#next up is dark red scarlet >:3

[toastydoll]

Ultra Pink

[electricgg]

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 1: I Could Be The Eye Of The Storm

Masterlist Chapter 1 (Here!) / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 /

It has been said that when a person is on the verge of death, their brain shows various memories of their life for seven minutes. Seven minutes of beautiful, happy memories that marked your life.

From the moment you gave the wailing, shocking cry as the cold air of the outside world hit your wrinkly, red skin, fresh out of the womb, until the very last few moments, you keep on fighting to keep air down your lungs, and your heart slowly stops pumping blood into your veins.

A way of welcoming the end of your life peacefully, if you can see it that way. 

Most people become cynical when it comes to the end of the cycle of life. Either for loss of faith or not wanting to think about what comes after it. 

It’s probably because of fear.

No, it’s definitely because of fear.

Everyone is afraid of what happens when you cross to the other side. That’s a fact. A human fact.

That’s why the seven minutes are such a comforting idea. Seeing all the good things you have lived before going away into a black abyss of uncertainty. 

A last ray of warm light. 

(Y/N) Wayne doesn’t get her seven minutes.

Well, not her own seven minutes.

From the moment her body sank to the bottom of the water, Wayne knew her seven minutes would not be of warm, happy memories.

They would be of dark, cold hallways. Empty chairs on her birthday table. Short excuses and empty apologies for any type of tournament they didn’t assist. Cold shoulders and annoyed stares whenever she spoke or made ‘dumb’ questions.

Her dad’s empty silence. Dick’s soft avoidance. Jason’s burning anger. Tim’s sharp cut-offs. Damian’s freezing hatred. 

Perhaps Death would allow her to have Alfred’s warming smiles and compassion. Maybe even the sweet melody of her mother’s humming voice as she laid on that small bed in the asylum.

Instead, she gets seven minutes of a complete acid trip.

A small town with overly nice people.

A woman and a man who are completely in love with one another. A house that changes from black and white to color, the furniture changing with the decades.

Two babies, twins, a girl and a boy.

The rush of the wind against her skin as she runs in a complete sugar rush with a man with silver hair and then the woman saying ‘if she was to break the sound barrier, she would take her brother with her’.

A huge fight with blows of red and purple and guns ending in with a warm family hug with the twins, a scarlet witch, and an android with a soul.

A good night scene, the woman kissing each of them on the forehead before turning the lights off.

The boy crawling into the girl’s bed and both of them holding to each other tightly as their world crumbles around them in a red dome.

‘Good night,---’

‘Good night, Billy.’

That name gets stuck in her brain as life slips away from her lungs. It echoes in a gentle, childish voice as it grows farther and farther away. Just like the air bubbles escaping from her mouth and nose.

‘A twin,’ a final thought muses. 

‘I always wanted a twin.’

‘Please, let me have that life next time.’

‘Please, let it be–’

•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•

“Billy!”

Those are the words (Y/N) Maximoff tried to say as her mouth graggled and vomited all the water from inside her lungs once she fought to remain afloat in the deep, dark water. The left side of her head throbbed like hell, making her dizzy and tired while swimming in a puppy-like style on her right side to finally reach the edge of the nasty pool she woke up in. 

Climbing it was another gigantic chore, but she refused to remain on the murky (read as definitely contaminated) water any longer.

Coughing up her guts and wheezing for air while drenched in nasty water and bleeding wound on the head was so going to the ‘Situations I Never Wish To Repeat Ever in My Life’ list. 

It would be the only one on it, but with the way things are looking at the moment, she is pretty sure that list is only going to keep growing.

She lay on her right side once she no longer felt like she was choking. Or maybe because her adrenaline finally crashed and her strength just gave up. 

Taking deep breaths, the situation began to sink in.

She was supposed to be dead. Gone. Kaput!

Or at least that’s what she thought. All that she remembers is Billy.

Half of her, never too far away. Always together. It’s how it is supposed to be.

Billy is not here. She is alone.

Alone. Cold. Wet. Hurt. 

Did she mention being wet? She hates being wet. She hates how heavy it makes her clothes (a uniform, from what she could see?). She hates how cold it makes her skin. She hates how it reminds her of the empty floating space she was held in before Billy brought her back.

Took him long enough! Billy knows how much she hates empty dark places.

With a groan, she sits up on the cold concrete, her wet figure leaving an imprint of water forming her silhouette as if it were a murder scene. All that was left was the white tape, the thought of it making her snort.

She came to regret it once the wound on her head gave a sharp ping of pain, almost as if her body was punishing her for thinking such morbid things.

Wincing as her hand went up to touch where the wound was throbbing. The groan that was about to come out turned into a rough cough once her fingers came up bloody. 

Her fingertips rubbed the clogged blood between them, eyes moving from them to look around her.

It was an abandoned place. By the looks of it, back in its former glory, it would have been a public pool. The sun chairs were all broken, rusted, and twisted in ways that left the tubes looking like some abstract sculpture. Some umbrellas were scattered around; either closed, open, or broken in various degrees.

The pool was still filled with water, if you call it that. It was a deep green that switched between brown and black depending on which angle you looked from.

A wired fence surrounded the place, some noticeable holes that indicated people would sneak in to do graffiti, drink or smoke if the clear signs on the walls and scattered around the floor weren’t enough.

A wave of nausea came over her as she looked back againg at the pool. She scattered on her knees as quick as possible to empty her stomach once again on a overgrown bush by the fence.

She clung to the fence, finally gathering the strength to stand up on her feet. Shivers went down her spine at the feeling of her socks squashing water on her pretty much ruined school shoes. Her head hanged for a few moments, head ringing from all that transpired in the last few minutes.

Billy. She needed to find Billy.

He has all the answers. She was a hundred percent sure he was the one that put her here. Not sure why he left her on her own and hurt and drowning in a pool that pretty much looks like the dark plague made in a liquid, but he would explain. He has an answer for everything. Always. And he will probably know where M–...

Her head suddenly went blank. As if it where a clean slate that left her in a dazed state. Once it was over, a groan of pain was heard from her, a splitting headache forming behind her eye balls.

…Wait. What was she thinking?

…

Billy. She has to find Billy.

She clung to that name, scrunching down a hole on the fence big enough for her to slip out. A few loose wires scraping against her uniform and legs. One even managed to snag at her skirt once she stood up fully on the other side.

Grumbling under her breath, taking the now broken cloth and finishing ripping it off.

‘Now she has an improvised bandage!’ A very animated thought came to her mind making her smile pleasantly.

Thankfully, the blood stopped flowing a while back so wiping the residue wasn’t that bad. She was a little bit hesitant to use it as bandage due to it being soaked with the water of the pool but she had no other choice.

Either get an infection or walk around looking like a murder victim.

“Infection it is,” she muttered while moving her hair away from her left temple and wrapping the cloth around her head.

She probably looked like Rambo if he was a pathetic wet child.

“Now, which way should I go?” she wondered out loud as she looked around the alley way. The building walls were too tall to see beyond them, and the sky was already turning pretty dark.

Walking carefully as she used the bricked wall as support, the next thing that came to view was a busy street.

People going from side to side, not even giving a spare glance at others. Some on their phones scrolling or on calls. Others simply walking while staring at a destination but never at another person. Men, women, kids, teens, of all ages.

Nobody spared a glance at her.

Which is honestly the best scenario from her point of view. No time to delay on her search.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a gruff voice asked from her side.

Busted!

She moved her head to the side to look at the man. Tall, a bit round but more like a dad bod. Greying brown hair on the sides along with a mustache. Old fashioned glasses and a thick coat with a insignia on the left side.

A police insignia.

‘Stand down!’ ‘Handle the military, I’ll be right back!’ ‘Nice tricks.’ ‘Like yours too’-

Voices scattered around her head in flashes. She didn’t see who were saying them, only blurry silhouettes of color moving around before she was brought back to the present moment.

She took a step back. The man frowned. Not in anger but it looked like worry.

His gaze moved over her, checking her until he reached her face. Then he looked almost shocked for a moment.

Or was I something else?

“Wayne? What are you doing all the way down here? And alone?” He began tossing questions as he took another step closer and grasping her shoulder gently but firmly.

‘So it was a worried expression, got it.’

“What happened? You’re soaked to the bone!” He took off his coat and wrapped it around her. It was way bigger on her but she couldn’t complain over the warmth it brought her. She hadn’t realized how cold she actually was.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mention it, dear girl. But you haven’t answered my question, Wayne.” His voice turned a bit firm.

Damn. What was she supposed to say? And who the hell was Wayne?!

“Um, I don’t remember?” She lifted her shoulders with an awkward smile.

Best thing to do when you get caught by the police is too always act dumb. Or pretend amnesia. Which isn’t that far away from the truth, but hey, A win is win!

The man frowned, rubbing his temples as his glasses knocked up to his head with a sigh. An exasperated one. Then he took a deep breath and began to move her by the shoulders and start walking.

“You obviously got a wound on the head, so it could be a concussion. I’m driving you to the station so the Doc can check on you, alright?”

He asks as if she had a choice, which she clearly didn’t.

But, she let him walk her to the patrol car. Weighing her options, this was the better choice. Her main plan was asking around for Billy and maybe even climbing into the ceiling of a building and yell for him…

She wasn’t the best at planning. Sue her.

Now, she has better options. At the police station, she could get a change of clothes (maybe even get a quick shower if she begs?), get her wound checked out and also find information on where Billy is. All of that before they find out she is not whoever this Wayne person is.

Three birds in one shot! (Hopefully four birds. She stinks like a sewer rat.)

“Can I sound the alarm?!” She asks as soon as both of them get in the car.

He looks a bit startled at the sudden excitement. Even a bit off putting. But he just shakes his head with a quiet laugh and shows her the switch.

“Just wait until we get to-“

The alarm started blasting at full volume along with manical squealing.

•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•

“Yes, thank you so much for the call. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

The old phone clicks the end of the call, a moment of silence interrupted with a sigh from Alfred as he walks away to gather his coat and keys of the car. He is grateful the call came in just as he finished seasoning the dinner for the night.

The boys are grown enough to know where the utensils and plates are to serve themselves. He doesn’t know how long this would take and traffic in Gotham is a living nightmare.

But before leaving, he made a quick detour through the manor. His destination; the master’s office. He had to be informed about this.

Even if it has been years since he actually made an effort for Lady (Y/N).

The young lady of the house has always been deemed as a quiet presence by the members of the family. Keeping her thoughts and opinions to herself. Polite and well mannered. Willing to do any type of chore if it meant having at least someone to notice her.

A greeting word, a gentle touch or even a warm hug. But all of that were for nothing.

She wasn't deemed loud enough amongst her peers to matter.

But to Alfred, she was the loudest presence to ever set foot in the Wayne Manor. It was almost sad how deaf the rest of the family was when it came to (Y/N).

Three sharp knocks on the door were enough for Master Bruce to let him enter the office. The curtains were already closed, almost giving a dark atmosphere if it weren't for the warm light lamps on his desk and by the corners of the room.

Master Bruce didn't even lift his head from the documents he was revewing.

"Is something wrong, Alfred?" his deep tired voice rumbling in the air as he switched documents. Sounds of papers being moved around made Alfred frown for a second.

Always a messy man when it comes to papers, that's why he does everything in that blasted computer in the cave.

"Yes, Master Wayne," he cleared his throat before continuing.

"Dinner is ready but hasn't been served. The young masters can serve themselves while I go to the police station to pick up the young mistress."

Silence.

"...The police station?"

His tone remained the same. As if talking about the weather. It irked Alfred how his master didn't seem to react accordingly to the situation.

"Yes. Chief Gordon was the one to call. Said he found Lady (Y/N) wandering around by herself by Grant Park. Completely drenched and out of it. He mentioned she was getting checked by their doctor in case she got a concussion."

Master Bruce took a few moments to finally lift his gaze from the papers. Alfred had spent many years besides Bruce, but sometimes he couldn't place what his masters nonverbal actions meant.

Just like right now.

"...Bring her. I'll talk to her later." his gaze turned down once again.

Alfred nodded and left the office without another word until her reached the car. Once he closed the driver's door, he let out a very deep and exhausted sigh.

He could feel the disappointment flowing up inside. It felt almost like failure. Failure for not being able to drag Bruce by the ear and make him drive to the station. For not having the audacity to scream at him for how he acts towards his own flesh and blood.

Anger at himself for not being able to do more for his young mistress.

As Alfred began to drive through the gates of the manor, he took notice of how the sky had turned already dark.

But what stood out was the quick flash of green and silver striking in between the black clouds. It was gone in just a second, the loud rumbling of thunder almost making the car windows shake.

He couldn't help but feel like it was omen.

Good or bad, that was to be determined.

