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novaursa · 2 months ago

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Fire and Gold (the consequences)

- Summary: Rhaegar chooses you over her. And Ceresi never forgives you for it.

- Paring: sister!reader/Rhaegar Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: 3

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @lightdragonrayne

- A/N: This is the last story for today.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep is silent, an oppressive stillness weighing on the air. Dread crackles like a storm about to break as King Aerys II Targaryen, known to many now as the Mad King, sits upon the Iron Throne. His fingers, thin and white as bone, drum restlessly on the armrests, the sound echoing through the chamber like the ticking of a clock counting down to catastrophe.

The hall is empty save for a few trusted guards and the towering presence of Tywin Lannister, who stands at the foot of the throne with his head held high, his face an inscrutable mask. It is a rare sight to see him without his customary calm, but even he knows the volatility of the man before him.

“You dared to think your lioness could strike my blood, my daughter, and there would be no retribution?” Aerys’ voice is soft, almost gentle, but it carries a terrible menace. The flames of the torches lining the walls flicker, casting shadows that seem to dance with the madness in his eyes. “Your precious daughter dared to lay hands upon my Y/N. My most beloved child.”

Tywin’s face remains impassive, though you can see the faintest tension in his jaw. “Your Grace, there must be some misunderstanding. Cersei—”

“Misunderstanding?” Aerys’ voice rises sharply, and he stands, the movement sudden and jerky. His robes billow around him like the wings of a dragon. “Do you take me for a fool, Tywin? My daughter returns from your encampment cut, shaken. My Y/N, who has never known such disgrace, such insult!”

Tywin’s green eyes meet the king’s blazing violet ones. “Your Grace, if there has been an offense, I assure you it was unintended. Cersei—”

Aerys’ laughter rings through the hall, a high, grating sound that sends a shiver down the spine of every man present. “Unintended, he says! The Hand of the King claims his daughter’s treachery was unintended. She openly shamed my daughter before the eyes of our people. Your daughter, who has been nothing but a viper in this court, tried to poison the hearts of our subjects against their rightful queen!”

The Mad King steps down from the throne, his gaze never leaving Tywin. The guards stiffen but do not move, knowing better than to interfere. “You think your children are safe because you are my Hand? Because you have served me well in the past?” He leans forward, eyes glittering with a wild light. “I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Tywin. I could order Cersei to be burned alive and no one would dare stop me. I could burn your golden boy Jaime as well, see how well your lions roar then.”

Tywin’s composure does not falter, but a muscle twitches in his cheek. “Your Grace, I beg you to consider—”

“Consider?” Aerys hisses, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “I have considered. You think yourself so high, Tywin. So far above us all, above your king. But you are nothing without me. Nothing! You swore to protect my family, to serve the realm. And now, your blood turns against mine.”

He straightens, drawing himself up to his full, regal height, his presence a blazing fury. “I strip you of your title as Hand of the King. You will leave this court immediately and take your poisonous brood with you.”

Tywin’s eyes narrow, the only sign of his anger. “Your Grace, I have served the realm faithfully for—”

Aerys cuts him off with a savage gesture. “For too long! Too long have you schemed and plotted under my nose. Did you think I would not notice, Tywin? That I would not see your ambition, your pride?” He leans forward, his face a mask of twisted rage. “I see everything. I know everything. And I will not have it.”

The King’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “If your daughter so much as breathes near my Y/N again, if she dares to touch a hair on her head, I will burn her alive. I will burn you all. The lions of Casterly Rock will be nothing but ash.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. Tywin stands there, a statue of marble and iron, the weight of the King’s words settling on his shoulders. But he does not bow, does not flinch.

“As you command, Your Grace,” Tywin finally says, his voice steady. “We will leave the capital at once.”

Aerys’ eyes gleam with triumph. “Good. Go back to your Rock, Tywin. And remember this day. Remember what happens when you think to cross a dragon.”

With that, he turns away, dismissing Tywin as if he were nothing more than a bothersome fly. The former Hand of the King bows, a shallow, mocking dip of his head, before turning on his heel and striding from the hall. His back is rigid, unyielding, but you can sense the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior.

As the heavy doors close behind Tywin, Aerys slumps back onto the Iron Throne, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The madness in his eyes dims, replaced by a strange, almost childlike weariness. He leans his head back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, a smile curling his lips.

“My daughter,” he murmurs to the empty hall. “No one will ever harm you. Not while I am king.”

But even as he speaks, you know that this is only the beginning. The wolves are circling, the lions crouched in the shadows, and the dragons? The dragons are restless, their flames licking at the bonds of peace that have held the realm together for so long.

And now, with Tywin Lannister cast down, those bonds threaten to shatter.

Storm’s End looms ahead, its ancient walls stark against the darkening sky. Tywin Lannister rides through the gates, his face as hard and unforgiving as the stone fortress that now houses his daughter. His entourage is small—just a handful of guards and his most trusted men. He has no intention of lingering here longer than necessary. He has come for one reason, and one reason alone.

As Tywin dismounts, his cold green eyes scan the courtyard. Servants scatter like frightened mice, aware of the tempest in his gaze. He strides purposefully toward the main hall, his boots striking the ground with a grim, unyielding rhythm. He does not slow his pace as the great doors swing open, revealing the grand chamber within.

Cersei stands at the center of the hall, her posture rigid, her face a mask of defiance and fear. She is dressed in her finest gown, a deep crimson that mirrors the color of Lannister pride, but the color does little to hide the trepidation in her eyes. She knows her father’s wrath is like a storm—merciless, relentless. And today, she is caught in its path.

“Father,” she greets him, her voice steady, though there is a tremor beneath it.

Tywin does not acknowledge her words. He looks past her, dismissing her greeting as if she were nothing more than a child who had disappointed him. His gaze sweeps the room and lands on Robert Baratheon, who lounges on his lord’s chair, a goblet of wine in hand. Robert’s eyes narrow as Tywin approaches, but there is no welcome in his expression.

“Lord Tywin,” Robert says, his voice slurring slightly. He shifts in his seat, a smirk playing at his lips. “Come to collect your troublesome daughter, have you?”

Tywin’s eyes, icy and penetrating, fix on Robert. “This matter does not concern you, Baratheon.” His voice is cold, precise, each word sharp as a dagger. “Leave us.”

Robert’s smirk falters. He glances at Cersei, who stands silent and still, and then back at Tywin. For a moment, he looks as if he might argue, but something in Tywin’s gaze—something deadly—makes him think better of it. He pushes himself up from his chair with a grunt and stumbles toward the door.

“Whatever,” he mutters, waving a hand dismissively. “Handle your family, Lannister. I’ve had enough of this.”

The doors close behind him with a heavy thud, and the hall falls into a silence so deep it seems to swallow every breath, every heartbeat.

Tywin turns his full attention to Cersei. The fury in his eyes is a burning, unyielding force, and she feels the weight of it like a physical blow. She straightens, lifting her chin, trying to summon her usual haughty confidence, but it feels brittle, fragile, in the face of his wrath.

“You dare,” Tywin begins, his voice a deadly whisper, “to jeopardize everything I have built, everything I have planned, for your petty pride? Do you have any idea what you have done?”

Cersei’s mouth opens, a protest ready on her lips, but Tywin’s hand lashes out, striking the table beside her with such force that she flinches. The sound echoes through the hall, a harsh, jarring noise that sets her nerves on edge.

“You drew dragon blood,” Tywin continues, his voice rising, each word a thunderclap. “Do you think that means nothing? Do you think you can strike at the heart of House Targaryen and there will be no consequences?”

“Father, I—”

“Silence!” His roar shakes the very walls, and she falls silent, her heart pounding in her chest. Never, not even in her childhood, has she seen him like this. The cold, controlled fury she is used to, but this—this is something else. This is rage stripped of all restraint, all reason.

“You have put our house in peril,” Tywin hisses, his eyes burning with a cold fire. “The Mad King threatened to burn you, Cersei. To burn Jaime. Do you think I will allow you to destroy everything I have worked for?”

Her defiance crumbles, the words she wants to say dying in her throat. “I—”

“You,” he spits, cutting her off, “are a foolish, reckless girl. You think yourself a queen, a lioness. But all you’ve done is make us vulnerable.” His voice drops to a dangerous whisper, every word enunciated with chilling clarity. “You forget yourself, Cersei. You forget your place. You forget that your actions reflect not only on you but on all of us.”

Her pride, her vanity, have always been her armor. But now, under the force of her father’s anger, it shatters. Tears sting her eyes, and she blinks them back, refusing to show that weakness. But he sees, of course. Tywin sees everything.

“You will not defy me again,” he says, his voice softer now, but no less dangerous. “You will remember who you are and what you owe this family. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” she whispers, hating the quiver in her voice, hating the way he makes her feel—small, insignificant.

Tywin’s gaze holds hers, his eyes as cold and unfeeling as the stone walls around them. “You will return to Casterly Rock. You will stay there until I say otherwise. You will not breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” she repeats, her voice barely audible.

“Good.” He steps back, the distance between them a chasm she cannot cross. “Remember, Cersei. The only reason you are still alive is because I will not allow House Lannister to be destroyed by your stupidity.”

She flinches at the harshness of his words, but she nods, holding her head high despite the tears that threaten to spill over. He looks at her one last time, his gaze filled with cold contempt, before turning and walking out of the hall, leaving her standing there, alone and broken.

The doors close behind him, and she sags against the table, her hands gripping the edge as if it is the only thing keeping her upright. She feels the rage burning inside her, mingling with the pain and humiliation. How dare he speak to her like that, treat her like a child?

But she knows, deep down, that her father is right. She has overstepped, has endangered everything. And now she will have to live with the consequences of her actions. She will have to endure the punishment he has decreed.

But as she stands there, trembling with the effort of holding herself together, she vows that one day, she will make them all pay. Tywin, Rhaegar, the Targaryen whore who has taken everything she wanted—one day, they will all suffer as she has suffered.

One day, the lioness will roar again.

The chamber is filled with the sweet scent of lavender and the faint, sterile tang of healing herbs. Soft light filters through the high windows, casting gentle shadows on the stone walls. You sit on the edge of the bed, the cold air brushing against your bare skin as Grand Maester Pycelle carefully unwinds the bandage from your side.

“Almost done, Your Grace,” Pycelle murmurs, his voice trembling slightly with age. He peers at the now-healed cut, his expression one of clinical detachment. “The wound has healed well, though the scar will remain.”

You nod, your eyes not on the maester but on Rhaegar. He stands nearby, his gaze locked on you with a mix of concern and anger that he has not yet managed to let go. His silver hair, caught in the afternoon light, seems almost ethereal, and his violet eyes soften as they meet yours.

“I should have been there,” he says, his voice low, filled with regret. He steps closer, his presence a comforting warmth against the chill in the room. “I should have protected you.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing his hand in a reassuring gesture. “You couldn’t have known, Rhaegar. Cersei’s malice was not your fault.”

Pycelle finishes his work, dabbing a final bit of ointment over the scarred flesh. “You must continue to rest, Princess,” he advises, though his eyes flick nervously between you and Rhaegar. “And avoid any strenuous activity.”

You nod absentmindedly, your attention still on Rhaegar. “Thank you, Grand Maester.”

Pycelle bows deeply and shuffles out of the room, leaving you alone with Rhaegar. He moves closer, his fingers gently tracing the scar that mars your skin, the touch as light as a feather. You can feel the anger simmering beneath his gentle exterior, the barely contained fury at what has been done to you.

“I hate that this happened to you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You should never have had to suffer such a thing.”

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin, and you lean into the touch, closing your eyes. “I’m still here, Rhaegar. A scar is just a mark. It doesn’t change who I am.”

“But it shouldn’t have happened at all.” His tone is fierce, and you open your eyes to see the torment etched in his features. “I failed you, Y/N. I let that woman hurt you.”

You shake your head, taking his hand in yours and pressing it to your lips. “You didn’t fail me. You saved me by standing with me, by being here now. You are my strength, Rhaegar.”

He exhales shakily, his forehead resting against yours. “I love you,” he breathes, the words a soft vow. “More than anything. More than life itself.”

You smile, your heart swelling with warmth despite the pain and the memories that linger. “And I love you. We’ve faced worse than this, haven’t we?”

His lips curve into a small, rueful smile. “We have.” He lifts your hand, his lips brushing across your knuckles. “But I swear, no one will ever hurt you again. Not while I still draw breath.”

There’s a fierceness in his voice that sends a shiver down your spine, and you know he means every word. You pull him closer, your arms wrapping around his neck as you bury your face against his shoulder. His embrace is strong, protective, and you feel the tension in his body, the barely suppressed urge to take revenge for what has been done to you.

“I don’t care about the scar,” you murmur against his neck. “I’m just glad to be here with you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze searching your face. “You are the strongest person I know,” he says softly, his thumb brushing away a stray lock of hair from your forehead. “Stronger than I could ever be.”

You smile, a quiet, private smile meant only for him. “I’m strong because I have you.”

His expression softens, the anger fading as he leans in, his lips capturing yours in a gentle, tender kiss. It’s not the fierce passion that sometimes flares between you, but something deeper, a promise of love and devotion that will withstand any storm.

When he pulls away, his hand lingers on your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Rest now,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

You nod, feeling the exhaustion finally catching up with you. He helps you lie back, his hands gentle as he adjusts the blankets around you. His presence is a calming, steady anchor, and as your eyes drift shut, you know that whatever comes, whatever challenges you still have to face, you will not face them alone.

Rhaegar presses one last kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there, as if to imprint his love and protection onto your very skin. “Sleep, my love,” he whispers, his voice a soft caress. “I’ll guard your dreams.”

#a song of ice and fire #asoif/got #asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #house of the dragon #game of thrones #got x y/n #got x you #got x reader #rhaegar x y/n #rhaegar x you #rhaegar x reader #rhaegar targaryen #ceresi lannister #tywin lannister #jamie lannister #aerys ii targaryen #house targaryen #house lannister

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chvoswxtch · 1 year ago

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checkmate

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: now that frank was gone, you were left alone to your own devices. could you protect yourself if trouble came knocking at your door?

warnings: swearing, lots of angst, brief mention of bomb violence, mentions of gun violence, blood, & death

word count: 4k

a/n: buckle up, sluts (i love y'all sm). shit is about to get real. ;) but don't just take my word for it. grab a snack, a drink, & get comfy. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

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9:29 pm.

The catastrophic events of today didn’t feel like they had happened just this morning. They didn’t even feel real at all. They seemed more like glimpses of a purgatory from an alternate dimension that somehow had been implanted into your head. How had your world become so goddamn unrecognizable in less than twelve hours?

Life as you knew it had unraveled right before your eyes in one fell swoop like a cruel magician’s trick. For the first time in months, you were terrified to leave your house again, and there was a gaping pit of loneliness carved out in your stomach.

Because Frank was gone, and he was probably never coming back.

Saline seared along your waterline as your last interaction with him replayed behind your glossy eyes on a loop. He had looked so detached, the usual warmth of his brown eyes snuffed out with a layer of black ice, face completely void of any emotion like a blank canvas.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

He didn’t say anything.

Every comet that flashed across his lips at one of your stupid little jokes. Every tiny gesture that brought him closer into your orbit. Every universe you discovered when he revealed more and more coveted constellations of himself to you. The asteroid he threw with his fists at the bar that night. The rockets he was always ready to launch on your behalf. The way all the planets had aligned just right when he glided with you around the dancefloor made of the stars.

All those intimate moments you carried around in your heart like a locket meant nothing to him.

You had only ever been a job to Frank, and that epiphany broke something inside you that you didn’t think could ever be fixed.

Sitting at your dining table staring off into the void of silence, it felt like you were wandering aimlessly through an abandoned forest in your mind. When was the last time you had felt so…lost? It was difficult to navigate a path when your whole world had been flipped upside down, right as you were ascending to the peak above the clouds.

Ellison had politely demanded you take a few days off, or work from home, until there was a plan of what to do next regarding your safety. He didn’t know the details of why your security detail had been pulled, but the absence of Frank’s shadow was unmistakable. It was a glaring vacancy not even the darkness could hide. Coupled with the intense gloom of dejection lingering on your face and the desolation melting from your eyes, it wasn’t a hard mystery for him to solve.

Covering your face with your palms, you suddenly felt like a little girl again, hiding under the blankets and covering your eyes to hide from the villainous shadows that lurked in the corners of your room. You remember thinking that if you couldn’t see the phantoms, they couldn’t see you, and then they couldn’t hurt you.

That logic made sense in your head at the time. Before you learned that monsters are real, and they don’t go away when you hide behind your hands.

The sharp sound of clamorous repetitive knocking against your front door echoed through the quiet and caused you to jump with a noise of surprise. Glancing over at the clock on your microwave, your brows knit together in confusion as you read the glowing digital numbers.

10:31 pm.

A second round of impatient knocks had you slowly rising from your chair, tip-toeing around the corner towards your front door as noiselessly as you could, not wanting to alert anyone on the other side of your presence. Leaning up to peek through the peephole, the perplexity weaved between your brows only grew seeing two officers standing outside your door.

Despite the advice from your gut, curiosity got the better of you, and you unlocked the two locks in place, twisting the knob on the door to pull it open slowly.

“Can I help you?”

The first officer straightened up when you opened the door, placing his weathered hands on his belt as he eyed you up and down in a way that had discomfort blooming in your lower stomach.

“You Y/N Y/L/N?”

Glancing between the icy gray eyes of the first officer and the sharp aquamarine of the second, your grip on the door knob tightened slightly.

“I am. Who are you?”

The second officer folded his arms over his chest, peering right over your head like he was searching behind you for something, or someone.

“I’m Officer Walker, this is Officer Cavella. You uh, home alone?”

Something in your gut was setting off all the warning bells and alarms in your brain. The way Officer Walker tilted his head to the side with an ominous twinkle in his eyes, and the slight mocking tone you detected in his voice made you feel like he knew that answer already. Beside him, his partner was still attempting to scope out your place over your shoulders. An eerie feeling crept up your spine, and you pulled the door slightly shut, only leaving it open enough for your frame to fit through as you attempted to keep your voice calm and unaffected.

“I’m sorry, what’s this about?”

Officer Cavella chuckled lightly as his tongue poked at the inside of his cheek, taking a bold step forward and gesturing towards you with his hand, a large Cheshire grin on his thin lips.

“Don’t worry, princess. We’re here to keep you safe. Just gonna take a look around for any trouble. Wouldn’t want anything happening to you, now would we?”

The pet name he used made your skin crawl, and you detected that same artificial sympathy that had come from his predecessor. You felt like a lamb staring down two wolves with their fangs bared in sinister smiles.

“I…think there’s been some confusion. I already have protection-”

“Had protection. After that bomb fiasco yesterday, you’re not under Anvil’s wing anymore. Right?”

Officer Walker lifted his thick brows in question, a saccharine smirk on his lips, once again daring you to challenge the answers he already seemed to have.

How did he know that? Hadn’t Billy told you Homeland was keeping the details under wraps? That the attack was reported as an accident?

An icy sense of unease caused goosebumps to prickle along your skin. There was only one way either of them would know about the bombing yesterday, and it had your heart thrashing against your ribcage furiously.

“Mr. Russo arranged alternate protection for me already.”

“They running late or something?”

Officer Cavella quipped, cocking his head to the side in an imitation of concern. But the wild look in his piercing eyes gave away his real candor. He took another daring step forward, breaching the boundary of your personal space, and bared his teeth in a crooked grin.

“Tell you what, why don’t you let us take a look around while you wait for them to show up. We can keep you company. Wouldn’t be right to leave a scared girl all by herself-”

“I’m not scared.”

The harsh edge to your voice had the pleased smirks dropping from both their faces, and you could visibly see their patience running thin. Pursing your lips, you attempted to rain in your hazardous temper before it could spark a situation you couldn’t handle alone. Clearing your throat, you brushed a piece of your hair out of your face with your finger as you focused on keeping your voice at a civil decibel.

“Listen, I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine. I don’t need either of you. Have a good night.”

A thick boot wedged itself between the frame and the door, preventing you from shutting it, and your eyes widened slightly when Officer Cavella braced his palm against the door, exerting a show of strength in forcing it back, and you along with it.

“Sorry princess, but we got orders.”

Your lips parted slightly in surprise at the intrepid intrusion, but his words piqued your interest, and your eyes narrowed slightly as you stared up at him.

“Orders from who?”

Officer Walker took a step forward and placed his arm in front of his partner to halt his movements, flashing him a warning glance before flipping a charming smile onto his lips when he turned his attention back to you.

“You know, this will really go a lot smoother if you just cooperate and do what you’re told.”

That one sentence nearly paralyzed you with dread that spread throughout your entire nervous system, threatening to shut it down completely. A sobering thought flickered in your head that if you didn’t play this smart, these men might kill you, or worse. Glancing between them frantically, your mind fought through the cortisol pumping furiously through your bloodstream, and you quickly started to formulate a plan.

