Arzad. Upon the fall of her city and murder of her family, she was brought to the capital to serve in the palace. She has honey blonde hair, dark brown eyes and alabaster skin.

Ignasia

Ignasia is a fire priestess and staunch follower of the faith. Although born a noble, she gave up all claims and titles to serve in the fire temples as a guardian of the eternal flame. Ignasia has dark hair, darker eyes and a regal, reserved bearing.

Valide Zarayan

She is the ruthless and ambitious mother of Khazunef, originally a distrusted foreigner who rose to great power in the court of Shah Arzad. She rules over the harem like her own little kingdom and holds influence over her son.

Shahbanu Yaris

The wife of Khazunef and shahbanu of the realm. Yaris wed the emperor when he was 17 and she 26 in an alliance that strengthened the empire and influences it to this day.

Vizier Rubien

The grand vizier and advisor to the Emperor who Khazunef considers a father figure. Rubien is fiercely intelligent, loyal and wise. He remains dedicated to his work and helping the Emperor rule justly.

Averus

Averus is a high priest and soothsayer of the court. His advice is sought by all and a bad word about you from his lips can sully your reputation and relationships beyond repair.

Consort Iltani

Former consort and favorite of Shah Arzad. Her name is whispered like a curse, and her influence spreads far wide even though the valide has her currently imprisoned within the palace.

This story is for mature audiences, please proceed with discretion! Story will contain violence, drugs, alcohol, death, suicide, infanticide, harm to animals, miscarriages, abuse and sexual themes.

Demo

[avelera]

Unwell thinking about how the possibility to push Viktor to ask for more of Jayce's attention, or even to remove Mel from the picture, didn't even OCCUR to Future Viktor. Because he truly thinks that Jayce can't possibly unconditionally accept him and his flaws. He NEEDS to be physically perfect first.

So the timeline of Jesus Viktor keeps playing out as an inevitability, partially fueled by Jayce's attention being pulled towards the Council and missing a lot of red flags happening with Viktor.

When all it would have taken was Viktor directly asking Jayce for help or attention instead of skirting around the issue/generalising it to "people need our help". That sweet dog of a man would have dropped anything if only you asked, Viktor

Jayce would have dropped EVERYTHING, E V E R Y T H I N G if just ONCE Viktor had given him an unambiguous, "Help me!" I believe this in my bones.

And this gets into something I love about S1, which is how airtight it is written (S2 has a lot of bigger events but lays less groundwork, it's why I give it a 95% instead of a 100% like S1, just as a writer). Because you can go back to S1 and see every single moment that people could have prevented what comes later, and exactly why they were unable to do so.

You can see that Silco wants to shut down the bridge to trap Vi in the undercity -> He tells Marcus to find a way to shut down the bridge -> Jayce as a new Council is flustered and overwhelmed so when Marcus says the only way to be 100% safe is to shut down the bridge he says sure, let's do that then, because Marcus deliberately only gave an engineer one solution so the engineer listened -> Viktor gets trapped in the blockade after acquiring Shimmer, he's nervous and on edge because he has illegal drugs on him for an illegal experiment -> Jayce is overwhelmed and harried and freaking out because he's been summoned down to the bridge to collect Viktor. He's also freaking out because he's now worried for Viktor's safety because he's been getting fed crisis after crisis about how it's the people from the undercity who are dangerous, he just saw death for the first time after Jinx's explosion and he grew up with Piltover prejudices that are resurfacing under the assault of Silco's machinations, Jinx's attacks, and Marcus's manipulations -> Jayce freaks out and yells at Viktor out of fear for his life -> Viktor who was in an emotionally vulnerable place, fearing for his own life and worried he'd lose Jayce's regard if he proceeds hears Singed's voice in his head saying Jayce might not understand, decides not to tell Jayce about the Shimmer. Jayce's prejudices also push Viktor to clam up instead of going to him for help like he might have otherwise -> overall the chaos on the bridge and the Molotov further heightens the tension and robs Jayce and Viktor of a moment where Viktor would have felt comfortable coming clean, asking for Jayce's help, or bringing him in on the experiment -> Sky dies as a result -> EVERYTHING that happens in Act 2 as a result of Viktor doing those Hexcore experiments alone.

Like that's just one example of how that one bridge scene argument is caught in an incredibly intricate web of human cause and effect, it's fucking genius.

But we see why Viktor didn't ask for help, even aside from that one conversation on the bridge. He generally doesn't ask for help, perhaps because of his disability and his pride, perhaps out of shame because he knows these experiments are extreme, perhaps out of fear because he doesn't want Jayce to know how close to death he really is and fear clouds your judgement, perhaps because it's a very human, self-defeating thing to do.

And as for not asking Jayce to dump Mel... how could he? He's dying. When he dies, Jayce is going to be alone in the world, how can he begrudge him a new partner? Even if he despises her existence in Jayce's life with every fiber of his being? Especially when she seems to represent that he and Jayce's paths in life have diverged, and maybe that's what's best for Jayce! He has a promising future elsewhere, even if Viktor hates it, he's dying and he doesn't have the right to ask Jayce to change, not unless he can cure himself. Not unless he can offer himself as a real alternative.

Which is what makes the Mel-inspired look for his robot in 2.08 so fucking bonkers. Like wow, Viktor did it! He cured his disease and transcended humanity and he's working on their dream like they always wanted and he's BACK and he's ready to FIGHT for Jayce's time and attention, while effectively cosplaying as a robot version of Mel, in the Council Chamber that stole so much of Jayce's attention as if he needed to do any of those things to get Jayce's attention other than just ask him for it directly using his words.

[strwbabydoll]

The Feeling Came Late (I’m Still Glad I Met You)

Chapter Four: To Kiss in Cars and Downtown Bars

pairings: grumpy!college student!Harry x fem! sunshine!reader

chapter summary: No matter how frustrated she gets, she just can’t give up on the hope that she can change him, help him. Her best friend offers her a distraction to keep her mind fresh and off of the stress of tutoring him, the bar is just the perfect way to do that. After several shots, she falls into the arms of the one person she didn't want to see tonight, and just their luck he has to be the one to take care of her for the night. What better way to end the night than with a mistake that might just change everything as much as he hates it.

series summary: Harry hates Y/N, it seems like it's been like that forever. He's quick to insult and correct her even when she's right, he's just always been the only one to pick on her no matter what she does. She doesn't understand why it's like this between them or what she did to make him dislike her so much, but what if it's all just a lie?

overall warnings: slow burn, eventual smut, sexual tension, kind of enemies to lovers, angst, alcohol consumption and drug mentions, foul language, Harry is a major asshole in this tbh, heavy on the grumpy x sunshine in this.

chapter 4/? (wc: 6.7k)

001 | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04

- - - - -

She knew logically there was no reason for her to be upset, especially not about something so small and more than likely had nothing to do with her. He was just being him, he was in a mood and just didn't want to be there. Deep down she wanted everything to go differently, she wanted to see if there was a chance he could maybe not like her a little less, he might crack a smile or at least talk! 

The whole time he was silent aside from the hums and grunts he would answer with that she had a hard time deciphering. She had to fight back a smile every time they made eye contact but the small moment was ruined when he'd look away and huff. 

The following days after their study session seemed to drag on for Y/N. The days' they go to school haven't changed, she tries to approach him to discuss when to meet next or to ask him if he has any questions, and he ignores her. He'll carry on with his conversation as if she's not standing right there and she's left to walk away with her head held down and a sad smile on her lips. 

So she stopped trying, she stopped texting him about the worksheets he has, she stopped trying to talk to him in between classes, she hated the way he treated her and she's tired. She figures that he'll come to her whenever he's ready. 

So she went on with her normal routine and didn't focus on him as much, and if he never comes back then it's not her fault. She continued with all her studies and preparing for her own exams, spending time with her friends and making short trips to her favorite meadow. 

She's always found the breeze blowing against her skin, the silence of the field aside from the couple of birds chirping and the insects that have made the grass their home, comforting in a way. She loved being outside even as a young girl, it seemed to be the only place she could go to escape the chaos and loud feelings of her life. She never hesitated to step outside whenever her parents began to raise their voices, or after a long day filled with stress. 

As she sits against the tall oak tree, the leaves shading her from the heat of the Florida sun, she can feel the stress of the past few days leave her body. She smiles happily as the grass tickles her skin, and at this moment she feels at home. 

- - - - 

The next couple of days, she still hasn't heard from Harry about their next session and midterms are coming soon and she'd hate to be the reason Harry fails. The only thing coming into mind is to make her way to the principal's office and demand that he comes to sessions but she knows that won't work. It'll just cause Harry to hate her even more if that's even remotely possible. She sighs as she walks out the school doors and down the steps, a slight pep in her step and a soft smile placed delicately on her lips.

She skips over happily to the bike rack and unties her own, slowly pulling it backwards until she's a good distance from the rack. She stops briefly as something catches her eye. With one hand shielding her eyes from the harsh sun as she scans the crowd, she smiles brightly as she lands on a familiar figure, the loose curls gathered in a pony tail and the leather jacket are all too familiar to her, so without thinking she begins to move towards him. Her legs carry her through the crowd of students until she's standing directly behind him. Her hand comes up to tap gently on his shoulder, stepping backwards so he can turn around. 

He turns around, scowl already forming on his lips as his eyes meet hers. His fists clench at his side and he shakes his head. He quickly turns back around and opens his car, not caring about the conversation he was in the middle of. She frowns slightly before walking behind him as he aggressively opens the door and gets in, making sure to glare at her when her hand reaches out to rest on his door. 

"What the fuck could y’possibly want?" He asks and she frowns slightly. 

"You've been ignoring me." He scoffs lightly at her response as he sticks his keys in and starts the car. 

"Get the hint then, lala." He gently begins to tug on the door, just because he's an asshole doesn't mean he's just gonna let her get hurt physically.

She frowns as she keeps her hand on the door. 

"Just because it was one bad study session - keep in mind it was only bad because of you - doesn't mean you can be even more of an asshole to me. I know you don't wanna fail, you wanna get the hell out of here as fast as possible." He stares at her blankly as she speaks. 

"I don't care if you like me or not because frankly I don't like you right now. I've tried to schedule sessions and all I get is radio silence. If you want this to be over as soon as possible, then you need to try. You need to work with me, not against me. If you wanna pass, I'll be at the library in the same spot all week. If you don't, then you better tell the principal you canceled our study session and whatever bullshit you need to say. I want you to know that if you fail, you can not blame me because you did this yourself." She says as her grip on the door loosens. He furrows his eyebrows as he stares at her intensely, his frown prominent as his eyes size her up. 

He lets out a defeated sigh as he shuts his eyes and turns his head slightly, his curls tickling his neck as they slide over it. 

"Fucking fine, two days from now I guess we can meet up and study some more. Is that all?" His voice lacks any eagerness but that doesn't deter her from cracking a big smile at him before she skips off towards the bike rack. His eyes never leave her retreating figure even after she pedals out of the parking lot and down the street. 

He's so stuck in his brain that he doesn't hear his friend Alex walk up beside him, the feeling of a hand slapping him on the shoulder startles him from the trance he was in. He snaps his head around and nods his head once in acknowledgement, Alex smiles at him briefly. 

"Wassup man, why're you being weird?" Harry shakes his head as a frown quickly begins to form on his face. 

"The fuck are you talking about?" Harry asks and Alex chuckles, a hand flying out to grasp Harry's shoulder in response. 

"You've been staring into space since what's her face left." Harry shakes his head in response as he chuckles. 

"Nothin' like that. S'all taken care of." Alex nods once before releasing his hold on Harry's leather clad shoulder. 

"Me and a couple of buds are going to the bar tonight, you wanna come?" Harry nods once in agreement before they say their goodbyes. 

- - - - 

Y/N sits on the couch beside her closest friend, Leya, aimlessly scrolling through the channels on the television. Their phones are discarded on the coffee table in front of them as they make small talk as they search for something to watch. The day's been boring for both of them, Y/N went to school and then headed over to Leya's house where her friend's been cooped up all day. 

"We should go out tonight." Leya says after settling on some cooking show. 

She sets the remote on the table before turning to face Y/N beside her, her eyes meeting confused ones. 

"It's a school night... Why on earth would we go out?" She asks and Leya chuckles. 

"We won't be out late, promise. Just tired of being cooped up inside and we haven't hung out outside of these four walls in forever it seems. You've been busy." Y/N smiles softly as she tucks one leg underneath her as she bites her bottom lip. 

She knows her best friend's idea of “not late” is much different than hers, they're more than likely going to be heading back to their places around one in the morning, meanwhile Y/N usually only stays out until eleven p.m. since she has early morning classes. She sighs before turning her gaze to her best friend, eagerness and excitement is written all over her face and she can't help but to return the excitement. A bright smile forms on her lips before she nods her head. 

"Where did you want to go and we're only staying out until midnight at the latest, I have to get up early." She can't help but smile at her friend's excitement. 

They both turn their gaze to the television, smiles etched on their faces as they focus on whatever the man on the screen is cooking. She knows this isn't a good idea because she knows they'll be out much later than intended simply because time won't matter once they're having fun. No one will be checking their phones and she doesn't even know where they're going!

She knows she hasn't had much time to properly hang out with her best friend because she's been doing a lot more. She's been juggling school with tutoring two different students and trying to snag some hours in at the local library for a little side cash. She can't help but to feel bad, but there's nothing she can do about it now and she's sure her friend understands why. 

Leya goes on and on about a bar nearby that's under new management and is supposed to be so much better and how she wants to try it. 

 "They have a better selection of drinks, live music! This sounds like so much fun I promise you won't regret it. Please say you'll go, you have to! I'm afraid I'll die if you say no." Leya says, placing a hand on her forehead to feed into the dramatics as she rests her upper half over the couch armrest. 

Y/N can't help but to laugh at her friend as she rolls her eyes playfully. 

"You're silly. You know I was gonna say yes regardless, you deserve a proper fun night out." Leya's face might be broken with how hard she's smiling, white teeth showcased fully and her eyes barely showing as she quickly shortens the small distance between to embrace her best friend into a tight hug. 

"I could quite literally kiss you right now, you're the best friend ever! I'm so excited, thank you thank you!" She squeals before pulling away to plant a sloppy kiss on Y/N's cheek causing the girl to laugh as she wipes it away with the back of her hand. 

A comfortable silence falls over them as they turn their attention back to the television, the man's voice playing in the background as he talks about whatever dish he's making for the day. Her head lays on Leya's shoulder as they continue to watch tv, a happy smile on her face as she enjoys the company and peaceful bliss. 

- - - - 

Several hours later, Y/N finds herself standing in front of the standing floor mirror holding two different dresses. She takes turns in holding the dresses up to her body as she tries to decide which one she wants to wear. She doesn't wanna put too much effort in her appearance since she knows it'll all be sweated off by the end of the night. 

She ends up choosing a simple black dress, one that hugs her curves nicely with lace detailing around the edges and stops mid thigh. It's plain enough so she won't stand out too much, but dressy enough to show she actually put some effort into her appearance. After she slips it on, she applies some light makeup and styles her hair and decides to leave her curls to flow down her back. 

She walks out of Leya's room and into the living room where she's met with her best friends' figure leaning over the kitchen island as she applies a pink tinted lipstick over her lips, the burgundy dress compliments her caramel skin, hugging her curves but flaring out towards the bottom with an open back and stops mid thigh. Her hair has been pinned back as it rests in the matching burgundy hair clip. She can't help but to smile as she watches her friend add the finishing touches to her makeup before choosing to speak up. 

"You look super pretty, Leya. Is that dress new?" Leya turns around and smiles just as big as she nods. 

"Yes! Oh my gosh, you look to die for! Spin for me baby!" Leya exclaims and Y/N can't help but to giggle as she does a spin, her white heels clicking against the tile floor with every step.

They both laugh as they embrace each other in a tight hug before walking out the door and towards Leya's car. The soft breeze blowing against her skin and she smiles as she steps inside the car. Leya hops into the driver seat and starts the car making sure to roll Y/N's window down as she drives down the street. The trees and houses turn into a blur, the breeze fanning her face as she lays her head on the open space on the car door. 

- - - - 

The smell of weed quickly fills Y/N's nose as she steps out of the car and lets her eyes sweep over the building. There's a couple of guys huddled in the far side of the building, she can only assume they're smoking the weed by how clouds of smoke keep blowing in the air every couple of seconds. She can see the side profile of one of the guys and she can't help the small gasp that escapes her lips when she realizes that one of the guys is Harry. 

He's dressed like normal, a white dress shirt halfway unbuttoned to show off his swallows tattoos and his toned chest, a pair of black skinny jeans and his signature brown Chelsea boots, his hair resting right at his shoulders instead of his usual bun. She can hear Leya clear her throat from behind her and she turns around to meet her gaze with a sly smile. 

They don't say anything to each other before Leya's grabbing her hand and heading towards the entrance and she laughs as Leya yells. 

"Party time baby!" The sound of her friend's voice causes Harry and his friends to look over and she catches a glimpse of his signature frown beginning to form. 

She refuses to let him ruin a perfectly good night so she sends him a sarcastic smile before she's dragged through the door and directly to the bar, she staggers behind her friend as her heels clack against the wooden floor. She quickly apologizes to everyone she bumps into as she tries to make herself as small as possible, earning a few nasty glares in the process. It doesn't take long for the two girls to reach the bar and they quickly hop onto the bar stools, the leather squeaks underneath with every move. 