•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•

Author's note: First chapter done! Please reblog and like. Do let me know what you guys think of it and what theories come up to mind with all the hints I left around the chapter! Hopefully, next chapter will be up next sunday if college doesn't kick my ass lol. Lots of love! GG✨

Bonus Memes:

[anantaru]

thigh riding with diluc while he’s working on his office on dawn winery 🤤 he’s busy with work but he could never deny his darling some pleasure

⊹ ‧₊˚ ᰔ cw. thigh riding, touch starved diluc <3, fem! reader

scarlet hair tousled, red cheeks resembling that of strawberries and a shirt with a couple buttons opened, all accentuated by a sheen lace of sweat around diluc's sharp collarbones as he exhales shakily into his chest.

parted lips, lidded eyes, the master of the dawn winery certainly believed that in the beginning, this was a good idea, not to mention easy— barely a sweat, right? he thought to himself, no work he had to actually participate in while you're the one showing him how your soft folds press and drag against his clothed thigh, your whines octaves higher the more you glazed your wet pussy over the aching fabric.

and you press forward, press back, arch your back as he looks at you, his face tilted to the side when you pull your shirt up to reveal your tits and erected nipples, all the while beginning to play with one mound— squeezing and squeezing your breast so filthily that he shamelessly moans as his dick throbbed in his pants.

he was thinking that fuck; i want to fuck you, fuck you so much, want to flip you against the table and pull my dick inside you so hard, it will make you see stars baby it will.

yet of course, diluc, your sweet diluc, always angelic and gentleman alike— wasn't one to choose those particular words, they weren't in his vocabulary.

perhaps, they were barely used, yet they were there.

you wrap your arms around his neck and enjoy the rough treatment of fabric on your sore folds, tits messily pressed into his chest now, eyes glimmering with desire to cum.

diluc thought to himself that what would be the odds, if he would just skip his paperwork and sufficiently stretch your hole like you deserve before he spreads white strings of his cum onto your sore walls— didn't someone once claim that having something hot and sticky plastered onto something sore would help aid against the soreness? or maybe he just made that up right now.

dilic's thigh desperately changes angles, nudges up and helps you prolong your sweet pleasure as two warm palms graze at your hips, keeping you steady on his thigh before he groans again— sounding absolutely desperate, almost like a pathetic man, so touch starved that it killed him inside.

your toes curl when he rose his leg up to faintly brush over your clit, until he could see your sticky fluids mess up his pants. it's so hot, no, scrap that, you were, you were the hottest, most beautiful, fuck, he cannot find words to describe you.

not only that, but after a while, the master of the dawn winery was on the brink of turning wrecked and feral— diluc now, started touching himself helplessly, fondling with the obvious bulge in his pants while watching you. always watching you.

he grinds needily into his palm until the hot splash of you cumming all over his thigh made him, at the same time, batter his cum inside his messed up boxers, wet strands and ropes of his seed, showing a wet splotch imbedded into the dark fabric.

ah well, you know what comes next, don't you? because diluc cannot work like that? don't be silly. he might as well just make his filthy dream come true.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[viperify]

AU | ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

₊˚.☾⋆ Mine, forever.

Short Summary: Strange dreams and memories plague your sleep. You would do nothing rather than to forget about everything that has happened—but Tom has other plans for your shared future.

Warnings: obsessive!Tom, biting, blood drinking, Tom doesn’t know what to make of his feelings, slight misogyny, kidnapping I suppose? Also manipulation through the effect of a vampire’s bite.

A/N: This is my participation for week 2 of @acourtofchaos’ Festival of AUs! Just had to take part with my beloved vampire Tommy. <3 — Repost bc I had to make some slight adjustments. Sorry!!

wordcount: 2,5k

also, this is part two of In His Fangs!

Bruised.

Marked.

Branded.

That’s how you left the forest that night.

But not only that.

Tom Riddle was alive—and it would be a burden for you to carry alone.

—

You expect him to come back—almost wait for it. The first few nights, you don’t get to rest. Tossing and turning, trying methods from old books in your attic. It’s all no help. The memory of him, his scarlet eyes, his sharp fangs dragging over your neck, cold hands roaming over your bare skin—keeps you wide awake for most of the night.

Days and weeks pass. Still, no sign of him. People have stopped talking about Voldemort’s return. Just a rumour. Nonsense someone made up back when all these dead sheep were found.

Just rumours, you repeat to yourself, shaking your head slightly. Right.

That evening, after your shower, you take a look in the mirror, eyes drifting to the letters he’s carved just below your collarbone. They have reduced to scars, small imperfections on your skin. Still very visible, and not something you could cover up—no matter what you tried, nothing worked. They’d always shine through, even if you put five layers of makeup.

You have decided to stick to high-neck shirts from now on.

However, today, when you reach to trace them with your finger, you feel a slight burn—not much, barely there—yet, your hand jerks back at the sensation.

It’s almost been four weeks since you last saw him—which means the next full moon should be right around the corner.

You swallow hard at the realisation.

That same night, when you close the curtains to your bedroom window, you take a look at the moon. It’s an almost perfect circle, shining brighter than usual. So bright, you pull the curtains shut, as to protect yourself from it.

As you do, a flash of red in the distance. So small, you barely even register it.

You look again.

Nothing.

You are tired, drained. Sleep catches up faster than you’d want it to, and mere minutes later you are asleep. One of the deepest sleeps you have had in a while.

For a reason.

You don’t often dream, certainly not lately, as you have hardly slept anyway. Though today, you can’t seem to catch a break. Dreams of your years at Hogwarts, of classes and free periods, of your late-night study sessions in the library. They all have something in common—such a small detail, it’s easily missed if not pointed out.

Tom is in every little scene. Sometimes staring at you from across the courtyard, other times reading a book in the library, just an aisle further.

You never noticed, but now it seems so straightforward.

The quiet, nerdy boy with no family to go home to during holidays, the young, handsome prefect with the prettiest eyes and softest hair had been observing you back in school.

As soon as you connect the dots, still half asleep, these little memories fade into a blur—and the scenery changes.

Darkness.

Creaking wood.

The soft, vanilla scent of lit candles.

Freezing cold hands roaming over your exposed skin—having you shiver.

A sudden, sharp pain on your neck—

You shriek awake, drenched in sweat. Looking around you, you are met with nothing except for darkness and silence.

Just a dream.

He won’t come back.

Never.

Right?

Though you have slept for at least eight hours that night, you feel more exhausted than before you went to bed when you wake up in the morning.

Getting out of bed is hard, your neck stiff and sore. But work is waiting, and these days you can’t allow yourself to call in sick. They’ll replace you on the spot if you even only attempt to. You sigh. It’s messed up, but that’s how it is. And you need this job and the money if you don’t want to end up without a roof over your head—urgently.

You carry yourself over to your bathroom, applying toothpaste to your toothbrush before you start cleaning in circular motions. When you look up at your reflection in the mirror, you gasp—toothbrush falling into the marble sink.

There are massive bags under your eyes, cheeks sunken in, eyes glassy. You look horrible—so sick you have no business going outside, let alone working.

But weirdly enough, you don’t feel how you look.

You are just fine—yes, your neck could be better, and you are just a tiny bit dizzy—but that could as well be the result of your recent sleep deprivation—or the fact you are constantly worrying about everything.

Heading to your workplace, you notice people staring, whispering to each other as you pass. You try to ignore them as best as you can, releasing a deep sigh as soon as the entrance door to the little coffee shop you work at closes behind you, the one just around the corner from the Three Broomsticks with barely any customers.

You prepare for your shift, and as expected, it’s slow. Barely served two customers before lunch. Just as you are about to close the shop for break, a man enters. Tall, dressed in all black, face almost unrecognizable as it’s hidden behind a hat, scarf and coat.

Weird, it’s summer.

“We are about to close,” you apologize with a soft smile.

He gets seated nonetheless.

Internally, you want to tell him to leave. Drag him out by his hair if you have to. You are tired, exhausted—but also not in the mood to argue with someone who might just quickly drink a coffee and then leave. Especially when you need every customer you can get anyway.

So you serve him his order.

He doesn’t talk much, yet you feel his gaze burning through you, almost uncomfortably so. You think you know his eyes from somewhere—but you can’t exactly recall from where.

“You look sick. Are you doing quite alright, sweetheart?” He asks, stirring his coffee. Eyes meeting yours as you don’t immediately find an answer.

The voice.

You could swear—

His hand briefly brushes against yours as you clean spilled water from the table, and you flinch at the sensation. They are freezing cold.

“I am— fine.” You reassure, though startled.

He doesn’t speak again after that, and five minutes later, he’s gone. Left a tip, though.

With a note.

“Looking forward to seeing you again.”

You throw it away when you get home.

That night, it’s the same ordeal. Scars burning more than the day before, moon completing a full circle. Dreams of your past, each of them featuring Tom, as though you can’t escape him. Then, memories of that one night in the hut. Clearer this time. How he touched you, where he touched you. How he marked and branded you as his.

Again, you manage to tear yourself from the dream, waking up. Hair stuck to your damp forehead as you turn on the light, checking if there is anyone.

Nobody.

Just as you are about to go back to sleep, you spot a note on your bedside table.

“Come and find me, sweet girl.

Tomorrow, 20:00. I will be there.

If you don’t—as you see, I know where to find you.

And remember, I don’t appreciate disobedience.”

You quickly scrunch the paper, throwing it across the room. You wish he’d just finished the job last time. Like he did with the animals.

Why didn’t he?

—

It’s not that you want to go back, no. But you would rather have it happen in the forest than in your own sacred four walls. Again, you ask yourself—why you? Why not someone else?

Tom is already waiting when you enter the wooden cabin, deep in the heart of the Forbidden Forest.

“I knew you would come if I called for you.” He drawls, stalking towards you.

You scoff. “Did I have a choice?”

A grin tugs at the corner of his lips. “Of course not.”

His eyes scan your body as though he wants to imprint every detail in his mind.

Even more beautiful than last time he saw you, Tom thinks. So pretty when you are scared, shivering. When your heart rate is twice as high as normal—pumping his favourite blood through your veins.

That’s what he’s been waiting for ever since you left.

Tom has done research in the meantime. Gone to several healers he knew he could trust—mostly those closely related to the Malfoys and Rosiers—where he assumed the secret of his return would be safe.

They told him what he had already suspected.

His death broke the curse of the Love Potion his mother had used to seduce his father. And suddenly, when he chose to return as a vampire, all these pent-up feelings he was never able to experience broke free.

He’d always seen you as someone special. An intelligent girl back at Hogwarts, someone that could challenge him—it intrigued him. He observed you, without you ever noticing. But Tom never knew what to make of this strange pull he had towards you.

Until he saw you wandering the street, smelled the scent of you and your blood from a mile away. All these emotions came crashing down onto him, and he realised what it was that interested him about you.

But even now, that he is able to feel—he doesn’t yet know how to love.

So it has turned into obsession instead.

An unknown feeling spread in his chest whenever he saw you from afar. Something that made him crave you, your touch, your affection. He didn’t like it. It made him vulnerable. You made him feel like that. And Merlin, he wanted to punish you for it.

So he lured you into the forest that night. Took everything from you.

He needed you to want him back. But it didn’t happen. So, instead, he made sure you would be his either way.

His initials carved into your skin a constant reminder of who you really belonged to.

“You did that, didn’t you?” You ask, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible. “The dreams, the note. The man at my work. It was all you.”

He nods, face mere inches from yours.

“Why?” You ask again, more silently this time. Voice barely above a whisper.

His hand tilts your head upwards so you are forced to look into his eyes, his thumb wiping over your trembling lips.

“You are so beautiful.” He whispers after what feels like an eternity. Completely disregarding your question. Your heart sinks.

You shake your head. “Answer me.”

His hand trails down your neck, barely touching, slipping beneath the fabric of your sweater—pausing briefly as he feels his initials on your skin.

“You are mine. I usually keep my eyes on my belongings.”

The next sentence slips faster from your lips than what you would have wanted it to.

“You shouldn’t walk around in Hogsmeade. What if— people recognize you?”

His eyes, once focused on where his hand rests beneath your top, snap up to meet yours, a subtle grin forming on his lips.

“Since when do you care? It was you who got me killed, after all.”

You’d expect him to be angry with you—but it’s the opposite, really. His head dips, placing a single, feather-light kiss to your jaw.

“I am sure you’d do nothing rather than go running to your pathetic Aurors at the Ministry and report the rumours are true, no?”

Tom doesn’t wait for a response—instead, he starts trailing kisses down your neck, directly along your vein.

A shiver runs down your spine. You shake your head.

“No— no, I don’t.”

“Mmmh,” he mumbles, his fangs scraping against the sensitive skin of your neck. “Not convinced.”

“Please, I—“

“Shh.” He shushes you, tilting your head to grant him better access to your neck. “Just be still, and I won’t hurt you.”

You nod slowly, a single tear falling down your cheek. You just want this to be over.

Before you even get to process his next move, his teeth sink deep into your flesh, drawing the first drops of blood, pinning you against the wooden panels of the wall. It burns at first—until a warm, pleasurable sensation spreads throughout your body. Your breathing and heart rate slow, and you relax against the wall.

It’s quick, less painful than last time. You try to endure. Not fight back.

It’s hard.

Each time he praises you, or even makes the tiniest sound as he feeds from your neck, you have to hold back a sob.

By the time he’s done, you are more than dizzy. A headache forming. Blood staining your neck, your sweater. Legs trembling.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hands before he presses a kiss to your lips.

“Taste that? How delicious you are? And you really think I would ever let you go.”

You barely register his words as your knees give in, and you sink down on the floor, vision blurring, ears ringing.