Both of these men were far larger than you, and you didn’t know any self defense. They were without a doubt faster than you, and even if you made a run for it with a headstart somehow, they would catch you. You couldn’t fight, and you couldn’t run, which only left you one option.

Do your job.

Treat this like any other investigation.

Play your role, get your answers.

Letting out a deep exhale through your nose, you forcefully swallowed your inner combative nature, slipping into a more appeasing version of yourself as you looked between them with a tired smile.

“Can we…start over? Today has been so hectic…and with everything going on, I’m just super on edge. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to take that out on either of you. I apologize. I…appreciate you looking out for me. Please, come in. Can I get either of you some coffee?”

The tension that had been lingering heavily in the space like a suffocating layer of smoke seemed to slowly disappear as the two men exchanged a glance in a secret language you couldn’t understand, turning to face you with their previous artificial smiles plastered on their thin lips.

“Coffee would be great.”

Officer Cavella had a sickly sweet tone to his voice, and the pleasure in his eyes from your submission turned your blood into molten lava, but you fought to keep your composure, reminding yourself that your life was potentially on the line.

On the way to the kitchen, you elusively swiped your phone and hid it behind your coffee machine, subtly pressing record on the voice memo app that was on your home screen. Once their coffees were done brewing and the machine was no longer making noise, you cleared your throat and began your interrogation.

“So, you guys must be pretty relieved huh?”

Officer Walker perked up at your words, the hand that was lifting the coffee mug to his mouth pausing in midair. He glanced at his partner curiously before looking back at you from his spot at your dining table.

“About what?”

You feigned confusion as you glanced between them with a light smile on your lips.

“The evidence that Homeland found? Mr. Russo said they found something in the bomb fragments. It’s a really good thing Mr. Price had already checked out of his hotel room. He got lucky.”

“Looks like that pretty boy doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. Wasn’t Price’s hotel room that got blown up. It was one of his escort vehicles.”

For someone that was completely giving himself away, Officer Cavella looked thoroughly pleased with himself. He seemed to be enjoying the opportunity to indirectly insult your intelligence, but he didn’t realize that by trying to prove his superiority to you, he was feeding you everything you needed to confirm your suspicions.

Conveying an expression of mock horror on your face, you braced one of your hands on the counter, placing the other dramatically over your mouth.

“I…I must have misheard him then. I-Oh my God, that’s…terrifying. I couldn’t imagine…knowing I was in danger like that.”

You pretended to shudder, leaning your back against the counter as you shook your head slowly and crossed your arms over your chest.

“Well, despite how it happened, I’m just glad they were able to pull those fingerprints from the fragments.”

“What?”

Officer Walker’s face was twisted up in puzzlement, but there was a specific emotion pooling in his eyes that caught your attention; fear.

“Yeah, I mean…they’re partials, but Mr. Russo said Homeland was pushing them through every database for a match. Didn’t they tell you that?”

Officer Cavella leaned over the dining table as he stared at you in almost a glare, his teeth bared more in a subtle snarl than a smile.

“Didn’t who tell us that?”

“Homeland. They sent you, right?”

Cocking your head to the side slightly, you attempted to feign innocence and perplexity.

“Russo sent us.”

Furrowing your brows slightly, you looked over at Officer Walker and let out a soft laugh with a shake of your head.

“He doesn’t have that authority. He only hires private contractors.”

“He put in a special request with our Captain.”

Officer Walker seemed to speak almost through gritted teeth, a light layer of warning laced through his quick reply to your incessant interrogation, but his patience was far more intact that his partner’s.

Officer Cavella was the one you could get to break, and you knew just how to get him to shatter.

Aim for his ego.

Letting out a soft hum in acknowledgment that you allowed to linger for a moment, you turned your attention to Officer Cavella, meeting his predatory gaze with an expression of indifference tied with a smile.

“You know, it actually makes sense that Homeland didn’t tell you. They don’t usually share information with anyone that doesn’t have the security clearance. I guess you boys aren’t high enough up the ladder.”

You could tell by the look in his eyes that your playful jest struck a nerve exactly as you had intended. The skin on his knuckles turned stark white from gripping so tightly onto the ceramic mug, and his jaw was clenched so hard, you thought he might crack his own mandible.

“I guarantee you we have more clearance than some gossip magazine writer.”

“Newspaper, actually. And investigative journalism, not gossip. You’d be surprised at the kind of clearance I have.”

Although you knew it wasn’t wise to inch closer towards a firecracker that was dangerously close to exploding, you were too fucking close to a lead that could expose these assholes; the first one that had been discovered in months. You couldn’t shy away now.

The fractures in Officer Cavella’s resolve were already starting to spread like an intricate labyrinth cracking through glass. You just needed to apply a little more pressure to get him to implode into guilty fragments.

Waving your hand dismissively in his direction, you glanced around your kitchen with a content sigh before facing him with an arrogant smile.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter who really sent you. They’ll have those full prints in just a few hours, and this whole thing will be over. Those cowards will finally go down, and I can’t fucking wait to cover the trial.”

There was an extra bite to your tone as you emphasized the word coward, and both of them instantly sat up straighter with squared shoulders. The neutral expression of innocence was still coveting your features like a mask, but the edges were steadily beginning to rip.

All at once there was a quick shift in the room and an unspoken aura of understanding between the three of you was swiftly forming over all of your heads like a raincloud. They suddenly seemed to sober up to the motion that you were playing them like pawns.

“There won’t be any prints.”

Officer Cavella seemed to be vibrating with anger, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw Officer Walker reach to his hip to place his hand over his gun. There was a very real chance that you were about to die, but it didn’t matter.

Because you would fucking win in the end.

You just needed one of them to make that last, foolish move across the chess board.

One final move to win the game.

“Why not?”

There was no reason to bother hiding behind a facade now. That mask of innocence had been ripped wide open, and even though your hands trembled with fear, your jaw was set in defiance. Your voice was firm and accusatory, daring him to prove his “superior” intelligence to you again. It was incredibly ironic he was being outsmarted by being so fucking stupid.

As you stared Officer Cavella down in a glaring challenge, you waited for that spark to reach the edge of his temper.

And the explosion was glorious.

“Because we don’t use our bare hands you stupid bitch. You think we’re that dumb, we wouldn’t use gloves?”

Checkmate.

Officer Walker slammed his fist down on the dining table in complete frustration towards his partner.

“God damnit Cavella, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Cavella rose from his chair so fast that he knocked it backwards, glaring between you and his partner as he pointed an angry finger towards you.

“You think I’m gonna let this whore talk to me like I’m fucking stupid-”

Walker stood to his full height quickly, shoving his own chair back as he got in his partner’s face and jabbed his finger into his chest.

“You are fucking stupid! You just sold us out because you can’t control your goddamn temper!”

Cavella shoved his hand away in frustration as he scoffed, gesturing towards you again.

“Whatever, we’re gonna kill the bitch anyway-”

“No. He wants her alive. If we bring her back with one scr-”

“Who?”

Both of them turned to face you as your voice rose in volume to cut above their bickering. There wasn’t a single cell in your body that wasn’t infected with anger, and you were struggling to contain your own rage.

“Who wants me alive? Who’s the fucking pussy behind the curtain leading the rest of you around?”

Cavella swiftly pulled the gun from the holster on his hip as he took a step towards you, cocking the hammer with his thumb while snarling at you.

“Keep running that fucking mouth of yours and you won’t get to solve that mystery, Nancy Drew.”

As you went to retaliate, you noticed a shadow flash past the window in your kitchen, and your brows knit together in confusion. You were too pissed off to even be afraid as you glanced between Cavella and Walker.

“Who’s outside?”

Walker instantly stilled his advance at your words, his grip tightening on the handle of his gun that was still tucked into his holster while looking over at you in skepticism.

“What?”

“I just saw someone outside. Is that your fearless fucking leader? You gonna show your face like a man?! Or hide in the dark like a fucking p-“

Walker tugged you backwards roughly by your arm when you went to storm towards the window, clamping his hand tightly over your mouth to cut off your furious yells. His icy gray eyes were wide with apprehension as he hissed.

“Shut up. No one is with us.”

Glancing over at his partner, he silently motioned with his head towards him to go investigate. Cavella slowly began to approach the window with his gun in his hands, loosely aimed at whatever target he was about to discover.

All of a sudden the sound of shattering glass pierced the silence, and your eyes widened seeing a metal canister rolling against the tiled floor of your kitchen. It exploded into a thick fog of ivory smoke that steadily began to fill the small space. Cavella began firing blindly through the gaping hole in your window, and you took the opportunity to run while Walker was distracted and yelling at his partner.

You could hear Walker’s heavy footsteps pounding on the floor behind you, yelling your name, and you screamed when a bullet whizzed by your head and punched through the drywall in front of you.

The second you reached your bathroom, you attempted to slam the door shut, but Walker caught the spine of your door and wedged it open with his hand. Turning around, you forced all your body weight back against it, struggling against his dominant strength. Glancing around in a frenzy, you reached your foot out towards the counter of the sink in front of you, and with a surge of adrenaline, you let out a feral scream as you shoved both of your feet forward against the sink to give you momentum against the door. A satisfying crunch sounded in your ears as Walker howled in pain and retracted his broken hand, causing the door to finally slam shut behind you. You swiftly twisted the lock into place on the door before backing away.

The sound of bullets raining down in rapid succession had you covering your ears and squeezing your eyes shut as you attempted to breathe. Your lungs burned from running as fast as you ever had in your life, and with anxiety overflowing in your bloodstream, you were on the brink of hyperventilation.

“Who the fuck are y-”

Bang bang.

The echo of two bullets cracking through a skull you could only assume belonged to Walker had your breath hitching in your throat. Muffled through the sound of your own labored breathing, you could hear his body drop to the floor just a few feet away from the door with a heavy thud. Your eyes went wide with terror as the thundering roar of heavy footsteps began to slowly strike closer and closer outside the door.

No.

This isn’t how this ends.

This is not it.

Eyes frantically darting around your bathroom for something to use as a weapon, they landed on the horrified reflection of your own face. There was a small cut above your eyebrow from where a shard of glass had nicked you that was actively bleeding. Your pupils were completely blown wide open with hysteria, and your waterline was shimmering with unshed tears. You hadn’t seen yourself look this small and broken since you were a child.

Without thinking, you smashed your fist against the glass, sending hazardous shards falling into pieces in the sink like shiny raindrops. Grabbing the biggest one, you didn’t even flinch when it sliced deeply into the meat of your palm, and you only sent the jagged edge further into your skin as you clamped your fingers around it tightly, slicing them in the process. Your brain barely registered the warm, wet feeling of blood starting to cascade from the wounds on your hand, dripping onto the floor below you steadily like a leaky faucet.

Staring at the door in front of you in complete terror, you held the makeshift weapon out in front of yourself. The way the lights above you caught the reflection of the glass everytime it shook in your hand caused spheres of white to dance along the bathroom walls, as if there were a mirrorball on the ceiling.

As soon as the threatening shadow appeared right underneath the door, you willed the last shard of strength in your body to take over.

“Stay the fuck back! I have a gun, and I swear to God I will shoot you!”

Panic trembled in your voice almost as much as it did in your hands. On the other side of the door you heard a faint rustling noise, and then there was a gentle tapping of knuckles quietly knocking against the wood, accompanied by a voice you would recognize anywhere.

“Sweetheart?”

tags: @twoshields @day-dreaming-goddess @messymissy @itwasthereaminuteago @strawberry1042 @queenofthenoobs @wanda2themax @xcastawayherosx @ferns-fics @stevenknightmarc @ponyosmom35 @babygal-babygal @wellwwhynot @oldermenaremyreligion @combustiblemeow @tired-night-owl @fairykiss32 @danzer8705 @calkissed @fxckahs-blog @lemon-world1 @yeah3459 @collaps3r @polskiperson @imperihoe @v4leoftears @harperdoodle @spideyvibez @joalslibrary

#frank castle #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #frank castle x reader #frank castle x female reader #frank castle x fem!reader #frank castle x f!reader #frank castle fic #frank castle series #the bodyguard series #bodyguard!frank castle fic #bodyguard!frank castle series #bodyguard!frank castle x reader #the punisher #the punisher fic #the punisher series

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mostlymarvelgirl · 1 year ago

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Imagine If Magneto's *Private Moment* With You Was Released Into The Internet (Fem! Reader)

WARNING: MATURE CONTENT IG?

Erik sighed. This wasn't supposed to happen at all. On one hand, he really didn't mind, knowing that at some point, this would happen due to his fame in mutant politics, but on the other hand he didn't want you to be shown to the entire world like this in a private scenario.

The things you would have to face in public, what you would have to go through. While being deep in thought about how to deal with the scenario, a door with you running inside crying angrily. The door was slammed closed.

"Did you know? Did you know that someone motherfucking asshole recorded us having sex and released it? It's apparently the hottest sextape released in the century.', you screamed at him as if you were accusing him.

He felt guilty. Of course, he would never show that, but he ended up with a comment catastrophic enough to ruin the rest of his personal life. Not that he meant what he said, but clearly not thinking through.

"Well, I warned you not to try anything new and kinky. You should've listened.", Erik said immediately, regretting what came out of his mouth.

"What?", your voice became small, not being able to believe what he said.

Before he could apologize and explain, and your anger clouded mind lost patience, the ring from your was thrown into the sink, and you turned your heels walked out the door.

****3 Months Later****

"As we recall the recent steamiest s*xtape of magneto and his wife released into internet which gained over 3.8 billion views has been deleted by the cyber crime from all platforms. The culprits had been caught but died in an accident. Was it planned by Magneto? Or was it just an accident? I'm Sarah Moon reporting in six o clock evening news and I'll see you tomorrow."

The TV was switched off.

Y/N sighed. She knew who killed them and knew Erik wouldn't be arrested. She should've known that Erik was not good expressing and should've seen the expression. She regretted throwing the ring he made for her. She regretted what she had done.

"Regretting some past actions, I suppose?", the sarcastic voice spoke up.

Of course, it would Charles Xavier showing up behind her. That annoying British accent.

"For the record, my accent once wooed your husband to my bedroom, so I would take it as a jealousy or compliment coming from you.", Charles replied while sticking his hair back.

"What do you want?", you ask him with annoyance. You didn't want to aggravate your guilt more than it already was.

Charles smiled. That bitch. You knew, well, everyone knew, if they were in trouble and needed to solve the problem quickly, Charles would do the *smile*, and it'll be like it never happened.

"You're not wiping the entire world's memory about this, that's damn near impossible and dangerous.", you replied to his reaction.

"Well, it is for the better. Think about it. Or well, I should say actually, discuss about it.", Charles wheeled back slowly and opened the door.

"What are you-", you were cut off with Erik standing outside the door soaking wet with...............blood.

Silence.

There was no sound. All, the both of you wanted to do was to reach to one another and cry, Apologize, and comfort, but, the ego and guilt in both of you prevented all the bottled emotions and feelings of 3 months.

"Well, I will be leaving and give the both of you sone privacy. I'll be waiting right outside. Let me know when you've decided.", Charles said while wheeling out and closed the door.

"Hi."

That was it to pull the trigger inside you.

"WHAT THE FUCK YOU MEAN BY SAYING HI???!!! YOU COCK-SUCKING, TWAT-WAFFLED SON OF A MOTHERFUCKING BITCH-ASS- HATTED CUNT! YOU'RE FUCKING KILLING AGAIN???!!! HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED CLEAN THIS MESS UP?!!!", you blasted at him.

"Listen i-", Erik was cut off.

"NO. YOU LISTEN, YOU LITTLE DICK! I DON'T FUCKING CARE ABOUT THE TAPE. OKAY?!", you stated before he could ask.

You started to tear up and your voice broke and became small and vulnerable.

"I don't want you to kill around people. We could've done this together. I don't care what other say about me. Please j-just stop.", you started to cry.

Erik walked near you and hugged you tightly as you hugged him back.

He apologized to you and held you. You felt a something slip in your ring finger. You smiled and cried more realizing how horrible you must have looked.

"Y'know, you smell really bad like some old metal furniture. You need to get showered.", you pushed him away for fun.

"We could shower toge-", Erik got cut off.

"NO. Absolutely not.", you stated while laughing.

#erik lehnsherr x reader #magneto x reader #erik lehnsherr smut #erik lehnsherr #xmen #xmen x reader #marvel pov #charles xavier #erik lensherr x charles xavier #charles xavier x reader #erik lensherr imagine #professor x #x men fanfiction #magneto #x men mcu

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mikavlcs · 2 years ago

Text

Purity Weeps

Pairing: Ghostface!Tara Carpenter x fem!reader

Summary: You don’t talk about home very often and Tara finds out why.

Warnings: violence, gore, murder, domestic abuse, manipulation, tara is a terrible person, bad parents, repeated words and phrases

Word count: 7.7k (god...)

Notes: this is a request, i changed it up a bit so it could fit with the first part but the general gist is there. i also wrote like half of this with food poisoning so sorry in advance...

Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 3

One thing Tara noticed about you was that you never talked about home.

You had no problem talking about yourself—your various likes and dislikes were something Tara had memorized within weeks of your arrival to Woodsboro—but you never talked about your family.

She only knew the most basic details. You lived with your parents. You had no siblings despite your longing for one. Your house was exactly six and a half blocks away from hers. And recently, you told her that your parents were getting divorced, something you seemed almost relieved about.

That was it. Even her knowledge about your parents was equivocal.

Your mother she’d met a handful of times when she picked you up from school before Tara designated herself your personal chauffeur. A polite woman, if a bit aloof. Never quite meeting Tara’s eyes when she talked, but she liked her well enough.

Your father, on the other hand, remained an enigma to her.

The only time she’d ever seen him was on your first day off school when he dropped you off. In the time since, he hadn’t been present for any school events with you and your mother. Not even a picture. He remained but a silhouette in her memory, and that made the situation all the eerier to her.

And you barely spoke a word about him either, only bringing him up when it was getting late, and you wanted Tara to take you home.

“My dad wants me home by eight,” you’d say and when Tara hesitated, wanting more time alone with you, you would follow it up with a quiet, “Please, Tara, I can’t be late.”

No matter how Tara felt about you having to leave, the tremble in your voice would have her grabbing her keys within seconds.

She always saw the way you shuffled in your seat when you were cutting it just a bit too close, sending anxious glances toward the clock.

There were even times, back when Tara wasn’t taking the situation quite as seriously as she should have been, when you would get out of the car without a goodbye, practically running into your house.

It angered Tara initially, that you had such strict rules being placed on you that were visibly afraid to break them, but with time that anger gave way to concern.

Your overly timid mannerisms when she brought up your family, the tight leash your father had on you, the anxiousness on display when you tugged a little too hard on that leash—it all painted a rather grim picture.

Her concern hit its peak when, after being together for a few months and friends for even longer, Tara realized that she had never been inside your house. She had seen the outside of it countless times when she picked you up and dropped you off throughout the week, but she had never seen the interior.

Why that specific revelation unsettled her so much, she wasn’t sure but it stuck with her.

Tara was used to being able to see her enemies. Amber, Daniel, Rowan, and Jason were all people she knew, people she saw eyeing you in a way they shouldn’t have been, touching you when you weren’t theirs.

Your father was something different. A man she had never once met or seen. Someone she was almost sure was hurting you in some way but without proof, she wasn’t able to confidently act.

This wasn’t a problem she could just stab to death. At least, not without having potentially catastrophic effects on you and your mental health.

So she was going to try something different. She began making plans but every idea she came up with ended up being scrapped. Nothing she came up with felt right.

Tara did not at all care for rules and boundaries. Made up guidelines that served no purpose other than to irritate her. Imaginary lines in the sand that were made to be crossed. She permanently left those behind the moment she donned the Ghostface mase. But when it came to you, she took them very seriously.

The thought of breaking your heart and trust is what made her once again adhere to the made-up rules, what kept her feet firmly planted on the right side of the line in the sand.

It’s what kept her from breaking into your house and surveilling you and your family. What held her back from slitting the elusive man’s throat with no remorse. She couldn’t stand the thought of hurting you or driving you away from her.

But the idea of doing nothing didn’t sit well with her either.

Other, non-violent plans took form. She tried to be more direct, asking you about your father, what he was like, how close the two of you were.

You didn’t shy away from her questions but the answers you gave were always vague. Just enough to qualify as an answer, but not enough to give Tara any real information to work with.

When she realized she wasn’t getting results, she pivoted and decided to put more emphasis on being supportive. Reiterating how she would always be there for you and that if needed, you could tell her anything.

But no matter what she did, the curfew never budged and your avoidant attitude about your home life never changed. It was starting to get to Tara.

She wanted to believe that you trusted her enough to tell her if something was going on at home. But at the same time, if her suspicions were correct, there was much more to it than simply trust.