The music is loud and Y/N can feel the vibrations through the stool, even though she just walked in the heat from all the dancing bodies enveloping her, wrapping her in a warm hug. The bartender comes over and sends both of them a flirty smile as he leans on the counter top. 

"And what can I get for you lovely ladies?" He asks and they both let out a giggle. Leya's the first to answer as she smiles back. 

"I'd like a sex on the beach please!" The waiter nods in response as he gathers everything he needs and begins to make her drink. 

Y/N doesn't know what she wants to drink, she's never been a heavy drinker, she doesn't like the bitterness of beer or the burn of tequila as it flows down her throat. She usually sticks with water or tea, something non-alcoholic or something sweet when she's out so she turns her head and pleads with Leya. Wide eyes begging for help to make herself feel better about her decision which causes her friend to laugh softly before nodding her head. 

The waiter comes back with a smile as he hands Leya's drink to her and turns to Y/N, flashing her a flirty smile as well. 

"And what can I get started for you, pretty?" Y/N smiles politely back at him before Leya interrupts them. 

"Do you by any chance have anything fruity?" The bartender nods and quickly mixes her drink and hands it to her, it's orange and looks just like orange juice and she can make out a few ice cubes floating around. 

She hesitantly brings the cup to her lips and takes a small sip, expecting to feel the burn in her throat or taste the bitter aftertaste that'll linger on her taste buds. Surprisingly she doesn't taste any of it, it's sweet and tastes just like orange juice. She licks her lips before taking a longer sip and nods. 

"I like this! What's it called?" She asks and the bartender chuckles softly before he replies.

"It's called a screwdriver. It's orange juice and vodka. I'd be careful with that, because it's so easy to drink it'll get you pretty tipsy fast. Don't just drown it, small sips." She nods gingerly as she turns to Leya. 

"Want some?" Leya shakes her head softly as she sends a smile to Y/N, one full of love and happiness she can't help but to send a reciprocated smile back. 

The bartender leaves them to chat idly as the music plays, loud enough to cause them to lean into each other to make sure they're heard correctly. Leya talks about how she can't believe that Y/N is out and drinking, making jokes about where has her friend gone because the girl she knows wouldn't be caught dead in a bar, let alone outside her apartment at this time. Y/N chuckles before playfully pushing her friend's shoulder and taking another sip of her drink. 

As their eyes glaze over the crowd full of dancing people, Leya nudges her softly causing her to turn her head briefly where she's met with a smirk. 

"You know Harry's here?" Y/N chuckles before nodding. 

"Saw him outside before we came in. Didn't look too happy to see me." She shrugs before taking another sip of her drink. She watches as her friend shakes her head and rolls her eyes. 

"Still nothing huh? I don't even understand why he dislikes you so strongly. You said you confronted him in the parking lot? Did nothing happen?" Y/N can feel her frown beginning to form at the thought of her outburst at him. 

"No, he just stared like a statue the whole time before he very reluctantly agreed to another study session. I hate to feel like I'm forcing him but I refuse to let him fail under my watch you know? I know he can do better." Y/N takes another sip of her drink as she begins to drum her fingers on her thigh to the rhythm of the song playing. 

Leya smiles as she sips her own, she loves that most about her best friend. The fact that no matter what she's always seen the best in people and never treated them the way they treat her. 

"Let's play a game." The smirk is back on her lips as she sets her drink on the counter behind her. 

"What could we possibly play at the bar Leya?"  Her curiosity is getting the best of her, she always had fun with her and this wouldn't be any different.

"Let's see how many people end up fucking tonight. You take a sip if you end up losing your guess, and the other person takes a sip if you guess correctly." Y/N can't help the shiver of excitement that runs through her body at the game description and so she nods her head excitedly as both eyes trail over the crowd. 

- - - - 

Several wrong guesses and a couple correct ones, Y/N can feel the warmth of her cheeks and she's a giggling mess. She's never felt more at peace as she leans her head on her friend's shoulder. They've left their multiple glasses behind as they sway lightly and slowly to the very upbeat song, not caring about the nasty glares they're receiving or the way the bass of the song vibrates in her chest. They've forgotten the game a while ago, after Leya's guesses got more incorrect and Y/N's guesses became slurred words and giggles. 

She's never been a heavy drinker so she considers herself a lightweight when it comes to alcohol and at this moment it shows. Y/N's more gone than Leya is - she's borderline tipsy, still able to form sentences and can kinda walk in a straight enough line if she concentrates hard enough. So Y/N leans her weight on her friend as she wraps her arms around her waist and snuggles her face into her neck, neither girl caring about her makeup that will definitely leave a stain as they sway. 

"Leys.." a giggle escapes her lips at the new nickname coming from her before she turns her head upwards to gaze at her best friend. 

"Yes, honey bunny?" Leya brings one hand up to her head and softly runs her hand through Y/N's curls as she laughs softly, she can feel Y/N begin to relax in her hold and she chuckles softly. 

"Love you." She mumbles and she can feel a soft kiss on the top of her hair and the tightening of Leya's arms around her shoulders. 

"Love you too sweets. Are you feeling okay?" Y/N softly nods her head against Leya's chest. 

A couple seconds past, a comfortable silence looming over them before Y/N gasps and pulls away. 

"What? What's wrong?" Leya's face is laced with concern, eyebrows raised and eyes wide as she stares at the drunk girl. 

"You're my best friend!" She exclaims and lets out a small giggle. Relief floods over Leya's face and turns into a loving smile. 

"And you're mine, forever and always." She breaks into a big smile, one that makes her cheeks hurt and shows off all of her teeth, one that seems to brighten up the decently lit building. 

The music has seemed to fade away into the background, it doesn't seem as loud anymore but she can still feel the bass vibrating through her body as she very clumsily dances alongside her best friend. Hands, arms, and sides bump into one another throughout her time shared on the dance floor, she can't bring herself to care about any of that. The only thing that matters at the moment is that she'll be happy and she's having fun, she can't remember a time she's felt so loose. 

She stops her dancing around to stumble over to the bar once more, their glasses cleaned off and the bartender already ready with a medium sized glass cup. 

"Are you thirsty?" He says as he pushes the cup towards her, the condensation leaves a wet trail against the wooden countertop and she shakes her head. 

"New cup please, no drugs." She giggles slightly at herself and sets her hand on the table. She focuses her attention on the bartender as he pours out the water and rinses the cup. He quickly pours her some fresh water and she giggles as she thanks him, their fingers brushing over another as she grabs her cup from him and takse a sip.

She's managed to lose Leya in such a short time, her eyes flitting over the crowd but she can't seem to focus on finding her friend when her eyes land on Harry's signature curls and leather jacket. She giggles before taking a big sip of the water and sets her cups on the counter as she hops down from the stool and begins to clumsily make her way over to Harry. She bumps into a couple people on the way over, saying excuse me before she bursts into small fits of giggle with every bump. 

She almost trips over someone sitting near Harry, her hand coming out to grab onto the closest thing to her and she quickly grabs onto someone's chair. 

"Watch it!" The guy yells at her and she quickly pushes herself up and apologizes, a soft laugh coming out from her lips as her eyes lock onto Harry's. His face is bare, no frown placed on it but his hazy eyes show just the hint of annoyance. His eyes wander over her body as she just stands there before he leans forward and his eyes flick up to hers as his hands slowly come up to her frame. He ever so gently and very carefully takes the end of her dress and tugs it down from its resting position from at the top of her thighs to the middle of her thigh. 

After he's satisfied he quickly pulls back and grabs the joint from Alex's hand and takes a hit, he enjoys the burn in his throat as he inhales and watches the smoke as he exhales. He finds that her presence isn't as infuriating like this, his eyes travel down her frame - taking in the way her hair flows, and the dress and just how well it compliments her curves, the way she plays with her fingers and the slight sway she has as she stands in place. 

She then quickly breaks out into a big smile and stumbles closer to Harry. 

"Hi!" He frowns slightly before nodding to her in acknowledgment. 

"Have you seen Leya?" She hiccups softly before letting out a small laugh. He shakes his head before turning to his friend.

"Seen her friend?" His friend shakes his head as well and he turns his gaze back to her. 

"Go look around. Couldn't have gone too far. She shouldn't have left you like this anyways." She frowns at that before shaking her head.

"I left her, got thirsty. The nice bartender gave me water with no drugs." She giggles before turning around and pointing to the man standing behind the counter, his eyes already fixed on her. 

Harry leans slightly to stare at the man before looking back to her and sighing in annoyance as he stands up. He tells his friends he'll be right back as he walks the couple steps to stand in front of the intoxicated girl. 

"C'mon then, let's see if we can find her." His voice gruff as she turns around and begins to stumble her way through the crowd, bumping into a guy and causing him to spill his drink. 

"Fucking bitch. You owe me a drink!" He watches as she flinches slightly at the already drunk man's tone. 

Harry can't help but to frown as he steps forward and stares at the man with anger clouding his eyes. 

"Talk to her with fucking respect, douchebag." He says as he steps back and reaches into his pocket to grab his wallet, opening it up and grabs a couple dollars and roughly hands it to him.

"Now shut the fuck up and get your drink." He says and walks over to Y/N and lays his hand on her shoulder as he pushes her to the bar gently. The girl giggles and thanks Harry for saving her from the 'scary man' as they make it to the counter. 

"Are you ready for another one, pretty girl?" The waiter asks and she shakes her head softly. Harry can't help but to clear his throat in an attempt to get the attention off of the girl beside him. 

"We're actually looking for her friend, have you seen her?" The bartender's eyes flick back and forth between Y/N and Harry before nodding his head. 

"Yeah, she went into the bathroom with some guy a little bit ago." Harry scoffs as he grabs Y/N's hand and leads her to the door. 

She squeals before she smacks Harry's hand. 

"Hey! Harry! Slow down! Wait! She's in there!! Can't leave her!" She yells, but Harry shows no sign of stopping. His hair flows in the air behind  him as he drags her to the door, the sound of her heels clicking against the wooden floor just barely audible over to the sound of the drums on the stage. He doesn't stop until they've made it outside the door and he stops abruptly and runs his hand through his hair. 

"Can't leave Leys, Harry. Love her. She's my best friend! We gotta go back!" She huffs and he shakes his head. 

"No can do, lala. Your best friend is hooking up with some random fucking guy instead of making sure you're okay. M'taking you home. What's your address?" He takes out his phone and opens the *Maps* app, she does nothing but glare at him. 

"Don't want you, want Leya." She says as she turns around and heads to the door. 

He rolls his eyes as he moves to stand in front of her and softly places his hands on her shoulders. 

"C'mon Y/N. M'not gonna hurt you. Just let me take you home." He says, his voice surprisingly soft and she shakes her head and crosses her arms. 

"You're not Leya." He rolls his eyes at this. 

"M'doing both of us a favor by continuing these sessions, it's the least you can do. You're drunk off your fucking ass and your best friend doesn’t seem too worried about you. C'mon and let me take you home. Can you not be so stubborn for once, you're in no condition to be anywhere but in your own bed." Her bottom lip juts out and begins to wobble and he sighs. 

"Leya cares 'bout me, she's worried right now. Let me inside, you don't care. Just gonna hold this over my head tomorrow." She says as she reaches into her purse for her phone. 

She quickly grabs it and unlocks it, her finger clicking on the phone icon and clicking on Leya's name and clicking the speaker icon. The phone rings several times and Y/N bites her bottom lip nervously, the time taking forever with each second that the phone doesn't click and her friend's voice comes through. After a while the phone goes to voicemail and she can't help the few tears that fall from her eyes and onto her cheeks. She dejectedly nods her head and follows Harry to his and she only manages to bump into a few cars along the way. 

Harry sighs before coming next to her and ever so gently wraps his arm around her waist, not touching her but enough to keep her from stumbling too much and setting off someone's car. It's almost too easy for her to melt into his hold as her head comes to rest on his shoulder and wraps her own arm around him, she's too far gone to take note of the way his body tenses up underneath her touch. It takes the both of them longer to get to his car than it would if it was just him because of the way she keeps stumbling over cracks in the road or just her own two feet. He opens the door for her and allows her to get in and sets his jacket on her lap just in case, he's careful when strapping her in - trying his best not to touch her too much and announcing his every move for her to nod and giggle. 

- - - - 

After a couple wrong directions from Y/N talking over the voice coming from the speaker, Harry manages to pull into her driveway and parks the car. He gets out after telling her to stay put, walking around the car to her side, opening the door and unbuckling her, being gentle with her as he helps her out of the car and towards her house. When they reach the front door, he taps her on the shoulder and nods to the door. 

"You got your keys?" His voice comes out softer than usual, taking on a more gentle tone with the girl and it only confuses him more. He hates that he’s trying to be gentle with her, how he can see that she’s more vulnerable now and doesn’t want to upset her. Y/N nods before reaching into her purse and surprisingly fast she pulls out her keychain, the various keys jingling against each other as she uses the other hand to pick at each key. 

Right when her fingers begin to wrap around her house key, they slip through her grasp and make a loud jingle as they hit the floor. 

"Whoopsie." She giggles as she bends down, Harry follows suit as his own hand reaches out to grab it and he manages to beat her to it as his right hand wraps around the keychain. They both stand up at the same time causing them both to hit their head against the other, she frowns as one hand comes up to rub her head. Harry can't help but to crack a smile at the sight before he shakes his head and unlocks her door, opening it fully as his arm wraps around her waist. 

His fingers are just barely touching her dress as he guides her in the house, quietly shutting the door before asking him to lead her into her own room. She giggles softly as she nods, her own hand coming to rest on top of his as they walk into her room. Harry's not disgusted by her room, in fact it reminds him of earlier years, the various posters of plants and paintings, post it notes with words of encouragement and a decent sized calendar line the plain white walls, her beige comforter set contrasts the soft pink carpet that rests underneath her bed and he can spot a flower vase full of various flowers sitting on top of her dresser accompanied by other small decorations. 

Her room just screams… her, it's something that you'd expect to see from her and he can't complain. For as long as he can remember she's always been so predictable when it comes to anything really, and so as he leads her to the bed her door catches on the leg of her dresser causing her to begin to fall forward. She squeals as she prepares for the hard impact against the floor but it never comes, Harry's arms are wrapped around her securely, his fingers digging into her waist as he pulls her up. 

"For fucks sake, slow down will you. I need you alive so I can pass this stupid test. Don't want you to damage that useful brain of yours huh?" He can't help to add a teasing tone to his voice and she shakes her head. 

"Can you get dressed by yourself?" He asks and she shakes her head. 

He quickly heads to her dresser and waits for instructions that never seem to come, so slowly he opens one of her drawers - wary not to open one he definitely does not want to open, and he's met with a collection of hoodies and large shirts. So he quickly grabs one and tosses it to her, not bothering to look back as he speaks. 

"D'ya need shorts or anything?" He's met with silence and he turns around to see her gaze on him, her features soft and a hint of smile plays at her lips. 

"Y/N. Did ya hear me?" He says and still no response, so he steps closer and bends down so they're eye level causing her to break from her trance. 

"Huh, what?" She slurs as she blinks fast, her breath fanning over his face so he quickly leans back. 

"D'ya need shorts to sleep in?" She shakes her head as her cheeks fills with heat.

"What were you staring at?" He knows he doesn't care but his curiosity gets the best of him. 

"You're jus' really pretty, s'all." She replies, her mouth moves before he brain can process what she’s saying. 

He shakes his head at her before heading to her door. 

"M'pretty now? Be careful Y/N or someone might think y'like me. But thank you, I guess one might say you looked pretty tonight as well, not me though." He says as he walks out the door and closes it behind it. Her head is swimming as she stands up and begins to tug her dress off her body. It takes her a couple of attempts but she finally manages to drag the garment off her frame and she tosses it onto the edge of her bed before slipping on the shirt Harry tossed at her. 

She quickly sits on her bed and grabs the closest thing to her to help cover her bare legs, resulting in his jacket covering the upper half as she tells him to come in. The door squeaks as it opens and he sticks his head in before walking inside. His eyes flick to his jacket covering her bare thighs and one hand clenches into a fist.

"Harry?" His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of her voice and he opens his eyes to stare at her. 

"Why don't you like me?" She tilts her head forward as she gathers her hair into a bun. 

"Never said I didn't lala, don't go into that big head of yours." He leans backwards against her door frame and watches as she takes a big breath. 

"You always get irritated in my presence and you're more mean to me than anyone else." She begins to fiddle with her fingers as she ducks her head down. 

Harry sighs before coming to sit next to her on the bed, choosing to sit on the farthest side to protect anything from happening. 

"All I'm gonna say is I don't not like you. Now come lay down so I can leave." He says and stands up, pulling her blankets down and helps her get into bed, making sure she's covered fully. His head is tilted down as he finishes the last touches and she turns her head to the side to tell him thank you and apologize but she's met with the softness of his lips. It's quick and most definitely was an accident by the way he jerks back as if he got burned. 

Y/N lets out a nervous giggle before she sits up, her shirt beginning to slip down her shoulder and Harry frowns. 

"I'm sorry, so sorry! I actually wanted to apologize when I turned. So uh sorry about everything, fuck I'm sorry." Her mouth is moving a mile a minute, the words slurring together as they spill from her lips. 

Harry shakes his head as he exhales a shaky breath, he quickly walks out the room and attempts to make his way into her bathroom, opening up one cabinet to grab the small bottle of pain pills and walks into her kitchen. He opens all the cabinets and searches for a spare cup, quickly spotting it as he fills it halfway and heads back into her room, quietly setting both items down on the wooden bedside table and makes his way out the door and into his car. 