The next thing you remember is waking up the morning after. Not in your own bed. The mattress is harder, pillow thicker than your own. Your neck hurts—and not just because of the pillow.

You try sitting up, lift your head—and immediately lie back down. It hurt too badly.

“There she is. Good girl.” An all-too-familiar voice drawls from beside you, and as you turn your head, you see him, for the first time since he came back in daylight.

He is still as handsome as he was back at Hogwarts—though even paler, if that was possible. Still the same beautiful brown eyes. Sharp jawline. Pointy cheekbones. Broad shoulders. A dream, if he wasn’t what he is. If he didn’t do to you what he did.

“Let me go, please. I promise I won’t tell anyone. I can come back, I will—“ you sob. “I will give you anything you want. I promise.”

He merely laughs.

“Seems as though you still haven’t understood. You are mine. From the second I touched you, you have been mine. No man will want you now that I have had you.” Tom says, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Instead, you will be with me.”

You try to find your voice to object, to tell him to forget it. He is the last man you would—

He kisses you instead. Softly. Slowly. And for whatever reason, you don’t protest—let him kiss you—even part your lips to grant him entrance.

Tom turns to look back at you when he gets up to leave—grinning. He is so close to getting you where he wants you. Just a few bites more and he would have you following his orders, make you like him back. And then, at some point, in a few years, maybe—

“One day, I am going to turn you,” he murmurs. “Make you mine, forever.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | AUs.

©2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

[milliesfishes]

౨ৎ꣑ৎyou and coryo during a blackout౨ৎ꣑ৎ fem reader x coriolanus snow for my darling @phantomamour <3

The sitting room was one of the areas of the house you’d paid the most attention to when Coriolanus had given you free reign over decorating, and right now you were more than glad for it. 

A part of you had been skeptical, wondering how much use this room would get, seeing as your husband was a chronic overworker, bringing his papers for bedside reading and taking meals at his office desk. When would he possibly be convinced to sit down and relax with you? You were very happy to be proven wrong now as you snuggled up next to him, seated on the deep raspberry couch with a scarlet fuzzy blanket draped over your legs as the wind raged on outside. You nuzzled Coriolanus’ shoulder, mind hazy with loving him.

He’d taken an unexpected break from his constant writing, his reports and papers, to sit down “just for five minutes”. Now you’d managed to hang onto him for an hour, hoping he wasn’t checking his watch. You hadn’t put a clock in this room for a reason, but he was chained to the little one he took everywhere. If you had it your way, you’d seize the watch and take it apart and scatter the pieces across the four corners of the earth. 

His arm was wrapped around your waist, fingers rubbing up and down in a soothing way. Coriolanus was so warm beneath you, still in his crisp white shirt and dark red suit pants for the day. You knew he had his work clothes ironed and steamed, and so you had no qualms about wrinkling them by lying across him and clinging to the fabrics he chose to wear. When he’d first sat down, you’d reached for him, loosening his tie and unbuttoning some of his shirt so your ear was touching his chest. He’d commented before about how you were like a baby, always seeming to want to touch his skin. Truthfully, you loved the closeness, the feeling that was only granted to you. 

With a long, gentle kiss to your forehead, Coriolanus began to sit up, shifting you off him. You whined in protest, fingers tightening their grip on his shirt. “I know, I know,” he soothed, moving so his feet were touching the ground. “I need to finish something up to hand in tomorrow. I’ll join you in bed later.”

“Coryo,” you tried, tugging lightly on his arm. Reaching up to touch his cheek, you frowned when he caught your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingers.

“You’re tired,” he muttered, smoothing your hair back. “Go get ready for bed, darling. I won’t be too long.”

Sighing, you were about to give up and flop back onto the couch, try and snuggle into yourself to try and fabricate his unique warmth. He eased you off him, lips forming what you thought might be an apology, another promise, but before he could, the lights began to flicker. Brow scrunching, Coriolanus tilted his head up, looking to the lights. Given his rocky youth you knew the sight was not a new one, but it was certainly unexpected given his circumstances now. Financial stability ensured he had the best, and that included the resource of power.

“What-?” you began to ask, when with a shudder, the lights went out altogether. You clutched your blanket closer to your chest, as if the dark would summon such creatures as what you feared as a child. Coriolanus had stopped his attempts to remove himself from you, instead clasping you closer. 

“It must be the storm,” he said simply, squinting at the window. Even if the lights were still on, you’d drawn the curtains once the sun had set, covering the window and making the room feel more cozy. This time when he went to get up you did not stop him, watching as he stood and stretched, striding over to the window and parting the rich fabric to glance through the pane. You could barely see his outline, but still you tracked it until he returned, reaching under your arms and lifting you up, blanket still around your shoulders. “It’s raining hard.”

Now that he pointed it out, you could better hear the faint pitter patter on the roof. Coriolanus wrapped his arm around your waist, guiding you around the coffee table and somehow managing to fit you both through the doorframe. You squinted into the dark, your feet forgetting how to move in the lack of light.

After a few minutes of clumsy shuffling, your husband paused, suddenly swinging you up into his arms. He still moved slowly as he walked down the hallway, but quicker still than he would have been with you. 

“Will the lights come back on?” you mumbled, feeling as though you had to speak quietly for some reason.

“Mhm,” he hummed, easing the door to your bedroom open with his foot. “I’d be surprised if it lasted through the night.”

When he set you back on your feet, you moved for the bathroom, intending to brush your teeth and wash your face with the hope it would be over by the time you were finished. Coriolanus wasn’t far behind you, apparently paranoid that you’d fall and hurt yourself somehow. He was your shadow both literally and figuratively as you moved into the closet, reaching a blind hand out to try and find something to sleep in. After knocking a stack of folded silk pajamas to the floor, Coriolanus seized your hand, gently pulling it away from the shelves. “Here-” You could vaguely see him moving in the dark, and then the familiar sensation of a fabric was put in your hand, his fingers closing your own around it. 

You got the message, dropping the blanket and pulling your dress over your head before retrieving his shirt from the ground and putting it on, not bothering to fasten any buttons. Coriolanus wrapped your blanket back around your shoulders, and you leaned against him happily, reveling in the full feel of his bare chest on your cheek. He silently smoothed your hair, lifting you around your waist and carefully maneuvering around the clothes on the floor. You giggled, feet dangling and hitting his bare legs. 

Frowning, you reached down, expression easing when you grabbed the waistband of his underwear. “Oh, I thought you were naked.”

You could practically hear him rolling his eyes. Lovingly, an expression only he could make so. “Not that kind of night, sweetheart.” A kiss was administered to your forehead, and he deposited you gently on the bed. There was a switching sound, and then your eyes adjusted when you gathered he’d lit a match. He carefully lit the candle at his bedside, a precaution learned from the war. You had a vanilla scented candle on your own table. 

Burrowing under the covers, you reached for him when the mattress dipped, and he drew you into him, wrapping both arms around you like somebody was going to try and take you from him. One thing you knew about Coriolanus was how he liked to hoard when he loved something. He kept you close when he had you, acting as though you would disappear tomorrow. Kissing between your eyebrows, he smoothed your forehead, nosing into your hairline.

“I don’t like storms,” you mumbled.

“I know.”

A boom of thunder rattled your bones and you curled deeper into him. “They’re too loud.”

“I know.” His hand cradled the crown of your head.

You rested your cheek against his chest. The darkness was creasing your safety into fear.  “Make it stop.” 

“I would if I could, darling.” Coriolanus kissed your forehead. “Just go to sleep. The lights will turn back on in the morning.”

“Promise?” There was no way he could know for sure, but Coriolanus had never been in the business of making promises he couldn’t keep.

He smoothed your hair, letting you twist and shift until you were comfortable. Only when you were on the cusp of sleep, relaxing into his arms, he whispered, “I promise.”

[claramelooo]

CRIMSON REVERIE

You can't imagine what a pleasure it is to be back!!! Yey! Welcome back to the abyss that is my mind. As today is New Year's Eve, there's nothing more fair than posting the day before the first chapter, right?

Well, this theme (Wanda as Scarlet Witch) is still very recent for me, so if you read something wrong or nonsense, please forgive me

Feel it <3

Paring: Dark!Witch Wanda x Fem Reader

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Prologue

The void of the multiverse was an unfathomable place, an infinite tangle of possibilities where dreams became realities, and nightmares hid behind every fold in existence. Wanda Maximoff — the Scarlet Witch — was a traveler in this abyss. Her steps echoed through fragmented dimensions, her magic pulsing with the fiery red of determination.

Since losing everything — her children, her family, her peace — Wanda had only one purpose: to rebuild what was taken from her.

“Tommy. Billy.” Their names were a whispered mantra between the cracks of space and time. In every universe she visited, she searched for them, for any glimpse of their laughter, their faces, their hearts she longed to feel beating against hers once again. But the multiverse was cruel. Some realities were shattered, others seemed like false promises of happiness. In all of them, something was missing.

Until she found this one.

When Wanda crossed the veil of the new dimension, the air shifted. There was no chaos here. No ruins or remnants of a lost battle. Everything seemed calm, absurdly perfect. The sound of children’s laughter came from a house in the distance, and for a moment, Wanda hesitated. Could it be them?

She moved closer in silence, cloaking herself in an invisible barrier to remain unseen. Her eyes scanned the blooming garden and settled on the window illuminated by the warm light of the setting sun. There, two boys were running through the garden, laughing loudly as a woman tried, unsuccessfully, to get them to stop.

You.

Time seemed to freeze as Wanda watched. Your smile, your presence... everything about you was so natural, so full of life. But what truly stole Wanda's breath was the detail she hadn’t expected: your rounded belly, carrying a child.

You gently caressed your stomach as you laughed, calling the boys inside for dinner. There was something so extraordinarily simple about that scene, yet so unattainable for Wanda, that a lump formed in her throat.

And then, the door opened.

The Scarlet Witch stood motionless as another woman stepped out of the house — herself.

It was like looking into a mirror, but it wasn’t the reflection Wanda anticipated. This version of herself was... different. There was a brightness in her eyes, a lightness in her step, an unassuming confidence. This Wanda didn’t bear the shadows of the Darkhold, nor the weight of losses etched into her face. She wasn’t just a mother. She was whole.

Wanda watched as the other version kissed Tommy and Billy on their foreheads before approaching you. What happened next made the Scarlet Witch’s heart stop.

The other Wanda knelt before you, her hands resting tenderly on your belly as she smiled. “And how’s our little girl today?” she asked, her voice so soft it sounded like music.

You laughed, the sound light and full of joy. “I think she’s trying to play soccer in there. She hasn’t stopped kicking.”

The other Wanda laughed too, leaning in to kiss your belly before standing to wrap her arms around you.

Hidden in the shadows, the Scarlet Witch felt envy swell like a storm in her chest. This life should have been hers. Tommy and Billy. You. The child yet to be born.

She wanted it more than anything.

And then, she decided.

If this universe couldn’t be hers, she would make it hers.

Red power radiated from her hands as her eyes burned with intensity. And deep down, despite all the consequences her decision might bring, Wanda knew she would never give up.

And deep down, she knew she would do anything to claim it.

As night fell, the Scarlet Witch remained in the darkness, watching like a shadow. Every laugh, every touch, every moment of happiness inside that house felt both out of reach and dangerously close.

She clenched her fists, red energy beginning to pulse in her hands.

With a single motion, she opened a small portal in time and space, slipping inside the house. She was no longer an observer.

Now, she was ready to take what she believed was hers.

And no one, not even another version of herself, would stand in her way.

~*~

Tag list <3

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@idkwhatever580 @valentine585

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@lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @sheriffswan-blog @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000

[chevroletdean]

IDLE INTERRUPTED

CHAPTER 2: THE PASSENGER

SUMMARY: You're back in your hometown to help Tom with some legal advice. Little do you know your return to Harmony ends up in different troubles with the law—and with your sanity.

SHIP: Tom Hanniger x Fem!Reader GENRE: Heavy Angst, Dark Fic MINORS DON'T INTERACT TO NOTE/WARNINGS: These include spoilers for the fic!!! Spoilers for the My Bloody Valentine 3D movie, dark and gritty themes, trauma, loss of a loved one, character death, blood, gore, murder, manipulation, BPD, drugging, dubious consent, kissing/making out, sex, nudity, violence, vomitting, plot twists, this is a scary one so MINORS TURN AWAY, 18+ CONTENT WORD COUNT: 7.8k A/N: Many thanks to @justwhisperingfantasies for betareading this chapter! Your comments were a huge help, Whisper <3 This second chapter wraps up Idle Interrupted and another square for the @jacklesversebingo challenge. PROMPT: Character A has to pick up Character B from the police station CREDIT & LINKS: header edited by me using gifs by vampirecoreleone & nyxvuxoa ─〃★ divider by cafekitsune ─〃★ series masterlist ─〃★ jacklesversebingo 2024 masterlist

⏮️PREVIOUS CHAPTER ▶️PLAYLIST

You always thought, should you ever return to Harmony or even think about that godforsaken town, you’d be plagued with nightmares.

However, it is not your sleep that is haunted. It is your reality.

Or so you think, though you’re not entirely sure.

All you know is how you woke up all groggy and disoriented. But you remember your meeting with Tom, you remember going back to your room and you recognize the cheap wallpaper, the ugly carpet and its dubious stains.