Sam would likely tell her to call the police, and that might be an option Tara considered if she had a modicum of trust in the Woodsboro police force to handle the situation correctly. But she didn’t. Law enforcement in Woodsboro had become a joke ever since Dewey stepped down as sheriff.

And she knew that if this situation didn’t get handled correctly, then whatever possible abuse you were enduring would get worse in the aftermath.

For the first time in her life, Tara was stuck. She had no idea what to do.

She was frozen in place, stuck in an endless loop of watching and waiting. Watching and waiting. Watching and waiting.

It was maddening.

Part of her, Ghostface she supposed, wanted to just gut him and get it over with. Like she’d done to everyone else that had been in this position. But if she was wrong,

So she was stuck. Suspended in time and space, unable to do anything but her set routine.

Watch and wait.

Until something, or someone, broke the cycle.

Today wasn’t a great day for Tara.

It started it off well enough. You stayed glued to her side all day, your attention completely on her just as she liked it. She didn’t catch anyone staring at you or trying to talk to you.

Hell, not even Wes tried to bug you throughout the day like he usually did.

It really was going so well.

But then at the last second, you canceled your usual Friday movie date with Tara, citing an urgent family issue. She had driven you home after school without complaint because she knew it wasn’t your fault, and you looked just as upset about it as she did, but she was still bitter.

She needed her time alone with you. You were an addiction that she could hardly keep at bay. Withdrawal symptoms began to set in before you were even gone.

Those symptoms were raging within her now, hours later. It was somewhere around midnight. Sam left only a few hours prior because she liked working night shifts for some reason, so Tara took the opportunity to have another Stab marathon.

She was about halfway through Stab 2 and debating whether or not to just call it a night. It wasn’t like she wasn’t enjoying it—Stab movies never got old to Tara, but the fact that you were supposed to be there with her taunted her, sucking the excitement out of her.

At some point near the third act, she allowed her thoughts to stay on you, disregarding the film entirely.

Lately, she hadn’t been able to spend too much time alone with you after school. The newly finalized divorce was your ongoing reasoning. Your father was moving out and you were helping him pack his things.

You seemed both relieved and conflicted but Tara, of course, was overjoyed about this development. The cycle she was in was being broken without her needing to intervene. Soon, both you and her would be free of this.

And once he was gone, you could spend as much time with Tara as you wanted. That was something she needed to constantly remind herself of when you canceled plans because she missed you.

Hopefully whatever issues you were dealing with (having something to do with your father, no doubt) didn’t take all weekend.

If it did, this would be one of the first weekends you spent without her since Amber’s untimely death. And if she missed you now, she couldn’t imagine how much worse it would get over the coming days.

Her rambling thoughts were interrupted by your familiar ringtone.

She hurried to pick up her phone. Maybe she had caught a break. Maybe your family issue wasn’t urgent after all.

She brought the phone up to her ear and answered with her usual, “Hey, baby.”

But instead of being greeted by your sweet “hellos” or melodic laughter, she was met with what sounded like frantic sobbing.

Immediately, Tara was on her feet, searching for her keys while she tried to figure out what was happening.

“What’s going on? Are you hurt?!”

You tried to blubber out an answer, but it wasn’t anything she could remotely begin to decipher. Snatching her keys off the kitchen counter, she tried to ask again. “Take a deep breath. Can you repeat that for me?”

She heard you take in and release a shaky breath. “T-Tara, I…i-it’s my dad, he’s…” More cries echoed from the phone speakers, urging Tara to move faster. “Please, I don’t-I didn’t mean to.”

That set off alarm bells in Tara’s head. What did you mean?

“Just stay on the phone with me, ok? Don’t hang up. I’m on my way,” she hurried out as she stepped into her shoes, not even bothering to tie the laces. She was out the door and in the car in seconds, her raw panic nearly driving her to hysteria.

The call dropped as she backed out of her driveway, cutting you off mid-sentence. Tara’s heart stopped and only restarted when she noticed that her phone was dead. She took her own advice and took a deep breath.

She needed to get to you. Now.

Tara made it to your house in record time. She left her keys in the ignition, barely remembering to close the car door before she was running up to the door, grabbing the spare key she knew your mother kept under the potted plant by the doormat, and unlocking it.

The moment she stepped inside she froze.

Whatever she was expecting paled in the face of what she was met with on the other side of your door.

A man, presumably your father, lay limp on the floor. The back of his skull was caved in against the edge of the glass coffee table in front of the couch, staining the table and the carpet beneath it an achingly familiar shade of crimson.

After getting over the shock, Tara’s eyes were drawn to you standing a few feet away, looking unsteady on your feet.

Shamefully, her first thought was how amazing you looked with someone else’s blood on you. A depraved part of her was excited by the sight.

But that excitement was quickly drowned out by her concern at your state. To put it simply, you looked forlorn. Tears cascaded down your face in seemingly endless waves. Your eyes were flitting between your father’s body and your blood-stained hands, breaths coming in short, panicked bursts. You were shaking so vigorously that Tara was afraid your legs would give out, finally prompting her to move.

Slowly, Tara stepped inside and softly closed the door behind her. The sound of it, though quiet, still made you flinch. Your head turned, and once your eyes met hers, she saw some awareness creep back in.

“T-Tara,” you sputtered. She smiled sweetly and cautiously approached you, putting her body between you and your father’s corpse.

From this close, she could see the beginnings of large bruises blooming across your neck and upon closer inspection, she saw how heavily the outlines of the darkening marks resembled fingers.

Red clouded Tara’s vision. The familiar burn of her rage rose within her, but she forced her voice to be soft and soothing. The last thing you needed right now was her anger.

“Hi, sweetheart. Can you tell me what happened?”

“He-he tried to…” Your words broke off into choked sobs. But you didn’t need to finish. The bruises on your neck told her everything she needed to know.

“He-I wanted him off. So I pushed him and h-he…He tripped and…” You trailed off, eyes refocusing on the body over her shoulder. She saw the anguish rising and put a stop to it.

“Hey, no. Don’t look at that.” She brought you into her arms, guiding your face to her neck. You nestled into her instantly, clutching onto her like a lifeline as you wept once more. The blood on your hands was staining her shirt, something she took note of while she wrapped her arms around you.

Tara held you close, softly running one hand up and down your back while the other held your head. On the outside, she made sure she appeared calm and comforting, but on the inside, she was anything but.

Pure, unadulterated fury surged through her. Usually, Tara loved being proven right, loved the satisfaction and vindication that came with it. But this time she could feel nothing but malignancy because he tried to strangle you.

And the fact that you had to be the one to kill him deeply infuriated her.

A death at the hands of an angel was far, far better than he ever deserved.

She wished his heart would somehow restart, just so she could have the pleasure of making his last breath as painful as it should have been.

Better yet, she wished she could have gotten to him before he laid his hands on you.

Tara allowed herself, briefly, to daydream about what she would’ve done. A man like that didn’t even deserve the time it took to plan an intricate murder, so she would have kept it simple. Slow, excruciating exsanguination. Death by a thousand torturously shallow cuts as she forced him to keep his eyes open, so the tears could flow unimpeded. So she could watch the life slowly drain from his eyes.

So she could see the terror on his face when, instead of an angel, he spent his last fleeting moments staring into the eyes of the devil.

Your voice broke her out of her fantasies.

“What am I gonna do, Tara?” you sobbed into her neck. “I-I…he’s dead. And I did that.”

Tara hugged you closer and let you cry for a few minutes. It was painful to listen to, but she needed to put her focus on formulating a plan. Plus, it was probably good for you to let it out anyways.

While you wept, Tara took stock of the situation.

There was one body. Cause of death was a fatal head wound which meant there was lots of blood to clean. Luckily, you had a carpet to soak it up. A quick glance told her that nothing else appeared to have any blood splatter, significantly lessening the amount of cleaning she would need to do.

But even with all that in mind, she still had to find a way to get rid of the body. And that would be a tall task to undertake on her own.

There was also the matter of your mother’s whereabouts. Her car was in the driveway. Tara’s car was parked right beside it, so she had to be around here somewhere.

She decided to concentrate on locating her first. Both to make sure she wasn’t informing anyone else about the situation and because, as much as Tara hated to admit it, she would need help with disposing of the body in a timely manner.

Your father could wait a bit. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere anytime soon anyways.

With her mind made up, Tara gently pulled you back and cradled your face between your hands. “Do you know where your mother is, sweetheart?”

You blinked then looked away, biting your lip in concentration as you thought about the question. A smile pulled at Tara’s lips at the sight. Even now, you managed to be cute. You looked back a moment later, shaking your head shamefully. Tara just gave you an encouraging smile.

“That’s ok. I’ll find her,” she assured, wiping your tears with her thumbs.

You sniffed. “You will?”

“Yeah.” She looked around, eyes landing on the couch. Gently, she brought you to the back of it, guiding you to sit with your back against it. “Wait here for me. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

A nod, and you were burying your face in your knees, your shoulders starting to shake again. Tara wanted to comfort you but there was work that needed to be done, so she set her mind to the task at hand and began her search.

It didn’t take very long.

She found your mother in the kitchen, only a room over from where you were. The woman was curled into a ball by the stove, blank eyes staring out into space.

Tara’s brows shot up. Had she been there the entire time?

“Hey,” she called out, staying a healthy distance away.

No reaction. Tara sighed, looked at the clock on the stove.

12:17 a.m.

There was no time for this. Tara knelt down before the woman, getting directly in her line of sight. That worked and her gaze slowly drifted to Tara’s.

“Are you hearing me?” she asked.

Her inquiry was met with a languid nod. Good, Tara thought. She decided to ask her most pressing question next.

“Did you call anyone?”

Sluggishly, the woman shook her head. Tara let out a silent sigh of relief. Not having to worry about police made this a bit easier, but getting rid of a body on such short notice was still going to be a challenge.

“You were in here the entire time?” She couldn’t resist asking, needing to know if your own mother just sat by and listened while you were being attacked.

She averted her eyes away from Tara’s, choosing not to respond. But the silence itself was an answer, and not one that Tara liked. Her muscles tensed instinctively, fingers curling into fists, but she forced herself to relax.

After a breath, she asked, “Are you hurt?”

Another silent shake of her head and Tara had enough of this conversation.

“Then you are going to get up and help me help your daughter. Do you understand?” she gritted out, colder than she probably should have been.

For a long moment, your mother said nothing. The silence made Tara’s jaw clench painfully. Eventually, she gave another painstakingly slow nod, but the tension within Tara still remained.

Realistically, she knew your mother wasn’t entirely to blame for this situation, likely being a victim herself, but she had knowingly allowed you to get hurt. And there was no forgiveness for that. Not for Tara.

Still, she needed the woman’s help right now if she wanted everything taken care of in a timely manner, so she relaxed her jaw and scrubbed away the impatience in her tone.

“Good. Stay here, I need to take care of something real quick.”

Tara was striding out of the room before she had the chance to respond. Rounding the couch, she found you again. You had your knees pressed to your chest, mirroring your mother’s position.

With a sweet smile, she crouched down in front of you.

“Hey, I found your mom.”

Your eyes widened. “Is she ok?”

“Yeah, she’s fine,” she affirmed, bringing a hand up to your shoulder. “I need you to listen to me carefully, ok?”

“Ok,” you mumbled.

“Go upstairs and take a shower. Put these clothes in a plastic bag and leave the bag in the bathroom. Then you can go lay down in your bed and rest. I’ll come up when I’m finished.”

“What are you gonna do?” You sounded scared, she wanted to alleviate that fear.

“Your mom and I are going to take care of your dad.”

You still looked hesitant. Tara brought her hand up to trace your jaw, stared deep into your eyes. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you answered immediately, making Tara smile.

“Then I need you to do as I say right now. Everything is going to be ok.”

“Promise?” you whispered. Your red eyes and quivering form made for a truly heartbreaking sight. One that Tara hoped she would never have to see again.

With a tender smile, she said, “Yeah, baby, I promise.”

She planted a kiss on your forehead then pulled you to your feet. You lingered for a fleeting moment before following Tara’s orders and heading up to the bathroom. Once Tara heard your footsteps upstairs, she went back to the kitchen.

Your mother was exactly where Tara left her. The smaller girl barely spared her a glance as she spoke.

“Alright, I’m going to need you to gather some things for me.”

Finally, she spoke up for the first time, feeble and low. “You have a…plan?”

At the question, the younger girl paused. She definitely didn’t, but she needed to come up with something, and quickly. She began brainstorming.

She had neither the time nor the tools to try the more elaborate methods of disposal that she’d seen in movies over the years. Things like cutting the body up and hiding the pieces, or melting the body with chemicals were off the table.

So she went with the easiest, least time-consuming plan that came to mind.

Turning, she said, “I need the largest bag you have, a shovel, a sheet, a hat, a bandana, a shirt, a pair of gloves, and your car keys.”

Your mother’s brows raised in disbelief. “My car keys?”

“Yes,” Tara answered, an equal amount of disbelief in her tone. There was no way she was going to potentially get your father’s DNA in her car. She wasn’t stupid. “Do you need me to write all of that down for you?”

She stared at Tara with that disconcerting look again before shaking her head and leaving to gather the items Tara asked for. While she was gone, Tara ventured to the kitchen, searching all of the cabinets until she found plastic wrap.

Returning to the body, Tara lifted your dad’s head off the carpet, careful to get as little blood on her as possible, and began wrapping the plastic around it. Layer after layer of plastic wrap was wound around his head as tightly as Tara could make it, using the entire roll to be safe.

She was just finishing up when your mother returned, the various things Tara requested in her arms. All but the shovel, Tara noticed. A large duffel bag was set down beside her, and Tara glanced up just in time to see her still.

“What are you doing?” she asked, eyeing Tara with a queasy look. Tara’s fist clenched. She hated being interrupted while working.

“I’m wrapping his head so his brains don’t leak out inside of your car,” she explained flatly, shifting briefly to give the woman an annoyed look. “Unless you want that in your trunk?”

She paled, shaking her head vigorously. Her complexion was looking a bit green by the time she regained her train of thought. “The uh, t-the shovel is in the basement.”

Tara blinked. “Then go get it.”

A hurried nod and your mother was practically running to the basement. Tara rolled her eyes.

She took a long look at the bag beside her. It was a bit smaller than she would’ve liked, but it could work with the right positioning.

Taking advantage of your mother’s absence, Tara stripped her bloodied shirt off and shrugged the new one on. It was a simple t-shirt, solid black thankfully with no designs. Perfect for what she was going to be doing.

She dropped the bloodied shirt onto the carpet so it could be disposed of along with it and began unfolding the sheet on the floor next to your father. Very carefully, she rolled him over onto the sheet then did it again and again until he was completely wrapped inside of it like a burrito.

Once he was fully wrapped, she slid the hat over her head, tucking her hair up into it, and tied the bandana over the bottom half of her face.

Just as she was slipping the gloves on, footsteps sounded from the basement stairs and her accomplice appeared at the top of the steps, shovel in hand.

“Put that by the door, I need your help with this,” Tara gestured to the wrapped corpse.

Her eyes widened, noticeably avoiding looking at the body Tara was referring to.

“Y-you want me to help with…that?”

Tara bit back the scathing retort on her tongue and took on a pleading tone instead.

“Yes. Please,” she tried, “I can’t lift him into the bag by myself.”

Conflict flashed in her eyes. She swallowed roughly, still unmoving. Tara was about to give up and try putting him in by herself when she finally moved to where the smaller girl was.

Tara opened the duffel bag, and with some initial struggle, they maneuvered him onto his side, pushing his knees to his chest so he could just fit inside. It was a tighter fit than anticipated but they made it work.

Together, they lifted the bag and walked it to the car, placing it in the trunk alongside the shovel. Tara grabbed your mother’s arm before she could go back inside.

“Listen,” she spoke lowly, “while I’m gone, you’re gonna roll up the carpet and burn it in the firepit out back. Get the clothes from the bathroom and burn them as well. If there’s anything else that got blood or DNA on it, then throw that in too. Understand?”

A timid nod was the only response she got from the woman before she walked back toward the house.

“Oh, and clean the table too,” Tara called out as she reached for her own keys in her pocket and popped the trunk.

She was suddenly very thankful that she kept her platforms in her trunk for… spontaneous occasions.

With a practiced ease, she tied the shoes on and unlocked your mother’s car, quietly slipping into the driver’s seat. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel and she found that her body was more tense than usual.

The next part of the plan relied entirely on luck, something Tara didn’t particularly like. But she had no choice.

Turning the key in the ignition, Tara pulled out of your driveway and began the drive across town.

Woodsboro was a sleepy little town. Very few were out and about after 10 p.m. and even less were out now, well after midnight. But still, she needed to be as careful as possible.

She drove slow, headlights off, taking as many backroads as possible to avoid any cameras and the sightlines of any major streets or apartment buildings in case anyone was awake and watching.

After about twenty minutes of driving, Tara pulled into one of the two cemeteries in Woodsboro. A slow ten-minute circuit around the place told her that there was nothing of use there. It disheartened her a bit, but she couldn’t give up, so she set off to her next destination.

Thankfully, luck seemed to be on her side because a few minutes into her drive around the second cemetery, she found exactly what she was looking for.

A freshly dug grave.

It had been a real gamble. But considering most funerals were held on Saturday’s and it was a Friday night (or early Saturday morning, now), there was a chance she would find one.

Tara quickly got out and opened the trunk. She grabbed the shovel with one hand and the bag with the other, almost falling over as she tried to lift it out of the car.

Very quickly, she gave up trying to carry the duffel bag and settled for pulling it along by the bag strap with both hands.

“Heavy sack of shit,” she mumbled as she dragged the bag across the grass.

She lugged him over, grumbling, and set him down by the hole. Tara noted the dirt piled around the dug out grave. At least she wouldn’t need to worry about making a mess.

When she checked the time before getting out of the car it was already 12:47.

She had to get this done so she could get back to your house. Back to you.

With a sigh, Tara grabbed the shovel, jumped into the grave, and got to work.

Digging was an arduous process. Aside from how taxing it was on the arms, Tara had no real way of knowing how far down she was digging, so she had to just trust her instincts. She only stopped when she confidently estimated she had dug around two feet down.

Getting back out was a challenge even with platforms on to accentuate her height. Being short was a curse, Tara was convinced. But after a few attempts (and a lot of embarrassment) she managed to haul herself out with the shovel in tow.

Once back on her feet, Tara roughly kicked the duffel bag into the hole and started covering it with dirt.

Trying to gauge how much dirt she was putting in while also attempting to make it perfectly even to not arouse suspicion was difficult with the limited moonlight. She could have used her phone flashlight, but she wasn’t trying to draw any unnecessary attention to herself, so she made it work.

By the time she stumbled back to the car, threw the shovel back in the trunk, and collapsed into the driver’s seat, Tara was exhausted.

Her arms ached with a fierceness and she didn’t even want to think about how they would feel when she woke up in the morning. She sighed.

Why did breaking the law have to be so much goddamn work?

A glance at the clock told her it was 1:56 A.M.

You had probably long since finished your shower by now. She pushed her fatigue aside and got back on the road.

The knowledge that you were waiting for her made her want to slam her foot down on the pedal, but she held back. This was the home stretch, getting caught now would potentially ruin everything.

Tara let out a sigh of relief when she pulled into your driveway. She turned the car off and took the shovel out the trunk, the thought of every step bringing her closer to you driving her forward.

As she stepped inside, she set the shovel by the door and instantly spotted your mother, cleaning the blood off the glass table just as Tara asked. She was also pleasantly surprised to see that the carpet that formerly resided under the table was missing.

It seemed that the feeble woman actually was good for something.

“How is she?” Tara asked while taking the hat and bandana off. Silence followed. Tara threw the garments onto the couch and looked to your mother, who had stopped scrubbing to stare at the floor.

Tara blinked. Hard. Her eyebrows shot up.

“Have you not gone to check on her?” She couldn’t bother to keep her incredulousness in check.

Again, the room lapsed into silence as the older woman kept her head down. Tara couldn’t believe what she was hearing—or rather what she was not hearing.

After sitting by while your own father—her ex-husband was trying to kill you, she couldn’t even be bothered to check in on you. “Angry” didn’t even begin to cover how Tara felt at the flagrant display of cowardice.

She couldn’t help but wonder, was this even the first time something like this happened while your mother hid instead of intervening? Was this the first time she refused to look at you because of her own shame or selfishness or both?

Enough was enough, she decided.

“She’s staying with me.”

That got your mother’s attention. She shot to her feet; eyes trained directly on Tara’s for the first time since she stepped back into the house.

“She absolutely isn’t. Why would you think that?”

“I think it’d be better if she’s away from this house for a while,” Tara gritted out, patience running thin.

“There is still a killer on the loose in this town. I won’t let you take my daughter somewhere where I won’t know if she’s safe or not.”

Indignation burned bright and hot in Tara’s veins. Her lips curled into a distorted smile.