His mind is racing the whole drive there and the only that he can think of is how pretty she looked and the way her lips felt against his, he knows he's fucked up by choosing to help her and now look what happened. As his foot presses down onto the gas pedal and the car begins to drive faster, cursing himself the whole ride there and he hopes she won't remember any of this in the morning.

[that-one-malereader-enthusiast]

𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐞 · 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

ׂ╰┈➤ ◖ 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 & 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 ◗

꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐜𝐨 𝐱 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

cw : MDNI - S2 Arcane Act I & Act II [slight spoilers], events after the last ep in S1 Arcane Act III, chem-baron male reader, crime boss male reader, heavily occurring dark themes, mentions of blood, mentions of self-loathing, mentions of suicidal tendencies and thoughts, cutting, mentions of drugs, mentions of depression, mentions of Vander, mentions of alcohol abuse, smoking, slight one-sided love, obsession, Arcane is allergic to happiness, I'm still coping, if I must suffer, so will all of you, angst. wc : 3.7k

__________________

now playing : Wasteland (from the series Arcane League of Legends) - Royal & the Serpent

꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

When a tree falls over in the forest and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

You'd call bull.

But when one of the pillars of Undercity topples over...the whole of Zaun goes to shit. And everyone can feel it, see it — hell, hearing it isn't even the half of it.

For the masses, chaos ensured as there was now a massive power vacuum for the spot he once held. Things were going belly up, both under and topside. It seemed almost as if it was the end of the world, just as it felt like a bad dream — no — a damn nightmare. For the Undercity, it was utter madness and a power struggle. For Topside, it was mourning and brewing with panic as well as sadness after an attack on their pinnacle of life — the sudden attack on their councilors.

For you, it was as if the world stopped. As if the oxygen in your lungs was suddenly taken.

For you, the world was truly ending.

With the only person who even cared about your pitiful existence gone, what was left for you now?

꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

The doors of the Last Drop swung inwards as your shoulder bashed against it, knocking them open with reckless abandon. You knew that set of doors had been through far worse in its days. Still standing the test of time and against every sober man ready to get drunk, business Zaunite, outsider, or enforcer pigs that pushed through them.

Stumbling your way to the bar, you looked worse for wear with every step you took. Blood stained your clothes, some fresh and dripping off your fingers, most sinking into the fabric of your clothes and sticking to your skin. Some of the ruddy fluid even flecked against the side of your face, either from someone you injured — and most likely killed — or from your own injuries that could barely be seen past the layers of dark clothing you wore.

Anyone who'd laid eyes would stand back and away from your battleworn form, as you looked to be in no mood to speak with the likes of anyone that was still there at those ungodly hours.

Whatever hazardous music that blaring from the jukebox sounded like sirens howling in your ears, an irritable grunt leaving your split lips. You had half a mind to stomp over there and kick the damn thing down, but what would be the point?

You barely wanted any more attention drawn to you as it was. It wasn't as if you were going to stay mingle, not with hell practically brewing on the horizon and spilling into the Undercity every minute of the day now.

You could care less for whatever poor sod that was shoved or knocked over while hobbling your way over towards the bar, you weren’t in the mood to deal with any more problems, your plate already overflowing as is. Your body swayed, nearly tipping over as you snagged a bottle from the countertop — whether the bartender left it out or someone who was ransacking just forgot about it — it was now yours for the night.

Making your way past the bar, you stumbled to get up the stairs, shoulder knocking into the wall with every small trip before you finally got to his office door. Slowly lifting your dominant foot up, your grime coated boot made contact with the door, kicking it in, now finding yourself in the somewhat lit room known as Silcos’ office.

A shot of pain seemed to surge through your abdomen — a subtle reminder of your current injuries — as you hobbled over towards the chair in front of the desk, pulling it back before plopping yourself down in it.

You slumped back, one arm lazed over the back of the chair and the other holding the bottle of booze, hanging loosely between your legs. Your bloodshot eyes scanned the desk in front of you, looking at the various tools and objects scattered along it, including a rather colorful ashtray, a mug, the mapping of Zaun and its regions, and a turned shot glass.

You could hear the slightest squeak come from the spinning chair in front of you before a voice came into focus. “You look a mess. I don’t pay you to lead a trail of blood to my door.”

“You don’t pay me shit, don’t fuck with me today. Not in the mood,” you sneered, taking a swig out of the bottle as your eyes gazed over the back of the ruddy colored chair. Leaning back into your own wooden chair, you could feel the freshly stitched skin on your waist start to stretch, a fresh dose of pain making your eyes flutter. “Bozos’ out there are rioting at this point. Can’t even get a handle on my own fucking people now with these petty turf wars.”

“And who’s fault is that?”

“Yours damn it!” You yelled out, standing up faster than your mind could register. Slamming your hand down against the desk, lightheadedness took over before you stumbled back, catching yourself on the chair as you slumped into it once again. 

The world started to spin and a wave of nausea hit you like a train, a familiar buzzing flaring behind your eyes. You clutched against the neck of the bottle you were now nursing, lifting it up to your lips before letting it go down like water. The taste alone was starting to become a numb sensation, the burn you once felt against the back of your throat and the warm that normally swirled and swarmed in your chest faded a long time ago.

Your eyes felt heavy, as if you were going to pass out at any moment. The pain that not only surged through your stitched abdomen, but tore through your shoulder seemed to keep you grounded. Your free hand came up to touch against your left shoulder, finger dipping into what felt like a hole just below your collar and near your armpit. You taken plenty of bullets in your day, though the one currently in you was causing you more misery.

But in a sick way, you wanted it to stay. The pain nothing but a reminder.

The suit on your body looked tattered and torn, noticeable even with the dark colors you happened to adorn. The tie around your neck was undone and the fabric torn, your collar messily put together, just like the rest of you. Your vest was singed as well as part of your dark dress shirt, the straps against your chest and over your shoulders with your gun holsters tucked under your arms, were dirtied and worn. Your face was just as badly roughed up as your clothes, maybe worse.

“You’ve let yourself go.” There was a sigh at the end of his voice, sounding with disappointment. “You let a matter so feeble practically turn you into a stray mutt begging for scraps, yet biting any hand that offers.”

“You didn’t complain when this mutt was fighting for you.” The tension that seemed to settle in the front of your head was making it much harder to concentrate, a groan leaving your lips.

“And yet you ate out of my palm like a domesticated beast. I am not complaining, I’m stating a fact.”

You rolled your bloodshot eyes as you looked down at the bottle in hand, the neon lights refracting into the bottle, giving it a mirror like glare that shone back at you. In the garbled reflection in the bottle, you could see your completely disheveled hair, out of place, stray strands falling in front of your face — some your natural hair color — some with streaks of gray from either your continued age or stress. For all you knew, it was the combination of both. There were dark lines under your eyes, eyes that seemed to no longer hold any light like they used to.

Your tongue ran over your split lip, tasting the once dried blood as you grinned at your reflection, giving off a half hearted chuckle before gripping the neck of the bottle even tighter, the veins in your arm bulging and your knuckles growing pale from the stress of skin being stretched.

The chair gave off a small squeak again, the flick of a light barely getting your attention. “Seems you have found comfort in a bottle. For a while now, I assume? You say, ‘just one drink to get me up’ then it’s, ‘just one drink to get me through the day’, which turns into…”

Suddenly the sound of glass shattering filled the room, your chest rising and falling with extremes as you glared up towards the chair. “You don’t get to judge me! No, no — you, you don’t get that right! Not any more!” You once again stumbled to your feet, practically leaning over the desk, one hand holding the edge while the other reached into your locking before pulling out a switchblade.

He let out a scoff of a laugh as he heard the blade flick open. “Your temper will get you nowhere. You bare your teeth, but you wouldn’t dare bite me.”

“My fucking temp— as if you ever cared about that before!” You slammed the blade into the desk, embedding it within the wood before practically snaring. “This is all your damn fault! I’ve…I have done so, damn, much to keep everything from falling apart! Yet here I am back here asking for your help!” You couldn't help but to let out a harsh laugh, your words slurring. “Damn it, even Sevika is out here charging into the front line to defend you a…and your damned beliefs!”

“I never told you to carry this burden.”

“I know!” You cried out, slamming your hand into the desk yet again, the throbbing now surging through your palm nothing in comparison to the pain that seemed to ache in your chest. “I never asked for this! This…This responsibility! This was your shtick! This was your idea, of…of Zaun, to finally be this independent city of fuck all! And yet you up and…and just leave us when shit hits the fan! Why!” Your voice slowly started to shake, breaking away from it's normal stern, bold state. “Why did you suddenly up and leave when you know I need you!”

Silence came in response.

You looked down and balled your hand up, trembling as it pressed into the desk. “Why,” you croaked out quietly, the power that once filled your voice disappeared as the polluted feeling that fogged your heart started to seep into your lungs yet again, taking your breath away, as if you were being deprived of oxygen.

“I don't...I don't understand.” Your head low, staring at no spot in particular as you drawlled on. “You were…always, always careful. Maybe a little in over your head, but who isn't down here. Everyone knew the price to go against you, so why? What…What happened?” Your question seemed to fill the room with a stale silence that was there from the beginning, desperately waiting for his voice to come, for that chair to spin and for him to reply with some strong winded monologue. 

But there was nothing.

Your heart took another blow, aching in a way that made you want to carve it out of your chest with the very blade you wedged into the wood. To crush it with your own hands. At least then you wouldn't have to worry about the feelings that were overwhelming your drunken form. “Why…” You echoed. Your voice seemed to go dry as you questioned again, your vision blurring for a moment before a stinging warmth dripped down your cheek, splashing down into the map below.

You stood there, frozen, hunched over the desk while slowly moving a hand up to your face before gliding your fingers across your skin, feeling the wetness yet again.

Were you crying?

It started as a small laugh, a hiccup, growing into a small wheeze and snicker, all before your laugh escalated drastically. Your voice rang through the room as you belted out an almost hysterical fit of laughter, blinded by my tears in your eyes as your laugh turned into broken sobs. “The first time in years! I cry…over you!”

You laughed again, pushing yourself off the desk before falling back into the chair you were once in, nearly tipping back completely as your legs kicked and sprawled out before you.

You felt as if you were drowning, unable to surface no matter how hard you tried. The water around you suffocating you, choking you till you were completely deprived of air, constricting your lungs and flooding it with poison, toxins that flowed in the waters within the Lanes. The filth you were born in, the fire you'd die in.

Your hands went up to your face, the heels of your palm pressing against your sunken eyes to stop the sudden flow of tears, like acid against your skin.

Your arms then fell limply to your sides, as if you'd gone boneless. Your eyes drifted towards the ceiling, childish laughter echoing in the back of your mind as soft blue streaks blink in and out of existence.

“We…We are so fucked.” You'd closed your eyes, wishing that darkness could consume you whole in that very moment, that the pain would suddenly come to an end. It was as if the whole world was against you, all at once. Only he knew how to handle situations like this, always there to see over the Undercity, always keeping things in line.

He kept you from falling apart.

And yet here you were.

In a hole that you were unable to climb out of, fragmented and shattered.

“Sevika is doin’ her best. You know that, she's one of your best after all. My own people are going off and indulging in these dumb turf wars with the other barons while I'm trying to pick up the pieces that you left.” Your hand brushed against a broken shard of the bottle you'd destroyed, the liquid still sticking to its surface.

“Smeech, that dirty, ugly looking weasel. Trying to act like a big shot now. They know not to mess with me but…I don't know. The fight you saw in me, it's just…just gone.” You then cursed out, a sudden reminder that flashed in the forefront of your mind.

“And Jinx, god—” Your heart ached even more for the poor girl. You knew the relationship those two had, and as much as you tried to keep yourself from forming a bond, you were practically there from the beginning. 

When she was born, when she lost her mother on that bridge, when she lost her entire family, when she gained a new one. 

It was a shame that you knew she'd seen you as father figure as much as Silco was, maybe even more. Growing up, she'd gotten the normal lectures from Silco but you inspired her, helped her with her gadgetry. But when she was older, bolder, you knew she wasn't that little girl anymore. The nights she cried and screamed in her sleep, nightmares about that dreaded day, etched into your mind. Crying out for her sister, of all people.

“She's your…She's your daughter! How could you damn it!” The heat in your eyes seemed to get worse as more tears wanted to rise and fall down your face, but you refused to shed more tears. “I can't take care of her! I mean — I know, she's grown up! She can take care of herself, but you know she can't do this without you! You were her everything!” You could feel the anger rising in your chest yet again, making your vision turn red.

Was this your punishment? For sitting back and watching as her world was destroyed? For not stepping in when you knew Silco had taken it too far. Him and Vander, they were practically brothers, the same ideals, fighting for the same cause just as you did. Wanting freedom from the trenches, from being treated like scum compared to Topside.

And yet everything went to hell after she died. After Powder's mother was killed. Her kids…those kids...they deserved better. Vander deserved better.

Silco deserved better.

If this was your punishment for turning a blind eye, for ignoring the blood that had been on your hands for too long — this was too much for you to bear alone. Too ruthless of a punishment to last.

“She's a mess without you…you know that. I don't know what to do, I'm not…I'm not like you. I'm not a good role model, hell you turned out to be a really great father. How could I top that? I…I don't know what to do, what to say to her—”

You bit against your lips harshly, tasting your own blood against your tongue yet again. “You were always the better one of us when it came to speaking. Hell, even holding a conversation. At least you normally had the last words.” The silence was deafening.

You knew you were using her name as nothing but a scapegoat towards your actual feelings, not ashamed, but feeling unworthy of claiming them. Just as you felt unworthy of him.

Gripping onto the shard in your hand, you brought it to your face, looking at the sharpened point before looking down at your arm. At first, it was a simple line, feeling like nothing more than a paper cut, but you'd started to put more pressure on the shard. The slow drags raised your skin, splitting it and blood bubbling up to the surface. 

You didn't stop, ignoring the stinging bite that came with it as the piesce of glass twisted and turned. Once you were done, you watched the blood tilt in the direction your arm did, looking at the bloodied word now etched into your skin.

“If only it was this easy, y’know? To numb the feelings you left me with. The pain…you left me with. This fucking burden — of emotions I never, never asked for.” You were tempted to make another line, to cross out the — his name — entirely, but the strength in you was completely gone.

What was the point of continuing?

Everything around you was already burning?

Why not sit and burn with it?

You could feel yourself blurring in and out of consciousness as you once again called out for him.

“Please…say something, Silco. I don't…I don't know what to do! Everyone is talking, whispering, saying shit that doesn't make any sense! But, to hear that you're gone? That…that you might be somewhere dead?” You scoffed. “Call me crazy, but I'd rather hear about you running away like a coward than dead. But that isn't you, is it?”

You laughed an almost sickening laugh before muttering to yourself. “Just like…Just like Vander. Vander went on a long trip, away from here, with his kids, never to be seen again…”

Sitting up, you couldn't help but to stare at the unoccupied desk in front of you, your eyes drifting up to the empty chair once again. You stared, blinked and stared at that fucking chair, all before letting out the most gutteral, painful, ear piercing scream you could let out. Your lungs burned as you let out every bit of rage and pain and suffering you could, your mind flashing with images of him.

By the time your scream died down, your own ears were ringing as before slumped over once more, your vision starting to dot with black spots from how hard you'd pushed yourself in those few moments.

You sniffled lazily wiping against your nose as your eyes fell shut, too heavy to lift as you desperately clawed towards unconsciousness, for darkness to take all what light remained, leaving you with nothing.

Just as it currently was, just as it'll always be. 

You could still smell him now, the scent alone making a small smile appear on your face. The cologne he wore in mix with the cigars he smoked, clinging onto his clothes and practically staining the room in his scent. 

“You know better than to take such a pathetic way out. You've got too much fight. I should know…” His voice settled in the back of your mind as you felt his arms slip over your shoulders, tilting your head over as his hands gently framed against your jaw. “You are not a helpless mutt, you got around just fine without me before. What difference is there now.” The ghosting feeling of his touch made you shudder, breath hitching and your heart racing.

“You've become my weakness…” You muttered, eyes still closed as your head gently bobbed up and down, trying to keep balance so as to not tip or lean out of the chair. Your eyes only cracked some, the world coming in twos.

His voice curled around your ear, speaking to you in the only way you knew how. “You've truly convinced yourself so far, when really, we both know you feel nothing.”

“You feel nothing.” You echoed.

“You feel nothing.” He repeated.

“You feel nothing.”

Your eyes peeled open to an empty room yet again, the phantom scent still burnt into your nose and the voice echoing in the back of your mind. Your eyes were  dull and liifeless as you stared at the chair once again. “I swear Silco…I swear, I'll find whoever did this to you. To us. I'll make them pay for the suffering they've caused all of us...” The aching in your chest seemed to fade, though the physical pain still lingered.

You took a cigar out of your breast pocket, one that he'd given you the last time you'd shared words together, a drink together, before seeing his — your daughter, half dead on the bridge you'd all once fought on together. Seeing her in such a state, it felt like the cycle of hurt was never ending. That the suffering seemed to continue.

You'd never seen Silco so distraught, panicked, desperate. And once again, you turned a blind eye to others pain. You knew that he'd went to the doctor, and you knew Singe would do more damage than good — from the man who made Shimmer, such a drug that even you fell victim to just to forget. To forget the pain, to forget the struggles, to forget him. 

You'd then taken out the lighter, a familiar click ringing in the air. It was a trophy, something you'd borrowed from Sevika from time to time, Finns lighter being one of the few things you liked about him before his timely death. A deserved death. A vulture trying to pull a lioness like Sevika to betray Silco. It was truly his loss, blindsided and put down like the damned dog he was..