You’re pretty sure you’re no longer dreaming but wide awake, even if the second you open your door, you’re met with a surrealist sight.

Red.

It’s all you can see.

Deep, saturated red.

Red walls.

Red floors.

Stains, puddles, prints. Everywhere.

It’s smeared across the hallway, long streaks of crimson twisting over every surface.

And the stench, rotting iron, fills your nose and sets deep in your empty stomach. It’s making a home there, building up dread and raw fear deep within you. The air is heavy, stale. Somehow, you immediately know, although you cannot make sense of the details.

Your shaky feet carry you down the hallway, your steps timid as you approach the next door. It’s ajar, and the second you glimpse inside, so are your eyes and your jaw.

A scream escapes you, though you quickly muffle it by slapping a hand over your own mouth.

There’s no way. This can’t be real. It has to be a nightmare, right?

Right?

“Holy shit,” you curse, your voice as shaky as your whole body.

There’s a body in front of you, a lifeless woman splayed out on the ground, completely naked and… there’s no words to describe the mutilation.

Her ribcage—It’s split open, bones sticking out in awkward angles, in every direction, revealing an empty pit where her heart should sit.

There’s blood everywhere. The carpet, just as ugly as the one in your room, has soaked up most of it, and it’s still everywhere.

The splatters of scarlet stick against her skin, which is eerily pale in contrast. Paler than any person should be. White as a sheet, every drop of blood drained from her veins and spilled around her instead.

Yet, somehow, despite the damage, you’d recognize that face anywhere. She looks a little older, barely, but she’s still wearing those tacky extensions, now sprinkled with red chunks that you’d rather not try and identify further.

Irene.

Against your better judgment, you dart over to her. It must be the raw, pure adrenaline that’s pushing you to check on her. There’s no way she can be alive, but your fingers search for a pulse regardless. As you touch her neck, your stomach sinks. She’s ice-cold, as is the puddle of blood.

“Fuck, no, Irene. No, no, no, this—,” you whisper to yourself, your lungs feeling tight and unable to take in enough oxygen.

Panicking, you look around yourself, as if you could find an answer to your questions. A solution. A wakeup call.

It’s then, with horror, that you see a second body slumped against the wall. It’s the motel’s manager, though last time you saw her, she didn’t sport a giant hole smack in the middle of her forehead.

Next to her, you find at least one piece of the puzzle. Irene’s heart, neatly carved from her chest, is placed within an empty box, carton heart-shaped, a pink bow wrapped around it.

That sight being your last straw, you hurl over and throw up. There’s little content your stomach has to offer, the mixture of bitter bile and sour acid heavy in your throat. The burning sensation traverses through your very core all the way up to your eyes, which sting with tears.

In your panic, you attempt to rationalize the situation. That couple from 103, if Irene was in there, did the person she hooked up with do this to her? Why? Why would anyone do this? Not only is it gruesome, it’s a sick fucking joke—around Valentine’s Day, mimicking Harry Warden.

That’s what this is about, no? Why else would someone go through the hassle of removing the heart, of presenting it in a Valentine’s Day gift box like serving up a fancy meal on a silver platter?

The police.

You have to call the police.

Your trembling fingers struggle to fish for your phone. You dig in your pockets, before you realize—not your pockets. Tom’s. You’re still wearing Tom’s jacket.

Fear strikes you once more as you scramble to your feet and run to Room 104. Tom’s room. You knock, repeatedly, panicked. You sob, calling out his name, again and again, but there’s nobody answering.

You don’t have it in you to break down the door, neither physically — given how weak and shaky you feel — nor emotionally. Just thinking about what gruesome sight might await you in there nearly makes you vomit again.

Instead, you run back to your own room and grab your phone. Despite the tremor in your fingers, you hastily dial Axel’s number, knowing he’s Harmony’s sheriff now. A job he’s always been working towards, and been boasting about, too.

All those years of keeping the numbers of your old high school friends… you never knew it would come in handy. If only it didn’t have to.

“Police Department, Harmony. Sheriff Palmer speaking.”

You would’ve never guessed that hearing his voice would ever fill you with hope or relief.

“Axel, it’s me—Y/N, I… you need to come here, I’m—Please. Irene. Please come here,” you stutter in between sobs and sniffles.

The rest is a blur, you think you told him where you are, that you found Irene’s corpse. Otherwise, you black out. You’re wide awake, fidgeting in the hallway like some lost child, staring back and forth between Tom’s and Irene’s doors. But your mind is blank.

It’s killing you.

The more you think about it, the more it’s killing you.

Does that mean he’s back? But—Harry Warden died ten years ago. The Valentine’s Day Murderer got shot, so what’s the meaning behind all of this?

The jingle of the front door makes you visibly flinch.

Whipping your head around, your eyes meet that of the sheriff. It’s weird seeing Axel in a uniform, accompanied by a deputy. His eyes scan you from head to toe, stopping briefly at your bloodstained hand.

Irene’s blood was already cold by the time you stupidly checked her pulse, of course. It’s coating your fingers, sticking to your skin, burning you down to your bones. You haven’t washed it off simply because your mind is obviously otherwise occupied.

For some reason you think, even if you were to scrub at your skin, the feeling wouldn’t go away so easily.

“Good grief, what the hell happened here?,” Axel mutters under his breath, glancing around. “Are you hurt?”

Your bottom lip juts out, wobbly, but you can’t bring your mouth to shape any words. The lump in your throat is not helping, so all you can do is squeeze your tear-filled eyes shut and shake your head violently.

“Irene, she’s—” You choke out.

Your shaking hand points to her door, Room 103, the door still wide open.

Sheriff and deputy enter, but you can’t bring yourself to follow them inside. You can’t look at the mess in there again. You simply can’t.

Swallowing, you stare down Tom’s door, which remains undisturbed.

“Where’s Tom?,” you hear yourself ask, but your own voice sounds distant, as if you’re an observer from far away. You wish you were.

Axel exchanges a telling glance with the deputy, then turns to you.

“So you know Tom’s in town?”

You nod, then repeat your question, “Where is he?” It’s a stupid question, considering there’s only a slim chance of him not being in his room. Yet, it’s your wishful thinking that hopes, prays Axel has heard from him, that Tom somehow, miraculously, is unharmed and someplace safe.

“That’s what we wanna know,” he explains, vaguely, to which you tense, not knowing what that means. “Ben said he was talking to Tom yesterday, but we can’t reach him.”

Panic settles in your veins and your eyes glance towards 104.

The number makes you scoff, fourteens following you everywhere. Isn’t the number 4 a bad omen in Japanese culture? You’re sure you read somewhere that the digit is a metaphor for death.

“We—We met up, yesterday. He checked in here too, we were in his room. 104. He said he’d talk to Ben, then I went to my own room, and I fell asleep, and… when I woke up, Irene—Fuck,” you mumble, only half-coherently.

What if Tom’s dead, too? His heart carved out, wrapped up like a present?

Axel, one hand on his gun, knocks on Tom’s door. When he doesn’t get an answer, he kicks it down, making you shriek. Your eyes squeeze shut, unable to bring up the courage to watch.

“He’s not here,” Axel speaks.

Tom’s… not here?

But then, where is he?

The deputy steps further down the hallway, up to the counter in the lobby. While the space is a mess, the man manages to find the guestbook and flips through it.

“Says here the last person to check in was Y/N L/N,” he concludes, “Can’t find Tom’s name anywhere.”

Your eyes go wide as saucers. That’s impossible! You weren’t imagining things, were you? What kind of confusing dream is this?

“Sounds like Mr. Hanniger has an alibi though, if both Ben and her say he met up with him,” the officer adds.

Alibi?

“Unlike another suspect,” Axel sighs, begrudgingly, before shooting you a sharp glance.

“Me?,” you rasp in disbelief. A suspect! You know about what the hell went down here as much as the next person! “And then what, you think I’d call the police on myself?”

Axel nods towards the deputy, who in return reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pair of metal chains—handcuffs. He’s serious.

“Axel, please,” you scoff incredulously, “Is this really necessary? You can’t be serious!”

Not to mention he shouldn’t be able to arrest you on the spot like this. But who are you kidding? You studied law, excelling at your job. Axel has every right to apprehend a possible suspect.

And even you have to admit that it isn’t looking too peachy for you. There’s blood all over you, your fingerprints are all over the scene of the crime. You’re the only one that’s here, allegedly having neither seen nor heard anything.

“You said you were asleep the whole time?,” Axel tests, one eyebrow raised in suspicion, “You really slept through all of this?”

Swallowing, you cast your eyes downwards. In your shock and confusion, you give up.

However, when the deputy steps closer, Axel stops him and places a firm hand on your shoulder instead. The touch makes you flinch, it’s like a gut punch. All of this is.

Sensing you won’t put up a fight, he makes an offer: “Let’s not do the handcuffs, okay? Let’s just take you to the station and then we’ll talk.”

Though his words are kind — at least you think that’s Axel’s way of throwing you a bone — you can’t help but scoff: “You’re still arresting me, so what’s the difference?”

Axel keeps his promise, the only restraint inflicted on you the tight grip of his hand on your upper arm. He guides you outside and to his car.

Distracted by your own thoughts, you don’t listen to him as he mentions something about a quick body-search. You let him pat down your form, allowing him to inspect the pockets of your jacket.

There’s not much in there, an old parking ticket, a couple of loose coins.

“Couple o’sizes too big on you, wouldn’t you say?”

Even during high school, Axel has always been known for poking fun at others. Somehow you know it’s to lighten the mood. That he doesn’t mean to insult you, but is simply attempting a playful jab. However, he misses the mark completely.

“It’s Tom’s,” you grumble, rather defensively. Like Axel has just insulted Tom, not you, while you’re still worried about his whereabouts.

Axel eyes you knowingly, which you hate. Nothing about the judgmental look on his face is for you to appreciate.

Once asserted that you’re not carrying anything dangerous — the sole accusation of which makes you clench your jaw —, you’re nudged into the back of the police car. Apprehended like some damn criminal.

The deputy is left at the scene, waiting for more officers and coroners and people who are just good at estimating the damage after it’s done. Unfair or not, you’re angry. Angry that there’s nobody to step in before these things happen. Angry that Harmony always was, still is, and will forever be a town built on skeletons and horror.

Axel’s voice pulls you from the bitter spiral of thoughts, “What brings you back to Harmony?”

“Business,” you answer vaguely, without meeting his trained gaze through the rear-end mirror. “Didn’t Ben say anything about where Tom is?”

“I think you should worry about yourself more than about that guy,” Axel sighs. “Any lawyer you wanna consult?”

“I don’t need one,” you scoff, your words true for two reasons—you’re the best lawyer that could defend you, and you’re innocent. If anything, police should prove first how you’re capable of slaughtering these people.

Or at the very least come up with a plausible motive.

“Why would I do something like this?,” you mutter through gritted teeth, clicking your tongue.

Axel raises an eyebrow, hesitates, then decides against saying whatever is on his mind.

However, you immediately catch his drift. With Irene as one of the victims… well, it’s no secret you two didn’t get along in the past. She did shove her tongue down your then boyfriend’s throat, after all.

Still, is that really a motive to kill someone? That cruelly, too?

“Seriously, Axel?,” you groan, “That was a decade ago! Besides, just because—”

“Let’s discuss this at the station,” Axel interrupts you.

However, the police station is even less inviting than a blood-stained motel filled with corpses.

You were led into a miniature detention center—there’s no use sugarcoating it.

It’s a small room, sanitary and cold, grey and lifeless. The air is stuffy and the soft humming of neon lamps immediately makes your head throb. In there, you’re pushed down onto a chair and Axel’s measly promise vanishes into thin air as one of your wrists gets handcuffed to the table after all.

Axel mumbles something about safety precautions and following protocol. You know not to take it personally, but it doesn’t exactly ease your anxiety either.

You’ve found yourself in these kind of interrogation chambers countless of times before. Usually in the role of advocate, though. Never in the shoes of the apprehended. The accused.

“Do you really think I killed Irene?,” you ask, bitterly and hurt.

Axel’s silence speaks volumes.

“This is crazy.”

“You have a motive,” Axel hisses through gritted teeth, his patience with you running thin. “What happened between Irene and Jim ten years ago—”

“Fuck you,” you interrupt him, sharply.

“Y/N…,” Axel trails off, trying to sound composed, trying to reason with you, but you’re rightfully outraged.

“No, fuck you! Fuck this whole town, this is crazy!”

Sensing that he won’t get anywhere with you like this, Axel changes tactics: “I’mma ask you again: A lawyer?”

You avert your gaze, shaking your head. You don’t want a lawyer. You want out of here, you want to find Tom, you want to make sure he’s okay. You want to leave Harmony and pretend all of this never happened.

Axel runs your rights by you again, all of which you’ve internalized perfectly during your time at university. You barely listen to him. Not that you could, with all the thoughts that spin in your mind grabbing your attention instead.

He hands you some paper towels and you shakily wipe your fingers clean. Well, as clean as you can, though your anxiety remains glued to your skin, even with the blood removed.

“I can deal with this myself,” you mutter tiredly and rub your temples—that feeling of cotton in your skull still lingers, heavy and thick since last night, when you all but collapsed onto your bed.