“And you think she’ll be safer here? With you?” she spat, enjoying the way your mother’s eyes widened. “You couldn’t even protect her from your own husband, do you really think you could protect her from a vicious murderer?”

The woman blanched and inched back, but Tara didn’t stop, taking a step into her space as she continued.

“Even tonight, as your husband tried to kill her, what did you do? Did you try to stop him? Or did you cower in the kitchen like you were when I came?”

Tara waited for an answer. None came. She persisted.

“That’s right, you did nothing. You didn’t try to stop him; you didn’t try to save your own child. Hell, you didn’t even try to call the police. Your daughter had to call me for help after he died because you were being too useless to even stand up.”

Your mother had gone completely still, a slight tremble setting in. She was close to crumbling, Tara knew. One more solid push should do it. So Tara leaned in real close, eyes dark, voice but a whisper.

“You couldn’t protect her all these years. What makes you think you can now?”

As predicted, that did it. Tara watched her shatter in one swift motion.

Tears pooled and spilled over as all of the blood drained from her face. The tremble in her limbs became a violent shake, sending her to her knees with a gargled whimper.

Tara just stood, watching the display with distaste. Languidly, she knelt down before your mother and caught her teary gaze.

“If anyone asks where your ex-husband is, you tell them that he moved out west and cut contact with you. Use the divorce as an excuse,” she instructed slowly. Eyes darkening further, Tara leaned forward, dropping her voice. “You will not speak a word about what happened here tonight to anyone. Your daughter will be staying with me until she’s able to feel safe in her own home again. Do you understand?”

It was a statement more than it was a question, the finality in her tone leaving no room for argument. There was only one acceptable answer for Tara. And it seemed that she understood that. Lips trembling, she gave Tara a shaky nod, making the smaller girl smile.

Satisfied, Tara stood, intending on collecting you and leaving, but your mother apparently wasn’t finished annoying her.

“P-please, please tell her that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” she gasped out between miserable sobs, weakly grabbing Tara’s hand.

Tara’s lips curled with disgust. Even now, after everything that had happened, your own mother couldn’t give you the apology you deserved to your face.

How pathetic.

Snatching her hand from the woman’s frail grasp, she began making her way upstairs, letting the pitiful cries fade with distance.

Tara entered the upstairs hallway, scanning it quickly. There were four doors that branched from the hall. The one all the way at the end was partially open. She made her way to it, taking a peek inside the bathroom along the way, pleased to see that the bag you presumably left on the floor was indeed gone.

At least your mother was good at following orders.

Pushing the door open wider, she was greeted by the unfamiliar sight of your room. It was a surprisingly sparse room for someone with so much personality. If Tara didn’t know any better, she wouldn’t have even guessed it was yours.

The walls were bare, lacking all the decoration that Tara’s had, and the furniture was more of the same. Plain, brown, and devoid of all the emotion and spirit that she envisioned it having. The only sign of life in the room was on your bed, where you laid unnaturally still.

You rested atop your comforter, your damp hair fanned out on the pillow beneath you, gradually soaking it. But you either didn’t notice or didn’t care, staring resolutely out your window. The bruising on your neck was already darker, a nauseating shade of purple that made Tara’s stomach stir.

She approached quietly, not wanting to startle you in your seemingly fragile state, and sat down on the edge of the bed. You didn’t register the shifting of your bed, so Tara tentatively slipped her hand into yours.

Finally, Tara saw you inhale, and your attention shifted from the outside world to her.

“Tara,” you whispered, voice gravelly, “my dad, w-wha-“

“Don’t worry about him, baby. I took care of everything,” she cooed, stroking her thumb over your cheek.

“Did…you call the police?” you asked. The soft furrow of your brows would be adorable if it weren’t for the worry in your eyes that accompanied it.

Tara shook her head. “No. No police.”

“Wh-“ A harsh cough forced its way from your throat, making Tara wince in sympathy. “What’s gonna happen now?”

The fear in your eyes made her chest ache. To combat it, she put a small, comforting smile on her face. “Actually, that’s what I was coming to tell you. I talked it over with your mom we came to an agreement. You’ll be staying with me for the time being.”

She half expected you to say no, to refuse being uprooted from your home so suddenly. Instead, you asked, “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude on you or Sam.”

Tara almost sighed. You had a way of constantly making yourself out to be a burden when you were anything but.

“You could never intrude on us. Sam loves you and so do I. More than you could ever know. If you want to stay, you would be more than welcome,” she paused then posed the question. “Do you want to stay with me?”

She tried to brace herself for whatever you would say but your answer, only one small syllable, was said so fast that she didn’t even have time.

“Please.”

The rush of relief she felt was so powerful it almost knocked the air from her lungs.

Tara went over to your closet and started putting clothes into the overnight bag you used when you stayed with her for the weekend, grabbing your favorites first. The bag wasn’t big enough to fit everything, but it didn’t really matter, she could always come back and pick up more if need be.

Or you could wear her clothes. Tara liked that idea much better.

Once it was as full as she could get it, she turned to you and froze. You were sitting up now, brows drawn together as you stared at nothing.

Concerned, Tara dropped the bag and knelt down in front of you, reaching to cradle one of your hands between hers.

“Hey,” she prompted, voice soft, “what’s going through that head of yours?”

Pursing your lips, you tried to look away, but Tara wasn’t letting you get away that easily. She leaned forward, following your eyes. A sigh was expelled through your nose, voice dropping to a grave whisper.

“Do you think I’m a monster, Tara?”

Tara swore she could feel her heart fracture.

“No,” she asserted, shaking her head. “No, look at me.”

You did. She chose her next words very carefully, trying very hard to steer clear of anything resembling “he deserved it” (even if it was true).

“What you did was an accident,” she started, speaking slowly and clearly. “You didn’t want to hurt him, but he was hurting you and you reacted. You couldn’t have known that he would trip. And if you did know, you probably wouldn’t have done it. Why? Because you’re not a monster. You could never be one, not to me anyways.”

There was a brief silence after her small monologue. You took in her words while she watched you, admired you.

“Thank you,” you whispered. She just smiled, placing a feather-light kiss on your lips.

Tara tried not to dwell on how you would view her if you ever found out about the sins she’s committed without remorse.

She stood on unsteady legs. “Are you ready to leave?”

Thankfully you nodded, seeming just as eager as she was to get the hell out of this house.

She grabbed your bag and escorted you out of the house. Tara didn’t miss the way you barely glanced in your mother’s direction as you passed her.

The ride to her house was silent, as expected. You looked on the verge of either falling asleep or breaking down and nothing Tara could say would change that. Still, she reached over to intertwine your fingers with hers at the first red light.

Sam’s car was in the driveway when Tara pulled in, which made her groan. She was hoping she could at least wait until morning to explain the situation to her sister, that would have given her time to come up with a suitably vague excuse for your indefinite stay.

But her sister surprised her.

She stood from the couch as you both entered and took your shoes off, that irritating look on her face that indicated to Tara that an interrogation was imminent, but the minute she saw you, her mouth clamped shut.

The way her wide eyes trailed over the bruises on your neck didn’t escape Tara’s notice, and she was just about to step up and get defensive when Sam wrapped you in a delicate hug and told you that you could stay as long as you needed to.

Tara was shocked. She didn’t think it would be so easy, but she supposed this fell in line with Sam’s newer personality quirks.

Sam had a recent habit of being… protective of the people she cared for. It annoyed the hell out of Tara but, if it could help her get what she wanted, as it did just now, then she would learn to tolerate it.

So she sent her sister a large, grateful smile and pulled you upstairs, making a mental note to find other ways to take advantage of Sam’s overprotective streak in the future.

Tara debated bringing your things into her room, but she figured you deserved a space of your own that could truly feel like it was yours. She led you to the guest room, conveniently right across the hall from her room, and placed your bag on the edge of the bed.

She paused then, finding herself entirely unsure of what to do next. Part of her wanted to invite you to her room like usual, while the other argued that you may want some space to process what happened earlier.

Discordant words interrupted the beginnings of her internal debate.

“Can I sleep with you?” you rasped, sounding shy despite the fact that you’d shared a bed with her dozens of times before. Tara smiled.

“Of course.” She took your hand in hers again and took you across the hall, gesturing for you to lay down while she changed and put her dirty clothes away. She made another mental note to wash those clothes tomorrow. Just in case.

In the few minutes that took, you were already on the verge of falling asleep when she turned back around.

With a small grin, she laid beside you and opened her arms. The tiny smile you gave her in return was blinding. You burrowed into her and buried your face into Tara’s neck like you always did when you slept together. Tara started carding her hand through your hair, knowing it would lull you off faster.

You were asleep within minutes. She couldn’t blame you, it had been an eventful night, and Tara herself should have been passed out instantly with the amount of physical labor she had done not even a few hours prior, but she just couldn’t shut her eyes.

How could she peacefully sleep knowing what she did to you?

This entire situation was her fault. Her inaction led to this moment, her hesitance to possibly hurt you nearly got you killed.

Her hesitance made you kill. That was devastating.

Tara wasn’t oblivious. She wasn’t so naïve as to think that her ultraviolent impulses were normal. No, there was a reason why she hid her true nature.

Whereas she found killing to be exhilarating—as utterly satisfying as scratching an itch you hadn’t been able to reach—you found it to be tormenting. She saw how stricken you were earlier, heard how terribly you thought of yourself for your actions just earlier in your room.

This would torture you. Would be a burden you carried for a long time. Because of her.

Just the thought was agonizing. The knowledge that she had hurt you, intentionally or not, made her want to drive a knife through her own flesh.

It would never happen, that she would make sure of.

With reinvigorated purpose, Tara pulled a blanket over the both of you and pressed a long, firm kiss to the top of your head. A silent promise to do better. A vow that for as long as she had you, she would never let another soul do you harm.

And the next time she even suspected anyone of laying their hands on you, there would no hesitation and absolutely no mercy.

#tara carpenter #tara carpenter x reader #ghostface!tara #scream #scream vi #jenna ortega #i still don't know what damn tags to use lmao #shoutout to the mutual that informed me about exsanguination #ur a real one!#hope this isn't too disappointing

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pollymorgan · 5 months ago

Text

Coach Negan Part 2

Warnings: Negan beeing Negan, hot table sex

Okay, I did it again! Have fun with the second part! 🤭

When I wake up, I briefly think I had a pretty intense dream. But when I see the phone lying next to me on the pillow, I realize that unfortunately, it was real.

Oh man, I've started some pretty weird actions lately. Somehow, my life seems to have gone a little off track. But phone sex with my daughter's hated gym teacher pretty much tops it all.

At least I didn't oversleep, not even once this week! Who knows, maybe I'll still be "Mother of the Year."

Feeling a bit off-kilter, I shuffle to the bathroom to freshen up.

With the toothbrush in hand, I let my thoughts wander. Okay, the whole phone call was a bit sexy. Well, actually, pretty hot. My cheeks start to flush as I think about Negan's voice and how dominant he was.

Damn, the whole thing was more erotic than anything I've experienced in the last 5 years. At least! Although that's not saying much....

Suddenly Negan's last words come to mind.

"Okay, I'll expect you tomorrow at 3:30 pm for a parent-teacher meeting at the school, and without panties.. Good night!"

Fuck! My ex-husband is picking up the kids today. At least, that's the last I heard. From experience, I can say that can change at any time. Anyway, I absolutely must not run into Negan at this time, preferably never again. But that will probably be a bit difficult...

The morning goes by thankfully without any major catastrophes. A few arguments, two forgotten homework assignments, and spilled milk later, I've dropped off my three kids at kindergarten and school on time.

Feeling somewhat relieved, I return home. There's chaos in every room, but it's quiet in the house. After calmly drinking a coffee, I decide it's really time to start filling my social media channel with content again. After all, it's become my job, albeit somewhat involuntarily. I'll make a post about a nutritious, quick meal for stressed out mothers. At least I don't have to go shopping again. I have all the necessary ingredients in the fridge, and it's not too time-consuming.

Just as I'm preparing everything, my phone vibrates. Assuming it's a message from my ex, canceling the meeting with his kids for some flimsy reason, I open the message annoyed.

"Be on time today, otherwise it's detention! 😉 Negan."

Oh God, I had hoped this whole thing would just fizzle out. Feeling a bit nervous, I set the phone aside and try to focus on what I actually had planned. But that's not so easy! I keep staring at my phone, afraid of receiving the next text or out of desire? I can't even define it myself.

Screw it! I was married for 19 years and I've based my whole life on this man. Taken care of the kids and the household and always put myself last. Only to be left. So, what's wrong with having a bit of fun?

I quickly grab my phone and reply.

"Just detention? 😯 I expected a more creative punishment! 🙈"

I hesitate for a moment, but then I send the text. My heart pounds wildly in my chest as I see the two checkmarks next to the message. It only takes a few seconds before I receive a reply.

"You naughty girl, don't challenge me ...".

I can't help but grin.

Quickly I type, "As they say, 'Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go on the teacher's desk' or something like that ...😉"

"I can't wait ... Room 319, in the big gymnasium," I receive as a reply.

I look at the clock. It's just after 12 pm. I quickly finish my Instagram post to have enough time to get ready.

After a thorough shower, I stand somewhat desperate in front of my closet. I absolutely must not show up too sexy at Peggy's school. But my obligatory gray jeans and a plain t-shirt that has been my wardrobe staple lately won't do either.

I'm as excited as before a first date, and in a very strange way, that's what it is.

In the depths of my closet, I find a royal blue knee-length pencil skirt and a matching white blouse with large dots in the same color, with the price tag still attached. I put it on and critically examine myself in the mirror. I've always been slim, but the impending divorce has cost me at least another five kilos.

I loosely tie up my hair and apply light makeup. Then I put on my favorite scent, a mix of vanilla and cherry that I've worn far too rarely lately, afraid the bottle might run out.

Now there's no time for doubts. Determined, I go to the car, start the engine, take a quick look in the rearview mirror to remove mascara smudges under my eyes, and head towards the school.

There are only a few students left on the grounds. Most have already finished, just like my daughter. Thankfully! He actually managed to pick her up. Miracles do happen after all!

I have the terrible feeling that everyone is watching me and knows exactly what I'm up to, although that's obviously nonsense.

Feeling a bit nervous and with a pretty strong flutter in my stomach, I go to the big gymnasium. Disoriented, I roam the narrow corridors and then stop in front of room 319. Okay, so I'm really going to go through with this.

The door isn't closed, just ajar. I take a deep breath and then push it open further. Negan is sitting at the desk, focused, with some papers in hand, and suddenly startles. As he catches sight of me, he begins to grin, his perfect teeth shining through.

Oh man, has he always looked so damn good? He's wearing a khaki jacket over his jeans shirt and glasses with a dark rim. Determinedly, he stands up and walks directly towards me, while I remain rooted to the spot, staring at him.

He stops right in front of me and leans against the door frame with one arm. I have to look up at him because he easily towers over me. The woody, masculine scent of his cologne envelops me and literally clouds my senses.

"Never heard of knocking?" he smiles at me and then lightly licks his lower lip with his tongue.

Finally, I find my words again. "Well, I seem to be a really naughty girl, but at least I'm on time...".

Dramatically, he looks at his golden wristwatch. "Right on time..." he states curtly and gestures for me to come in, before immediately locking the door. At the sound of the lock, my heart gives another heavy thump.

So, I'm really here now.

I quickly glance around the room, feeling his eyes on me the whole time.

"Sit down!" he commands and goes back to his desk. Just as I'm about to take a seat on one of the two chairs in front of it, he protests.

"No, here..." He taps the table clearly and sits on his chair, never taking his eyes off me. After a brief hesitation, I sit down, as ordered, directly opposite him on the table, crossing my legs. As confidently as possible, I look down at him. When our eyes meet, small electric shocks run through my entire body, seemingly converging in my lower abdomen. His gaze continues to roam over my body, to my legs and back up. We remain silent for a moment, but then he breaks the silence with the sentence, "And did you remember not to wear any panties?".

My cheeks blush even more intensely, I have to swallow hard before I can respond. "Yes."

"Okay, then show me..."

Slightly confused, I try to think. This man hasn't even touched me, let alone kissed me yet, and I'm supposed to present my most intimate parts on a desk to him?

"Come on, don't be shy..." he adds demandingly, noticing my hesitation.

As if on command, I jump off the table in one go, pulling up my tight skirt until it barely covers my butt. I then brace myself on the desk with both hands, ready to jump up and slightly spread my legs in front of him. Negan leans further forward and stares unabashedly at me. He grasps my knees to open my legs a little more.

It's the first time I feel his warm hands on my bare skin.

"And shaved just for me, that wasn't necessary..." he states, satisfied and self-assured.

His hands slowly continue to my thighs, then he lightly rests on them and positions himself directly between my legs. His face is only a few centimeters away from mine, and I feel his breath just as heavy as mine. I examine every pore and every small scar thoroughly until my gaze falls on his lips. Without thinking further, my arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer to me.

Finally, our lips meet. The kiss is immediately wild and without any restraint. Full of desire, our lips press against each other, and our tongues immediately explore each other.

All I can think about is how good all of this - how good he - feels.

Negan firmly grips my butt with both hands and dominantly pushes my pelvis closer to him. The fabric of his jeans presses against my bare skin. I feel how hard and big he already is. I can clearly feel him, right at the spot that yearns for him the most. I softly moan into the kiss.

"Damn, that's the sound I wanted to hear! I haven't been able to think of anything else since last night..." he exclaims excitedly.

Then he swiftly takes off his jacket and starts to slowly unbutton my blouse. My black lace bra is revealed. Before he kisses me again, he looks down at me.

"Fuck, look at you...you're so incredibly beautiful," he says softly.

My hands move confidently to his pants, feeling for his belt.

"Not so fast...first, I want to taste you...every damn inch of your perfect body!"

He grins at me, and I immediately do nothing but eagerly wait to see what he has in store next.

Negan slowly takes off my unbuttoned blouse and skillfully unclasps my bra. He immediately grasps my breasts firmly with his large, warm hands and plants delicate kisses on my sternum. His beard scratches against my delicate skin, giving me goosebumps. His mouth moves to my right breast, and I let my head fall back. I thoroughly enjoy the feeling of his tongue on my sensitive nipple. His hand firmly grips my left shoulder and pushes me down. Now I'm completely lying on the desk, while his kisses travel deeper and deeper.

Without hesitation, he grabs my knees and presses my legs firmly against my body. Then I feel his warm breath on my wet vulva. Automatically, I press my pelvis further towards him, and he starts kissing along my inner thighs, while I eagerly await feeling his lips on my pulsating clitoris finally.

My whole body is tense as he continues to tease me, his mouth gently returning to my thigh.

Impatiently, I slide back and forth on the desk.

He releases his firm grip from my knees and gives me a light slap on the butt.

"Damn, it's sexy how turned on you are... I could continue like this all day..." he remarks with a grin, unbuttoning his jeans shirt as his dark chest hair is revealed. I prop myself up on my forearms, looking at him expectantly.

"Okay, okay... Who can resist such a look and such a sweet pussy..." he says, leaning back between my legs to finally touch me where I need it the most.

Skillfully, his tongue wanders to my most sensitive spots, applying just the right pressure and perfect tempo.

I moan in relief and lean back again. He softly sucks on my swollen clit, and my legs start to tremble. I grab his hair and hold onto it tightly because I feel like I need that support. The orgasm hits me unexpectedly. I never thought I could reach the peak so quickly.

Negan grabs my wrists and swiftly pulls my upper body back up. Breathing heavily and utterly exhausted, I look at him, and he smiles contentedly, his lips moistened with my wetness.

"Wow, okay..." he says.

"Wow, okay..." I reply and pull him closer to kiss him.

"Now I want to fuck that perfect pussy..." he whispers in a deep voice into my ear, opening his pants with one hand. Then he briefly separates from me to open the drawer of his desk and retrieve a condom.

I watch him, and suddenly I seem to be able to think clearly again. At least, I can imagine how many times he has done this before. How many lonely, abandoned mothers he has already screwed on this desk, that he even keeps condoms in his drawer.

Without saying anything, he seems to notice my gaze very precisely and knows how to interpret it.

He grabs my chin between his index finger and thumb and turns my head decisively towards him.

"Hey, don't even think about it, okay? ...I only placed it there today, in the slight hope that you would seriously consider my nice offer..."

He lets me go to put on the condom without breaking eye contact.

My eyes wander between his dark ones, and I get lost in them.

I nod hesitantly and flinch slightly as I feel his tip pressing against my entrance.

Negan runs his thumb over my mouth. My lips feel dry and sensitive.

"Don't close your eyes now, look at me as I enter you..." he says unequivocally.

I already feel him slowly pushing deeper and deeper into me. When he is all the way in, he places his burning hot forehead against mine. His mouth is slightly open, and his breath is heavy. I enclose his lower lip with my lips. It is an incredibly intense feeling to be so full. I feel my lower abdomen contract repeatedly as he slowly starts moving inside me. It doesn't take long for his thrusts to become faster and harder. I realize he is close to coming.