The flame lit up the end of the cigar, the embers burning with a mix of a purple and pinkish hue as you took a long drag. You could feel the a wave of power course through you, burning in your lungs but dulling the pain in your body. The high you got from shimmer from even the smallest amount was enough to sustain you, sobering you up enough to think. Your eyes seemed to glow just the dimmest of violet hues before returning to their normal state. Letting out a huff of smoke from your mouth, you spoke aloud once again.

“For her…for fucking Zaun.”

You then stumbled your way out of the room that you'd wreaked havoc in, closing the door gently behind you. You knew you'd barely make it out the front door, better to pass out downstairs than out in the streets. Not like anyone would be looking for you in the basement.

But what you were acutely unaware of was the person sitting with her back against the beam in the rafters, a hand over her mouth as her violet eyes watched your form finally leave the room.

Oh, the misery.

꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

a/n : SUFFER AS I HAVE—

[whump-in-the-closet]

What about some sweet drug induced hallucinations :0

content: interrogation, noncon drug, hallucinations, needle

"I'm not telling you a thing!" spat Whumpee, twisting against their restraints.

Whumper laughed. "I'd hardly expect you to say otherwise." They turned to fidget with something just out of Whumpee's view, something metallic, something that clicked and clattered along the table.

There was a sudden, sharp smell of ammonia and harsh chemicals.

"They all say that, to start with." Whumper faced their captive with a hypodermic needle in their blue-gloved hand. "And then they meet my friend." They squirted a small amount of clear liquid into the air, and then nodded, satisfied.

Whumpee forced a laugh of their own. "You think that scares me? A big needle? What am I, five?"

Whumper smiled, teeth razor sharp in the glinting light. It didn't reach their eyes. They stepped closer, "Don't fight it. It'll hurt less this way."

Whumpee fought it. They thrashed and kicked but Whumper merely stepped to the side. Grabbing a fistful of hair, they shoved Whumpee's neck upwards, baring it to the needle.

Whumper wiped a patch of skin clean with an antiinfectant, the cloth stinging cold.

Whumpee snarled. "You'll need more than a needle to get me to break, smartass."

Hot air brushed against Whumpee's ear as Whumper whispered, "I don't need you to break--" the needle pinched the side of Whumpee's throat, ice-cold and biting, "I need you to wish you had."

They let go of Whumpee and stepped away.

The drug hit them like a weight dropped on their chest. The pain was immediate, jagged, gnawing at their inside. Whumpee stifled a cry and slumped against their restraints. Within a few seconds, their limbs stopped listening to them and their head throbbed--pounding to a strain of music they only half-recognized, a song they should know but couldn't place.

It took all of their strength, all of their training to look up. The corners of their vision blurred, twisting into spirals that distorted depth, light, and-- and everything.

Everything.

Whumper stood in the shadows, laughing. Their face--no, their entire head-- shifted. It bloomed into the face of a deer-- a deer with bright, brilliant eyes, its stare too blank, too wide. Its horns spiraled up, up, up into razor-points, syringe-points-- dangerous--horrible.

Whumpee whimpered, drawing back.

Something rose out of the shadows with teeth and burning skin.

-- help me--

Whumper towered over them, the smell of rot overwhelming, singing Whumpee's nostrils.

Whumper ran a hand through Whumpee's hair, laughing with a voice that sounded like wind in the dead trees. "You're not going anywhere."

Something snapped, a knot unraveling in a thousand different directions-- it felt so real, so so real.

More voices. More voices joined the first, whispers curling into the chaos of the drug, pulling at the edges of their sanity.

Help--

[misaerabl]

Icarus ; prologue

caitvi x reader

SUMMARY: In a city where ambition runs wild and dreams are built on the edge of danger, Caitlyn, Vi, and you form an unexpected bond that could either elevate you to the top—or destroy everything you’ve ever known. Caitlyn, the ambitious strategist, and Vi, the impulsive rule-breaker, each push you in different directions, and your quiet but sharp instincts become the balance they never knew they needed. Together, you rise higher and higher, but as your relationship deepens, so does the risk. Ambition, power, and love collide in a tangled web of desires, and soon, you realize the price of flying too close to the sun. Will the fire consume you, or will you find a way to survive the burn?

GENERAL WARNINGS: polyamorous relationship, drugs, violence, a lot of profanities, sex, toxic characters (they're all fucked up in their own ways),

MINORS AND MEN DNI / chapters : tbd.

 It’s a city of contrasts—gleaming glass towers and crumbling streets, the kind of place where ambition and desperation walk hand in hand, where dreams are both made and broken in the blink of an eye. It's the kind of place where Caitlyn, Vi, and you came together, though none of you knew it at the time.

Caitlyn always knew how to make her presence felt—her sharp, calculating gaze and poised confidence made her the kind of person who could walk into a room and immediately take control. Raised in a family of law enforcement, she wasn’t content with being in the background. She was born to lead, to strategize, to climb the ladder until she reached the highest rung, no matter the cost. Caitlyn’s dream? To make a name for herself in a city where justice was a luxury few could afford, but she was determined to bring it to those who needed it most. But despite her polished exterior, she always kept a few walls up, guarding her heart with logic.

Vi, on the other hand, was chaos incarnate. Brash, impulsive, and with a temper to match her fire, she lived for the thrill. She came from the other side of the tracks—raised in the underground world, where rules were more like suggestions and trust was hard-earned. Vi didn’t care much for structure or the boundaries Caitlyn so meticulously adhered to. For her, the rush of danger was everything. And when she caught wind of the city’s most notorious heists, she made it her personal mission to master the art of bending the law for her own gain.

As for you, you’d always been a quiet observer. You had your own ambitions, but they were less about climbing the social ladder and more about finding your place in the world. You spent most of your time in the background, blending in, sketching the world around you with an artist’s eye. You had a unique gift for understanding people, seeing things others missed. Caitlyn found you fascinating, and Vi saw you as someone who could be manipulated—though she didn’t know it yet, you would end up being the person who balanced them both.

It wasn’t until a late night at an underground art show that the three of you finally collided. The place was filled with chaos—half-finished paintings, graffiti on every wall, and the hum of live music that only made the whole thing feel even more rebellious. You had been invited by a mutual acquaintance to show off some of your artwork, something raw and personal you’d never considered showing anyone before. Caitlyn had come to see the show, looking for inspiration, while Vi—well, she was just there for the thrill of being in a place where people didn’t ask questions.

You first noticed Caitlyn at the bar, standing in the shadows, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd as she sipped a drink that looked far too refined for the place. She was out of place here, but that only made her more intriguing. Vi caught your eye next, not because she was in any way subtle, but because she walked into the room like she owned it—her leather jacket, her defiant gaze. She saw you first and smirked, a playful challenge in her eyes.

That night, everything changed. Caitlyn approached you after you’d stood in the corner, sketching quietly as you often did. Vi followed her, sensing something unspoken between the two of you. What started as an awkward exchange of words soon turned into something more—a shared spark, something neither Caitlyn nor Vi could ignore. You were unlike anyone they had ever met, and they couldn’t help but be drawn to you.

Caitlyn saw in you a potential ally—someone who could balance the more reckless side of her life with a dose of pragmatism. Vi saw someone who might just be the missing piece in her chaotic world, a wildcard to keep things interesting. And you, well, you couldn’t resist the pull of their contrasting energies—the structure Caitlyn promised and the unpredictability Vi brought. For the first time, you felt like you didn’t need to be on the outside looking in. You had found your place in the mix.

The three of you didn’t know it then, but this was the beginning of something that would consume you all—something that would test not just your abilities and ambitions, but your trust in one another.

The beginning of a fire that would burn too brightly, too fast, until none of you could control how far you’d gone.

[threepandas]

Bad End, Hidden Heir: Part 2

Prev <-

A pounding headache and cave air, that's what I woke up too. The air was being choked, though, by familiar scents. All trying desperately to make the cold, wet, and softly echoing quiet, hospitable. It was nauseating in my current state. Weak and... drugged? Had I been drugged? I certainly hadn't been drunk.

So why did my head hurt so much?

Why did every motion, make my stomach want to rebel?

My limbs felt so WEAK. Heavy and useless. Barely budging when I try to lift them. To rub my head? Adjust the blanket? Sit up? I can't tell. Thinking... thinking is so hard past... the pounding in my head. The fog. I struggle to concentrate. God, that SMELL.

Like a perfume store combined with... with... ugh. Everything!

I could pick out individual scents I knew I liked, on their own, added to the nauseating chaos. My favorite potpourri was there. But so was the one I like for winter? Fall? That one I liked as a kid until I found Mrs. Tianna's blend...

And perfumes! Colognes! The clean products and scents I preferred the maids used. God it... it blended together like a trash heap. As though someone drove a carriage through a perfume shop at speed. Cloying and musk and spice and fruity and-!

I sucked air through my teeth, trying not to smell it, hoping to god I wouldn't TASTE it.

Finally I managed to pry my eyes open. Either hunger or thirst giving my the strength to push past the nauseating pain. I NEEDED to move. Find out what was happening. Survive.

My gaze... met the most elaborate embroidery I had ever seen. Tapestries had less art. Almost to the point of gaudiness. Possibly past it. It was...

It was everything I had ever said I liked.

Too anyone.

Puppies and flowers, history and art, books scenes and more. It kept GOING! Hideous and magnificent. Chaos. Unhinged. Flowing down from above me, along the rest of the curtains, for the canopy bed upon which I rest. So I would be surrounded by it all. Even the blanket... it was a sea of my favorite flowers, made eternal through string.

This wasn't something people just DID. Could just FIND. I could feel my panic under the muting pain and exhaustion. This was the work of YEARS. Obsessive, continuous, YEARS. Some of these threads cost more then certain house hold make in WEEKS! And for what? A secret canopy bed?!

I struggled, body barely able to obey me but trying desperately to assist. The blankets were heavy. The curtain around the bed equally so, thanks to all the embroidery. I.. I manage to roll. Squirm. Wriggle my way, undignified, to the edge. Flop over it and out from under the blanket. Too freedom.

The air is cold.

The scents WORSE out here. Now, I can see why.

It is a museum to all that I am. Every like carefully gathered in one place, every preference. Stacked and shoved together, with no regard for if they fit. Hoarded like a collection.

I can not even tell... if I am sitting, flopped down, on my favorite winter bedside carpet or just an exact copy. My entire life is shoved together and suddenly... suddenly I do not like any of these things at all. They feel dirty. Dangerous. Like they have betrayed me. I want to cry.

But I am nauseous. Hurting. Tired and thirsty. So very hungry dispite it all. I just... I just need to know what's going ON! This isn't... this isn't how the Game goes! Not for Protag-chan. Not for me! I know I changed my "character's" behavior... but...

I... I don't understand...

Try not to cry. It's... it's really hard.

I was right. I'm pretty sure this is the Caves of Spring in the northwest of the Duchy. The offical Heir has an estate near them. The stone looks like the cliffs I'd seen in passing.

Crawling is hard. My legs keep getting tangled in my fucking nightgown. My... my f.. favorite.. nightgown! I'm not gonna cry. Damn it. I'm NOT GONNA CRY. How dare he? How DARE he ruin even that? What did he DO to me!? When I was... was...

No, don't think about it!

Move.

A decanter. Needlessly pretty. I probably loved it as a girl, fresh into this world. Everything was so FANCY and I wasn't used to having money yet. Hadn't developed any real class or taste. It looks so fucking gaudy to me now. But God, it has water. Please... PLEASE let that be water!

I drag myself up on badly shaking limbs. Nothing wants to hold. Wrists buckling, knees giving, legs shaking like a new born lamb. My arms are so weak. But thirst... oh thirst is a powerful motivator.

I force myself to move.

The water is not enough. It is everything. Cold and perfect, I force myself to go slow. To not spill a single drop, as I collapse against the dresser it was placed upon. Letting my eyes explore my cage in the way my poor abused body can not.

There are thick bars buried deep into the bedrock, separating the "room" I'm in from the hall that leads away from it. And it IS a "room". Made in cruel mockery to resemble the luxury of the dukes estate. Perhaps even more aggressively decadent in certain aspects, though that isn't a good thing. It makes it border on a storage room, for how crowded with luxury it has become.

It is the reflection of an unwell mind.

And staring up at the portraits of myself I KNOW I never sat for? The countless sketches pinned up beyond the bars? I am in trouble. I... I should have run. Not sent Creep away. I should have been the one to run. Before it was too late.

I think... I think it might be too late.

Footsteps.

I want to escape. But where can I run? I am caged. I feel close and far away. My head hurts. My body hurts. Everything stinks and I am cold. Why? Why did you do this? The foot steps are calm and commanding. Even. They do not break stride.

I do not bother to watch my hunter approach me. The monster I can not escape.

I close my eyes to spare myself the pounding in my head. Drink more water.

He makes a softly dismayed sound, as though he was not the one to drug me, to leave me here. The door to my cage opens. Closes. Ah... such a heavy lock. Should I be flattered?

Crisp steps, the rustle of fabric.

"My lady, the floor is so dirty! You shouldn't be out of bed yet. I was just about to make you tea."

The AUDACITY.

Tea? TEA! Ha ha! After DRUGGING my tea? He actually expects me to accept a cup from him again?! He truely IS insane, isn't he?

I am scooped up without my consent, unable to so much a truely struggle. Placed gently on a plush chair, a tea table moved in front of me. A familiar cup. My favorite blend. Pretty little snacks laid out deftly on lovely little plates. I grit my teeth. Slowly tip my head up to glare.

He pauses when our eye meet... then shudders, some terrible look of pleasure dancing across his face.

"That's right... look at me~" he whispers, leaning entirely too close. "I'm all that you have now. So you'll HAVE too now! No more others. No more distractions. No more sending me away! People trying to get between us. Trying to take you away. I'm all that you need, My Lady. All you'll EVER need."

"Just look at ME, your loyal dog. And I'll take such good care of you. I promise~♡"

[ambrosiagoldfish]

i’m going a teensy bit feral reading your adam x third spouse story so i guess im just asking for part five and for it to hopefully have focus on dad beat dad and how lucifer would react to seeing the reader again after so long and like what would happen n stuff 🤭🤭 ofc if this is dumb ignore it i like what you’re doing with the story already !! the part im most excited for is the finale tbh but there’s a lot of time in between what you have rn and then so i’m just yapping abt stuff that could be cool in between. thsi is so jumbled omg sorry i just wanna see more of your writing it’s so good

idk how to end this uhh i love you bye 🫡

Benefit of the doubt PT.5

Adam x 3rd Spouse! Reader

Warnings: GN! Reader, confronting the past, next to no Adam (I know, sad, but it’s for the plot), Reader focused chapter, this is set during ‘Dad Beat Dad’, swearing, the next 2 chapters will have a LOT more Adam DW ❤️❤️

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Request Box: OPEN

Word count: 4322

A/n: Hey everyone! Thank you so much for the support on all the other chapters. It’s been 8-ish months since the last update and for that I want to apologize. I’ll save it for its own dedicated post to not full int his page too much. But if you’ve saw one of my post from the other day, I have posted this on A03 and I’m giving myself 8 total parts. 7 will be the finale and 8 will be an epilogue styled thing (not even sure if I’m wanting to do it so when we get there, you guys can tell me if you want it!! ) so yeah, enough rambling, you’ve all been waiting so long for the next part so here you go!! <3

Reblogs are VERY appreciated!

(My posts have been flopping so much, I would love you forever if you did 😭)

Old memories have a habit of slithering their way back into a person's mind, and even sometimes, people

The first few months at fhe hotel were a lot more enjoyable than you originally expected. Most days went relatively the same, Charlie would choose an activity to do and you would observe the progress they made.

At first, progress hadn't shown much promise but as everyone grew closer, things began to look up. Angel had gone clean with his drug abuse and was distancing himself from his line of work. Sir Pentious started to actually trust the people around him and has done no major constructional damage to any buildings as of late.

Everything was going so smoothly that, when you had woken up one morning to the sounds of screaming, running, and just general chaos. You thought everything was finaly going into the ground.

You quickly run down to the lobby, thoughts of what could be happening run through you. Did one of Pentious experiments fail and explode? Were we being attacked by one of the many gangs in town? Did Alastor decide the hotel was actually boring and started destroying it, starting with the occupants? Whatever it was, you hurry faster to the lobby.

But what was meeting you there was… unexpected to say the least. Party streamers, banners, cookies. It looked like some kind of welcome party heaven would do, albeit with less flare and taste in decor. A banner that read ‘Wellcum Daddy’ was being hung up by Razzle and Dazzle, everyone was either cleaning or baking something, and Vaggie seemed to be ordering them around.

You look at the clock, huh, it’s way too early for any kind of Charlie’s trust exercises. Not to mention, she would have told you about the curriculum and there was absolutely not a 10 AM home-EC class listed on your schedule.

You quickly run up to Charlie who seemed to be preoccupied with helping Vaggie put something up “Charlie, what’s going on?” You tap on her shoulder, She jumps a bit before just realizing it’s you,

”Oh- Y/N, I’m so sorry, I completely forgot to get you!” She apologizes when Vaggie pops in,

“Don’t be, I told Nifty to go wake you up, but looks like she had better things to do” she points over at Niffty swifty stabbing bugs and removing cobwebs out of habit

“It’s fine, just… what’s everyone doing, what’s with all the party supplies and sweets?” You say, arms to the festive lobby around you.