“Fine, then I’ll need you to sign this,” Axel sighs and slides a paper across the table.

You eye it briefly, the letters all blurry in front of you. The document should make you realize how serious the allegations are, that by law, technically, they can put you in a cell until further notice. Angrily, you push it away and scoff: “I’m not signing anything. You know this is ridiculous!”

Axel eyes you for a solid couple of seconds and you don’t know which is worse—the unwanted memories his presence trigger, or the pity you think you see in his expression. He mumbles something about how he’s going to make you a cup of coffee, about discussing something with the secretary, then leaves the room.

The interrogation cell doesn’t feel any less suffocating in solitude.

Burying your face in your palms, you cringe at the metallic rattling caused by your restraints. Your face feels chilly, your hands clammy. No matter how much you knead your knuckles, you can’t seem to work away the tension nor the cold sweat.

Axel is sure taking his time fetching that coffee, which can’t mean anything good. For all you know, the police officers are buzzing about, and with each passing minute you’re deeper in shit.

After what feels like an eternity, the sheriff returns, a man in a cheap two-piece suit and a suitcase following him begrudgingly.

“Your duty lawyer,” Axel explains with a nod upon seeing the question mark above your head. “Only one we could get ahold of on short notice.”

Clearly.

The poor guy looks even more nervous than you feel. A complete rookie, probably younger than you. If it weren’t for the severity of the situation, you’d feel bad for him.

“I said I don’t need—”

“Either you sign this paper, or you’ll work with our Harvey Birdman knockoff over here,” Axel groans in frustrated fashion.

Demonstratively crossing your arms in front of your chest, you lean back in your chair and roll your eyes. You don’t say anything. Not even when your quote-unquote legal advisor introduces himself, takes a seat next to you, and waits for Axel to start asking questions.

Hell, even if you would’ve wanted to say anything, your lawyer doesn’t let you. He’s answering for you, vaguely trying to weasel his way through loopholes. “She doesn’t need to answer this.” — “My client will not make a statement about it.”

It’s sad.

Though, as awkward as he is, you have to give the boy credit for convincing Axel to remove the handcuffs from your wrist. You didn’t realize how tight they were until you see the faint reddening on your skin. Rubbing over the marks, you continue to ignore both Axel and your lawyer.

“Y/N, c’mon,” Axel sighs eventually, trying to get through to you once more. “Tell me what happened, hm?”

Before your ‘friend’ can step in for you, you sit up straight and say, with your whole chest: “I already told you. I was with Tom, then I went to my room and fell asleep.”

The interrogation is cut short by commotion outside. Some people arguing, heavy footsteps, the creak of the door.

“Sir, you can’t go in there—”

And another voice, the familiarity of which makes your eyes widen and a weight fall off your shoulders: “Like hell I can’t.”

Tom pushes the door open, green eyes mirroring your relief first, then narrowing at Axel. In three strides he’s by your side, gently gripping your arm and pulling you from the chair. His eyes soften briefly as he gives you a one over. Then, when Axel gets up, he’s back to glaring at the sheriff.

“Tom—”

He doesn’t even let him finish speaking.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Tom rasps.

“Whoa there, you can’t just—” Again Axel’s complaints are cut short, this time by Tom slapping a sheet of paper onto the table. The sheriff’s eyes aren’t the only ones widening.

“You bailed her out?,” Axel asks, skimming over the document.

Tom still barely pays anyone but you any mind, though when Axel steps up and tries to reach out — to him or you, you’re not sure — he’s close to throwing fists. You can tell. By the lock of Tom’s jaw, by the furrow of his brows, the way his grip on you tightens involuntarily.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Tom this furious, and though you’re just as angry, you have enough sensibility in you still to place a gentle but firm hand over his. Punching an officer would definitely only lead to more trouble. Trouble neither you nor Tom could use right now.

Dismissing Axel with a harsh “Fuck off,” Tom pulls you away and towards the door.

As he drags you outside, as the adrenaline wears down, you almost enter a shell-shocked state. Tom leads you to his car, his grip on you still firm. Without it, you fear you’d crumble. Though, when the inevitable question leaves his lips—a simple, undoing “Are you okay?”—you break down anyway.

Tom catches you in his arms right away like it’s second nature. You slump against his chest, shaking and sobbing and scared. It’s like the nightmare from ten years ago is repeating itself, and you’re fucking scared.

“I thought you were dead,” you sniffle into Tom’s shirt, your trembling fingers holding onto the worn, soft fabric as if you’re scared he’d slip away otherwise. “There was so much blood, everywhere… and y-you weren’t there—where were you?”

Tom tucks your head under his chin, his fingers carding through your hair, soothingly.

“I’ll explain everything,” he murmurs against your forehead. “But not here. Let’s ditch this place.”

You nod as you wipe away your tears, terror still etched on your face. He’s right. You’re still in front of the police station, the parking lot alone making you sick to your stomach. Tom opens the door to the passenger seat for you and you slide in, taking a deep breath.

The car ride is silent. But your thoughts are going berserk. Your skull feels like one giant rock on sore shoulders, with bombs going off inside. Irene’s corpse, that woman’s body, it’s all you can see whenever you so much as blink.

Your throat goes dry, while your mouth seems to be filled with saliva. You try and swallow, feeling the resistance as you fight against the bile threatening to erupt from you. All of you feels clammy, sweaty, cold and hot at the same time.

“You okay there?,” Tom asks and you shake your head.

“Can you pull over?”

Your vision goes blurry by the time he stops at the side of the road, just in time for you to haul the door open, lean outside and throw up again.

It’s less extreme than earlier this morning, more of coughing up a little bit of grossness, just to get it out of your system. Maybe you’re not in as rough of a shape as the first time. Or maybe you’re more grounded thanks to Tom gently wiping your hair out of the way with one hand, and slowly rubbing your back with the other.

Once you feel stable enough, you slip back into the seat properly and close the door again.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” you say, somewhat embarrassed—or rather, vulnerable. You feel so raw. Your fears and shock laid bare before you like a hand of cards, displayed openly for the whole world to see and attack you with.

“You got nothing to apologize for,” Tom reassures you.

Right.

You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s not your fault.

And Tom is the last person you fear judgement from.

You’re in this together. Like you were last evening—when you kissed and he apologized and you promised he had nothing to be sorry for. Because you’re a team. You and him against the rest of Harmony.

Right?

“I haven’t thanked you yet,” you bring up then, clearing your throat awkwardly. “For bailing me out. How did you even—?”

“This is Harmony,” Tom sighs dismissively, with a crooked grin, “Word spreads fast here, remember?”

It makes sense, though you’d rather not think about all the rumors. About how everyone must be talking about Harry Warden’s massacre right now, and how it resembles the scene of the crime at the motel.

Not wanting to get sick again, you push the thought aside. Tom offers you a couple more minutes, but you tell him he can continue driving. After you insist that your nausea is better, the car’s engine roars back to life.

You don’t ask him where he’s headed. You don’t care, so long as it’s far away from everything.

“Gotta refill,” Tom says eventually, stopping at a gas station. “Want anything?”

You shake your head no. For one, you don’t think your stomach can hold anything anyway. Other than that, Tom’s done more than enough for you already. While he goes inside to pay, you stay in the car.

The spot is mostly empty. A truck parks near you, the driver hopping out and directly vanishing through the same door Tom went through earlier.

You stare at the door. You stare at it until the glass looks weird. Looks cracked, looks red, looks black. You blink, once, twice. Your mind is still playing tricks on you. The glass turns into wood, a plate appears—103.

The corners, the ceiling, it melts into that motel room before your inner eyes.

Irene’s chest, empty. A heart, carved out, lying there. A pulp of red in the middle of crinkled paper. Something delicate wrapped around it, like a bow.

You stare and watch the blood drip, drip, drip. Along the walls. Then down a shelf filled with bottled water and snacks. Potato chips, and M&Ms. You didn’t know how many flavors of M&Ms existed. There are so many that it feels absurd.

The images that flash before you make less and less sense. A man, slumped on the floor. A hole in his chest. His baseball hat in a puddle of blood, right next to him. His lifeless hand clutches onto a bouquet of cheap roses and a box of chocolates.

It’s the trucker. Then it’s Jim. His hair has the same color. That is, before it was soaked in blood, anyway.

You close your eyes, squeeze them shut, shake your head. Violently. Shaking the images from your brain, shutting this nightmare out of your system. When you open your eyes again, you’re still in the car. When you nervously knead your hands, you notice a sore spot in your palm. A scratch? Upon closer inspection, you realize it’s a splinter.

The pain is sharp, prickling just a little, but so easy to locate. So easy to focus on. To ground yourself with. You pull it out and the pain pulls you back into reality. Though you hiss through your teeth, you’re able to breathe again.

A minute passes, then another. The trucker doesn’t return, and neither does Tom.

Leaning back in your seat, you wait for what feels like unusually long.

Just as you consider to check on Tom, the chime of your phone makes you jump. Reluctantly, you fish for your phone. Seeing Axel’s name on the display nearly makes you want to decline the call. But, after glancing out the window and still not seeing Tom, you answer.

“Hello?”

“Y/N, listen to me,” Axel speaks and his voice sounds… askew. Like he’s in a haste. He didn’t even greet you properly. “That jacket you wore, you said it’s Tom’s?”

You can’t help but scoff, rubbing at your temple. “What the fuck are you on about now?”

“This is important, so just answer the question,” he insists, harshly. “Did Tom give it to you, yes or no?”

You don’t like his demeanor. You can’t pinpoint the reason. It’s less an annoyance, like you initially thought it would be. It’s more of a eerie gut-feeling. Like something’s not right.

“Yeah,” you answer after a long pause, hesitant. “Yesterday afternoon, before we went to the motel.”

“And you had it the whole time since?”

“I— Yes? How’s that important?,” you huff with increasing confusion.

However, you’re not sure you’re happy with Axel’s answer.

“Ben mentioned the jacket.”

Something clicks deep within you. You freeze while the realization slowly seeps in, spreading through your veins like poison. The puzzle pieces begin to make sense, but the picture is starting to look real ugly.

Harmony shifts. The whole world does, the axis tilted yet again.

Axel’s voice tears through your haze: “Is Tom with you right now?”

You tense, then you gulp, and you glance out of the window for a second, but Tom’s still nowhere to be seen.

“Yeah—Well, no,” you stutter anxiously. “I’m in his car, he’s paying for gas right now.”

“You need to get out of there,” Axel instructs immediately, barely letting you finish your sentence.

“What?”

“Don’t you get it?,” the sheriff hisses, less to scold you and more to make you understand. “Ben mentioned Tom’s jacket. He couldn’t have seen it if you had it the whole evening. Tom met up with Ben first, before he gave it to you. He doesn’t have an alibi.”

It sounds so logical, yet it’s going way too fast for you. Nobody can possibly expect you to make sense of anything right now, not after what you’ve been through. Not after what happened ten years ago, after what happened last night.

You’re tired. You’re confused. You’re hurt. You’re angry.

Your tone is even colder than you intended as you bitterly spit into the phone: “Anyone else you wanna accuse, sheriff? Who’s next on the list?”

“Y/N, this is serious,” Axel groans. “Look, I’m sorry for arresting you. Be angry at me all you want, I deserve it, I was wrong. But Tom might be dangerous and you need to—”

Speaking of the devil, your conversation is interrupted by the car’s door. Panicking, you hang up the call as Tom slides back into the driver’s seat.

“Everything’s taken care of,” he says, dropping a bag of M&Ms in the glove department. You have never seen that flavor before, but somehow it feels familiar.

“Who was that?,” Tom asks, pointing to your phone and making your blood run cold.

“Just a colleague,” you lie quickly. “Looks like the agency needs me back soon.”

Tom’s eyes flicker for a moment and you think it’s guilt you see in his expression, but in your paranoia, it might as well be doubt.

“Oh, crap,” he sighs, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck in that habit of his, “I’m sorry for keeping you tied up here.”

Tied up. You hate the way he phrased that. Tied up like Irene’s body, or what was left of it. The image pops back into your mind and your stomach churns all over again.

It can’t be Tom. It can’t be.

He drives off and the car ride is still filled with silence. It’s an eerie one, now. Thick and palpable and heavy. Where you haven’t cared before, you glimpse out of the window and attempt to make out where he’s taking you.

“You okay? You’re pale as a ghost.” His voice sounds so sincere, like nothing has changed. Like everything’s normal. Like you can still find comfort in it, in him. But you can’t. Can you? Axel must have a wrong lead, there must be an explanation. He’s wrongfully arrested you, so it wouldn’t be the first time he’s messed up.

“Just feeling a little carsick,” you answer through a tight throat.

Tom reaches over, then hands you a thermobottle.

“Some of that tea,” he explains. “Maybe it’ll help.”

That tea. You reluctantly accept, but as you take a small sip, the familiar warmth doesn’t fill you with comfort the way it did yesterday. You take another swig, hoping it’ll calm you down. It doesn’t. It still tastes the same. Sugary and sweet. Dizzying.

You’re going insane, that must be it.

“Need me to stop again?,” Tom asks, but you shake your head.

“Just give me a couple of minutes,” you mutter and close your eyes, sinking back in your seat. Just for a while. Just to get some rest. Just to make the world fade to black, to make the migraine disappear.