"Sit on the chair, I want to be on top of you!" I say, trying to gain some control and at least once have the upper hand.

"Okay, whatever you want... really anything!" he says, breathing heavily, and sits back on the chair behind him.

He looks incredibly sexy. With those piercing eyes, his slightly swollen lips from the intense kisses, the unbuttoned shirt revealing his slim hairy chest, and his large hard penis that I immediately want inside me again.

I jump off the table and climb onto his lap. With my right hand, I grasp his pulsating cock and let him glide into me. Negan holds onto my hips, and I place my hands on his shoulders to support myself. Slowly, I begin to move, and he penetrates deeper into me.

"Damn, you're finding spots in me that I didn't even know..." I smile and then bite my lower lip in concentration. I mean it literally. I have never felt anything like this before. My movements become faster, and I feel the tension running through Negan's body.

"Let's come together..." I whisper softly to him.

"Okay, baby..." he says decisively, and his hand moves purposefully between my legs. Quickly and with quite a bit of pressure, he circles my hypersensitive clit with his thumb.

I feel like I can hardly breathe from excitement. My lower abdomen almost cramps painfully.

I manage to groan "Now..." just before another intense orgasm floods my body. But not only me, I also feel how Negan is coming intensely. Exhausted, I collapse on his lap. His arms embrace me and press me firmly against his bare chest. For a moment, all you can hear is our exhausted breathing, then he whispers softly while still deeply inside me.

"That was insane. When can we do this again?"

I grin at him contentedly. "I have the whole weekend free from the kids... so I'd be happy to do it again tomorrow..."

Then I kiss a bead of sweat off his forehead.

He pouts, "Why wait until tomorrow? ...How about tonight and then the whole night... Believe me, I want to explore a few other spots in you..."

#jeffrey dean morgan #jdm fic #jeffreydeanmorgan #twd smut #twd negan #negan fanfic #negan smith #negan x you #negan smut #negan x reader #negan fic #negan fanfiction #negan #the walking dead negan #negan imagine

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celaenaeiln · 1 year ago

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something i’d love to see more of is angsty rebellious teenage dick grayson. i don’t know why i enjoy the trope but the image of dick “golden boy” grayson getting plastered with roy as he slowly sinks into depression before somewhat getting his shit together is an interesting picture

also he just seems like the guy to get impulsive piercings. dunno why

oooh yeah that fantasy's a guilty a pleasure of mine.

I am 1000000000% an enforcer of Dick was not an angry robin. And he wasn't because the comics show just how happy his demeanor was and how fun he is. But angsty teen Dick? 16/17 year old Dick?

I LOVE IT.

Again throwing a little bit of canon in

"When we started this you were open and encouraging. You were my father...but these last few years...all you've been doing is trying to control me even more."

This is so loaded.

The anger Dick feels when Bruce is trying control him, trying to lock him in a cage in the batcave because of worry, has so much ao3 potential.

Like angsty teen dick is so complicated to think about because Bruce acts a bit like an alcoholic father and Dick's compartmentalization issues come from his parents' death. So what would this result in?

I have no fcking clue.

Because Dick would totally get wasted with Roy, hazy blue eyes staring emptily into space, watching with a flushed cheeks as his short black hair fans out on the back of a beaten blue couch at Roy's place, just breaking down quietly as Roy rants and screams about life's injustices in the background, slinging an arm around Dick and jostling him.

Or maybe he and Roy would also go bar hopping, both of them sloppy drunk, laughing and crying at the same time while they max out their daddies' credit cards and then crash somewhere in someone's pool. Maybe they end up inadvertently on Katy Perry's Friday Night music video.

Or maybe Dick would be a hurricane of disaster, lashing out with knives of sharpened words stabbing the deepest, sorest spots of pain in people, his anger alighting a fire in all. He would be magnificent, ferocious, and catastrophic.

He could be any of these three and all three at once.

He would feel the need to act out if Bruce was becoming more controlling.

BUT AT THE SAME TIME, Dick raised Bruce and that perpetually sense of responsibility he's instilled into himself from a young age as well as his self-sufficiency is never erased so one night he would be blacked out from the excessive alcohol but next morning 6'o clock his body's walking up and he's going through his morning routine like a machine and out the door to work. He just keeps going like this day and day until he collapses and the titans intervene or Bruce drags him back to the manor, screaming in love and fear and Dick screams back and the cycle begins.

Nightwing (1996) Issue #135

Like canonically Dick ran away from home at 16, got a job, got caught up in a major anarchist group, and did a whole freaking investigation while Bruce sulked in the cave because Dick ran away.

There's so much angsty dick potential that could go in so many ways because he's such a complex character that all of them apply.

LOL!!! I totally think he would get impulsive piercings too. Maybe when he's drunk and pissed and then the next day he would wake up be like wtf. He'd sit in turmoil and a little regret for a while and then be like whatever because these piercing are freaking cool.

Bonus: no one (except the og titans and Alfred bc Dick never keeps anything from Alfred and the titans are family) ever find out about the piercings and it's kept a tightly guarded secret until a decade later when he does something in the batcave and one of the batkids notice and they're like, "DICK YOU HAVE A PIERCING?!" The rest of them just about break their neck whipping their head around to look at him. Dick just shrugs nonchalantly because time has tempered him and goes, "oh yeah. I guess. I forgot." Bruce passes out and wakes up on the floor to Dick hovering worriedly over him while the rest of the family watches in amusement at his predicament and also half brokenly because their golden boy big brother has piercings. Plural.

Bruce gasped out a pained breath, "Piercings?"

Dick stared at him silently, gemstone eyes holding his gaze as the quiet of the cave melted the seconds into hours. His eyes slowly slid from Bruce's to where the rest of the family was standing, watching them with bated breath for his answer, before they met Bruce's hopeful ones again.

"No." Bruce, with all the strength left in his body after recovering, raised a questioning eyebrow as Dick continued, "I don't have any piercings and never did."

"Hmn." But he swore he could've seen-

The kids erupted in protests.

"Dick, come on!" Jason hollered, pushing forward. "We clearly saw it there-"

"Where?" Dick asked, spreading his arms wide and invitingly, offering them to see for themselves.

The piercing they had all gotten the barest glimpse of was gone from where they had seen it on Dick.

"But you said you! You said, 'yeah. I guess so. I forgot.'" Stephanie put her hands on her hips, "Admit it Boy Piercing!"

"Boy Piercing?!"

"Fess up, pretty boy!"

"Steph," Dick visibly bit his lip to keep from laughing, "I was joking. You guys should've see your reactions - they were so funny!! Dick has a piercing. OMG. You people were hilarious."

Damian clicked his tongue. "Enough Richard! Did you implement metal into you skin like a heathen? Richard, how could you?! Who dare touch-"

"No Dami!" Dick quickly interfered to prevent a possible murder on his behalf, "I was just kidding, okay? Besides, did you guys even really see it? Like full on?"

Harper crossed her arms. "Close enough."

Dick quirked his eyebrow at that. "But you didn't actually see it right? You thought you saw something shining and turned to look. C'mon you guys know what it is - peripheral vision hallucinations. Things you see in your peripheral vision that aren't real because you are tired," He pinned a look at each other, emphasizing the words, "and stressed."

Dick pressed his lips together and folded his arms. "Time for bed. Now. I know you all haven't been sleeping for the past few days so you all are going to bed. At the manor." Dick finished, shooting Jason a look when he tried secretly shuffling toward his bike.

The rest of them were unmoved for a moment but quickly caved under Dick's patented "I'm mom-ing you."™ stare as Jason liked to call it.

They trudged upstairs while Bruce and Dick watched in companionable silence.

Bruce turned to look at Dick as the sounds of their bickering and footsteps faded away.

"How did you do it?"

Dick hummed distractedly and tilted his head to look down at Bruce still sitting on the floor. "Do what?"

Bruce growled, impatience, annoyance, and apprehension swimming in his voice, "Don't lie. To me. How did you hide it? Now. And for so long?"

Bruce watched tensed as the tip of Dick's tongue ran over the ridges of his top row of teeth, the first sign of anger he had seen from him in weeks. The pink flesh of his tongue barely avoiding cutting itself on the slightly too sharp canines that Dick loved to call his vampire teeth since he was little. He had even threw a veteran-dentist-scaring-tantrum in the dentist's office when the man suggested shaving them down once.

Bruce watched warily as Dick crouched down, balancing on his balls of his feet like a cat on a fence, and forcefully tamped down the sudden urge to pull out a hidden batarang when the boy grinned, eyes lighting with the wild fire of joy and madness from his robin days that still had Bruce on edge for decades.

"How did you it?" He asked again, not sure if he really wanted to know anymore but the principle remained. There was no way Dick's activities could be hidden for so long. He didn't invest in his detective following skills for something like this to escape his observation. But at the same time Dick had evaded his tracking skills when he was seventeen and ran away from him. But something so obvious as a piercing would never escape his notice. But a whole 17 year old boy also shouldn't have escaped his notice. However, Bruce had improved. He had gotten better at his job and his skills. Right? Right, of course, he was the best in the world. Dick definitely did have a piercing. But...on the off chance...what if he really had just seen a flash of light? Sweat on a body? The edge of a birdarang? Peripheral vision hallucinations? "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

You already know what I'm asking. Bruce thought, frustrated with Dick for lying. Frustrated with himself for not knowing if Dick was lying.

"Do you have piercings?" Bruce ground out.

Dick laughed, his voice echoing like choir bells in the spacious cave and bouncing off the stalactites to create a ringing, haunting melody as he leaned in closer to Bruce.

"C'mon, B! You know every showman's got his own tricks," Dick grinned brightly.

And you're the whole damn circus. Bruce hissed viciously in his mind.

Dick's eyes twinkled back at him.

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inkspiredwriting · 14 days ago

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Echoes of Tomorrow

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: angst, sad

The once vibrant and bustling home of the Hargreeves family now lay in ruins, a desolate wasteland of charred wood and twisted metal. Smoke still curled from the remains of the house, a haunting reminder of the catastrophe that had torn through their lives. Y/n Hargreeves stood at the edge of the devastation, her heart a hollow ache in her chest as she surveyed the wreckage.

Her eyes scanned the debris, searching for any sign of the life they had built together. Each step she took sent ash and rubble shifting beneath her feet, the acrid scent of smoke and destruction burning in her throat. She felt numb, the shock of the loss still too raw, too overwhelming to fully comprehend.

Her home, their sanctuary, was gone. The memories, the laughter, the love that had filled these walls—all reduced to ash and ruin. And Five… Five was gone too. The thought was like a knife twisting in her heart, a pain so deep it left her gasping for breath.

Y/n’s hands trembled as she sifted through the remnants, searching for something—anything—that had survived the inferno. She found a few scorched photographs, the edges curled and blackened, the faces barely recognizable through the soot and grime. A broken piece of a picture frame, a melted clock. Ghosts of the life they had once known.

It was then that she saw it, half-buried beneath a pile of debris—a charred, leather-bound book, its cover cracked and blackened by the flames. She reached out with shaking hands, carefully lifting it from the wreckage. Her heart pounded in her chest as she opened it, the brittle pages crumbling slightly at the edges.

It was a diary. Five’s diary.

The words were faded, the ink smeared and blurred by water and heat, but she could still make out the handwriting—Five’s meticulous, looping script. Her fingers traced the letters, her eyes filling with tears as she realized what she was holding.

May 4th, 2023

Today, Y/n and I talked about our future. It’s strange, thinking about a future when I’ve spent so much of my life jumping through time, never staying in one place for long. But with her… I can see it. A home, a family. I’ve never felt this way before. I want to build something real with her.

June 17th, 2023

We talked about kids today. Y/n laughed and said she couldn’t imagine me as a father, but I could see the hope in her eyes. I told her I’d try my best, that I’d be there for her and our children, no matter what. She smiled, and for a moment, I could almost see it—little feet running through our house, laughter filling the air. It’s a future I never thought I’d want, but now… it’s all I can think about.

August 9th, 2023

We found the perfect house today. It’s small, but cozy. Y/n loves the garden, says she can picture us growing old together there. I told her it doesn’t matter where we live, as long as we’re together. She kissed me and said she felt the same. I want to make this place our home, fill it with memories, with love. I want to give her the life she deserves.

October 12th, 2023

Today was perfect. We spent the day planning our future, dreaming about the life we’re going to build together. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. I love her more than I ever thought possible. I’m going to marry her, start a family with her. We’re going to be happy. I just know it.

Y/n’s tears fell onto the pages, smearing the ink even further, but she couldn’t stop reading. Each entry was like a dagger to her heart, a reminder of the dreams they had shared, the future they had planned. She could hear his voice in every word, feel his love in every sentence.

She clutched the diary to her chest, her body shaking with sobs. The weight of the loss crashed over her, the pain of knowing that the life they had dreamed of was now just ashes and memories. She had lost everything—their home, their future, and the man she loved more than anything in the world.

Y/n sat amidst the ruins, the diary cradled in her lap, her eyes staring blankly at the devastation around her. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the wreckage, the sky ablaze with the colors of dusk. It was a cruel reminder that life went on, even in the face of unimaginable loss.

She thought of Five, of the dreams they had shared, the love they had built. She could almost feel him beside her, his hand in hers, his voice whispering words of comfort and hope. But he was gone, and she was left alone in a world that felt empty and cold without him.

“I miss you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I love you so much, Five. I don’t know how to do this without you.”

The wind picked up, rustling through the debris, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke and ash. Y/n closed her eyes, imagining that it was Five’s hand brushing against her cheek, his voice in her ear.

She knew that she would have to go on, that she would have to find a way to rebuild her life. But in that moment, surrounded by the ruins of their home and the echoes of their dreams, all she could do was mourn the future they had lost.

As the first stars appeared in the twilight sky, Y/n stood slowly, clutching the charred diary to her chest. She took one last look at the ruins of their home, the place where they had dreamed of building their future together.

“I’ll carry your dreams with me,” she whispered, her voice filled with determination and love. “I’ll keep them alive, for both of us.”

With that promise in her heart, she turned and walked away from the ruins, her steps slow and heavy, but resolute. She knew that the road ahead would be long and hard, but she would face it with the strength of the love they had shared and the dreams they had built together.

And as she walked, the stars above shone brighter, their light a beacon of hope in the darkness, guiding her towards a future where the echoes of their love would always be with her.

#five hargreeves imagines #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #number five imagine #number five x reader #the umbrella academy #number five #number five one shot #five hargreeves

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delenygma · 2 months ago

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FANFICTION | Eleutheromania (Part 1/3) | Edward Nashton/The Riddler x Reader (AO3)

Gotham is not the only thing in ruins. Post-The Batman Edward Nashton x Reader.

Part 1/3.

•

TW: implied/referenced sh, implied/referenced abuse (past), mention of bruising, smoking.

Originally published on AO3 in April 2022.

•

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

PART 1/3

“You have fifteen minutes.” The security guard pockets the wad of cash you hand her in a swift motion, making you believe that she has done this numerous times before. She hums tunelessly as she leads you down a labyrinth of corridors, further and further down into the depths of the hospital. You try your best to concentrate on her, instead of the shouts and whistles coming from the cells on either side of you.

Finally, she halts and turns around to face you.

“End of that corridor, then turn left.” The security guard pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of the trousers and offers you one. “Go on, you might need it. He’s not… He’s not been taking it so well.”

While you don’t usually smoke, you gratefully accept the cigarette with a nod and let her light it for you. You start walking down the corridor but stop abruptly, realising your potential blunder.

“Wait-!” You turn around. The security guard is leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette herself. “It’s not like… Me and him are not…”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“Yeah, right.” The security guard shrugs. “Look, I really don’t give a damn. You better go. The clock is ticking.”

You turn back around, taking a shaky drag on the cigarette and noticing how heavy your heart is, and how dry your mouth has become. It’s been some time since the flood, and the city was not the only thing still in ruins. After GCPD seized the apartment, you had to quickly find somewhere new to live, which proved to be a catastrophe. Your new place was a bare-bones apartment in the worst part of Gotham. Always cold and desolate, you often found yourself too terrified to function. Whilst yours and Edward’s relationship (if you could call it that) remained secret to all, you knew that it wouldn’t be hard for the authorities to follow the trail of crumbs and find you. Alone.

Turning left, you unexpectedly hear him shout your name, and your heart jumps to your throat. His voice is hoarse, raw, but unmistakably his. You drop your cigarette onto the floor and dash towards the door of his cell. Breathless despite the shortness of distance, you find yourself facing Edward through the iron bars in the door.

“Edward…” You whisper his name, over and over, your heart throbbing in your chest.

You shakily open the hatch and push your hands through it (fuck the security cameras, nobody gives a damn, anyway). Suddenly speechless, he grabs hold of your hands and almost crushes your fingers.

Your eyes meet his, and you feel as if you have been punched in the gut. You have never seen so much distress. Not even during his most destructive nights. When he first became The Riddler, when he clawed at his wrists and wailed with anguish and wrath, when the voices called out to him and would not stop…

“Eddie, I…” You don’t know what to say. He is grabbing onto your hands with sheer desperation, the combination of panic and failure echoing in his eyes as they gradually fill up with tears. You notice how bloodshot they are, the dark circles under his eyes darker than you ever remember them being (he isn’t sleeping until they make him...). The right side of his face is bruised, a brilliant shade of purple spilling over his cheek (did he… Or did someone…?).

“I’m here, Eddie.” You manage to say, taking a trembling breath before words start to spill from your mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry this took me so fucking long. I had to find ways… To get here. But I did, and…”

You stop for a second to compose yourself and notice just how violently his hands began to tremble. They are so much colder than usual, too. He was always so warm...

“I haven’t got much time, but…” You start.

“I knew you would come.” He interrupts you. “They told me that I was alone in this, they said you were a delusion. But I knew better. I knew better. I knew that those liars were wrong.”

“Don’t listen to them.” You say with assurance, although unsure of who ‘they’ could be. “Remember what I said… All that time ago? Only ever listen to your heart.”

“My heart has shattered.” Edward’s voice, although unexpectedly venomous, quavers as he speaks. “I’m broken. I was so close, and I thought that even being in here, I could… But I was wrong. And it’s all getting worse, I’m getting worse. I feel like I am back at…”

“Eddie, I have an idea.” You interrupt him. “I will get you out. I fucking promise you.”

“P-please hurry. Please. I…” The rest of his sentence is quelled as he breaks down, pressing his delicate lips to your fingers. You haven’t felt him like this for such a long time, and the sudden intimacy awakens feral desperation inside you.

“Eddie, you have to promise me something.” You whisper. “You can’t give up.”

“You’ve got a minute left!” You hear the security guard yell from up the corridor. Edward sniffs and lets out a faint whimper as he pulls his face away from your hands.

“Can’t you stay?” His voice turns delicate and innocent as he clutches your hands even harder than before.

“I’m sorry.” You are stifling back tears. “But... I always keep my promises.”

#del's posts #del's fanfiction #the riddler #dano riddler #edward nashton #the riddler fanfiction #dano riddler fanfiction #edward nashton fanfiction #danonation #the riddler x reader #dano riddler x reader #edward nashton x reader #fanfiction #x reader

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incorrectsibunaquotes · 2 months ago

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S2 finale AU where Eddie didn’t figure it out or make it in time, and Senkhara did manage to puppeteer Nina into the afterlife:

First of all, Joy would be dead. The Mask of Anubis would have gone with Senkhara and Nina into the Field of Rushes, taking with it any chance for a Tear of Gold. Nina also had Victor Sr.’s ring in her person at the time, so even that would be lost.

So Joy dies on the scene, and is later labeled a hero in her own right.

Alternatively, Rufus would not have died, as he would never have had the chance to put the Mask on. By the time everyone’s paths crossed at the Frobisher Library, SenkhNina (this is the shorthand now, bear with me) would have already been through the portal and onto greener pastures… literally.

Since we have no real context for how Senkhara (or Rufus, for that matter) actually planned on becoming a god once they made it to the afterlife, or whether it was an automatic thing once you had the Mask of Anubis with you when you crossed over, but for the sake of this AU let’s say it wasn’t a super dramatic shift right away.

So in the immediate aftermath, we’re left with the dead body of a teenage girl, as well as a girl who has now up and vanished into thin air as far as the rest of the world is concerned.

They blame Joy’s murder and Nina’s disappearance on Vera, who’s already long gone by the time authorities go looking, and it buys them all time to get the story straight.

Fabian is, of course, way beyond inconsolable. Not only has the love of his life sacrificed herself to the afterlife to lift their curse, but one of his closest friends has also jumped in front of a lightning bolt meant for him. The survivor’s guilt is insurmountable, and he’s essentially on round-the-clock supervision so he doesn’t do anything drastic.