“Oh well…” she took a deep breath “you know that The deadline is fast approaching and while we’ve made progress it’s not much” she paused, trying to even brace herself for what’s coming out of her mouth, “I have asked… my dad to come over and hopefully get us a meeting with heaven” she stops, completely caved in on herself.

“Wait, so… your dad is coming here?” you thought about the times she had asked you to get them a meeting with heaven but you had already explained to her that it would be next to impossible for someone like you. You had to practically beg just to monitor the hotel

Charlie Picked herself back up and looked at you with a shakey demeanor, “Yeah In about… 55 minutes”

You blink a few times before giving a small chuckle “Well, would you look at the date! I think it’s time I used my 1-per-month trip back home! If you’ll excuse me-“

“Wait! No-“ she trips over herself “We need you here, if dad can see, not only the progress we’ve made, but also that we already have an angel supporter, there’s no way he could say no!”

“Charlie, I don’t think it’s a good idea-”

“PleasePleasePlease! I will pay you back, promise! But I- we could really use you there!” Her eyes looked at you, similar to a puppy. She hands clasped together In plea.

You looked away in thought. Seeing him again was the last thing you wanted to do at this moment, any moment for that matter. The last time…well to be honest, the whole exchange hadn’t meant anything to you in quite a while. He could say whatever he wanted about you… it was the words he had to say about Adam that kept your heart ablaze in anger at the Morningstar.

Trash? He should really look in the mirror before saying that about your Adam. But… this could be a good opportunity for the hotel -as much as it pained you to admit- You can only sigh, “fine.. for the hotel…” You let out a small chuckle raising your arm in defeat.

Charlie jumped up and down with glee, repeating a matra of ‘Thank You’s’ before continuing “I get it might be difficult since you’re an Angel.” She tries to give some comfort. But that caught your attention.

“Because I’m an Angel?” You honestly didn’t mean to say it out loud but it came out as a question.

She looks at you confused “yeah, you know, considering I don’t think angels have too kind of thoughts to my dad for being… the devil” she laughs nervously

Oh. Oh. So that’s what she means. So she doesn’t know about your past with him? Not too much a surprise, I doubt Lucifer would bring up any of his failures. But that also made you realize one other thing. Charlie doesn’t know about your marriage with Adam.

Look, you didn’t mean to keep it a secret. In fact you had already assumed they knew. I mean you were sitting literally right next to him and Vaggie already knew who you were. You just thought she would have told Charlie, but knowing this now… it may be best to keep it a secret.

You let out a quick “I understand.” and with that, you all went your separate ways, you did contribute to the decor the best you could, as well as helping Sir Pentious and Nifty with the baking until finally, it was time for Charlie’s dad to arrive.

You walked over to a more remote place in the hotel lobby, look… you may have to interact with him today but you will not be doing it that soon. Instead, you decided your best choice of action was to sit and watch quietly until Charlie decided it was time for you two to meet. And in the meantime, you can mentally brace yourself.

Charlie sighs deeply “Okay everybody, it’s showtime!”

With that she swings the door open revealing the one, the only (thank Father) king of hell himself, Lucifer. Immediately Lucifer pulls his, obviously nervous daughter into his arms. He greets her with excitement before moving on to Keekee, and eventually Razzle and Dazzle.

He eyes the room, clearly covering up any distain for the hotels “character” to protect Charlie’s feelings. At least until he got to the bar which even he couldn’t lie his way through.

Even from the distant view you were from, you could see Alastor and Lucifer weren't going to be the best of buds anytime soon. As soon as they were introduced to one another they immediately got into it. Huh, at least now you have something in common with Alastor at least! If that’s even a good thing.

Their quarrel lasted a few minutes, everyone either waiting for it to be over, completely ignoring it, or enjoying it as entertainment. It lasted what felt like an eternity and was only interrupted when a short and plump woman by the name of ‘Mimzy’ came into the scene.

The old time-y dressed woman was one of Alastor’s friends, you honestly didn’t think he had those but you digress. Eventually once the commotion dies down, you see Charlie give you a nervous smile and wave for you, ‘that’s my cue’ you thought. Anxiety still felt taught in your heart but still you pushed through.

You walk out of your hiding spot, walking up to be next to Charlie. Still trying to keep your presence hidden for as long as you could, savoring those last few moments of peace before a wave of interactions.

Charlie clears her throat and puts on a more professional demeanor despite her nervousness, getting the attention from her dad, “And last but certainly not least, i’d like you to meet our Angelic sponsor-“

“Y/N!?-“ the fallen Angel suddenly started coughing, clearly having choked on his own words. He clears his throat “Sorry! I just wasn’t expecting… you to be here” he lets out a chuckle.

“You guys know each other!?” Charlie looked shocked, her voice pitching up in bewilderment.

“We’ve… met before,.” Your voice was low, But still you pushed through “Though, it’s hardly relevant to anything of importance now. Isn’t that right, Morningstar?”

Lucifer's face contorted into an uncomfortable shaky smile, fingertips digging into his Apple-shaped cane. Perhaps he felt some type of remorse for the way things happened back all those years ago, but even if that’s true, you had no plans to forgive him.

He clears his throat “Yes it’s- unimportant Sweetie.. “

You 3 stand in awkward silence for a moment, all you can do is glare daggers at the short ex-Angel in front of you. Eventually though, you couldn’t stand the scilence any longer, “Well Charlie, I have to get something done in my room and I’ll be back to help with the tour in a few minutes, if that’s ok?”

Charlie looked like she wanted to protest, for you to stay with her through the tour, but she knew you wouldn’t just leave and not come back. “Um, yeah that’s fine! Me and Alastor can get the tour started and you can meet us around the 4th floor?”

You gave a quick nod as agreement and make your way to your room. Sighing, you flop down on your bed, feeling the soft warmth as you sink into comfort. Pulling out your phone, you quickly typing a text to Adam but your thumb simply hovered over the send button, anxiety washing over you. Your message was simple,

‘I promise that everything’s ok, but he’s here’’

You were hesitating, should you even tell him that he's here? You didn’t want to worry him over something so insignificant. He has a show tonight, he wouldn’t be at his best if he was constantly thinking you would be in the same room as the devil.

Or even worse, he could just cancel the show completely and march down here and a cause a ruckus which at best would completely destroy the Hotel’s plans and at worse… No, you can’t think of that.

You look at the message again before just setting your phone on your nightstand. 10 minutes… that’s all you need before you go back out there…

…Lucifer was having… let’s just say a tinsy bit of a bad day. Not only has he been forced to interact with that insufferable yellow-toothed sinner but also, he has been reunited with someone he hadn’t seen in a millenia, you.

The anxiety of the day was only topped off with the added stress of being with his daughter. Don’t get him wrong, he LOVES his daughter and is always happy to see her, but the way she talks and acts with these sinners… Ugh, it reminds him too much of himself back in the day.

Her hotel too… He may have given her the place but he never gave it much thought beyond it being a pipe dream for her. He was just trying to do something for his daughter, especially with… Lilith being out of the picture. He just wanted to cheer her up, and unfortunately it seems ‘grandiose plans’ run in the family.

Even now as Charlie and that Red haired Buck show him around, Charlie explains excitedly about different things they have at the hotel. It reminds Lucifer about how she was when she was little, that glow of joy never seemed to fade away from her despite the conditions she lives in.

But even still, as much as he’s trying not to zone out and actually listen to his daughters rambles, his mind keeps trailing back to one, singular thought. You.

What were you doing here? He knows you were there to ‘support the hotel’ as Charlie puts it. But this is the absolute first he’s hearing about it. Why wouldn’t heaven tell him that another Angel was down here, let alone, you most of all. The last time he saw you was… not the best first meeting

Were you here in secret? You clearly weren't fallen, considering you still had your halo and you didn’t look like you’ve been damaged anywhere close to what you’d be if you had fallen. Not to mention… Adam, the exterminations were his idea so why would you even consider an alternative when you are his-

“Uh, Dad?” Charlie interrupted Lucifer’s thoughts, a look of worry on her face. ”You’ve got a little bit of… horn? Sticking out”

Lucifer looks up and sees that he’s subconsciously beginning to phase into his full demon form. He quickly takes his hand and pats the horns as if he was just dusting off his coat, causing the horns to seem to fade away like dust. Wow, today really seems to be getting to him.

“Ah sorry Sweetie, it’s nothing just… uh..” He thinks for a moment, he has to talk to you alone, just for a second. “*Ahem* I was just realizing I had to… use the bathroom, I seem to have had one too many drinks on the way here. Can you tell me where the… bathroom is?” He lets out a chuckle to hopefully cover his lie.

“Oh, it’s just down the hall and to the right, I can take you there-“

Lucifer quickly lets out a loud ”No!“ Before clearing his through again “I can get there on my own, just wait here and I’ll be back!”

Before Charlie can even answer, Lucifer rushes through the halls of the hotel, yelling a ‘I’ll be back soon’ to his Daughter before turning the corner. He lets out a deep breath as he lays out the plan in his head. Figure out why you’re here, and get back to Charlie as fast as inhumanly possible.

Picking his feet up again, he makes his way to the lobby of the hotel, he looks around for a moment before spotting the check in desk. ‘They usually keep visitor information there, right?’

He quickly scours the desk, looking for any forms or documents that have your room number, before finally setting his eyes on your room number. It didn’t take long to find you seeing as there were such few occupants in the hotel.

He memorized your room and repeated it to himself while walking to your door. Past the first, 2nd, then finally, halfway through the hallway on the 3rd floor he finds it. Before he can knock, a sudden wave of worry floods his senses. Seriously, Why would he hesitate now?!

He shuffled around nervously, starting to doubt this little mission of his. Should he really be doing this? Is he really worried about you being here or is the real reason he came here because he wanted to… apologize to you? It’s true that the guilt of what happened all those years ago was still there. But… Digging up old memories just because he’s selfish and wants to apologize to you? He takes a deep breath.

He had to make things better or… at least get some things off his chest. So, with a heavy fist and an even heavier heart, he gently knocks on the hard wooden door…

This had been the longest 10 minutes of your life, trying to decide wether to send Adam the message, or to even return to tour with Charlie at all. As much as it pains you to say, you still become anxiety ridden when he’s in the room or even the mere mention of him. That spark of defiance you had in the lobby earlier being nothing but a small bit of courage. But you remembered that you had promised Charlie you’d be there for her, and you certainly weren’t one to take back a promise.

Before you could decide what to do, you hear an ever so faint knock on your door. Curiosity peaked, You thought Charlie was supposed to be waiting for you on the 4th floor? Had you taken too long and the tour went south? You quickly made your way to the door and hoped you wouldn’t see a very angry Charlie on the other side.

As the wooden-door creaked open, your face slowly turned bitter at The short, impish man who stood on the other side. Lucifer Morningstar. To be honest, you much would have preferred the angry Charlie, TWO very angry Charlies over this.

The man shuffled awkwardly in place, gripping his cane. Neither of you could break the silence . He avoided any eye-contact with you and even you couldn’t hide The disgusted expression on your face when looking at him. Finally after what feels like 3x the eternity you’ve lived thus far, you spoke In shaky words, ”What do you want?”

Lucifer pushed out his words as well as he could, meek they were, but you understood what he said “Can we please…talk?”

Your fingers gripped at the door, nails embedding into the wood, leaving scratches. It took all you had not to slam the door right in his face, but even if you had, it wouldn’t have solved any pressing issues. If anything, it might make him against Charlie’s idea with the hotel, which you couldn’t afford. You take a deep breath before letting out a quick but unsavory,

“5 minutes”

The short demon shuffles his way into the room as you follow in behind him, locking the door to prevent someone like Nifty or Charlie from walking in. Lucifer stands timidly by your nightstand as you stand on the complete opposite side of the room, facing him. Lucifer runs his neck as he lets out a shaky sigh “I just want to know what you’re doing here…” he pauses, he looks like he has more to say but decided not to.

You can only laugh to yourself “I’m here because I believe I think Charlie’s idea has potential to be great. The exterminations, they have to end… that’s why I’m here”

Lucifer seem a bit… surprised? Surprised with your stance on the exterminations. you figured he needed more than that so you continue “I… I’ve never been one for the exterminations. I've been against them from the start. I just didn't know what else to do. Nothing else seemed…right.“

He stayed silent, processing what you told him. He really didn’t understand you, he had a completely warped view of you. “If that’s all you wanted to know I’d rather you take your leave-“

“No!” You step back at the sudden raise in voice but he quickly clears his throat “No, there’s another thing. I would… I’d like to apologize to you about how things went… when we first met.”

You stared at him, the silence once again feeling the air. You didn’t dare break it, you watched as the impish man looked around with anxiety, trying to find the right words. “It’s always been there, in the back of my mind. How we- I, treated you. It was unacceptable… Lilith kept telling me to let it go, that she was done thinking about it, but I just couldn’t.” He takes a deep breath “so, I’m so sorry for hurting you, Y/n…”

Lucifer Morningstar. The man in front of you looked more akin to a puddle than a person at this point. Sweat dripped from his face, a scrunched mouth filled with a sour taste. He wasn’t looking at you, focusing his attention to the ground. Finally, after many long seconds later. You step forward, grabbing his attention.

“As much as I appreciate the apology, I don’t forgive you.” Lucifer began to speak or at least say he understood but no matter what his reaction was going to be, you interrupted him ‘“-I don’t forgive you, because I’m not the one who deserves it”

To that, Lucifer's head was struck with confusion, “what do you mean?” He tried to make sense of your words, shifting eyes looking around in unease before landing on a framed photo of a candlelit man, an old and forgotten, yet familiar smile on his face… ”You mean… Adam?” Despite his best efforts around you, saying the first man’s name still dripped his words with venom. That same sour taste filling his mouth at the mere mention of him. ”What does-” he stops himself, he knows why.

You breathe in slowly, “What you said to me, all of those years ago, hasn’t meant anything to me in a long time. I’ve gotten through it 10x over and finally understand that I am more than those words” you take another step towards him, closing the gap, “so… there's no use for your apology to me. But Adam… you’ve hurt him more than you couldn’t possibly imagine“

The room was filled with dense air, like any sudden move could kill the king of hell or even you at any second but still you continue. “Adam deserved so much better than what he was forced to have from you, so if anyone deserves your apology, it’s him.” He goes to speak but you shut him down again “but we all know that you are too prideful to do so, and Adam… he’s too stubborn to hear it”

You don’t yell, scream, all of your words coming soft from your lips “So… what you’re going to do, if you truly mean what you say. You will go back to your daughter, forget this conversation ever happened, then you can march back to your big castle with your Loving wife, and leave us be, for the rest of eternity.”

With that, you step away from him, words that have been bubbling inside you for centuries finally having been let out. It felt like several hundred pounds had been lifted off of you. You begin to walk to the door to let him out, wanting the conversation to be over, When you hear him speak a faint ”Ex-Wife actually”

You pause, your teeth already biting your tongue. Honestly, if you really thought about it, it was poetic. The Angel who ruined two marriages, leaving Adam nothing but a broken heart and baggage, ended up with a failed marriage himself.

But even still, you still felt a slight pain of pity for him. Through clenched teeth you let out ”I'm… sorry to hear that. It must be hard.”

This kind of thing, no matter the person, is always tough. You knew the aftermath of it through Adam, even now he struggles with so many issues from it. In that regard, you felt pity for the ruler of hell, but the rest of you felt… glad? Glad that he finally understands just a thorn of the pain he inflicted on Adam.

“The 5 minutes are up so… go now… please.” Your voice shakes near the end, your will power for everything you’ve done starting to break. Lucifer looked equally as defeated, you could tell he wanted to say more but he just nodded his head before walking out the door. slowly, silently, you close the door back before sliding down it as your legs give out.

You wanted to cry, scream, do anything but sit there, but you couldn’t. Your voice hurts from talking, your feet hurt from standing, everything just… hurts.

DING DING DING

A luminous yellow light follows the sound, you lifted your head and saw your phone on your nightstand. Adam… You used all of your strength to make it to your bed, practically having to crawl to avoid any more tiredness in your aching body. You finally land on the soft mattress to pick up your phone, seeing the plethora of messages from Adam.

DIXKMASTER69

Yo Bitch, everything good??

You’ve been typing for like 10 minutes

Answer me

Hellllloooooo??????

Oh, that’s why he was texting. You had completely forgotten your half written message you were debating on sending earlier. You start to delete it and rewrite it when suddenly,

INCOMING CALL FROM DIXKMASTER69

You sigh at the screen, your phone vibration sends chills through your aching arms, it acts as a lifeline for you not to fall asleep on the soft plush beneath you. You press the answer button.

‘Fuck Babe, finally! Are you ok?!” Adam’s voice sounded angry but you know he was just worried “you’ve been texting for like 15 minutes”

“Yeah, don’t worry Adam, I... must have fallen asleep while trying to message you”

“It’s 12 in the afternoon, you dont normally fall asleep in the middle of the day” Adam questions, his voice having obvious worry for you.

“Today’s just been very tiring. But I promise I’m fine, it’s just happened a lot today.” You hated lying to him, your other half, but you know this is something that he shouldn’t have to worry about.

You hear him groan, “how many times do I have to fuckin’ tell you not to overwork yourself for those sinners”

“I know, I’m sorry” you pause “I… I have to go now but I promise I’ll call you later, yeah?“

He was quiet on the other side before he lets out “Yeah, just don’t overdo yourself ok?” His voice was soft, no hint of sarcasm or anger, just him.

You let out a small breathy laugh “I promise. Have fun at your show tonight. Talk to you later, love you.”

“Love you too”

CLICK

You sigh to yourself, you still have the tour to do. It’s fine, everything is fine.