The soft humming of the car gets swallowed as sleep sweeps over you, swiftly and more easily than you thought possible.

When you wake up again, you don’t know how much time has passed. Nor where you are. Nervously, you glance around, disoriented. You’re still in the car, though when Tom takes a turn, so does your heart. Despite your daze, you recognize the path he swerves the car into.

Straight towards the mines.

Immediately tense, you turn to Tom with wide eyes and too stunned to speak.

He parks the car. In the middle of the damn woods. Right at the damn mine’s entrance. Why? Why are you here?

“What are we doing here?,” you ask and your whole mouth feels dry and cracked.

“I can explain everything.”

“No, Tom,” you snap in anguish. “What the fuck are we doing here?”

You don’t wanna be here. This sis the last place you want to be. You’d pick Harmony’s streets over this any time. You’d rather be at the uninviting police station. Even the godforsaken motel is more appealing. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.

“Calm down, Y/N.”

There’s an edge to Tom’s voice. One you do not recognize. A snarl in his teeth, his brows forming a harsh line. The way he glares at you, fucking glares like he glared at Axel, is a gut-punch.

Instinctively, you twist around and try to exit the car, but the passenger seat is locked and you freeze. You feel dizzy. Not again, but still. Nauseous and tired and rendered helplessly weak. Sluggish, even.

The tea.

The fucking tea.

Your breath is shaky and your eyes are glassy. There’s a tightness in your chest that feels so familiar, a thick rope of pure fight-or-flight instinct wrapped around your chest. Wrapped around your heart, the organ beating rapidly against it as if it it’s trying to break free from your ribcage. Maybe to jump right into a box of chocolates.

“What did you do?”

“Goddamnit, Y/N, shut the fuck up and calm down!,” Tom yells.

It’s enough to make you turn to stone. The person next to you feels like a stranger, someone you have never seen or spoken to before. It’s not the Tom you know.

He stares at you, eyes hard and laced with conflict. He almost looks remorseful, if only for a second, almost as if he doesn’t want any of this for you, but has no choice.

“Fuck!,” he spits out in frustration, slamming his hand against the wheel with enough force to make you wince. You recoil, but with nowhere to go, you can only press your back against the door. Your attempt at stifling a sob fails miserably, your pathetic whimper earning you a deep sigh from Tom.

He closes his eyes for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white as bone.

“I’m not—I don’t want to hurt you, okay?,” he speaks, slowly, and what you would’ve interpreted as an awkward young man yesterday, you know understand to be a threat. “I’m trying to protect you. All I’ve done—it was all to protect you.”

Despite your heart hammering against your chest, you manage to choke out a weak “From what?” because you want to understand, you want to believe.

Tom doesn’t look at you, staring ahead instead, at the pitch-black entrance of the mines. A deep tunnel as dark and twisted as the air between you two. He falters, softens for a second and opens his mouth—until your phone rings and he tenses even more than before.

Your heart sinks and you don’t dare to move, as if you could will your phone to quiet down with the lack of your movement.

“Your colleague?,” Tom asks, bitterly and you know that he knows. That you’ve lied to him. That this basically put the nail in your own coffin. His brow twitches, his jaw clicks, and your breathing hitches.

“Tom…,” you trail off, but how can you possible reason with him?

“Go on,” he shrugs. “Pick it up. Put them on speaker.”

He stares at you then, daring you to disobey.

Not wanting to anger him further, your shaky fingers grab your phone. As expected, Axel’s ID is on the display. Big, bright, bold letters—incriminating you. With tear stained eyes, your gaze lifts up to Tom and you silently plead with him to not make you pick up. To stop this madness.

He doesn’t.

You swallow and press the green button in defeat, putting the call on speaker.

“Axel,” you speak—rather, you hear yourself speak, though the movement of your mouth does not register with your brain. The strain of your voice makes you cringe.

Suddenly, Tom snatches the phone from your trembling hand, emerald eyes still pinning you down.

“Haven’t annoyed her enough already, Sheriff Palmer?,” Tom grumbles into the phone. “What do you want?”

While you nervously chew on your lips, bite your tongue, hold your breath, Axel tries to reason with Tom. He asks him where you guys are, if anything happened—if anything is about to happen.

That thought sends a shiver down your spine. It’s a cold, unsettling feeling that settles deep in your stomach.

“That’s what he told you?,” Tom asks you directly, all blunt and gruff and void of any of the warmth you always associated him with. It stings just as much as a heartbreak. You trusted him. Though the worst part is, part of you still does. “That I’ll do something to you?”

You shake your head, afraid that your voice might give out if you dared to use it.

“Tom, listen—Just let her go, and—,” Axel’s voice sounds distorted through the speaker, or maybe it’s the dull throb in your ears that make everything feel so warped.

“No, you listen, asshole,” Tom hisses angrily. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you think. You think you’re her protector, that it? Harmony’s hero, saving everyone. Like you saved Irene, right? Like you saved that motel owner, or the trucker and that cashier.”

He’s rambling, each word louder than the previous one. Eventually, he hangs up the call, rolls down the window and tosses your phone right outside.

“Can’t believe you’d trust him more than me,” Tom scoffs. “He’s useless. Once a douchebag, always a douchebag.”

Though he stands uncorrected on that one, there’s also a flaw in his scheme.

“The trucker and that cashier?,” you point out his slip-up.

Tom freezes, demeanor darkening even more as he slowly turns his head towards you. He remains quiet, as if testing you. A silent warning that screams ‘Go on, ask more questions and see where it gets you.’

Your voice is surprisingly steady as you suggest with rationality: “Whatever happened, whatever is going on, let’s talk about it, hm?”

His eyes flicker, swirl with something unidentifiable. He casts his eyes down, scanning your form—the tremble of your body, still clad in his jacket. His mouth opens, but all that comes out is a ragged breath, a broken snort.

“You weren’t supposed to see it,” he starts. “You weren’t supposed to be there.”

You reach out to him—whether or not it’s naive. Refusing to see a threat in Tom, wanting to believe in him, you place your hand on his arm and listen to his breath hitch. His eyes tear away from you and he clicks his tongue.

With a creak, he opens the door and exits the car, rounding it. Every step of his, heavy boots against rough gravel, makes your heart thud in tandem.

Once on your side of the car, Tom yanks your door open. Even though you wanted to flee from this vehicle earlier, something tells you you don’t want to leave the safety of it now. You cling to the upholstery, eyeing Tom with uncertainty.

“Get out,” he says, stricken with something heavy, something painful. He wants you to cooperate, but you simply don’t have it in you.

You press your lips into a thin line, fight your tears, and shake your head. But Tom grabs your shoulder, roughly, pulling you outside and shoving you forward. You struggle to stop his steps.

“Tom, please,” you sob, “I don’t wanna be here. Let’s just leave.”

However, your pleas remain ignored.

Tom forces his way to the trunk, along with you since his grip is still iron-clad. When he opens it up, it feels like he’s ripping your rib cage apart, splitting you wide open to reveal a bloody mess.

Instead, it’s the contents of the trunk that are drenched in crimson. There’s a tarp, covering most of the inside. Specks of red in all shapes and sizes are scattered across it, the hefty whiff of iron filling your nose.

It’s a stench you recognize. It’s one you shouldn’t be so familiar with. But you are. And you hate it. You hate that you immediately know what it is.

Blood.

Everywhere.

On the plastic sheet.

On that long wooden stick—a pickaxe. On that gas mask. On that helmet.

Miner’s gear.

Your knees give out, though Tom forces you to stand upright by bracing you against his chest. You don’t know whether to cry or to scream, so you attempt both. Your lungs ache, deflating, ready to shriek—Only for Tom to cover your mouth.

“Now’s not the time to freak out,” he huffs, casually, as if just slightly annoyed. As if any of this is normal. As if there’s not a bloody weapon in his car, staining everything.

“Help me carry this inside,” Tom continues, grabbing the pickaxe and shoving it into your hands. You want to recoil, want to drop the item before it can even touch your skin—as though it’s something toxic.

“For fuck’s sake, Y/N,” Tom groans, shaking your shoulder slightly and pushing the object into your arms. The weight of the handle feels oddly familiar in your grasp. Your fingers curl around the wood, your palm welcoming the scratchy surface. “Pull yourself together! We have to get rid of the evidence.”

We.

You and him.

Why?

What even is this? Whose blood is this? Whose belongings?

Tom grabs mask and helmet, then haphazardly wraps them up in the tarp. He nudges you away from the car, towards the mines. On shaky legs, you follow him, moving on autopilot.

“It will all be okay,” Tom reassures you. His hand finds yours this time, intertwining your fingers together. “Trust me.”

Every step feels like a drag, each decrease of distance between yourself and that forsaken hell-hole triggering another memory. The party. Jim. His hair color. That of the trucker’s.

“I killed him,” you stutter out, your lips moving on their own accord, just like your feet.

Tom squeezes your hand and guides you to the entrance. You’re standing face to face with pitch-black darkness, a void in front of you that looks the way your soul feels. You always avoided that place, but now there’s a magnetic pull drawing you closer.

You follow Tom inside and hold your breath.

“What should I do?,” you mumble, more to yourself. Realization slowly sinks in. What you saw in that car wasn’t some figment of your traumatized imagination.

You killed that guy.

Plunged the pickaxe deep in his chest and left him to bleed out in the gas station. Why did you kill him? What are you supposed to do now?

“The cashier, they saw how I—”

“I told you everything’s taken care of, you don’t have to worry about a thing,” Tom insists.

Somehow his words do not calm you down. Quite the opposite.

“Did you—?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tom interrupts you. “None of them do. Nobody but us, right?”

You stare at him, blankly, and you know what he’s saying. You understand it. You make sense of why he murdered Irene, why he drugged you so you wouldn’t witness it. You feel it. That connection only partners in crime have, that bond you share with only him.

Nobody else from Harmony seems to get it. But Tom does, and so do you.

So when it comes down to it, you know exactly what you’re supposed to do.

“Hands where I can see them, Tom!”

Axel’s voice booms through the mines. He’s right behind you, his gun pointed at Tom.

Tom might’ve cleaned up the crime-scene, but his slip-up during the phone call might’ve lead the sheriff to you after all. And if he wasn’t guided here by the bloody trail from the gas station, where else but the mines would you two be? Of all places, this was Harmony’s core. The beginning and the end.

The pulse of this town.

The heart.

“Let her go,” Axel instructs. “And stay put.”

Tom’s hand squeezes yours, again, and you know what he’s conveying without him saying anything. Your hand slips out of his, finger by finger.

Axel waves you over and with slow, careful steps, you step closer. Pure adrenaline pumps through your veins, hot and raw.

He thinks he’s rescuing you from a monster, and he doesn’t know it’s you he should be wary of.

It’s the element of surprise you need.

Once within range, you quickly raise both arms and bring down the pickaxe. It’s swift. Way easier than it should be. A strike, a horrendous crack, a pained grunt.

Axel drops his gun, collapsing like a broken marionette. The flat side of your weapon may have collided with his nose, but he’s still breathing. He’s still moving, still trying to get back up. So you hit him again, with the clawed side this time.

The sharp metal plunges into the back of his skull. Once. Twice—It’s hard work, like you’re digging for gold veins between thick stone walls. The third time you attack, it’s with a force that makes you lose your grip on the tool. Axel slumps down. And he stays down.

When you look up, sweat sticking to your forehead, blood sticking to your skin, you’re still in the mines. You’re not in the safety of a car, you’re not in your motel room. You’re standing in a puddle of blood, a corpse at your feet, Tom across from you.

And when he reaches one hand out to you, you accept it. Like a secret handshake between accomplices. And when he pulls you closer, you let him.

A/N: So, what did you guys think? I love horror and slasher movies, so writing this was super fun. I'll admit that I struggled a little bit with the crime mystery / detective aspect of this story. Definitely a new experience for me.

Tom Hanniger Taglist:

@0ccvltism @blueschevy @jackles010378 @justwhisperingfantasies @kamisobsessed

@lunaleah @mahi-wayy @slut4axkles @supernotnatural2005

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[vetteltea]

Love Will Always Show | CL16 & CS55

Summary: The choice of a lifetime is yours to make, your husband and lover both longing for your heart. They face conflict, choices and most importantly, one another.

Word Count: 8.4K [& a bit more]

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating and dishonesty, manipulation, hospital talk.

Note: The fact I was a newbie to F1Blr when this started and now...here we are. I want to thank each and EVERY person who has ever read this series. It's changed everything for me, it is truly my love letter to you all and I hope you enjoy the finale. You are all forever in my heart and I cannot thank you all enough.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: ‘You Think, You Know’ | PART 4: 'Love Will Always Show'

Love is a gentle hand cradling your back. 

Time had suspended when your body had collapsed onto the rough floor outside of the Scuderia Ferrari hospitality. Immediately, several scarlet-clad personnel were running over, shouts echoing across the open space, somebody mumbling that they needed to get you somewhere safe and warm before your body temperature dropped dangerously. 

There’s a question of who to call; your father wasn’t in the country, ever since your mother’s funeral, he’s become silent, your siblings having been lovingly sent to stay with a close aunt. He had been absent from the previous Ferrari meeting, his assistant having sent a message to say he would be absent for a little longer. Clearly, the death of your mother was taking a toll. 