Eddie’s survivor guilt is also pretty bad. People keep telling him it’s not his fault, and “how were you supposed to know??” but something undeniable in his soul (the Osirian, or maybe even just his own conscience) insists the opposite.

Victor and Rufus are forced to reckon with the fact that their ventures for eternal life have led to an absolutely catastrophic end, and they make a public show of reconciliation.

Victor is rattled by the carnage, and does try to give his oldest friend the benefit of the doubt, but the children— Jerome and Patricia, in particular— are unconvinced.

“Things will get bad sooner or later. Senkhara doesn’t want to be a god just for the status. We have to figure out a way to stop her from destroying the world as we know it.”

So Rufus offers to take Eddie under his wing and train him how to use his Osirian powers.

This causes a major uproar, but ultimately Eddie accepts, much to everyone’s chagrin.

“I want to be prepared for when Senkhara strikes back! Rufus is just helping me be ready to face Nina if it comes down to it.”

Basically everyone is too depressed and reeling to argue…

… except for Patricia who shoved down all her grief for her best friends (to only be let out as sobs into her pillow at night), and stepped up as de facto Sibuna leader (since Fabian and Amber were too deep in their feels).

Patricia is adamant this is a bad idea, and that Rufus is only using Eddie to achieve some end— probably the same end he’s always been after— but Eddie is equally adamant that training with Rufus is necessary.

He needs to develop his skill as an Osirian. After all, it was his lack of knowledge that killed Nina and Joy. And Rufus is the only person who can help. Why can’t anyone understand that??

Things are relatively quiet for a while, but everyone’s still grieving pretty badly. Then, slowly, things start to get strange.

Senkhara is clearly up to something in the Field of Rushes, and Victor decides the best thing he can do is tell the students ahead of time that there’s someone who might still be able to to help them: Robert Frobisher-Smythe

So the S3 plot stays relatively the same, except now the whole squad is in on it and trying to make the ceremony a success, because if that ALSO goes wrong then between Senkhara and Ammut, they’re all cooked

With Joy dead, they have to find a replacement descendant for her bloodline, and end up landing on Willow, since she’s the closest thing to it.

For the sake of everyone’s sanity we’re gonna say they sniffed out Caroline’s B.S. early on, and Robert woke up good. But even he’s like “Man idk what to do about this either lol. Let’s figure it out tho”

Meanwhile, Rufus is still training Eddie. And Eddie’s getting stronger, but the way he’s harnessing his gifts is… detrimental. He’s not working with balance, he’s working with control. And it’s affecting him negatively.

Patricia starts slowly pulling away from him, because as much as she cares about Eddie, she can’t condone this. And she is deeply afraid of what Rufus’ influence over her boyfriend means for everyone.

Robert is over here with Victor going “you know, I never liked that boy” about Rufus, and Victor is in a bit of denial about his old friend “turning over a new leaf” but deep down he knows this is all a very bad idea

As months pass with nothing major happening, the emotional wounds start to scab over, even Fabian’s (mostly because Patricia and Amber force him to pull it together lmfao) but it’s tense. Everyone is waiting for the other shoe to drop

And then one day it does.

#i will reblog this with the part 2 when i come up with it #lol #yeah this would be the bad timeline #one of many potential bad timelines in this show but i digress #house of anubis #tess rambles #hoa meta #tess writes

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softshrimpy · 1 year ago

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How To Woo A Hot Principal

Step 11: Realizations

Summary: Working at the Weathervane was exactly what you needed. The routine, the people, your co-workers. It certainly helped that a certain tall, blonde, fucking gorgeous woman happened to frequent the cafe. Now some may call hopelessly flirting with your customers inappropriate behavior.

But truly, when it came to Larissa Weems, who could blame you?

Y'all wanted the Larissa pain and I bring you Larissa pain. Enjoy. Also again, pls send all the love to the now co-author of this series @misssmephisto 🦐✨

Tags: @variant-2402 @the-bagel24 @eveymay @kimiinou @muffintopxs @h-doodles @bbykens @lilfartbox1 @bigolgay @winterfireblond @gela123

(pls let me know if you want to be tagged/ I missed you!)

Chapter 10

Cross Posted on AO3 here

HWTAHP Masterlist

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Larissa had fucked up.

She knew she had the moment she’d ended her bullshit-filled tirade. Knew when you had run out of her office sobbing.

And she sure as shit knew right now.

She had been sitting at her desk, re-reading the same email for what had felt like the hundredth time when she’d gotten a call from Marylin. She was confused, it was the middle of the night. She answered the call, a deep sense of dread chilling her to the bone as she did so.

“Larissa? I-I saw your girlfriend running into the woods and-and I was worried so I followed her but- she’s been attacked, Larissa. I don’t-I don’t know if she’ll make it I-“ Marylin rushes.

Larissa can’t breathe, she’s no longer listening to Marylin. Her hands are shaking and she feels like she might throw up. She brings one hand to cover her mouth, the other gripping her phone as if it were her lifeline. As panic gripped her, the words blood, ambulance and sheriff breached her mind from the device in her hand.

She’s the reason you were out there. She’s the reason you got attacked.

She was wrong. She was so so wrong. She was wrong and now you might die and she was so wrong.

She called you a monster.

Before she can even register what she is doing she has grabbed her keys and ran out of her office.

“Marylin” Larissa started, cutting off the tear-fuelled rambling of her college. “I need you to gather the staff and check on all the students and make sure everyone is accounted for. The school is on lockdown as of now, keep everyone indoors and safe. I’m going to the hospital, call me if anything else happens.” She instructs.

Before Marylin can reply, Larissa has hung up and is getting into her car. She drives frantically, not particularly caring what traffic laws she’s breaking. All she cares about is getting to you. You have to be okay. You just have to.

When she finally makes it to the hospital, she all but barges through the front doors. Rushing up to the front desk, the headmistress frantically asks about your whereabouts. She’s told you’re in surgery, you’d lost an almost catastrophic amount of blood but they were doing everything in their power. She’s directed to a waiting room and then left alone.

Larissa had no idea how long she had sat there, her eyes burning holes into the floor beneath her as the words, those horrible cruel words she spoke to you ran through her head. She keeps seeing your face, heartbroken with tears running down your cheeks. She keeps thinking of how this is all her fault, how you could’ve been safe if she had just listened to you. If she had just not been a royal bitch. If she had just had dinner with you.

She didn’t deserve you. After all you’d done for her, after all you’d gone through with her. She wouldn’t be surprised if you never wanted to see her again.

But you didn’t deserve to be alone, so she would wait here until she knew you were okay. It was the least she could do.

——————

The clock ticked on, seconds becoming minutes, minutes becoming hours. There had been no news, and she couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. Her legs were stiff, her eyes were stinging. She probably looked dreadful but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. The once powerful persona of the Nevermore headmistress was broken, stuck floating in time.

She was glad to not have heard from Marylin. Hopeful that that meant everything was well at the school. She honestly wouldn’t have been much use if something was wrong anyway.

She was startled by a set of doors being flung open, her body fuelled with adrenaline, legs quivering with how fast she was forced upwards. She was even more shocked when three of her students came bursting through said doors. Enid, Wednesday and Yoko ran up to her and before she can scold them for being off school grounds during a lockdown, Yoko speaks.

“Is she still in surgery?”

Larissa sighs and nods, deciding she doesn’t have the energy to be the stern principal she should be. Sliding back into the seat beneath her, Larissa’s mind begins to fall back into the routine she had been stuck in for the past however long. However, Wednesday spoke six words that shattered the downward spiral the headmistress had created.

“Do they know she’s an outcast?”

“What are you talking about?” Larissa responded, her head turning towards the girl, curiosity leading her fast reply.

“She’s a vampire. We can explain how we know later but right now we have to tell them she’s a vamp and will be needing blood, well- more blood.” Enid explains.

“I-that can’t…how certain are you of this? We can’t just- she could-“ Larissa stutters.

“Just trust us on this, please. I don’t…we don’t want her to die.” Yoko pleads.

Shocked by Yoko’s outright display of emotion, Larissa nods. She gets up from the chair, her joints popping in protest. She strides over to the nurses' station, explaining your situation to them. She has to argue back and forth with them for quite a while before they listen to her. The terms legal guardian, family and medical records are thrown around in protest before the desperation on Weems’ face convinces the receptionist to ring into the surgery room. Before she can turn back towards her students, a nurse in conversation with the other receptionist turns in disgust at the piece of information Larissa had shared. Continuing in the direction she was heading, Larissa barely resists the urge to cuss her out.

Returning to the seating area, she sighs. A motion filled with exhaustion, regret and deep sadness.

“Can I get you three something to drink? I have a suspicion this is going to be a long night.”

——————

The four had settled back in the waiting room, this time on the two couches that were available. Larissa and Enid had gotten a hot chocolate while Wednesday and Yoko had settled on coffee (Larissa did not have it in her to try and get them to have something without caffeine in it.) None of the girls commented on Larissa’s appearance, which she was truly grateful for.

Breaking the tense silence they had found themselves in, the headmistress spoke, “Alright, so how did you three figure this out?”

“Well, it actually started when Wednesday ran overheard you two talking about (Y/N)’s nightmares.” Enid starts.

“I’m sorry what?” Larissa interrupts, turning to shoot Wednesday an accusatory stare. She expected nothing less of the girl, knowing her reputation but a sense of upset and surprise still struck her.

“I was investigating a potential lead in the attacks and happened to walk by your office while you two were talking.” She hums, taking a sip from her decidedly not completely shit coffee.

“Anyway, from there Wednesday was uh curious about what was going on with her…” Enid continues.

“I suspected she may be the person behind the attacks.” Wednesday deadpans.

Larissa freezes at that, swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat. She feels a strong stabbing pain in her chest. In an effort to distract herself, she looked down at her takeaway cup and hums.

“Uhm so yeah Wednesday did some digging. She was trying to figure out what made her come to Jericho in the first place, given the attacks started right around the time she arrived. But then Yoko came to pick me up for a trip to Jericho to go shopping and saw Wednesday’s murder wall and found it way more interesting than I did, it gives me the creeps.”

“A murder wall?” Larissa questioned, incredulous.

“So then Yoko told us about the way your barista girlfriend had a vampire smell. Furthermore, along with some information she learnt from Outreach Day and her behaviour over the past couple of days, I deemed it appropriate to enter her home and do some more digging-“ Wednesday explained.

“Wednesday Addams-“ Larissa hissed.

“And I found these tablets she was taking. I’d never seen or heard of them before, so I did some further investigation and it would seem it's a rather poor blood substitute, which fit Yoko’s vampire theory.” Wednesday continues, ignoring the blonde’s obvious anger.

“But she has no fangs?” Larissa murmurs.

“In more conservative places there was a practice where they would file down young vampire's fangs to make them more ‘normal.’” Yoko explains with a scowl. “It's archaic and evil.”

“Why…who would do this..?” Larissa mumbled.

“Well, that’s where Wednesday’s digging into why she moved here comes in. Turns out she used to live in this super small town literally in the middle of nowhere. Everything we found about it was not like outright ‘outcasts are evil and dangerous’ but was prejudiced enough to give me the super ick.” Enid offered.

“I see…” Larissa breathed out.

Larissa didn’t know how to feel. Actually, she did. She felt a deep, deep sense of self-loathing and shame. And above all else, she felt guilt. Guilt that made her stomach churn and her chest ache. Gods she truly didn’t know how she would live with herself after tonight.

The four of them sat in silence for a while, the three girls noticing their headmistress’s unusually upset demeanour and deciding it best to leave the queries, for now. Hours went by with no news, Larissa growing more and more weary as time went on. She had tried to convince the three girls to go back to Nevermore but had received a rather strong chorus of no’s in return. Eventually, a doctor came through the doors and called out your name. Larissa immediately stood from her seat and rushed over to her, her heart firmly lodged in her throat.

“I-Is she alright? Did she make it out of the surgery okay?” Larissa asked.

“She’s just come out of surgery, we’ve taken her to the ICU. The surgery went well, surprisingly given her condition, it was touch and go for a while, but after we started administering more blood things went much smoother. I can take you to her room if you’d like?” She states.

“I-Yes, thank you.” Larissa breathes, her heart calming just a bit.

She gathers the three teens before following the doctor to your room. The doctor warned the group that you were still asleep and still weren’t in the greatest shape, so they needed to prepare themselves. Larissa had to take a moment outside your room to steel herself. She needed to keep herself together.

When she entered your room and saw you laying there, unconscious and battered her resolve to keep herself together crumbled instantly. You looked so small and fragile in the hospital bed. Your face was so pale and you were so still. She let out a choked sob, bringing a shaking hand up to cover her mouth, feeling tears gather in her eyes. She hurries over to your side while scanning you over for injuries. You have several small cuts littering your face and arms. A deeper more noticeable cut on your head, and the skin around it is bruised terribly. She’s certain the brunt of your injuries are hidden beneath the blanket covering you from the chest down and her stomach drops just thinking about it. She drops into the chair seated next to your bed.

“When uhm-“ Larissa tries, her voice cracking, “When will she wake up?”

“Unfortunately, due to the extreme nature of her injuries we can’t be certain when she will wake up.” The doctor explains.

“Do you know that she’ll wake up?” Wednesday queries.

Enid scolds her, slapping her on the arm while Larissa squeezes her eyes shut. She can’t fathom a world, a life without you. You and your brilliant smile and silly jokes that never failed to make her laugh. And yet she threw that all away anyway. Hurt you immeasurably and for what? Because she was stupid enough to doubt your character, to make out as if you were some manipulative awful creature? She was awful, irredeemable.

“Principal Weems?” Enid prompts gently.

“Hm?” she responds, not taking her eyes off you.

“We’re going to head back to the school now. Do you need anything before we go?” She asks.

She shakes her head, thanking the three of them before they leave. And then it’s just you and her. She moves the chair closer to you and settles into it, kicking off her heels. She tentatively grabs one of your hands, squeezing it gently.

“I-I know that I-“ She whispers, her voice shaking. “That I- That the things I did- the things I said were- they were-“

She breaks into sobs then, squeezing your hand as she doubles over. She cries harder than she ever has in her life. She cries for what feels like eternity and she’s honestly not sure how long it truly was. Eventually, her sobs dissolve into hiccups and a constant stream of tears falling down her cheeks. She wipes at her eyes with her free hand, careless of the way her mascara smudges.

She knows this is the least of what she deserves. She deserves to be crushed by her guilt. She deserves to feel as though all the air has been sucked from the room, as though the weight of her callous words and cruel thinking will drown her. She deserves all the pain and suffering the world has to offer.

But she will stay by your side, ensure you’re taken care of and not alone. It’s the least she could do.

——————

Larissa essentially hadn’t left your side since that night. She had gotten Marylin to bring her laptop the first time she visited so that she could attempt to get work done while watching over you. She had admittedly gotten much less done than usual but was still managing to get everything sorted. After two days of Larissa not moving from your side she had a very entertaining conversation with Enid and Wednesday.

“Uh, Principal Weems, don’t take this the wrong way but uhm…do you think you should maybe uhm…well…” Enid tried.

“You look dreadful. You should go back to Nevermore and clean yourself up.” Wednesday interjected.

Larissa had stared at the two of them, wide-eyed, before huffing a sigh and agreeing to head back to Nevermore later that day to make herself more presentable. The two had offered to stay with you while she sorted herself out. She thanked them, taking the hint and quickly returning to Nevermore and taking a much-needed shower and changing her clothes. She made sure to pack a few days worth of clothes and toiletries. The whole time she was away she worried you’d wake up while she was gone. She worried you’d think she didn’t care. She didn’t expect you to want her there when you woke up, she would leave as soon as you told her to. She deserved your anger and hate. But she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if you woke up alone.

So she packed all her necessary belongings and headed back to the hospital, to you. When she arrived back at your room Wednesday and Enid were deep in a seemingly very serious conversation. She used the opportunity to get herself a coffee from the hospital cafeteria. The coffee wasn’t terrible, but it was nothing compared to the drinks you brought her every morning. You would always bring her the most delicious coffee in the morning with the sweetest messages written on them.

And she had the gall to say all your kindness, all your actions were nothing but an elaborate ruse? She was truly the most awful person alive.

She made her way back to your room, her chest heavy with guilt. When she arrived for the second time Wednesday was nowhere to be found and Enid looked like she was on the verge of tears. Larissa stood awkwardly in the doorway, clearing her throat to alert the young werewolf to her presence. Enid startles slightly, wiping at her eyes with the brightly coloured sleeve of her sweater.

“Oh Principal Weems! I uhm- She still hasn’t woken up yet. And Wednesday was here she just- well we…” she trails off, her lower lip quivering.

“Miss Sinclaire,” Larissa starts, pausing before coming to stand next to her. “Enid, I don’t know the intricacies of your relationship with Wednesday, but if you ever want to talk about it…”

“I just…” She sniffles, fresh tears coming to her eyes, “I really thought I-I was making progress with Wednesday and-and our friendship and her accepting that we’re you know actually friends. But then every time we have a moment or something she just shuts down and runs away. I just- I don’t know what to do.”

“Well,” Larissa starts, offering Enid a tissue which she gratefully accepts, “I’m not always the best with these sorts of things, goodness I all but ruined the one good relationship in my life… never mind that. With Wednesday, I think- she’s naturally closed-off but she truly does care about you. She may not express her affection in the same manner you do but I know for certain that she values you and your friendship. She just needs some time to figure out her feelings and figure out how she’s most comfortable expressing those feelings. So just, keep doing what you’re doing, but understand and give her time.”

Enid stares up at her with wide, tear-filled eyes before launching herself forward into Larissa’s arms. Larissa startles, glad for her tall frame for once. She tentatively wraps the poor girl in a hug. She holds her as she cries into her coat.

“You really are an amazing person, Enid, never doubt that.” She murmurs.

The two embrace for a while before Enid stops sniffling and takes a step back, she beams up at her principal.

“Thank you, Principal Weems, you’re the best…” She smiles, which then turns into a concerned frown, “What was that about ruining a relationship?”

Larissa’s face falls at that, all of the colour draining from it. She clears her throat and does her best to fight the tears gathering in her eyes. Turning to face your sleeping form, she lifts a hand up to play with her necklace, swallowing thickly. She opens her mouth to speak, to explain herself but can’t find the words.

“I’ve not been a very good person as of late…” Larissa whispers, “I hurt her, possibly beyond repair. And now she’s-“

She stops herself, shaking her head and wiping her eyes. It’s highly inappropriate for her to even be talking about this with a student. She really ought to-

“Well, I’m sure whatever it is that happened,” Enid says, “If you just talk it out with her and apologize then maybe it’ll all work out.”

Enid's hope is adorable, but Larissa knows it won’t be that easy. The things she said to you were unforgivable. She had very little hope of salvaging things between the two of you. She only wanted to make sure you were okay and you didn’t blame yourself for anything that happened, as you tended to do.

Enid leaves her alone to her thoughts and she settles back in the chair. She reaches over and grabs your hand again. She can’t stand the silence of the room, only permeated by the constant beeping of the machines. So instead, she fills the silence with her apologies. She cries and apologises over and over. And when she’s all out of apologies she tells you everything she wished she had told you before that night, everything she thought and felt.

“I love you…” She whispers shakily, “I’ve loved you for so long now. I- I will never stop loving you, regardless of what happens when you wake up.”

She falls asleep that night, holding your hand while awkwardly sprawled in the chair, hoping you wake up.

——————

Marylin visits quite frequently, much to Larissa’s confusion. She brings new flowers each time (which consequentially has left your hospital room looking like a florist despite the nurses clearing the room each night.) She watches over you to allow Larissa some time to stretch her legs and occasionally go home to shower. As she travels back and forth between the hospital and Nevermore, she comes to the conclusion that the reason for Marylin’s visits are because she was in essence the one who found you. She also constantly reminds herself that she has no right to feel jealous of whatever friendship you and Marylin may share.

Along with Marylin some of her students come and visit you. Yoko comes around the most, often not staying very long but checking on you nonetheless, occasionally leaving small trinkets with your still form. Despite not knowing the true depth of your friendship with her student, Larissa feels comfortable giving you two space when Yoko visits.

Enid and Wednesday were the next most frequent visitors. Often they came together, a good sign Larissa hoped, but sometimes one of them would come on their own. Often Enid would chat with Larissa, ever since they had their heart-to-heart a few days ago she found the young werewolf had deemed her someone she could gossip or rant to. Larissa didn’t mind, often she found she actually really enjoyed Enid's company.

Wednesday was the complete opposite. She would always come in, check your vitals and flip through your chart that sat at the bottom of your bed (Larissa had given up on scolding her for it after three days.) Then the dark-haired girl would nod at Larissa before slipping from the room, off to cause mayhem no doubt.