Tomorrow will be a better day. it has to be.

-

TAGLIST: @tired-of-life-86 @nervoussystemss @qopia @lovelyemily @hcneyiced @v3r41ynn

@ghostdoodlen @nxptvne-13 @ximenavc-che

@edgyfluff @ericityyy @diffidentphantom @faimmm @slasher-whore69 @1-randomized @ozzersauce @fanlovedlt @alientee @pandaquick @white-00-7 @call-me-nyx @adamstruelove @jennieyeager @sillyycatt @solatiium @my-name-is-heartache @parisiterileymoon @titan-senpai @lovely-night-owl-86 @innergardentoadpony @animefan106sposts @starlightstarbrightmyfirststar @lovkayy @ilikedrinkingsoda @barrythestrawberry041 @deadpoolssweetchimi @asegirllovesreadingporn @ripashy @deleted-1-800 @sirenetheblogger @ur1nonlygabi @aweleyirene @n0tmentallystable

(I really hope I didn’t forget anyone if I did, just asked to be added in the comments!!)

Shoutout to these specific asked as well, love you all <3

[qqueenofhades]

Not that anything's a for sure bet but my read on the general situation re: Harris-Walz is that there's going to be a lot less headwind to fight for Harris specifically as opposed to Clinton because the amazing right wing media hasn't had twenty years for poison to seep into the layperson's thoughts about Clinton's "worthiness"

Well, that and the fact that the MAGA crowd are just really, really bad strategic planners (especially since a solid 75% of their strategy is "lol we'll just cheat and win it that way, we don't need anything else.") They howled for 3.5 years about how Biden was too old to serve and should step down, and then when he did, they had zero plan how to run against Kamala and Trump is now practically begging Biden to magically get back into the race and save him. They ran an anti-Shapiro influence campaign by encouraging the antisemitic online left and planning to exploit the issue among Democrats divided on Israel/Gaza, then furiously melted down when Walz was picked and had no plan to deal with him either. Fascism is a helluva drug, kiddos. Don't try it at home.

The reason Harris has been able to rocket so high is simple, which is that she's channeling Obama 08 energy in more ways than one. Obama also came onto the national political scene four years before (with his speech at the 2004 DNC) and four years later, he was the party's nominee. It didn't even matter that he was a skinny brown guy named Barack Hussein Obama, because people were so tired of the chaos and war and incompetence of Bush Jr that they latched onto a simple message of hope and change and the historical nature of his candidacy felt like an optimistic risk worth taking. Why couldn't it be time for the first African American president? Yes, of course, there was incredible vitriol and we are still dealing with that backlash in some ways now, but still.

As I have said before, Trump is technically not the incumbent, but the last 8 years have been dominated by his hatred, chaos, division, rage, and treason in a way even Bush could never quite manage, and when people get to that point, there's a lot of coiled-up energy that has at last come bursting out. We needed Biden's old-moderate-white-man cred to defeat Trump as the sitting president in 2020, when most of his worst scandals hadn't even happened yet, but this is not 2020 (or 2016) and the dynamic is different. We are now on offense and playing to win, people have readily and eagerly embraced the absolute god tier karma that would come from a black female prosecutor finally ending the Orange Menace's reign of terror once and for all, and the Republicans are spitting smoke and spinning gears running frantically through their usual tired old stupid cliche attacks. GAY TRANS EVIL BIRTHERISM SWIFTBOAT FOREIGN FAR LEFT COMMIE LIBERAL HEATHEN!! they scream desperately, trying to find something that sticks. Except this time, no matter how hard the corporate media tries to help them out, nobody is listening. Nobody is buying it. We know exactly what BS they're trying and we're just shrugging and going "Yeah, no. Weird."

It absolutely helps that Kamala is not dragging the ball and chain of 20 years of Republican smear attacks, yes. But there are a lot of reasons why the GOP is imploding before our eyes and it's probably now more statistically likely that there is a blue tsunami than it is that Trump wins. I still cannot, CANNOT, believe it has been barely three fucking weeks. If this is a dream don't want to wake up, etc. Let me goddamn stay in this timeline just a little longer. And if we do the work, we can in fact make it that way, and Yeah. Yeah.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part vi)

a/n: today on your early dose Stark Fluff, it's drugs against humanity. claere is going nuts and cregan brings out dopes like the bad bitch he is

Cregan Stark had grown accustomed to the sounds of Winterfell at night—the rustle of trees in the godswood, the howling winds against the walls, and the shifting of ice and snow as the old castle settled deeper into the frost. But the nights had changed.

Now, something far more alarming stirred within these walls.

He felt it more with each passing night, a part of him slipping further away, drawn into a darkness he couldn’t touch or see. It wasn’t the wind or the groaning wood that unnerved him anymore. That part of him, the part that was running far away, was her. His wife. It was Claere.

He watched from the bed for the second time that night, helpless and exhausted, as she drifted through the room, her movements ghostly, as if she were caught in a dream she couldn’t wake from. Her nightly habits had always been strange, but now they were something else entirely—more frequent, more dangerous, more haunting. Even her dragon, Luna, seemed to mirror the chaos inside her, her bellowing growls sounding off deep into the night.

Claere strode near the window, her eyes half-lidded, whispering words he couldn’t fully understand. She was distant, more so than usual. Her usual nightly rituals—her waking, her wandering, her mumbling. Some nights, she’d slip from his arms, barefoot and silent, wandering out into the biting cold of Winterfell’s courtyards.

Now, it was tears. It was ripping at her hair, thinking too hard. It was weeping, it was crying to stop whatever it was she saw in her eyes. It was desperation that left him powerless to ease. It was as if the sharp thorns that grew on this beautiful rose had turned inward, pricking her deeper every time she flew past the Wall.

Tonight was no different. He watched her move, a pale figure in the dark, and he knew what was coming. He remembered how, not long ago, she’d spoken to the children of Winterfell.

"Dreams are just that," she had said to the little ones, her voice calm and reassuring, "and nightmares, even less. They’re simply our own little mysteries, and they are only yours to unravel."

He had marvelled at her then, the way she bent to their level with a gentle smile, easing their fears with the strength of her presence. But now, her own nightmares haunted her, and whatever they were, they seemed to be unravelling her instead. Perhaps she didn’t even realize, how deeply it was breaking her.

It was like the thrill of the hunt, he thought. That intoxicating rush, the chase that consumed you whole. But then, always, there came the bitter part—the kill. The blood on the snow.

Claere had become a stranger in the dark, unreachable, caught in some distant place. The parts of her that made her her—her clever wit, her regal grace, the way she’d laugh, rare but sincere—those parts he cherished. But these wakeful nights, the bitterness that crept in when she was somewhere else, chasing shadows… it hurt him more than it seemed to hurt her.

Cregan propped himself up, running a tired hand over his face, trying to push away the exhaustion. He wanted to go to her, to pull her back into the warmth of their bed, to soothe whatever haunted her. But he knew better. Whatever hunted her, it was out of his reach.

As he rose from the bed, her murmuring grew louder, more frantic, her voice sharp as if echoing from some far-off place. He strained to catch the words.

“Baelor… Baelor… Baelor…”

The name sent a shiver through him, a wave of dread tightening in his chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard her mutter it, always in broken whispers, her gaze distant, as if she were chasing some ghost. But the way she said it now, like a chant, filled him with icy fear.

“Claere,” he called gently, stepping closer to her. “Please come back to me, love. It's much too late.”

She didn’t respond. Her steps became more erratic, her body moving with a sudden urgency as she wandered near the hearth. And then, he saw it.

The gleam of steel.

A knife, small but sharp, shimmered in the dim light, clenched in her hand. Before he could react, he noticed the handmaiden who had entered the room moments before, carrying a basin of water. She stood frozen in place, the knife pressed dangerously against her throat.

Claere’s voice, cold and distant, barely above a whisper: “It must be done… don’t see, don’t see…”

“Claere!” Cregan’s voice rang out, sharper than he intended, his heart pounding in his chest. He took a step forward, trying to stay calm, though fear surged through him. “Claere, no. Look at me. Put the blade down.”

She didn’t move. The handmaiden trembled, her wide eyes locked on Cregan, her breath shallow as the blade pressed against her skin.

“Claere, listen to me,” Cregan urged, his voice softening as he edged closer. “It’s not real.”

"We have to save her." She blinked, a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—crossing her clouded gaze. But the knife stayed where it was, unmoved.

“It’s not real,” he repeated, his hand inching closer, slow, controlled, deliberate. “You’re safe. You’re here with me.”

For a moment, the room seemed to freeze. Cregan’s hand reached the hilt of the knife, and with a swift, practised motion, he knocked it from her grip. His other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her away and safely as the blade clattered to the stone floor.

The handmaiden wheezed, stumbling back, clutching her throat, but Cregan’s focus remained on Claere. Her breathing was shallow, her body trembling, as if she were still lost in her head. He turned to the terrified girl.

“Leave us,” he commanded her, his voice firm. “And speak of this to no one.”

The handmaiden nodded quickly, pale and shaken, and fled the room without a word.

Cregan knelt with Claere on the floor, his hands gently cradling her face, worry etched in every line of his expression. “My love?”

But she didn’t respond, her eyes still distant, lost somewhere beyond the room. Slowly, her breathing steadied, but it wasn’t from clarity. She blinked, her gaze slipping away from his and drifting again into the haze of her mind. Her lips parted, a faint murmur escaping.

“Baelor… Baelor…”

Cregan’s grip tensed, his heart aching. He called her name again, softer this time, his voice almost pleading, but she didn’t hear him. Instead, her eyes fluttered closed, her knees buckling, her body sagging against him as the fight drained from her limbs. The murmurs softened, trailing off into silence.

He held her for a moment longer, hoping for some sign that she was waking, that she was returning to him. But there was nothing. She had fallen back into sleep as easily as if nothing had happened, the nightmare fading from her mind as quickly as it had come.

Cregan sat there, his hands still around her, utterly powerless. He wanted to shake her awake, to demand answers, to pull her back to the present where she belonged, but it was no use. Claere had slipped away again, disappearing into whatever dreamscape she was trapped in, leaving him alone with the memory of the blade at the handmaiden’s throat.

Slowly, he lifted her into his arms, carrying her back to the bed. She didn’t stir, her face peaceful in sleep, as if the madness that had gripped her moments before had been nothing more than a passing wind. He laid her down, pulling the furs over her, but he couldn’t shake the unease that ate at his composure.

She was here, but not truly.

Cregan sat beside her, holding her hand, grounding her, watching her for what felt like hours, the fire crackling softly behind him. His thoughts churned, but there was nothing he could do. Whatever darkness had taken root in Claere, it was beyond his reach, and it terrified him more than anything he had ever faced.

He brought her hand to his lips. "I will fix this. I will."

He wanted to save her, to fight whatever hunted her in her dreams. But how could he fight something he couldn’t even see? Something she didn’t even know was haunting her?

The thrill of the hunt, he thought bitterly, was nothing compared to this. Because this time, the prey was slipping further and further from his grasp, and he was left wondering if he’d ever be able to catch it before it was too late.

X

Cregan stood in the maester's chamber, the dim light of the drooping candles casting long shadows on the stone walls. The old man, Maester Kennet, sifted through an array of vials and dried herbs, his face unnoticeable. Cregan's fingers drummed lightly on the wooden table, his voice low and tense.

“Tell me again,” he said, his gaze sharp. “Nightshade. What does it do?”

The maester turned, his expression cautious, wary of the question’s significance. “In small doses, two or three drops, the essence of nightshade induces sleep, m'lord. A peaceful slumber. It can calm the most troubled mind, relieve pain… but—”

“And in larger doses?” Cregan interrupted his voice harder now, almost daring the maester to say it.

Kennet hesitated, his fingers brushing against the edges of a small, dark vial. “In larger doses, ten or more drops, nightshade brings death. Quiet, painless, but certain. A drop too much and there is no waking.”

Silence stretched between them.

Cregan's face tensed as he stared at the vial on the table. He wasn’t certain what he was searching for in the maester's words—reassurance, perhaps, or maybe a way to justify what he was considering.

“Have you given it to her?” Cregan’s voice was soft, almost a whisper now, but there was a dangerous edge to it.

The maester’s eyes widened slightly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “I would not dare, my lord. Never nightshade. Only milk of the poppy, to ease her unrest when the... red flower blooms.”

Cregan exhaled, though the tension remained. He ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the table, deep in thought.

“And if… I were to ask for it?” Cregan's voice was firm, though his eyes reflected the storm raging within.

Kennet met his gaze, his voice steady but careful. “You must know, my lord, that such a decision is not one taken lightly. Nightshade should be used only in direst need.”

Cregan nodded, his mind already racing, calculating the risks. He seized the cold vial into his palm.

"Thank you, Maester Kennet," he muttered, pushing away from the table, his heavy boots echoing as he made for the door.

But as he reached for the handle, the maester spoke again, softer now. "If I may, Lord Stark… be sure it's true peace you seek for her—and not an escape from what torments her mind."

Cregan paused, his hand tightening on the door, but he did not look back. Without another word, he left the chamber.

X

Claere had never known peace, not truly, especially when she roamed between dreams and reality, but tonight it felt close—close enough that she could almost pretend. As she brushed her hair in smooth strokes, she dreamed, not of long battles or falling dragons, but of the man she loved, the man who had somehow become her sanctuary in this strange place.

Her mind wandered, against her will, carried on the ebb of the flames, and she thought of him. Of Cregan. Of his coarse hands on her skin, of his lips that caressed the hollow of her neck, the way he had looked at her the last time they’d lain together, right where she sat—eyes so grey, full of unspoken love. She felt her heartbeat quicken slightly at the memory. His strength, the way his arms enveloped her, the rough edge of his voice when he spoke her name. His touch, at once tender and snug, had left its imprint on her skin, lingering long after they’d parted.

Her hand paused mid-stroke. The fire blurred, and suddenly, in the flames, she saw it—a flash, vivid and sharp. A single drop of green, fell through a murky sea, kindling in a flash, spreading like wildfire. It was quick, but it seared into her mind, the image stark against the warmth of the room. Her breath hitched, and then, as quickly as it had come, the vision vanished.

Before she could think more about it, the door creaked open, and Cregan strolled into the room, his presence filling the space and banishing the image from her mind.

"Dreaming again, sweetling? Of me?" he teased softly. His voice was deep and rough-edged, but there was a warmth in it that was meant only for her. He crossed the room, laying a kiss gently atop her head, his lips brushing the crown of her silver locks.

Cregan had made the room their own, pushing the chairs and tables aside, creating a nest of furs by the fire—a place where she had found warmth, her favourite corner of Winterfell. He had known. Always thinking of her comfort, even when she didn’t ask for it.

"Only a little," she murmured, her eyes following him as he moved across the room with a relaxed grace. He had the makings of a great king, should he ever be interested in a throne.

"A little," he scoffed. "You wound me."

"The battle scars of love," she said to which he laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

He held a pitcher, which he set down near a low stool without explanation. She didn’t ask. He always brought something with him, whether it was news, wine, or small comforts. She observed him fondly, though her face betrayed none of it—nervous, shy on the aspect. Still, she could not say why. Maybe it was the ease with which he began to unfasten his leather coat of plates, down to his tunic and breeches, his moves deliberate.

"The lords have been as excruciating as ever," he started with a chuckle. "More talk of trade routes through the Neck, and their precious grievances over wildling sightings. As if they’ve forgotten winter's nearly here."

Claere nodded, her lips twitching in the faintest shadow of a smile. She’d always liked listening to his tales of council and governance, though she cared little for the politics of it. It was the way Cregan spoke—his dry northern humour, the way he managed to find levity even in the mundane.

"And how was your day?" he asked, his voice softer now, as he kicked off his shoes with his feet and settled beside her on the rug with a tired grunt. He nestled closer, his head resting gently against her neck, inhaling her scent.

"Uneventful," she replied, though her mind drifted briefly to her flights with Luna. "The expected. Luna is weary. I haven't flown her beyond the Wall in a while."

"Mm," he hummed as he poured a goblet from the pitcher. The liquid was pale, almost like milk, thin as it filled the cups.

"And what of your mind?"

She stiffened slightly but kept her gaze on the fire. "'Tis... there."

"As your lord and saviour, I have just the solution for you." He offered the full goblet to her with a knowing smile. "This is said to help with disturbed slumber. I know you’ve had trouble resting lately."

She gave it a cautious sniff. It was newly warmed milk, cow's milk. A rare drink in these parts.

"Have I?" she asked, uncertain.

"You’ve been waking up more," he rumbled, kissing the side of her cheek. "I want you to rest well."

She glanced at him, questioning. "You notice too much."

"Too little, I think. Drink up."

Claere stared at the cup, her gaze lingering on the pale liquid as it rippled in the goblet. She wasn’t convinced. Her body had grown weaker in recent days, a weariness she hadn’t expected, but she had chalked it up to Luna—her growing hunger, the long flights beyond the Wall to hunt. Sleep had never been a burden, at least, not that she had noticed. Yet, as she looked into the cup, something stirred within her.

The milk rippled again, and for a fleeting moment, she saw it—a drop of green, bright and burning, swallowed into the depths of the liquid. It was quick, just a flicker, but a shiver slithered up her spine. The room's amber flames shimmered on the surface of the milk, and her mind whispered the possibility. Simply sweetened by a touch of the dark.

She looked up at him, her gaze lingering on his face, and her expression unchanged. Cregan, with his furrowed brow and his earnest eyes. Always trying to protect her, even from things he could not understand.