The next obvious choice of course, was your husband. However, with the win that he had been craving for oh-so-long, he was currently wrapped up in press, endless ‘congratulations’ messages from celebrities and presenters alike. Nobody would know where to find the monegasqué right now, let alone how to tell him of his wife’s status whilst surrounded by endless television cameras and sly reporters. 

There’s no need for him, anyway. Leaving the media pen after vigorous questioning of his loyalty to the team and his current emotions on a premature end to the race, Carlos’ dark eyes quirk to the side, registering the crowd of bodies circling the hospitality area. They only widen when the realization dawns on his clouded mind that it’s you, your body is the one thing they are all crowding around. 

His steps break into a run, no signal being given to his media manager nor his cousin. He speaks a few sharp, spanish words, creating a break in the circle, able to insert his toned body into the sea of red, immediately squatting, one hand coming out to elevate the back of your head. He knows how particular you could be with your hair, how you insisted on now sleeping on silk pillowcases to keep it healthy. Asphalt ground was not comfortable nor hygienic. 

There’s talk; talk about whether to take you to the hospital, whether to wait for your husband to return and make the decision. Carlos feels his blood curdle at the use of marital status. His teammate, the man who had treated you no better than the way he had treated bonds of trust, was the one to make a choice of your health and wellbeing. 

He simply cannot stand for that. 

“We need to take her to the hospital.” He interrupts the commotion, the strong tone settling over the panicked employees. “Surely that is the best place for her if she is unconscious, no?” The whispers and mumbles which echo the surrounding members of the team signify agreement. 

There’s a discussion of how to bring you in without drawing attention to the media. Surely, if a giant ambulance or even a medical car was to storm through the paddock, no doubt endless media outlets would be creating headlines before even bothering to speak to anybody present. The Spaniard is already making his own choice, using his arms to gently adjust your body.

He shouldn’t; he really shouldn’t be moving you, not when you haven’t been checked for broken bones or concussion. Yet, the idea of the most beautiful girl, Mariposa, lying on a hard floor with no form of comfort or safety sickens him to his stomach. Carlos is still gentle with the movements, letting your head lean into his stomach, one hand is supporting your back, tanned fingers digging gentle patterns into the curve of your skin. The other one traces once, twice, three times around your cheekbone, dark eyes transfixed on your features. 

You must have hit your skin when falling to the ground; there’s a graze dancing across your cheekbone, specks of dirt resting in between each knock. The man cradling you is gentle, moving his shirt just enough up his body that he’s able to take the hemmed end, feather it across your cheek in an attempt to remove the offending chunks. 

Someone nudges Carlos’s shoulder, more in an attempt to tell him somebody was just outside the Paddock; that they could drive you to the hospital right now. He…he can’t bring himself to leave you. A strong grasp lifts you from the ground, holding you close to his chest, murmuring that he would get you there, and he supposed somebody would have to find Charles. 

The area grows quiet; Carlos’ pace draws away from the Paddock and to the back entry. He was thankful that the entirety of the drivers were still either trapped in the media or with their own teams, celebrating or commiserating. He had enough of that for one day; an entire six laps was barely worth speaking about. 

You’re still unconscious, still limp in his arms. However, there’s a rise and fall of your chest, you’re still breathing. That’s all he could ask for at this present time. He silently promises himself there and then that when you wake up, he’s making his final move. Where Charles has been playing chequers, he is playing chess; he had proven that even whilst you were stuck with your estranged husband, he would love you regardless.

There’s a people carrier in the car park, he’s certain he’s seen various drivers use it before; a built-in stretcher lies in the back, it’s ideally a discreet ambulance. The media could be brutal with gossiping when any driver had to leave the track. It would look worse if Charles Leclerc’s wife was seen leaving the paddock with his teammate. The driver of the vehicle nods when seeing the two get closer, stepping to sit in the driver’s seat whilst Carlos adjusted his grasp. 

He lays you down onto the stretcher; it’s secured, you’ll be safe for the drive. The man can’t help but feel a draw of protectiveness over you. What on earth had caused it to collapse? Had he done something? Blood boiled, if your husband had done anything to cause this, he could personally guarantee that Charles would not be finishing any races for the remainder of the season. He would make sure of that. 

His attention is caught by the glimmer of silver on your left hand; your wedding band. When he reaches the car, tucks you into the seat carefully and makes sure the seatbelt is secure around your frame, his fingers glide over your hand, removing the band and putting it in his own pocket. 

‘It’s for your own good,’ he tells himself. ‘If your fingers swell up, they may need to cut it off.’ He could tell himself this story a thousand times; it doesn't hide the fact that his true intention in this moment is simple; for once, he could be the devoted husband, taking his wife to be nursed back to health. 

The Spainard leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, murmuring that you were going to be okay, that he would stay with you the entire time. The driver shouts, telling him to take a seat so they could get there before the press figured out something was wrong. He kisses your skin once more, before closing the doors, sprinting to the backseat, throwing his body in carelessly. 

Angst overtakes his senses, shouting at the driver to start the car, he doesn't care about being strapped in. This way, he’s able to lean over the backseat, one hand reaching out to clasp at your own. You need to know that somebody is there, that he is there for you. He’s always been there for you. The car pivots out of the parking space, beeling for the main road and to the hospital. 

Love is a scream for your name. 

“Charles, tu dois ralenir!” Joris is insisting he needs to slow down the car; turning the current Leclerc in hospital into a duo would not be a satisfying outcome. 

Ever since he’s been told, all your husband can see is red mist. One Ferrari employee had sprinted up to him whilst he was in the midst of cameras, the grin on his face as he’s finally able to seek his wife out, wanting nothing more than to skip on the Scuderia celebrations and take you instead, your beaming smile radiating the energy he had been bathed in. 

It’s funny how life can change in the matter of a few moments; one second, he’s on top of the world, the next, Charles is pushing through every media outlet, fan and celebrity, barging himself into his driver’s room. He doesn't have time to remove his fireproofs, to pick up any of his belongings apart from his car keys. He isn’t communicating, french profanities fall from his lips, shaking his head in rage that nobody could find him to tell him. Tell him that his wife had been taken to hospital. 

Joris had been the one to sprint after him; he knew better than most, when Charles saw nothing but mist, there was no getting to him, not whilst he was determined to do something. The driver knew in his heart his best friend was not to blame; after all, he had no idea of your disappearance, he had been with Charles almost the entire time. And yet…he can’t bring himself to even speak to Joris. Not until the duo make it to his rented car, Charles is adamant he is driving. 

He only starts speaking when his best friend tells him to slow down. The driver barely does, only drawing to a slower pace when he sees the traffic lights start to build in front of him. Even in a panic, he respects road rulings. Drawing to a stop, the man finally has a second to take a shaky, unbalanced breath, angry tears pooling at the bottom of his eyes. 

“Why did nobody tell me my wife was at the hospital?” His voice is strained, he’s clearly holding back tears, whether they’re angry or fearful is a different question. “She’s my- she’s my wife!” He can’t stop repeating it, as if it’s a prayer. His wife. His wife. 

“She’ll be okay.” Joris knows that’s quite possibly the worst thing he could say to his best friend, but it’s the only thing he can bring himself to say. “She will be. C’est juste par précaution.” 

“Putain!” Charles’ words are sharp, immediately pressing on the acceleration as the light switches to green, overtaking three cars in a matter of moments. He’s a man of regret, he has been ever since he realized how much he adores you. In that moment, he can’t help but think of everything he could have done differently that afternoon. He could have come and found you right after the podium, could have given you his jacket and told you to stay in his driver’s room, he would come and get you after. He could- he could of-

He could of waited with you after the funeral. He could have come and picked you up from Milan when you went to spend time with Carlos. He could have deleted his mistress’ number, and told her he was married. 

“Tourner à gauche.” Joris tells his best friend to turn left, the Hospital Car Park coming into view. Charles turns the car, immediately eyes are roaming for any space, anywhere he could put the car. A sharp whistle and point from his best friend shows him a space right by the Emergency Department, parking the vehicle in possibly the worst way he ever has done. Within three seconds, the engine is switched off, seatbelts are unbuckled, and he’s shouting to Joris to pay for the parking, he needs to get inside. 

For a driver, his sense of direction is becoming worse. It takes him a solid minute to read a sign, before his legs break into a sprint, skidding into a bustling Emergency Room. There’s old men, leant over in pain, convinced they’re dying. A child snuffling, masses of paper towels on her head. A woman with a twisted ankle, her attention engrossed by the magazine in her grasp. It smells of hand sanitiser and bleach, the yellow walls are hurting his eyes. 

A woman behind the desk taps the counter, drawing his attention. “Hey- Sir!” She snaps. You can’t blame her; it’s hour thirteen of her fifteen hour shift. “You can’t be in here unless you’re hurt-”

He shouts your name. It’s as if he completely forgets he’s in a building. Charles is embedded in a maze, even if a lady in front of him can pull up your immediate location, he needs to find you himself, and he needs to find you now. 

It isn’t until Joris comes in, having heard his best friend scream your name, that he overtakes Charles so overcome that he’s now hiding his head in his hands, unable to say anything that wasn’t your name. His ears prick up when the second man starts speaking, giving the woman your first name, your last name- Leclerc- and when you had been bought in. There’s a light tapping of the keyboard, she tells Joris you are in the department round the corner, room ten-

Charles is gone before she can finish her sentence, catapulting down the hallway, dodging round endless people, frantically searching for doors with numbers, not names. He sees the number four. Six. Eight. 

Number Ten rolls into view. Without a single word, his hand latches around the door handle, pushing so violently the door smacks onto the inside wall. His eyes immediately fly to the bed, you’re lying there, so unconscious, still so beautiful, some strips over the graze on your cheek. Still, arms to either side, one hand connected to an IV, clearly in an attempt to rehydrate you. His first question is the location of your wedding ring, where on earth was it? Has it been taken away? It’s a question he completely forgets about when his gaze travels further. 

The other hand is being held by a Spanish man he knows all too much about. 

Love is notes left on a coffee cup. 

Both men stood, silently hovering over your body whilst the nurse came in to run a course of tests, check your blood pressure, the IV line, make sure you were being cared for in the best capacity. Each held a coffee cup, Charles’ still primarily full, he couldn’t stomach anything; he felt sick from seeing you lie here, not laughing, smiling, speaking. Carlos had downed the drink bought in by Joris in a matter of moments; to him, it was fuel. Something to keep him awake until you woke up. 

Whilst Charles was the one to ask questions; ‘Do you know what caused this? Is she going to have any long-term issues? Does she need any assistance when she wakes up?’ Carlos has captured the marker which has rested alongside the clipboard of your notes, his tongue poked out in concentration. The marker grazes along the cup, leaving a note, drawing a tiny picture of a butterfly- Mariposa- and placing the cup on your table, a silent message for if you woke up and god forbid- he wasn’t there.

The nurse draws away from your body, diverting her next task to the two men. 

“I need to continue the examination but…” She looks to the door. “I cannot have you both in here. You need to wait outside, the Doctor will come in for further tests-”

“Can one of us wait here?” Carlos is the first to interrupt, the look on the woman’s face tells him he’s made a mistake. 

“Both.” She clarifies, pointing at himself, then at his teammate. “One and two. You need to wait outside. If she wakes up or there’s any…issues, we will let you know.” 

It turns out, both men are hesitant to leave you; Charles moves first, crouching by your side, running a gentle hand over your hairline, pressing his lips carefully to your temple. He’s murmuring, french words of adoration and comfort, that he will be right there when you need him. 

When one steps away, the other comes forward. Carlos doesn't say anything, instead tracing a gentle finger across your cheek. His touch tells you everything, it speaks volumes. He loves you, he’ll be outside, don’t be afraid to come running into his arms like you had done once before. The nurse begins to lose her patience, ushering both men out into the corridor, telling them to sit in the plastic chairs provided or go somewhere else; she really didn’t care. 

The scene is reminiscent of two boys sitting outside of the principal’s office; Charles’ head hides in his hands, leaning forward, still dressed in his fireproofs. He’s tied the sleeves around his waist, the dark undershirt now drenched in sweat from the driving, both on track and to the hospital. 

He feels movement next to him, Carlos’ hand dips into his pocket, pulling out something small, silvery. Her wedding ring. He supposes Carlos means it as a sign of goodwill, that he kept it safe. In the Monégasques mind, it’s the fuel to light the fire. Scoffing, he snatches the jewelry off of his teammate, placing the band onto his pinky finger, it’s the only one it would fit on, the only way he could keep it safe. 

“Funny. You took it off her.” He’s growing mad, aggravated that Carlos wouldn’t just go away and leave him and his wife alone. Hadn’t he done enough already? “Why don’t you go back to Natasha?” The blonde ex-media woman for their team is referenced. Carlos opens his mouth, ready to snap back, it was a low blow for Charles to reference his history with the woman. 

“I know what you did.” He huffs. There’s something…different. Different in the way he speaks to Carlos now compared to every other day. The polite, civil conversation is gone, the fact he couldn’t pass judgment because of his own actions has evaporated. “I know you invited her to Madrid just to make a move.” He remembers seeing the instagram stories, how your eyes were wide, full of life. He made you remember life is beautiful. “You kept her close. You wanted her and didn’t like that she was mine.” 