James had visited every day, often chatting to Larissa while he did. Larissa didn’t know how to tell him he should hate her, should be cursing her and being as cruel to her as she was to you, if not worse. So instead she took to making important calls just after he arrived. She figured he appreciated the time alone with you anyway.

On one rather strange occasion, Tyler Galpin had sheepishly knocked on the door of your room. He had glanced from Larissa to you and then stared at you with a hollow, almost guilty look. He had dropped off some flowers (adding to the ever-growing collection you now had) and then left. The entire visit had felt strange to Larissa but she didn’t have the energy to put into thinking about it further.

It had been over a week since the accident, twelve days to be exact. Twelve days of restless sleep, nightmares and uncomfortable sitting. Her whole body ached from being sat in the less-than-comfortable chair all day and night. Often she’d have to redo her makeup at least once a day (made so much easier with her shapeshifting abilities) on account of all the crying she was doing, despite feeling she had cried enough to fill the Pacific.

She worried you would never wake up. That one night she would fall asleep in that awful chair and wake up to the long unending beep of the heart rate monitor. And then they would take you away, and there would be a funeral and she would be completely and utterly lost without you. She worried you would wake up and quietly ask her to leave and never come back. She worried you would wake up and rightfully hate her and everything she stood for. She just worried.

Larissa never stopped speaking to you. On some days it was simply her telling you about the work she’d been doing or the latest update from Enid. Others it was her begging for your forgiveness. But she always made sure to tell you she loved you at the end of each day, regardless of whether you could hear her or not.

——————

It was the evening of the fifteenth day since the attack. Larissa was holding your hand with one of hers while she read a book she had been meaning to finish for months. She had taken to reading aloud, she found it helped keep her mind occupied and off of the crushing guilt she felt. She was halfway through the chapter when she felt your hand twitch.

She dropped the book, scrambling to bring her other hand over yours, her eyes rapidly searching her face for any sign that you may be waking up. Her heart was in her throat and if she hadn’t been holding your hand so tightly she would’ve noticed just how badly they were shaking. Her heart stops when your brows furrow, your nose scrunching. The beeping of the heart monitor beside you, began to speed up slightly.

“Darling?” she breathes out.

And then your eyes flutter open and her breathing stops.

You’re okay, you’re waking up. Everything is going to be okay-

Larissa’s back hit the floor, the chair she had been stuck to toppled beside her but she didn’t hear it fall. Everything was silent, the world had stilled. Her eyes were pinned to the ceiling staring at the fluorescent lights above as she began to feel a deep, burning pain in her neck. Slowly turning her head, she discovered the source. It was you.

#htwahp #larissa x reader #larissa x you #wednesday #larissa weems #principal weems

140 notes · View notes

firstelevens · 4 months ago

Note

sambucus for demon summoning please

27. demon summoning

Lightning cracks across the sky and Sam winces as the rain gets heavier, glad that he made it back home before the worst of the storm rolled in. When Sarah had asked him to please pick up some supplies for the family's upcoming Halloween party, his quick trip into New Orleans had turned into an all day affair.

Not that Sam minds, really: he missed the last couple Halloweens, between Cap duty and being Blipped out of existence, so he's looking forward to making up for it this year. He even asked not to be on call for the day, so barring any universe-threatening catastrophes, he shouldn't miss a thing.

With his plans for an evening run decidedly rained out, Sam turns his attention to the bags of decorations that he'd picked up from town, deciding that the responsible thing to do would be checking to make sure nothing was damaged in the car. If the bags of candy make their way out along with the decorations, that's just because he wanted to check that they hadn't melted in the heat.

Sam is just lifting a ceramic candle holder--skull shaped, naturally--out of its bag when he feels a sharp but brief pain on his palm, a stinging sensation lingering in its wake. It's not until he sets down the candle holder and sees red at its base that he even realizes what happened: there must have been a chip somewhere on the base, and it cut his hand when he went to lift it up.

It doesn't seem serious, but as he looks at his palm, he sees that it was deep enough for some blood to well up, and as he turns his hand to examine the cut closer, a drop of it falls from his palm. He'd be worried about his carpet, but he's right above the coffee table, so the blood lands on the kitschy Halloween-themed kerchief that one of the stores had thrown in for free with his purchase.

Sam pulls a tissue from the box on the table to press against the cut, but just before he can turn to find his first aid kit, there's a boom that rattles the very walls of the house. Smoke is rising from the scrap of fabric on the coffee table, and suddenly Sam's nose is filled with the smell of burning leaves and the sharp cold of winter, of gunpowder and hot iron.

He would be reaching for the fire extinguisher, or his phone, or something, if the smoke hadn't dissolved in what Sam could only describe as a reverse tornado, leaving in its place a--

Well, Sam would call him a man, except that most men that Sam knows don't have horns. Or a tail. Or the ability to poof into places they most certainly have never been before. He's in a suit, though--all black, three pieces, tailored if Sam had to guess--so wherever this guy comes from, he knows what a person should look like.

It should be terrifying. It's certainly unsettling. But Sam's Captain America, dammit. He completed all his extraterrestrial interaction training modules, and passed the assessments on the first try. And though he knows Redwing has already clocked the presence of an unknown party inside the house and is ready to call for help, he also knows that leading with aggression is never a good idea, even if someone has all the appearances of a threat.

"Hello," he says, trying to project the same steady confidence that he does at press conferences. "My name is Sam, and you're inside my home right now. Do you know how you got here?"

The not-quite-man doesn't say anything, just tilts his head and looks Sam up and down, his blue eyes sharp and attentive. If he didn't know any better, Sam would say there was a smirk on his handsome face.

He tries again, bringing a hand up to his chest. "Sam," he says slowly, gesturing to himself. "What's your name?"

"Nice to meet you, Sam," comes the reply, in a drawling, somehow familiar accent. "That's a real funny question, by the way."

"What, they don't ask peoples' names where you're from?"

A snort. He crosses his arms and Sam notices for the first time that his hands are gloved. "Oh, my kind ask for names plenty. I meant you asking how I got here."

"How's that funny?" asks Sam, narrowing his eyes. Part of him is already debating what'll be more annoying, continuing this conversation or inevitably dealing with Dr. Strange when it goes south.

"Because you called me here," the guy says, and begins to look around. "Where is here, by the way?"

Sam opens his mouth to reply, but cuts himself off when the guy tilts his head towards the nearest window, like he's listening out for something. Between the storm and the double glazing, Sam almost tells him that it's hopeless, except then:

"Bullfrogs. Rain. Marshland," says the guy. Then he sniffs the air, and instead of describing the muffins that Sam baked, he says, "Magnolias and bald cypress. We're in Louisiana. I don't think I've been here before."

That, for whatever reason, is the final straw. "Okay," says Sam. "This is over now. I don't know if Joaquín set up this prank, or Rhodey, or if this is Thor's brother who's dead but not actually, but...whatever this is, it's over now. Get out of my house."

Suit guy looks over at Sam again, almost with that same lazy, assessing gaze from before, except that his eyes are sharper now. "This isn't a prank," he says. "How do you not know that when you're the one who just summoned a demon?"

"I did fucking what now?"

With an eye roll, the guy leans over and lifts the kerchief from the coffee table, gingerly pinched between his gloved fingers. There are a few drops of blood on it, almost dead center.

"You spilled your blood on a rune of binding," says the guy, frustration in his voice now. He points to a symbol on the fabric. "This literally has my name on it. It binds me to the summoner. You summoned me and bound me here."

"I didn't even draw those," says Sam. "I got that thing for free at some tourist trap. Maybe it was an accident."

"This paint was made of ground bones and cypress ash and earth from this city," he snaps, and suddenly the room feels just a little bit warmer. "Do you usually mix custom paint with ritual ingredients for an accident?"

Sam wants to brush him off, but now that he thinks about it, the young woman at the counter had dropped the kerchief into his bag without asking. She'd only explained herself when he asked about it, and though she'd said they were giving them to all the customers, he doesn't remember seeing any more anywhere in the store.

"Fine," says Sam. "Let's say I believe that you're a demon and somehow I summoned you. I don't want you around anymore. You're un-summoned. You can leave."

The--ugh, it hurts to say even inside his head--demon just blinks at Sam, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"Shut up," Sam says. "I don't know how this shit works."

"Clearly," says demon guy. "Otherwise you wouldn't have been tricked into summoning an arch-fiend, now would you?"

"Stop saying that like it's a normal thing. I don't care where you're from. That's not a normal thing here."

"What, you were prepared for me to be an alien, but summoning a demon is too far?"

Sam grits his teeth. "Yes."

"Well, don't worry about getting used to it," says the--what did he call himself? arch-fiend? "Once I find this shop and whoever made these runes, this will all be over."

"I'm not letting you kill someone," Sam says immediately. "I don't care what she did. We'll figure out a way to deal with her, or get her to reverse it, but you're not killing her just for revenge."

For the first time, Sam's new demon friend glares at him, and suddenly it's a whole lot easier to believe that he's from somewhere infernal. "I wasn't going to kill her," he says, his voice soft but scarier for it. "I don't do that. But I can be...persuasive when I want to be. I thought I might try asking nicely."

Sam snorts. "Is that something you know how to do?"

The demon raises an eyebrow at Sam. "You want to find out?"

The room is still a little warm. Sam moves to open a window, not looking back at his houseguest until he's felt some cool air on his face. "I want to learn whatever it is I have to learn to get you out of my hair," says Sam. "I don't have time to keep a pet demon; I already have President Ross on my ass about what it means to be Captain America, and--"

"What did you say?" asks the demon, his eyes narrowed. "Did you just say Captain America?"

"Yeah," says Sam, pointing to where the shield rests against the couch. "I've been Cap for a year now."

For the first time since he materialized in Sam's living room, the demon looks troubled. "But it was someone before you?"

"Yeah," says Sam. "My best friend. Why?"

But the demon just shakes his head. "Just sounded familiar, is all. We have more important things to deal with."

"Well, nobody's dealing with those things at 7 PM in a tropical storm," says Sam. "And I'm starving, so I'm gonna eat. Do demons eat? You want some?"

The demon shakes his head. "Don't trouble yourself. You didn't mean to summon me; I'm not going to impose."

"Man, you really haven't been down here before, huh?" says Sam, crossing into the kitchen. He reaches up to open the cabinet for plates, then hisses in pain, remembering the cut on his palm only after it pulls sharply. "Shit. Forgot about that."

"Oh," says the demon. "Here, let me."

And Sam, for whatever reason, thinks that he's talking about the dishes. Instead, when he takes a few steps closer, the demon murmurs some words and waves a hand, and Sam feels heat wrap around his injured palm, the warmth of a fire just before it gets too hot. After a few seconds, the feeling goes away, and when Sam looks down at his palm, it's like there was never a cut there to begin with.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam can see the demon looking entirely too amused by what must be a look of complete shock on Sam's face. The only way he knows to move past it is to wash his hands at the sink, in spite of the lack of blood, and finish grabbing the plates from the cabinet.

"Grab a seat," he says. "And, uh- thank you..."

He trails off expectantly, waiting for a name, which he's just now realizing he never got. The demon looks at him for a moment, those blue eyes still just a little too canny.

"Bucky," he finally says. "Call me Bucky."

#girl I don't know what happened I have WORK TOMORROW #sambucky #zainab does ask meme things #my fic #philtstone #i played myself y'all this universe has LORE

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ghostlyeris · 23 days ago

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party fouls

read on ao3

Oisín is once again standing in Fabian Seacaster’s house, kicking off the start of a new school year. Once again, there’s a ranger by his side as he holds a glass of dubiously alcoholic milk. And once again, it’s all Adaine Abernant’s fault.

Unlike last time though, he’s nowhere near the beer pong table. And the ranger currently chatting his fins off certainly isn’t Ivy. She had run off half an hour ago as soon as she got wind of Aguefort Twister being played upstairs (it’s the same as regular Twister except they all try to maim each other into elimination), leaving him stranded alone in the kitchen figuring out how to stall time until it wasn’t a party foul to dip out for the rest of the night.

No one leaves a rager at eight p.m. after all.

It’s not like it’s a boring party. Oisín’s honestly not even sure if Fabian could throw a boring party. And no one's been treating him poorly either. He had at least expected that much after helping almost end the world but if anyone has a problem, they certainly haven’t told him. Although he’s not sure how much of that is people actually being chill vs. Fig’s firm insistence that it’s all love now which meant no fighting unless it was all in good fun.

Obviously they couldn’t completely outlaw violence. They’re still Aguefort students after all.

Oisín blinks and attempts to focus back on the tiefling talking to him. Like the last few times he’s tried, his eyes slide right off her face to the bright orange headband she’s wearing. It’s clearly a favorite; there’s several neat stitches holding the worn fabric together. And every time her voice warbles, she fiddles with the folds braided into her neat plaits. In fact, he’s pretty sure she matched her outfit for tonight to it. The warm whites and burnt browns she’s wearing certainly suggest as much.

It’s such a shame that it’s so fucking ugly.

Gun to his head, Oisín can’t tell you what they’ve been talking about for the last fifteen minutes. He just keeps getting drawn back to that ugly, ugly headband and it’s only due to years of ignoring his parents that he knows when to nod and hum in lieu of actually engaging in the conversation.

If Oisín didn’t have such an excellent internal clock, he would swear an hour had already passed just listening to her talk with how boring she’s been. It feels a little mean to think that about this seemingly sweet girl who approached him with a drink in hand just for him, but it’s true. And it’s his mind so it’s not like anyone will hear him.

She’s just…dull. In a normal teenager way. She came up to him with a big smile and a glass of bad baby milk she shoved into his hand and immediately started talking about senior year and Oisín realized he didn’t know how to connect with his classmates anymore.

Was he excited for senior year? He supposes. He just feels lucky that he gets to have a senior year after what he did.

Wasn't it so cool they were this close to graduation? If he even makes it that far. It’s a week into school and he’s already considering dropping out.

Does he have any college plans? In the loosest sense. He's not even sure there's a college willing to take him.

His therapist says he has a tendency for catastrophic thinking. He calls it preparing for any outcome.

The genial smile stuck to his face starts to burn so he lifts the cup to his lips to have a few brief moments of respite. The smell never gets any less strange no matter how many times he’s exposed to bad baby milk. At least the last time he went through this, there was a cute elf to cut through the pain.

He would do anything to have Adaine interrupt this. At least he knew how to handle interacting with her. Mostly. And maybe then he could disappear from this conversation without being rude.

“Oisín!”

Huh.

Look at that. The divine grace of the Elven Oracle saves him again.

His eyes snap away from the headband, greedily searching the crowd until he can see a shock of blonde pushing its way through throngs of people. He stills himself, making sure that he won’t do something embarrassing like wag his tail as soon as he lays eyes on her, and waits.

Ranger girl has completely left his mind, despite still being in front of him. He doesn’t really care if she notices.

Adaine’s more important.

Oisín spends a moment taking her in as she moves through the last few people blocking her way. Unsurprisingly, she’s stunning. She’s wearing her jeans and jacket like she always does. However, the crop top she’s in is certainly a new sight. It’s dark and flowy and Oisín can see sparkles shine under the light as she shifts.

He sends out a silent thank you to whoever is responsible for this gift.

It doesn’t take her long to make it over. The student body is more than happy to part for the party wizard, and those who aren’t get shoved out of the way via some fairly impressive body-checking. She’s so mean. He loves it.

She huffs with exasperation as soon as she stops in front of him. Her face is flushed red; either from exertion or inebriation. “Be easier to find when I need you.”

“Can't you use your divination to know where I am?” He can’t help the smile that curls across his face. Teasing her just comes as second nature at this point.

“Like I’d waste a spell slot on that.” Crystal blue eyes glance down to the cup in his hand. “Bold choice on the bad baby milk after the last time.”

Wh-how? She wasn’t even there for that.

Oisín can feel himself flushing purple underneath her gaze for a few long moments before she finally has mercy and answers the unspoken question. “Oracle, remember?”

Like he could forget. Still, that doesn’t mean he assumes she uses her grand divination abilities to watch him throw up in the street after his first interaction with dairy. It’s worth it though—even if only retroactively—just for the teasing smirk Adaine’s giving him.

Anything would be worth it if it means she keeps looking at him.

She clearly gears herself up to continue speaking, only to get cut off as the ranger steps forward with a hesitant grin.

“Hi!” Ranger girl glances between the two of them.

Adaine raises a singular, perfect eyebrow. “Hi?”

“I’m Laila.”

So that’s what her name was.

“That’s nice,” Adaine replies blandly. Something unspoken must happen in the five seconds of eye contact the two of them make before Adaine turns back to him, and Oisín watches as she moves to fully block Laila out of the conversation. She’s wearing a smile he’s never seen before as she continues. “I need you at the beer pong table.”

He blinks. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” She rolls her eyes but doesn’t drop the smile. It’s a strange one. He’s quite sure that she’s never smiled like this before. He would be more confused if not for the fact that he’s too busy being blinded by the feeling of Adaine’s attention on him. “The most annoying man in the world has been hogging the table for the past hour and a half, but I can’t just kick him out cause it’ll get messy and turn into a huge party foul. So you’re gonna kick his ass and humiliate him so badly he leaves. Okay?”

As if he would ever say no to her. As if he could ever say no to her.

He gives her a little mock-bow, just to watch her snicker. “Well if our party wizard demands it, who am I to deny you?”

“Great, let’s go.” Laila takes a half-step forward to follow and Adaine whips around with a different grin, one Oisín knows she stole straight from Aelwyn. “Bye!”

“Oh, uh, bye! I’ll see you later?”

Wide brown eyes dart in his direction, desperately hoping to make contact.

But he’s already turned to follow Adaine.

“Huh? Oh, sure, later.”

Half a beat later, Adaine’s fingers wrap around his wrist.

#the world sucks today. heres some oisaine to try and make it a little better #adaine abernant #oisín hakinvar #oisaine #fantasy high #my writing

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larkspyrr · 1 year ago

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chapter v — would i run off the world someday? (wc. 4.6k)

prev — masterlist / ao3 — next

reblogs are appreciated!

Wriothesley ducked, narrowly missing your glove as it brushed across the peak of his shoulder. You withdrew, making a tiny, frustrated noise and narrowing your eyes. You shook out your fist before returning to the stance he’d taught you, poised to strike again, a viper with its fangs bared and glinting.

"Good," Wriothesley barked, flashing you a breathless smile during the momentary lull between swings. "Keep it up!"

A wild grin lit your face, your eyes catching an arc of golden light. You lunged again and Wriothesley sidestepped it with ease, weaving in the opposite direction of the coming impact. "I intend to."

"Get one more good hit on me and we'll call it a day."

You stopped abruptly, arms sagging to your sides. Your face fell, the very picture of disappointment. "Already?"

Wriothesley tilted his head, letting his arms relax a bit, fists lowering from his face. He spared a glance at the massive bronze clock ticking away overhead. "We've been here for over —"

He had barely enough time to register your sorrow morph into savage delight before you struck, gloved fist landing squarely in his gut. He recoiled with an oof.

You straightened up, stretching your arms and neck with a grin. Your training shirt lifted slightly more than was strictly proper with the motion but he was almost too busy trying to process that he'd been duped to enjoy it. Almost. "Never let your guard down, Wrio," you said coyly. You stretched your arms out in a wide arc on either side of your body, bring them — and your shirt — back down where they belong. "My teacher tells me that all the time."

Wriothesley laughed despite his sudden air deficiency, a surprised hand still pressed against the point of impact on his stomach. "I suppose he does, doesn't he? Wise and handsome,” he said, lifting a brow. “But that was a cheap shot."

"Nothing about me is cheap," you shot back with a wicked grin and a wink, knocking the breath out of his lungs once again, more effectively than any punch ever had. You looked at him as you descended the stairs, grabbing a towel off the side of the ring and throwing it over your shoulder. "Tea?"

“Of course."

He forced himself not to watch your departure too closely — he was a gentleman, after all, no matter what the sight of you in your training clothes did to him. He'd thought, that first day when you emerged from the locker room in black trousers and a loose-fitting shirt that covered your skin all the way down to your wrists, that you looked more beautiful than you had dripping gemstones and lace — that you looked radiant, powerful, in your element. That maybe this ruse had been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea. That you’d be the death of him.

He still thought all of those things, from time to time. He was a perfect gentleman, of course. But no one could fault a man for admiring art. So long as he didn't participate in any heists down the line.

Or attempt to, anyway. Some art seemed quite resistant to being stolen, reinforced glass and thick screws in iron walls and armed gardes and he was absolutely fine with that because Wriothesley was a duke and would never disrespect art's wishes, especially when art had no intentions of ever marrying.

He felt perhaps the metaphor had gotten away from him a little.

In the weeks since you'd come to your arrangement, he had learned quite a bit, about not only the aristocracy and etiquette, but about you as well. Your relationship was unconventional, that much was certain, but nothing about Wriothesley's life could ever be called conventional, so he elected to roll with the punches, and Archons — you certainly kept the punches coming.