She smiled. Without another word, she lifted the goblet to her lips, her eyes never leaving him, and took a sip.

X

Cregan stood at the foot of the bed as Claere lay beneath the thick furs, her chest rising and falling in the peaceful rhythm of deep sleep. For days now, she had slept soundly, without the restless tosses and turns, without walking off her nightmares that had plagued her nights. Her face, so often marked by tension and distant thoughts, now seemed softer, almost serene.

He should have felt relief. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? For her to rest, for her to have peace. This was wrong, undreamt of as her husband, but right for her.

But as he watched her, the small vial of nightshade hidden in the folds of his tunic felt like a lodestone towing him down. His gaze lingered on her pale face, framed by the loose strands of silver-gold hair. She looked untouched by the turmoil they both carried, unaffected by the darkness.

But the peace was an illusion. And he knew it.

He couldn’t keep giving her this. He couldn’t keep feeding her nightshade like some remedy for the battles she fought within herself. It wasn’t a solution; it was a reprieve—a brief, cruel reprieve. One that couldn’t last.

Cregan’s jaw clenched as he thought of the future. Of waking her each night to pour another dose down her throat. Of watching her slowly become dependent on it, her mind slipping further away as the poison dulled her to everything, even to him. The thought twisted his stomach. He would lose her—slowly, painfully—if he let this continue.

His hand instinctively tightened around the vial in his tunic. No. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t let it come to that. But what choice did he have? He had promised her rest, and this was the only way he could give it to her. He couldn’t bear to see her suffer.

But this wasn’t a cure. It was just another form of losing her.

Claere stirred in her sleep, a soft breath escaping her, and Cregan’s breaths stuttered at the sight of her. He moved closer, kneeling by her side to watch her more closely. His rough hand brushed against her cheek, the warmth of her skin a fragile reminder of her mortality. For a fleeting moment, she leaned into his touch, her lips parting in a sigh. It was a small comfort, but not enough to dispel the storm that raged inside him.

He couldn’t keep her like this. And yet, the alternative terrified him.

Cregan stayed by her side a moment longer, his hands closed around hers as if he could protect her from whatever nightmares awaited her when the nightshade was gone.

The peace was already crumbling, and there was no way to stop it.

X

The great hall was lit by the blazing hearth, the winter winds pressing against the castle like an unrelenting spectre. Cregan Stark sat at the head of the table, flanked by his bannermen, but the eyes of the room were not on him—they were on her.

Claere sat quietly, composed but pale, her hands resting in her lap, her hair still tousled from dragon riding, shadows hollowing her face.

Luna, her enormous pearly white mount, lay somewhere beyond the gates, scarred, bleeding and restless. The White Dread had returned her rider upon sunup with half-healed claw marks, three jagged rents, almost eight feet long, from which blood still dripped, hot and smoking. No one dared ask what could have possibly hurt such a fearsome creature, but the question hung in the air like a curse.

Cregan’s heart was embittered by their accusations. The council chamber felt chiller, the stone walls pressing in with a suffocating sense of scrutiny. The eyes of his lords were upon her, and Claere—regal, unyielding—sat at the end of the long table, facing their silent judgment like a queen before a court of circling wolves.

He had to take it. He had to sit here and endure their suspicions, their whispered concerns that had now turned into open accusations. For months, he had watched her slip out of his reach. He’d seen the change, the strain. The sleepless nights, the moments where she seemed absent even in his arms.

And it was the Wall—always the Wall.

He could feel their tension, and hear the whispers that had been brewing in Winterfell far before her frequent trips beyond the Wall. This was simply an excuse to question her outright. His lords, fiercely proud of their Northern roots, were growing uneasy with the mystery that clung to her—a woman who had brought a dragon into their snow-covered world, who disappeared for days without word or explanation. Her dragon was another shadow looming over their fears of the unburnt girl.

At last, Lord Manderly, ever bold, cleared his throat. His voice, heavy with suspicion, echoed through the hall.

"Lady Claere," he began slowly, "the Wall is a frontier, a line not crossed without purpose. Yet, you venture beyond it as if it were nothing but an open gate. We hear tales—wild tales—of your presence there, of the wildlings who speak of you and your dragon. We must know these truths you hide, my lady."

Claere turned her head slightly, her gaze still focused out the window, seemingly unfazed by their words. When she finally spoke, she was calm; too much.

“I have no dealings with the wildlings,” she said simply, her eyes unmoving. “My oaths are sworn to Lord Stark and his kingdom.”

Another lord, Ser Edric of White Harbor, leaned forward, his tone sharper. "And yet you leave for days without a word, to wildling lands, where dangers lurk that even your dragon cannot burn away. What is it you seek out there?"

Cregan could feel the tension rise like a storm gathering on the horizon. They were not wrong to ask, yet their suspicions clawed at him. She had given them no reason to doubt her loyalty, and yet here she was, standing trial in all but name.

Claere’s gaze remained far away as if their questions were of little consequence to her. “Luna hunts,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, though her words cut through the room like steel. “The land beyond the Wall offers her ample prey. As it has been said before.”

“Prey?” Lord Manderly’s lips curled in distaste. “And what of you, my lady? What is it that you hunt in those frozen wastes?”

Her response was cool, cryptic. "I hunt peace. I wonder what is it you hunt, my lord. Fear? Is that your game?"

The lords exchanged glances, a ripple of discontent stirring around the table. The tension thickened the air heavy with their growing distrust.

Cregan’s jaw tightened as he watched the scene unfold, his fists clenching beneath the table. They had no right to speak to her like this, no right to question her like she was some criminal. But he also knew their concerns—feared them as deeply as they did. It wasn’t just about her flights; it was about the unknown. Claere, in all her mystery, had unsettled them, and her dragon—Luna—had made it worse.

But it wasn’t just them. It was him, too. He’d watched her grow more distant, watched her lose herself in those trips, in her sleepless nights, chasing shadows he couldn’t touch. It was hurting her, and yet she didn’t see it. Or wouldn’t see it. Perhaps this would at least make her see.

“I’ve heard some tell,” a third voice piped up—Lord Glover this time, his expression grim. “The wildlings speak of a pact. A pact with the dragon queen, they say. Is there truth in it, my lady? Do you make alliances beyond the Wall?”

Claere didn’t flinch, didn’t shift in her seat. Her eyes flicked over the gathered lords briefly, then back to the window.

"The wildlings speak of many things," she said flatly. "None of which concern you."

Her words, while calm, were a dismissal, and it only stoked the fire in their hearts. The murmurs grew louder, the lords exchanging glances, their suspicions deepening. They were growing restless, their unease turning to frustration.

Cregan, sitting at the head of the table, felt his control slipping away. His love for her warred with the practicality of the situation. He could not openly defend her, not when she gave them so little.

His wife was the blood of Old Valyria, a dragonrider, something far removed from the North's hardened ways. His lords, steeped in centuries of mistrust for anything beyond the Wall, wouldn’t understand her motives, her need for escape, for the open skies. But now, her silence was feeding their fears.

"I've made up my mind," Cregan announced, his voice as cold as the winter winds outside.

The council's eyes mulled heavily upon her, yet she didn’t flinch. Cregan’s frustration burned hotter in his chest, not only for the lords who had questioned her so harshly but for her—her silence, her refusal to let him in.

"There will be no more flights beyond the Wall."

Claere’s head turned sharply, surprise flickering in her eyes for the first time. Her voice was feeble with disbelief. "You would chain us here... my lord?"

Her use of the title stung more than anything else. He fisted his hand under the table, forcing himself to remain calm.

"You’ll fly where it is safe, past the Kingsroad southward and no more than two leagues beyond the Long Lake," he said, his tone firm, brooking no argument. "And Luna will be trained to survive on light fare until winter passes."

The council remained silent, uneasy but compliant under his regime. They knew better than to defy the Warden of the North in his own hall.

Claere said nothing more. She merely sat, poised and still, her eyes far away, her hand resting on her side. And that’s when he saw it—something out of place, something wrong. Her posture stiffened, and she winced, ever so slightly, her hand pressing discreetly against her side.

Cregan’s gaze dropped, his heart seizing in his chest. A dark stain spread beneath her ribs, seeping through the fabric of her gown.

Blood. Fresh. A gash, raw and bleeding.

He rose abruptly, the scraping of his chair against stone cutting through the tense air. The lords fell silent, their eyes turning toward him.

"My lords," Cregan said, his voice tight, cold with command. "This discussion is at an end."

"But, Lord Stark—" Manderly began, his brow furrowing.

“I have concluded this issue,” Cregan cut him off, his voice hard as ice. His gaze never left Claere. "We will speak of this no longer."

The room fell into an uneasy quiet. The lords glanced between one another, but none dared speak. They could see the fury brewing beneath his calm exterior, the unspoken warning that questioning him further would not end well. They knew better than to press their lord when his tone carried such finality.

She met his gaze briefly, and for a moment, he saw something in her eyes—a flicker of pain, maybe even gratitude. But then she turned away, her silence louder than any words.

X

The fire crackled softly in their chambers, yet its warmth did nothing to melt the cold that hung in the air between them. Cregan stood by, watching with tense silence as the maester deftly bound the wound at Claere’s side. Kennet's creased face was patient as he worked, his hands sure. Claere’s eyes, distant and focused on the fire, cringed a little every time a stitch pulled at her skin. The scent of herbs and poultices thickened the air, but it did little to mask the weight of what lay unsaid.

“The blade missed the bone. It will heal,” the maester said, his voice measured, though a lingering curiosity was beneath his tone. “What caused this, my lady?”

For a moment, Claere said nothing, her gaze fixed on the flames. Finally, her voice came, distant, almost disinterested. “Wildlings,” she said. “They tried to set a few wild bears on Luna, the size of giants. She barely made it off the ground.”

The maester frowned, clearly puzzled. “I meant your wound, my lady.”

"Oh." Claere blinked, as though only just remembering herself. "I’m not certain.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his anger simmering just below the surface. Before he could speak, the maester finished his work, offered a low bow, and quietly took his leave.

The door shut with a quiet thud, leaving only the two in the tense, suffocating silence. The flames crackled away, but even the warmth of the fire couldn’t thaw the ice that had settled between them.

Cregan stood near the table, his eyes fixed on Claere’s rigid form. She sat by the fire, her posture stiff, her eyes as unreachable as the day they first met, as if the conversation that had just transpired in the council chamber was far beneath her. But he knew better—knew the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands curled ever so slightly around the arms of the chair. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even anger, not the kind one could easily name.

"Look at you," he breathed, trying to find the words, "why didn’t you tell me you were harmed?"

For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer. Then, without turning to look at him, she spoke, her voice flat. "It’s nothing worth mentioning."

Nothing worth mentioning. She had returned from beyond the Wall, bleeding, wildlings’ rusted spears having drawn her blood, and she spoke of it as if it were a scratch from a thornbush. The anger inside him simmered, barely contained. He wanted to shout, to demand answers, but he knew better than to meet her coldness with heat. It wouldn’t reach her.

“Must have been one of their spears,” she added, her voice still detached, as if she was recounting something mundane, something far from her.

Cregan’s fists clenched. His tolerance, already frayed, began to slip. “Is that all it is to you?” he demanded, his voice tight. “Another scrape? Another wound that means nothing?”

Cregan's fists clenched at his sides, the fury rising again. He couldn't stand it—the indifference, the coldness. Those savages had dared to harm her, and yet she sat here, speaking as though none of it mattered. As though he didn’t matter.

He paced for a moment, his frustration mounting, unsure how to breach the distance between them. She had been like this for days—withdrawn, inaccessible, slipping from him like sand through his fingers. Though necessary in his eyes, these imposed restrictions drove her further away.

Finally, unable to bear the silence, he spoke. "Are you angry at me?"

Claere’s head turned slightly, eyes still distant, as if she were staring through him rather than at him.

"My anger serves no purpose, not in a world like this," she replied, her tone calm, controlled—maddeningly controlled. There was a chill in her voice that made Cregan bristle, a coldness that wasn’t there before.

He wasn’t convinced. "Don’t lie. Not to me."

Claere’s gaze flickered, but she didn’t respond immediately. She remained composed, her hands folded in her lap, the very portrait of poise. Yet Cregan could discern it—the simmering rage beneath her calm, the quiet fury she never allowed herself to voice. Not where others might see.

"I didn’t think I’d need to ask permission to breathe," she finally said, her voice smooth but carrying an edge that sliced through the quiet room. Her eyes met his, and though her tone was even, there was a sharpness to it that felt like a blade slipping between his ribs.

"Or to eat, perhaps. To walk outside these walls. To ride my dragon. To be free, even for a moment."

Cregan’s jaw clenched. "I've allowed you plenty."

The familiar helplessness returned, gnawing at him. He had always loved her independence, her strength, but now it was dangerous, reckless even. She didn’t see it—or worse, maybe she did, and just didn’t care.

A brief silence fell between them, only the soft crackle of the fire filling the space. Claere seemed to brood for a moment, her eyes so far removed again, staring into the flames. When she spoke next, her voice was measured, as if she was treading on thin ice.

“What is the essence of nightshade like, Cregan?” she asked, her gaze now turning back to him, her violet eyes piercing. “Does it taste sweet like molasses? Bitter like wine?”

Cregan felt his blood turn to ice. Her question, so casual yet so sharp, made his breath falter in his chest. He stared at her, searching her face, praying that this was some cruel jest, some distant, detached observation of the world as she often made. But there was no humour in her gaze, only a cold, unnerving certainty.

"You knew?" His voice came out in a rough whisper, disbelief and a creeping dread flooding his veins. How long had she known? Why had she not said anything?

Claere looked at him, unflinching. Of course, she knew.

“Yet you endured it in silence.” His voice was rough, almost pleading now. “What if someone... I had meant to poison you?”

“If that’s what you wanted,” she said, her voice soft but deadly, “I’d drink the whole vial.” She took a breath, her eyes never leaving his. “I’d gladly sleep forever.”

Her words crushed him. Horror and heartbreak twisted a spear into his stomach. The thought of her slipping away like that, of her cold body lying still in his arms, shook him to his core. It was too much—far too much. There was no threat in her voice, no malice—only resignation, like the notion of death no longer held any fear for her. And that terrified him more than anything.

Claere rose from her seat, crossing the small space between them, her steps slow and deliberate. When she stopped in front of him, faces apart from him, her eyes were the entire night sky split in two.

"So why won't you do this for me?" she whispered.

Cregan stared at her, his chest tightening, raising all the fury, fear, and helplessness. His fists clenched at his sides, the frustration he had kept bottled up for so long now threatening to spill over.

“This isn’t about control or freedom, Claere,” he said, his voice harsher than he intended. He began pacing, the tension in the room rising with every step. “This is about keeping you alive. You vanish for days, you come back bleeding, and you expect me to stand by and say nothing? Do you think I want my council breathing down my neck, calling for your head?”

For the first time, Claere’s calm façade cracked—just barely. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing. But when she spoke, her voice remained eerily calm.

"You think I’m not capable of protecting myself against any of it?"

“This isn’t about your capability!” he thundered, his voice echoing off the corridors.

The sudden, uncharacteristic power of it startled her, and for the briefest moment, her eyes widened. Cregan had never raised his voice to her before. He had always been measured, always mindful. But now, her standing there, behaving like a nobody, it was too much.

“It is fucking breaking me,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with barely contained rage and something deeper—raw, aching pain. “It breaks me to see you slipping away from me. To watch you turn into someone I can’t reach. Every time you return from beyond the Wall, I am losing you all over again. You come back, but not all of you does. And I—”

"'Tis I who risks this," she interrupted, her voice cutting through his like a sharp breeze.

“No,” he bit back, stepping closer to her, his face inches from hers now. “This is about us. About you disappearing into the shadows, about me waking every night to an empty bed, wondering if you’ll return, or if one day it’ll be a lifeless corpse they bring back to me.”

She stared at him, and for the first time, he saw it—the crack in her armour. A flicker of something in her eyes. It was brief, barely noticeable, but it was there. She was listening, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

"I will not stand for this," he said, his voice quieter now but no less intense. His chest heaved with his words. "You may not be angry, Claere, but I am. I am livid."

Claere's gaze dropped to the fire, her lips pressing into a thin line. Silence fell between them again, and that silence—her silence—was what infuriated him the most. The distance, the way she kept herself apart from him, even now, even here when they were alone.

“Say something, love,” he pleaded, his voice softening, the desperation creeping in now. "Fight me. Argue. Anything, please."

Claere’s gaze lifted to him, her expression impassive, composed once more. She seemed to gather herself, the crack in her armour sealed as if it had never existed.

"As you command, my lord," she said, her tone formal, aloof to his affection. “No more flights beyond the Wall. No more risks.”

Her formal tone, her distant acceptance, grated at him like a blade against stone. It wasn’t anger he saw in her anymore—it was something worse. It was resignation. The very thing he feared most. She was shutting him out, retreating into herself, all while pretending to offer him what he’d asked for.

"It's not like that, love. I only want your peace again," he whispered, almost a plea, reaching out to touch her hand. She moved away to tuck her fingers into her skirts, turning her cheek to him.

"I have not slept well in a few days," she told him. "I'd like to rest now."

The rejection pricked deeper than he cared to admit once her words settled in. They were subtle, but they cut deeper than he’d expected. She didn’t argue, didn’t fight—just turned away, pulling further from him with that calm, elusive composure.

“Claere…” he whispered, but her eyes were still on the fire, her hands tucked into her skirts. As though she were shielding herself from him.

“I'd like to rest,” she repeated, quieter, final.