You stopped to pick up your dress from the basket near the locker room door, waving your hand at him as you slipped through and out of sight. Wriothesley released a catastrophic exhale as the door swung shut behind you and he was left, mercifully, alone.

He had expected a thousand different things from your attachment — not many of which falling under the umbrella of 'good' or 'easy'. He historically had a penchant for keeping people at arm’s length, not only for their own protection — but his as well. From the time he entered the Fortress for the very first time, young and shivering and wisp-thin, bloodstained and naive, traumatized and defensive, he'd had a knack for attracting trouble, from every corner of every nook, of every name and variety. It found its way to him like sharks to an open wound and all he could do to stop it was try not to flail and make it worse and hope that the shiver would pass him by.

As much as Wriothesley enjoyed companionship, he had to face the reality that he had to be particular with those he allowed into his inner circle.

He would never admit it out loud, but it was terribly lonely.

People relied on him. No one ever asked him to take the role after the previous administrator fled—he chose to fill it, opening the doors to the office and taking up the mantle while he still wore his production overalls. He took it, so it was his duty to take every responsibility that came along with it seriously. He knew that it would mean sacrifices; that it meant never truly belonging to the overworld again. But when he thought about it, had he ever belonged there anyway? Not even since he was first sentenced, but before? Perhaps even from the day he came to be, had he ever truly belonged?

Determination, cowardice, obligation, fury. Righteousness. Loneliness. The cocktail that made Wriothesley who he was and guided his every move left little room for anything else, his own desires be damned. And when his home and his people were threatened, he knew he’d find a way to overcome, as ‘overcome’ was what he had always done, through hell or high water or whatever primordial miasma or sunken cities existed in between.

He'd hoped you would be the key. He'd expected you to be a pawn; a convenience. Perhaps another obligation, another surefire trouble hounding him, hot on his heels. He'd expected you to maybe renege on your word; to call off the ruse or fail to rise to the occasion. He'd expected you to end up being just as cold, critical, and capricious as the rest of the court had led him to expect from one of their own. He'd expected you to confine him to a singular, stifling box lined with the barbed wire of perception, to treat him like dirt — or worse, to treat him like a duke.

He hadn't expected to find a friend. But friendship was easy with you, as everything was. Easy to bare a tiny shard of his soul, easy to laugh, easy to walk by your side and feel like maybe he belonged — somewhere.

Easy to want.

And if he had to remind himself from time to time that you were off-limits — for his sake as well as your own — well, that was no one's business but Wriothesley's.

"Not gonna change?"

He snapped to attention at your voice, seeing you'd returned, as lovely and perfect and put-together as though you'd never been in the ring at all, never left bruises in the shape of your fingers on Wriothesley’s skin. Your hair once again fixed back away from your face, all the little flyaways that made his pulse jump tucked back away where they had originally been. Jewels dangled in front of your exposed collarbone, still flushed from your shower. Your head, tilted in confusion as you looked at him still standing on the platform, covered in sweat, undignified and slack-jawed.

"Ah, sorry, I was, uh. Wrapping up," he said haltingly. "I'll only be a minute."

You smiled at him, unsure but trusting, and nodded, looking for all the world out of place against the backdrop of splintered wood and battered dummies and limescale.

Wriothesley pushed down his want to a place where it couldn’t reach him, and turned away.

"This is unexpected," Wriothesley said, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes from behind his desk. He hadn’t even gotten to his morning tea yet; you’d entered his office unannounced about as soon as he’d dropped into his chair.

You folded your arms in front of your dress — which, today, was an enchanting sea green with mesmerizing eddies of opalescent pearl. He stared at them blankly, tired eyes following their swirling path as he searched his brain for answers that continued to elude him.

"You were aware there was a ball today, were you not?"

He frowned in sleepy concentration. "I was,” he said slowly, recalling your words the last time you’d been by, a few days previously. You’d mentioned it in passing over tea, while explaining to him the differences between various silverware and what they were used for in polite society. He was pretty sure he knew the differences on a fundamental level, though the reasoning behind so much specificity still evaded him, as much about ‘polite society’ eternally did. “But —"

"There are still be a number of balls we must attend together,” you interrupted. You tapped a heeled foot against the bronze floor of his office. “To keep up appearances, as you well know."

He sighed. "And I take it one such ball is happening today?"

"Indeed it is." You tugged at the sleeve of your dress absently, angling a slow smile his way.

He rubbed a hand over his face before eyeing you warily. “And what is the occasion this time?”

“It’s a two-parter," you said cheerily, beatifically, an expression which immediately filled him with a sense of dread. You daintily sat on the edge of his desk. He sent up a quick prayer to whatever Archon might be listening to give him strength. You crossed one leg over the other, the action causing the fabric at your thighs to bunch slightly. Wriothesley's fingers twitched. "The ball itself follows a performance happening today at the Opera Epiclese. Some tragedy or other. It would be wonderful if you could accompany me, which —"

"Which is why you are here to bother me at the crack of dawn," he finished.

"Precisely," you confirmed, expression light and impish. "I wanted to make sure you didn't have other plans. Plus, I knew you'd have a harder time turning me down after I made the journey all the way down here."

Wriothesley sighed again. Defeated. You were right.

He’d spent the night dealing with a possible issue among the inmates — some scheme or other George had brought to his attention before it could come to pass, a warning passed along the other day in a surreptitious walk-by, the skittish boy disappearing back into the crowd before Wriothesley had even noticed the letter stuffed into his palm — but after a night of searching alongside a few other trusted staff members, had been unable to find anything amiss anywhere within the facility.

He’d suspected it would be the culmination after months of mutterings about something nefarious at play, rumors and tips promising enough that the absolute radio silence the night before had only increased Wriothesley's worry of what such a conflict would entail. Not to mention who and how many could possibly be involved. The challenge in learning more about such details did not bode well for their origins. Rumors spread like wildfire within a prison — unless there was someone you didn’t want to know you’d been talking.

Wriothesley was, as a result, nowhere near being in a physical or mental state to deal with the aristocracy’s games on that particular day. Frustrated and exhausted, he was fairly sure it had been a miracle of human will that he managed to drag himself to his office at all.

But it had been a while since he’d been inside the Opera Epiclese, and he supposed fewer curious eyes would be on him in the darkness of the audience chamber.

Plus, you would be there.

“Fine,” he grumbled, reluctantly getting back to his feet. He dropped his pen back to the desk where it clattered, a mascot for his own inner turmoil. “Just give me a bit of time to get ready and we can depart.”

You shot off his desk excitedly. "Oh, we have time! It isn't until this evening," you said. Your eyes were eager; an expression he was getting too know a little too well. He already knew the next words that would come out of your mouth. "I figured we could squeeze in a training session beforehand."

He laughed quietly, the sound quickly transforming into a yawn. "Of course you did."

“Also,” you said, holding up a silk-clad hand with an apologetic smile. “Today, I will help you select your attire.”

Wriothesley bristled. “What was wrong with my attire last time?”

“Oh, it was perfectly fine, if you were attending as a prison warden," you said carefully, one eyebrow delicately arched. "This is an opera, Wriothesley, and we are going to be attending arm-in-arm. I need to make sure you look the part.”

Wriothesley’s face fell. He was almost too tired to ask... but he had to know. “Is looking the part going to be uncomfortable?”

Your smile was wide and innocent. He didn’t believe it for a second. “Oh, absolutely. That’s a vital part of the experience.”

Arriving in the overworld never got any less disorienting, no matter how many times Wriothesley ascended from the depths to the Opera Epiclese, passing by centuries of despair and decay and brine. But finally, at last, the sun made its appearance high overhead, unimpeded by the sea, and he was above ground once more.

He fidgeted, adjusting his sleeve. You were right. The suit you had picked for him was uncomfortable.

He looked good, though.

And when you scanned him head to toe with an appraising eye before declaring he looked ‘very handsome’, well, he decided then and there that maybe he’d have worn anything if it made you think that. He was a simple man.

Wriothesley spared one more longing glance at the entrance to the Fortress before he descended the steps into the Fountain of Lucine courtyard, into an ocean whose waters he still didn’t understand, vibrant bursts of color, diamonds and champagne and violins and titles. You, on his arm, looking as though you had not a worry in the world. He was feeling strangely reminiscent of the night of your meeting. Proud to be the one you chose to stand beside.

It didn’t make the experience any less dizzying, of course. He marveled once more at the sheer force of the glittering, suffocating display and the legions of people who looked so at home in the midst of it, so in contrast to how Wriothesley felt with his stomach on the floor. He felt the same as he had as a boy, when he looked out of the viewing windows at the end of the ferry and into the vast Fontemer, living and breathing just ahead — close enough to touch, but separated by an impenetrable wall, forever separate from the shimmering iridescent fish who swam by with no regard for Wriothesley at all, wide-eyed and so, so young.

He realized too late that he had begun to hold your hold arm a little more tightly to his side. If you had noticed his moment of weakness, you didn’t say a word, smiling and offering a polite greeting to an acquaintance as you passed by.

He hadn’t even noticed he was being guided until you came to a stop by a flowerbed, identical to the one he had first approached you at, weeks ago. This time, the look on your face was kind, understanding, lacking any of the boredom and resentment of that first evening. Looking at him, as opposed to staunchly away.

His heart pounded.

"Wrio," you said, your mouth curving into a gentle smile. You paused, a bare breath of a moment, and then reached out to adjust his tie for him, your knuckles brushing gently against his throat as you fussed over it. He swallowed, wanting yet unable to look away from you, close enough for him to kiss, if he wanted to.

He definitely didn’t.

Archons, was he fucked.

You finished adjusting his tie before patting it down, straightening out his coat, fingers curled around each lapel. You let your hands rest on either side of his chest, apparently content not to move them just yet. He hoped desperately that you couldn’t feel his pulse thundering beneath your palms.

"Ready for the show?" you asked, eyes bright and playful.

A question which Wriothesley knew had two meanings. A question to ground him. He exhaled, willing a wave of tension to drain out of his shoulders. He lifted his free hand to give yours a squeeze, just above his heart. A small number of neighboring attendees watched the gesture raptly, gossiping mouths hidden away behind their hands.

"With you by my side," he said with a lopsided smile, "I'm ready for anything."

Wriothesley had always liked the opera. He had even when he bore a different name.

As a boy, when he would hang out around the Fountain of Lucine to pluck out stray mora that the other children hadn’t gotten to yet, he would cling onto the soft, warbling notes that radiated from the opera house’s shuttered doors. The boy would relish the sounds of the plays — tragedies, comedies, romances. He’d savor the voices clear as a Fontainian spring. He’d delight in the orchestras, telling a story together in perfect harmony, painting a landscape upon the blank canvas of his adolescent imagination.

He would find a quiet corner behind some flowering bushes to sit and close his eyes and dream. Sometimes, the boy would just appreciate the gift he didn’t have any mora to buy or any right to steal. Sometimes, if he was feeling brave, the boy would let himself imagine the voice of a mother he’d never known, singing to him from somewhere forever out of his reach.

After a while, whenever he went to the Opera Epiclese, the boy would forget to check the fountain at all.

After the boy who went by a different name was taken in by a host family, the faceless voice in his mind was replaced by the voice of a woman who smiled warmly at him and drew smiles in mustard on his sandwiches and gave him friends — brothers and sisters, bright, beautiful spirits — and he didn’t have to imagine anything at all. She and a man, a mother and a father, a bewitching duet, cradling his lonely soul and giving him a song of his own to fill the empty spaces in his heart. And for a while, the boy felt like maybe he wouldn’t have to close his eyes in a dark corner to dream anymore.

Until the man and the woman betrayed the boy and the song in his mind went silent, ceasing beneath the violent whip of a conductor’s cruel hand. The boy hadn’t gone to the Opera Epiclese to hear the singing since. In fact, the first and only time he had been at all was to stand trial for their murder.

He'd barely had any interest in music after that at all; until one day when he had marched into an administrative office to find a rusty old gramophone sitting on the desk, dusty and silent and dead.

He’d pulled out a record he found in a nearby drawer and fiddled with the device until it played an unfamiliar piano tune; crackling in protest but alive. He almost always let it play now while he worked. A new song for a new name.

You shifted at his right side, your arm pressing against his own, and the boy was brought back to the present, sitting in a high-backed, elegant seat in a darkened opera house he hadn’t been back inside since he was convicted, a lifetime and an identity ago.

A young woman stood center stage, head to toe in shimmering sapphire, illuminated from above by a singular spotlight shining unforgivingly at her from somewhere in the dark catwalk. She sang of the Oceanids, a haunting, reverberating melody which ushered the audience through her sorrow and loss, her dark eyes glittering with theatrical tears.

She brought her lament to its conclusion, eyes shut, manufactured tears sliding delicately down her cheeks at last, a finely manicured hand pressed demurely to the swell of her chest. Her voice echoed and waned before coming to its inevitable conclusion; the chamber’s silence reigning supreme for only a moment before an applause far too polite to have properly encompassed the appreciation for the performance spread amongst the audience. The singer curtsied low, the curtain falling and obscuring her from view before she rose once more.

Wriothesley clapped politely alongside them until the throng began to rise and make its way back out of the venue in orderly rows, like hundreds of affluent ants.

“I didn’t realize you were such a fan of the opera, Wriothesley,” you were saying from his side. You hummed thoughtfully. Eyes on him, even in the dark, even as the lights slowly returned to the opera house. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so attentive.”

“I’m a very worldly man,” Wriothesley said smoothly. “But I’m afraid you must have not noticed yet, my lady. I am far more attentive when it comes to you.”

You snorted, a quiet sound—one of his favorites—meant only for Wriothesley’s ears, and he smiled, suddenly feeling rather warm. You tapped your finger on the back of his wrist as you stood. “My father is just ahead. We should stop and say hello.”

Wriothesley nodded in agreement, allowing you to tug him in the direction you had indicated. His eyes finally found your father in the crowd, talking to a squat, older man he didn’t recognize.

“Hello, darling. And hello, Your Grace,” greeted your father as you and Wriothesley approached. The Viscount turned, a flute of champagne in his left hand, half-drained and sloshing with the rotation. His cheeks were pleasantly flushed, his smile friendly and open. He was steadier on his feet here than he had been at the previous ball. He was dressed impeccably. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“The pleasure is mine, my lord,” said Wriothesley earnestly, dipping his head. He nodded as well to the other man, who returned the gesture in kind.

The Viscount grinned toothily. “I do hope my daughter isn’t giving you too hard a time.”

Wriothesley chuckled, looking at you as you gave your father an unimpressed glare, arm still tucked in the crook of Wriothesley’s elbow. He didn’t have to work too hard to appear fond for the benefit of watching eyes. “Of course not, sir,” he said at last, tearing his eyes away from you to return his gaze to your father. “In fact, your daughter’s company has been the highlight of these past few weeks.”

You made a startled noise. “Oh, stop it,” you said hurriedly, cheeks coloring ever-so-slightly. “You’ll make a lady blush.”

Wriothesley smiled, hopelessly endeared. “It seems I already have.”

“Hush, you.”

Your father beamed, eyes darting between your pout and Wriothesley’s smile, wrinkling even further at the corners. “Nonetheless, you have my gratitude for looking after her,” he said, and gestured to the man still watching patiently at his side. “Your Grace, this is Lord Paquette. He’s an old friend of mine. Paquette, this is Wriothesley, the Duke of Meropide.”

The other man bowed shallowly, form perfect, nearly mechanical in its precision despite his apparent age. “It’s an honor to meet you at last, Your Grace.”

Wriothesley smiled tightly, swallowing down the usual nerves that gripped him when meeting a new person who almost certainly knew his past — and held his precariously positioned future in their hands (and in their vote). “The honor is all mine, Lord Paquette."

The man smiled and turned his attention to you, still watching the exchange with a careful expression. “It’s nice to see you as well.”

Wriothesley could feel you relax a little as you smiled at the older man. “And you as well, my lord. How is Gerard? Still in Sumeru?"

"He's well, thank you," he responded absently. He turned his attention back to Wriothesley. “How did you find the performance, Your Grace? Have you seen Mademoiselle Genevieve perform before?”

Wriothesley felt a twinge of irritation at his dismissal of you; could have sworn he felt you stiffen at his side. He tried to ignore it for now. “This was the first I've heard of her," Wriothesley answered honestly, managing a polite enough expression. "Her performance was very moving. It's been… quite a while since I’ve been to the opera.”

Your father smiled sympathetically. Lord Paquette looked very much the same as he had before.

Wriothesley didn't think he was a fan.

“Say. We’d love to have you join us on our next ride, Your Grace,” said the Viscount.

"Oh, yes." Lord Paquette offered Wriothesley a conspiratorial grin. “It's a nice afternoon for some of us gentlemen to get away from the missus for a bit. You'll understand one day, I'm sure."

The Viscount snorted indignantly, and suddenly Wriothesley knew exactly where you got it from.

"Oh, I very much doubt that. There are scant few places I'd rather be than by her side," Wriothesley said easily, turning his best devoted smile on you. Your returning smile was dry and humorless, a tiny private eye roll just for Wriothesley's benefit. Wriothesley looked at Paquette, then your father. "But I'd be honored to join you all for an afternoon."

"Oh, how wonderful," said the Viscount, clapping Wriothesley on the shoulder. "I will send word once we have a date set.”

“Thank you, sir. I will be looking forward to it.”

"Take care, Your Grace," the Viscount called as he departed, amicably greeting no fewer than three separate people before he was even out of earshot.

Lord Paquette watched him go, turning back to face the two of you once more. He smiled at Wriothesley and then at you, nodding his head. “And I actually would like to speak with you as well at some point in the near future. I have some business I think you’ll be interested in.”

Wriothesley watched you hesitate, glancing at your father’s retreating back before returning to Lord Paquette, who waited patiently for your response. “Me?” you asked incredulously, head cocked. “Not my father?”

“Precisely,” he said ambiguously, already looking detached from the conversation, eyes wandering over the rest of the crowd. “We will speak then, my lady. Enjoy your evening.”

“And you, Lord Paquette,” you said slowly, an uncertain tint to your voice.

With that, Paquette left, disappearing into the crowd. He had left his own champagne flute behind, standing empty and neglected on the stone ledge ringing the courtyard. Wriothesley found that he could breathe a bit easier without the added scrutiny of the older gentleman, exhaling slowly.

“That was odd,” you said, pulling your arm from his and leaning against the ledge. Your eyes were narrowed analytically as you scanned the rest of the attendees. The ball was getting going in earnest, violins making their reappearance, servers darting around with startling agility amidst the crowd, balancing mountains of champagne and hors d'oeuvres on the trays held precariously aloft in their hands.

Wriothesley hummed in agreement, moving to lean against the ledge at your side. “That sort of thing not happen often?”

"Someone having business with me, of all people?" you said dubiously. "No, I can’t say it does. Should be interesting, at least. But he probably just intends to ask me to marry his son, having not even consulted him about it, if I had to wager a guess."

Wriothesley was quiet for a beat, lost in thought.

“So,” he drawled finally, the vowel long and drawn out. You quirked an eyebrow at him curiously. “Riding?” he prompted.

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “My father would just like for you to come riding with him. You should be honored. It means he likes you," you explained. “It’s something they do often in the warmer months. An age-old tradition for the men of the court to go frolic in the fields for a few hours and talk about fishing or gambling or whatever it is they talk about out there.”

Wriothesley blanched as realization finally dawned on him. “Like on a horse?”

You look at him deliberately, lips curved with amusement. “Yes, Wriothesley. Like on a horse.”

“And you can’t come?”

“Traditionally speaking, no, I can’t come.”

He swallowed thickly, a sharp pang of trepidation seizing his chest. “I’ve never ridden a horse.”

“Well, then,” you said brightly, ruffling his hair as he stared on in horror, seeing nothing in particular. “There’s a first time for everything. I suppose we have our next lesson laid out before us.”

Wriothesley’s eyes snapped to yours. “We’re going riding?”

“Yes,” you said. You flicked a sly look at him out of the corner of your eye as you turned, weaving your arm back through his. ‘Like on a horse’.”

a/n: wrio: haha it's totally fine to be actually attracted to the person i am pretending to be attracted to. just physical attraction. totally normal. nothing to see here

i have been really looking forward to this chapter. it’s more character study than plot but after this, we get into the real thick of things :) honestly i could spend 200,000 words just ruminating on this guy's character and potential past. i want to put this man under a microscope. hoyo give me more challenge!!

also, to answer a question i got in a comment and a couple DMs - no clorinde/wriothesley will be happening here! i avoid writing/reading love triangles like the plague because they do not spark joy for me, personally. in here, wrio and clorinde are just good friends! clorinde has other prospects <3

i have been bad about naming songs from the titles, this chapter's title is from 'runaway' by AURORA

#wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #wrio #wrio x reader #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #genshin imagines #reader inserts #reader insert #lark.writes #🌊

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