He watched her for a long moment, heart heavy, before nodding once. With a quiet sigh, Cregan turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind him.

X

thank you for reading! more to come later!

a question for my loveliest people: do you think Cregan was right to feed Claere nightshade and control her whereabouts? what could he have done instead?

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[atalldrinkofcaprisun]

Don’t Wait For Me After I’m Gone (pt. 1)

silco x gn!reader - he didn’t die AU - tw: canon compliant violence, drug use - 18+

sooo what’s up!!! I’m reworking this fic. again. so keep your eyes out if you like it lmao

also on ao3 xx masterlist

You burst into the old blown out factory, lungs heaving to try and provide oxygen to your muscles and heart, sprinting across the underground city had been a feat of adrenaline. The streak of blue that had cut across the blood colored, smoke tinted moon had filled you with dread. It had started in your chest, a pile of rough cut stones, falling down to your stomach and resting there.

The edges of your vision were dark as you rested your hands on your knees, trying to steady yourself, “Jinx!” Your voice echoed deep into the factory’s carcass, “Jinx! Are you here?”

Silence. Of course she wouldn’t respond. Even if she was still here, she was morbidly melodramatic. Since the bridge a few nights past, you had only heard whispers of the girl you had grown to love like your own.

Silco had been worried sick, and desperately trying to hide it. You hadn’t seen him either since he left to meet with the Piltover golden boy. That was almost seven hours ago. You fixed your posture and decided to take in the dimly lit surroundings.

The walls of rubble cast deep and jagged shadows across the wreckage. Jagged rusted beams jutted upwards, as vegetation stretched across wire and debris. The moonlight cloaking it all in a crimson. There was a clearing created beneath a segment of the cannery that was still relatively intact. A table sat in the center, surrounded by wreckage and scars from old chaos. It was set with candles, place settings and chairs. The smell of gunsmoke still hovered in the air, faded and cut with the tang of blood and smoke. There were four chairs, one on each end of the table and one next to the others on opposite sides. Various nicknacks and guns were strewn on it.

That’s when your eyes fell on the only other person left in the room.

Your heart stopped, you knew that profile. The landscape of features you’d painstakingly memorized, hidden by the shadow of his office chair. His body was slack and hanging as if he had simply once again fallen asleep at his desk upon first glance. A twinge in your gut told you something was very wrong. Silco would have responded to your voice. He always did.

You took one step forward, and another, “Silco?” your voice felt far away. With more cautious steps you were able to stand in front of him. You immediately noticed the ashen tone settling in his face, the trickle of drying red coming from his mouth. Your heartbeat surged in your ears as the world around you began to shake, or was that you?

He wasn’t breathing, “Silco, can you hear me?” Your hand reached out instinctually, trying to push back the strands of hair that had fallen into his face. He always hated it when his hair was mussed in anywhere but your private rooms at the Last Drop. He was getting so cold! You could feel the lump forming in your throat, “Sil… Silco please,” you bent, crouching so your hands could cup his face.

His eyes, a part of him that was so expressive and alive, looked empty, dull. Even his glowing eye that had made darkness always seem less menacing was lifeless. His ember eye was looking at the abyss, the familiar glow faded away. The reality was before you, straight from some nightmare. But you weren’t asleep. This was real. He was- You felt the rawness of your throat before you realized you were the one screaming. Pain rippled through your body as you cradled your heart in your hands.

You let the tears fall, cascading down your cheeks, you heaved in air but it wasn’t enough, you still couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. Not now. Not when he had just begun to see that there are more goals than simply war and glory. You looked at his torso, unable to see his face so slack and aimless for a second longer. Bullet wounds were slashed into his clothing, blood dripping into his fine fabrics and leathers, cooling and tinted just the slightest glimmer of purple.

“I- I didn’t mean too…” the voice cut through the sobbing, causing you to gasp and turn. Somehow Jinx had gotten behind you, just as she always did. A hyper-pigmented shadow. You looked up at her with ruddy cheeks.

Her eyes burned a violent pink in the half light and her arms were wrapped tightly around her midsection. Her entire body was shivering. Her bangs had fallen in her face, matted and dirty, long braids trailing haphazardly behind her. Her lips were pouted and tear tracks of dried shimmer lay crusted on her freckled cheeks, “It was… a mistake… I didn’t know what I was doing. I needed it to stop! They were shouting! I’m- I’m so sorry,”

You looked at the girl who you had helped raise from an orphaned urchin. For the first time in a long time you were looking directly at that little girl again. Your head was spinning trying to comprehend everything as Silco’s body continued to cool. What she was saying, “Jinx… you did this?”

“No-no it was an accident. There were too many voices and I saw a gun-“ She stepped further into the light. Now you could see, the large shark-like rocket launcher slung behind her back. She dropped heavily to her knees, crumbling to the stone floor, “I fired it. Like he wanted. Fishbone worked. He-He told me to show them all.” Her voice was clipped and irregular.

You shook your head, “That’s not important right now. How long has he been here?”

Jinx rubbed away her tears and sniffled, “I d-don’t know.”

“Okay,” you felt your resolve settling back in your chest. A hand moved from Silco’s face to reach into your travel pouch, and pulled out a magenta tube full of Shimmer and the injector you kept on hand just in case, “If you can do it, Jinx, so can he.”

You took a deep breath and slid the tube into its slot, priming the needle and looking at the blue-haired girl, “It’s going to be okay, I promise.” You said it more for yourself than anything, before plunging the needle loaded with serum into his chest, just right of his heart.

The injector hissed as the Shimmer emptied itself into his bloodstream. You watched the drug vanish, making sure the vial was empty before you backed away. Silco was tied up still but you had seen many people react very badly to the substance before. He had a certain level of immunity after years of having it be the sole medication that worked on his condition, but better safe than sorry. You opened your arms for the blue haired girl to come to your side. She obliged, throwing her weight into you. Your arms wrapped around her and you waited with bated breath.

For a moment nothing happened, Silco remained lifeless and still. You could feel the little spark of hope fading away once again. It had been too long. You’d been too late, or hadn’t had enough.

His shoulder twitched, just a small amount. Barely noticeable if not for the rustle of his shirt. Your breath hitched and you felt Jinx tense in your arms, “Did… did it-“

All at once, Silco’s head snapped backwards as purple light erupted along his veins, up his neck and face, sliding down his arm and supposedly the rest of his body. He inhaled sharply, his teeth clenched as the spasms began. You could almost feel the drug searing through his veins as if it was in your own. His muscles spasmed and his body seemed to flex and strain at the influx of shimmer. His head remained tilted upwards and the wooden chair he was bound to creaked as he shuddered. The whimpers and gurgles became grunts of pain and those turned into shouts, “No- Please- She’s my daughter! I need her! I won’t give her up! No!”

Silco’s long fingers gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles turning white. He growled and gagged as his body thrashed. Jinx tucked herself closer and closer into you, watching with wrapped horror.

“Sil? Sil can you hear me?” You called, hoping your voice could cut through whatever hallucinations he was seeing.

“No! Not them! Please, my-Mrph my family- Ah!” He howled as his eyes began to shine like his veins, light pouring out and upwards. He sobbed your name, begging. You couldn’t keep away. Jinx willingly slipped from your arms as you leapt to his side. You placed your hands on his hollow cheekbones again. Responding to your touch he looked at you, but he didn’t seem able to see you, “Don’t hurt them, don’t hurt them,” he begged over and over, his voice breaking.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, Silco, it’s me!” Your voice trembled when you spoke.

His good eye seemed to finally come into focus, seeing your face, relief washing into him as the effects of the Shimmer dosage began to be more manageable. You were grateful you had been carrying his particular dilution of the substance. You ran a hand through his hair, “Breathe, it’ll be over soon, then we can take you to Singed, he’ll be able to patch you up, just like new. Just breathe, darling.”

“You-You’re here? Th-This is real?” His voice was more of a slurring than actual speech.

You smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Yes, Sil. It’s gonna be alright. You’re going to survive. Don't you dare ditch me in this mess.”

You looked behind yourself to see Jinx staring at the pair of you, eyes wide with worry and guilt, but you sniffed and shook your head as if to say, ‘Don’t worry about it now.’

“I’ll go get the doc. I’m the fastest… you can cut him loose when the purple is gone. He’ll bleed out if he moves now.” And like the darkness in a room when you turned on a light, she was gone. Fishbones laying in the dust as the only evidence she had been there.

You didn’t have time to worry about Jinx however, that would be something to deal with when Silco was stabilized. You refocused your attention, as another wave of pain seemed to overcome him and he hissed, hands once again gripping the chair arms with white knuckles.

“Hold on, Sil. Help is on the way, we’re going to survive this. All of us.” You settled in for the wait.

[spacedace]

Here have another dc x dp Super Serious Chaos snippet I remembered about lol

As always feel free to take this as a (too long) prompt if anyone is interested 😄

---

Ghosts and Kryptonians, as it turned out, had a bit of overlap when it came to biology.

Not much, admittedly, considering that ghost biology was largely…made up, as best as any of the League’s medical staff could figure and as best as the Yetis could explain. They were usually human shaped - at least those that had been human in life were usually human shaped - but they were made entirely out of ectoplasm, a highly mutable substance that could appear incredibly unpredictable in how it behaved if you weren’t intimately familiar with how it worked. A ghost’s biology, as much as it could be called, depended entirely on the ghost, what they thought their biology should be and how they felt at any given point of time.

Still, there were some things that were more or less standard that were familiar enough. Super strength and speed, heightened senses, flight. Fangs too, though those tend to vary a great deal more in size when it came to ghosts compared to Kryptonians. Most interesting of all though - at least as far as Jon was concerned at the moment - was the fact that like Kryptonians, ghosts could purr.

And they used their purring in much the same way as Kryptonians. Self-soothing, encouraging healing, expressing happiness or - as the case might be in the here and now - bonding.

That’s what Danny had said was the point of this purring when he’d shown up and taken stock of the situation. Elle, out of her mind on some weird strain of supernatural flower thanks to some demon deciding to try and drug her into compliance and marry her - gross, Jon was glad it had been torn to shreds, he was kinda disappointed he didn’t get to help really - was reduced entirely to very basic ghostly instincts. She’d lost human speech, lost understanding of the world around her, and lost grip on who she was. Something that could have been incredibly dangerous - and had been for the dumbass demon that had orchestrated the whole scheme, Elle had eviscerated it with a viciousness that threatened to awaken something in him if he thought about it too much - though thankfully for them Elle had some semblance of recognition of who they were.

Well. Some of them, at least.

She’d very much had not seemed aware of who most of the Justice League members that responded to the situation were and had been just as intent on doing to them what she’d done to the demon. Jon and Damian were for sure going to get a lecture later on it, but them jumping in between their out of control friend and the others had been the right call. They knew how she fought better than anyone, knew how to counter her without hurting her and how to use her own overwhelming strength and power against her if need be.

Besides, they knew Elle.

They trusted her. Even as she lost semblance of her form and started looking more like…well okay Jon couldn’t really say what Elle looked like at the time. Damian called it eldritch and Jon can’t help but agree that it was the right word for it. Looking at her straight on for too long while she’d been in attack mode hurt and his brain sort of just…slid off any attempts to describe just what he was seeing when he looked at her. So eldritch seemed the right fit, even if he felt a bit bad having to describe her as such. Elle hated Lovecraft with a fiery passion, she’d despise knowing that anything associated with him was applied to her.

Jon was getting distracted. The point was, even if Elle was reduced to base ghostly instincts and acting aggressive and trying to eat Green Lantern, Jon and D knew that she’d never hurt them. And for the record they’d been right!

She’d frozen in the air as they dove in front of GL and into her line of sight, furious screeching going quiet and form settling back down into a more familiar - and comprehensible - shape and let loose a series of chirps and trills and whistling notes. And while no one could understand exactly what they meant, Jon and Damian could feel the emotions she put into the sounds. Happiness and relief and safe-safe-safe that made them realize that some of her aggression must have been from thinking that something had happened to them.

The next thing either of them had known they were wrapped up in a whole lot of Elle - body significantly more human-shaped, though still a bit indistinct when it came to her features - as she gave low rumbling purrs. She wouldn’t let anyone else near them - hissing and growling warningly in ways that made ears bleed when his dad and Bruce tried to creep closer, pulling him and D behind her protectively - but she was at least content to not attack anyone so long as no one got too close.

“It should wear off in about a week.” Danny said, butting his head like a cat against Elle’s as he checked on them. Elle recognized her father as she had Jon and Damian and had been fine letting him close, though notable did not try and pull him in on their impromptu cuddle session. “Probably less if we can get her back to her Lair in the Zone. Having outsiders near her Grave after fighting off an enemy is probably making things worse.”

Danny drifted back towards where the League was awkwardly huddled at a safe distance, giving a comforting trill when Elle’s purring stopped and she gave a nervous little chirp. She clung to Jon and Damian a little tighter from where she’d wrapped her wispy tail around them, glowing green eyes locked on the League suspiciously, but she stayed where she was. Jon purred himself, trying to match the low frequency she’d been using earlier to draw her attention back to them and keep her calm. Damian, unable to purr but undeterred by the limitation of human vocal chords, hummed softly as well. Elle gave an adorable little mrrp and pulled them even closer to her, nuzzling beneath each of their chins in turn, purr starting back up again.

“I was under the impression Phantasma wasn’t dead in the…traditional way.” Jon’s dad said, face pinching in concern. “Or that her grave would be near…” He motioned to the dark cave around them, lit only by literal hellfire in shades of red and orange. They were roughly a fifty miles from any kind of civilization, in some mountainous location in Europe. Possibly Finland? Jon hadn’t been paying much attention outside of following Elle’s distress beacon as quickly as possible without the wind speed suffocating Damian in the process.

Danny shook his head. “Oh she’s not. She’s Mirrorborn.” He waved a hand blandly, unaware or ignoring the League’s confusion at the term, “I don’t mean that kind of grave. I mean her Grave, capital ‘G’ and all. It’s like, hmm,” He paused, looking considering before offering, “I guess the closest thing might be like a pack? Like wolves, sorta. She’s in my Grave, since I’m her Reflected.” Danny motioned towards where Elle was now happily purring again, running her very sharp - and disturbingly longer than usual - clawed fingers through his and Damian’s hair. It was soothing, even with the vague notion that he should be worried about getting sliced to bits lazily popping up at the back of Jon’s mind. “But she’s old enough to go out and make a Grave of her own, and she’s claimed those two as part of it.”

“Claimed?” Bruce asked, voice lower than usual and definitely more dangerous. He hadn’t looked away from them the entire time, even when Danny showed up.

The older ghost gave a reassuring smile, “It sounds way more possessive than it is. It just means that her Core recognizes them as people she cares about a lot.” He glanced over towards them again expression going soft and fond. “The claiming is less a mark of ownership and more of like a ‘Back off’ sign for anyone who might try and fuck with them.”

Danny waved a hand in their direction again, “It’s what she’s doing now with all the cuddling. There was danger and she couldn’t find her Grave, so she panicked and lashed out. When they showed up she went into protection mode, it’s why she won’t let you near.” He glanced over to make sure the League understood, at their various nods he continued, “The cuddling is partially letting her know their safe, but it’s also making sure they’re absolutely covered with her ecto-signature so that anything that can sense it thinks twice before trying to go after them.” Danny’s grin went cheeky, “She’s basically giving them the Infinite Realm’s version of Scary Dog privileges. There’s not much in the Zone that’d be willing to fuck with the Grave of someone in our family.”

“Hn.” Bruce said, though Jon could see that some of the sharpness had left the line of his shoulders. “She doesn’t recognize us as members of her Grave?”

Danny shrugged. “Don’t take it personally. She likes you guys a lot - you’d probably be dead right now if she didn’t, even with those two keeping her calm - but there’s a difference from being friends with someone and having them as part of your Grave.”

No one looked terribly reassured.

Possibly due to the implication that Elle could kill them all more than the idea that she’d try while in such an altered state. And probably Jon should be worried about that too, but it wasn’t all that much of a surprise, really. He’d seen Elle beat Damian at Go before. They were usually tied 50/50 these days. If she could do that, there really was no hope for the Justice League - even his Dad, though he probably shouldn’t say that out loud.

Oh well. Point was, Damian absolutely could destroy the entire Justice League - Kryptonians and all - probably without even lifting a finger if he really put his mind to it and Elle was just as brilliant when it came to wily plays and unbeatable strategies and overwhelming force.

Okay so he might, a little bit, be totally in love with the both of them and believe they were the single most impressive and unstoppable people in the universe. That had no baring on his estimation on their abilities to take over the world if they ever decided they wanted to. It did, admittedly, probably skew his thoughts on if they ever would try their hands at world domination, but only a little.

Anyway he was 95% certain he could convince them to knock it off before they actually launched any world domination plans.

99% if he had time to get Ma to make cinnamon rolls before he went to talk them down.

Not the point, really. The point, right now, was that Elle had made him and D part of her Grave. That she cared for them enough that not even being reduced to her most dangerous, aggressive state, almost completely unable to distinguish friend from foe, was enough to keep her from knowing who they were.

(J’onn J’onzz - scanning the emotions and surface thoughts of the three young heroes to make sure no one was in danger or distress - would like to note to the young man that that was also not the point.

He had the distinct feeling, however, that any attempt to bring that up would go entirely over the young Kryptonian’s head.)

“So!” Danny said clapping his hands together decisively as he flashed a wide grin at Jon's dad and Bruce, “Who wants to pack these two some bags while I get them all moved to Ellie’s Lair?”