“Yours?” He scoffs. “She’s not your property, Charles.” 

“No. But she’s my wife. I’m the one she lies next to every night, I’m the one who will care for her in sickness and health, who’s shoulder was leant on through every bad time.” He pauses. “Who picked her up after you coaxed her into your bed.” He laughs. Actually, laughs. The memory replayed in his head, how sleepy you looked as he guided you back into the SUV, how your heart sank when seeing the blonde approach his front door. In that moment, you had convinced yourself you meant nothing to Carlos apart from lust. 

Charles was a jealous man; he had taken pride in stripping off his teammates' clothing, wrapping you in his own, soft hoodie. You were his. Carlos wouldn’t care for you the way he did, he was a man too full of lust. He was convinced the Spainard didn’t make you laugh, didn’t make you smile, didn’t make you come- 

“You corrupted her, Carlos.” He finishes. “I know what you did-”

“-And I know what you did.” Carlos snarls. He doesn't care about anything more; he knows all too well that his teammate could go crying to the Ferrari bosses, have him removed from the team in a blink of an eye, throwing some false information out which he would have to comply with. But he doesn't care. His affection has grown too strong for that. 

“I know everything, Charles.” He’s monotone, he’s stating facts. “I know how she waited at home for you on her birthday, whilst you were in your mistress’ bed.” Carlos remembers asking you about your plans the previous week, how you had brushed them off. “I know how she made you dinner every night, how you refused to eat it.” Charles feels his stomach drop, the endless leftovers stacked neatly in the fridge, the meals he had never bothered to try. “I know on your wedding night, you came into the hotel room drunk, covered in bites and she slept on the sofa-”

“Enough!” Charles’ voice shouts, standing up from the plastic chair in the corridor. He doesn't have to hear this, he can’t bear to hear this. One mistake a day was something he was always able to brush off. Hearing each and every one of his infidelities laid out in front of him sent his mind into overdrive. “You have no right to comment on-”

“On what?” The Spainard is standing up now, chest out and arms folded. “On your marriage?” He laughs, he smirks. “Can you call it that? A marriage is a bond between two people who love one another-”

“I love her!” Charles cuts him off, stepping closer. “I love her.” He repeats himself. Carlos looks gobsmacked, shaking his head in denial. 

“You have a really weird way of showing her you love her.” He continues to poke, to prod. “Sharing a bed with another woman is not how you show love-”

“I admitted to my mistakes!” He’s quick to defend himself, how the restraining order was placed and a lawsuit filed, how he promised if you wanted to know anything, see anything, he would let you. How he would spend the rest of his days always feeling dread and regret. “I fixed them-”

“Who says she still loves you?” Carlos has snapped.

Charles hates to admit that he may be right. Is it really fair for him to expect your love after everything that has happened in the past year? It didn’t matter how many times he begged, he pleaded or promised. The man you had married had spent the better part of 365 days in the arms of another woman, a woman that as he stood here, clinging onto any hope of his marriage, meant absolutely nothing to him. 

His slim fingers trail down, circling the cool band which rested on his left finger. He had decided there and then, he would keep it on, always. There would be no more reasoning, none. If Lewis could wear his earrings, Charles would wear his wedding ring. He looks back up, Carlos still boring into him with dark eyes, the anger he radiated almost entirely visible. 

“Do you love her?” He presses. He needs to know; he doesn't bring himself to care that you had spent a night in his arms, not when he had done it to you a thousand times over. The idea makes him sick, but nothing compared to the idea that you are in love with somebody that isn’t him, not when he needs nothing but for you to come home, back to your home with him. 

Charles swears he feels vomit rise into his mouth when Carlos nods. He’s not stupid, not really. He knows how he fell for you properly in the past few weeks, how for Carlos who has been in awe of your affection and attention, the center of every race weekend you had reluctantly attended. It may have been to support him, but you could still enjoy the fact that Carlos would be there, too. 

Your husband isn’t sure what he wants to do anymore. If there wasn’t an examination happening, he would have run into your private room and locked the door. Instead, his glassy eyes gaze up, catching Carlos’ dark ones. It hits him at once; his teammate, somebody who he once considered a close- no, best friend, was the one who had taken his wife away from him. His brain can’t catch up with his body movements, the red mist clouds over once more. 

Charles Leclerc punches Carlos Sainz in the nose. 

He doesn't intend for it to be a strong punch; Formula One drivers are a lot stronger than they realize, and the contact not only causes the Spaniard to knock back, shouting out in pain, but a sharp sensation rockets through Charles’ clenched fist, wiggling his fingers as they relax. Carlos’ nose is immediately red, becoming scarlet by the moment, though no blood has fallen. Your husband’s immediate reaction is ‘Should have punched him harder.’

He doesn't have time to think about anything else, not before he has two strong hands on his chest, shoving him harshly. The sudden sensation causes him to lose balance, falling to the floor and landing on his back. A shock radiates through his body, Carlos looming over him, clearly ready for a second punch. 

That thought is drawn away when the door to your room opens, both men immediately staring at the nurse, her hair worn and eyes tired. Before either man can throw a question at her, she speaks. 

“She’s still not awake, we’re going to bring her around in an hour, but she’s going to have to stay overnight for observation. If one of you could get her some overnight things-”

“I can.” Charles immediately cuts off the nurse, pulling himself to sit up and stand from the floor. “I’m her husband. I will get them.” It’s a subtle jab to the man in front of him, Carlos still holding his nose, convinced it was about to start bleeding any moment. He would have gone and sought out attention for himself, if he hadn’t felt a sharp vibration in his back pocket, a phone call. In any other time, he would have ignored it. But he knows who it is, he knows how important it is. 

Without a word, Carlos answers the call, rapidly speaking in Spanish as he walks down the hall. 

Love is a pocket square at the bottom of a suitcase.

The contrast of Charles leaving the hospital was night and day to him arriving. He hadn’t spoken a word to Joris, apart from expressing that he needed to go back to the hotel to get your overnight items. Although it was barely a ten minute drive away, every minute felt like a century; he wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel, sit by your side and hold your hand until you woke up. 

He could have sent Joris back, given him the room key and told him to grab some things, but it didn’t seem right. The idea of his best friend going through your suitcase didn’t sit comfortably with him. Moreover, he didn’t know. Charles knew; he knew what pajamas you found the most comfortable, what outfit would be easiest for you to travel back in, how you wanted your panties and socks paired together and how your phone charger had to loop clockwise. 

The ornate hotel room looks dull without you; your suitcase still rests in the bottom of the wardrobe; you had hung up evening wear, dresses for the inevitable after-parties. Folded in your suitcase remained your other clothing. Charles is quick to select his items; the tropical cotton pajamas. You had bought him a pair in the same fabric, telling him that they would be the comfiest thing to sleep in. Your stitched jumper and comfiest jeans. You had worn those jeans when you had tagged along to his photoshoot for the Ferrari livery, holding his water and the APM Monaco jewelry he couldn’t wear. Your outrageously expensive hairbrush. You had brushed his hair through after a particularly bad race, whispering promises that it would get better, that the car was going to evolve for him, the best driver on the grid. 

Bile rises to Charles’ stomach and with no warning, he sprints to the bathroom, dropping to his knees by the toilet and throwing up the barely-there contents of his stomach. He had barely eaten, barely drank any water, but couldn’t help the sickness in his tummy. 

He pulls away from the toilet basin, eyes watery, breath trying to catch up with the speed and cries.

Charles doesn't realize it’s happening at first, he hasn’t cried like this in so long; the kind of crying where you can’t fathom words, you don’t make a sound because you’re crying so deeply. The kind where your chest is exploding and your heart feels like it’s going to explode. The kind where all he wants is for his mother to cradle him like she did when he was five, run her hands through his hair and whisper him words of comfort.

This time, he doesn't want his mother, he wants you. 

It’s selfish, it’s so incredibly selfish and it hurts to know that it’s taken him until now to realize what you mean to him. It would never happen, but his wound-up head can only close his eyes and visualize you running in, pulling his head into your chest and running your hands through his dark tufts, pressing cool lips to his forehead and promising him over and over that it was going to be okay. You were going to be okay. 

He lets himself cry for five minutes; he times it because he wants to collect your things and make his way back, Joris was waiting in the car. When the five minutes are over, he pinches his nose, taking short, ugly gasps until his eyes remain bloodshot but not blurred. The sound of the toilet flushing echoes through the hotel room, making his way out of the bathroom and to the items he had hurriedly dropped atop of your suitcase.

Nimble fingers cradle each item, carefully rolling and tucking them into a pillowcase; he didn’t have a bag big enough to suffice each item and couldn’t bring himself to bring your entire suitcase along, it almost seemed as if once you had it, you could disappear from his life. At least this way, he could have one final farewell if you chose to leave. The items are almost secure, until his grip on the pillowcase folds, glassed eyes catching a glimmer of blue hidden at the bottom of the case. With no hesitation, he pulls on the fabric. His heart drops on the realization of the item. 

It’s a pocket square. More specifically, it’s his pocket square from your wedding. 

You don’t know when you had started packing it, but you supposed it was from your mother’s own doings. After her wedding to your father, she had always carried around her ‘something blue,’ as a gesture of good luck, of safety. After the first time you had found out about Charles’ mistress, you had discreetly tucked the fabric into your bag, carrying it around, a silent hope your husband would return to you. 

It hadn’t worked in Jeddah. In Imola. In Spa. In Monaco. You had reluctantly taken it from your bag one evening, on the plane home from consoling your family, using your pen to doodle in the very corner ‘Mr and Mrs Leclerc,’ a silent fantasy of the loving marriage you had dreamed of. 

That night was the first time you and Charles ever shared a bed. 

The fabric lingers between his fingers, the blue contrasting against the silver of your ring, still resting on his pinky finger. Now changed into his own clothes, he slides the ring off, wrapping it gently in the pocket square and sliding it into his trouser pocket. As he does, he recognises your handwriting, the titles printed in the bottom of the fabric. 

He can’t help the tears rolling down his cheeks once again. 

Love is a desperate telephone call.

Carlos is still pacing around the outside courtyard of the hospital, having been on hold for a grand total of seventeen minutes. He is not a man of patience, he is not a man of quiet. 

The phone buzzing in the corridor had been a welcome call, despite the situation. His lawyer, finally ringing him back after what felt like days of apprehension. He had dipped from the public eye to try and grab hold of some privacy, slipping in his wireless headphone so as not to hold the device to his ear for hours upon hours. 

Almost thirty minutes ago, his lawyer had called him, confirming his thoughts of the previous days. 

"You're not wrong." His lawyer has already clarified it once, twice, three times. "If there is evidence beyond a shadow of a doubt, then it is the correct term for a divorce.

Carlos feels his blood run cold. He loves her, he's as certain as that as he is of the fact that the sky is blue and his win in Silverstone. The man wants nothing more than to make her feel cherished, adored. Taking a bite out of his teammate was just a bonus feature. 

That had been a few days ago, when the anger had surpassed him after Natasha’s return, how that made him look as bad, if not worse than Charles. He’d immediately sent her packing, blocked her on every form of media, gone as far as to insist if she ever came for a visit, he wouldn’t be present. 

The second part, the evidence, had been laid out all too perfectly. 

The line suddenly clicks, signaling his lawyer had returned. Carlos doesn't wait for a verbal queue, the audible sign of his return is more than enough. 

 “Do you have it?” He asks, barely any time to let the man on the other end of the phone respond. “You must have it, no? It should have been sent. I made sure it was sent.”

“I have it.” He clarifies. “I have them right here.” A rustle of paper is heard from the other end of the telephone, content of an envelope being spilled onto his desk. “Are you sure you want me to send these to be confirmed as evidence? That the women in the photographs will not retaliate?”

Carlos had not been entirely honest with you. Not about his knowledge of Charles’ situation. Ever since the confession all those months ago, the understanding that you knew of Charles’ affair, he had been playing a long, patient game. He had photographs, evidence of the mistress’ appearance at each paddock, her arms snaking around Charles’ body, kisses between the duo. How he could continue to do so, whilst you, the epitome of beauty, sat in his drivers’ room, playing the doting wife.  At one point, he had considered going directly to the press, directly to Ferrari themselves to out their ‘Golden Boy.’ 

And then…he had seen you with him in the Paddock that one race, looking through the window of his driver’s room. How your fingers latched onto one another, how genuinely shattered you looked when she had shown up yet again, lingering outside of the hospitality area. The guilt snuck through him, how he had seen her arrive, and yet failed to mention to you, give you any warning of her presence. 

Even if he had been the one to invite her. Even if he had been the one to press her about sending the photographs to Charles, not blackmail. Merely a reminder of his actions, how much he supposedly missed his mistress. 

“She wouldn’t.” He’s quick to respond. “She wouldn’t care.” He’s not wrong, his mistress being in the limelight would only elevate her status, with the way his teammates’ brain worked, it would more than likely draw them back to one another. 

“And Mrs. Leclerc?” 

It’s the first time Carlos has hesitated. Even if he couldn’t admit it to himself, he knew that your relationship with Charles had grown, that ambient it was made paper-thin, the trust was slowly beginning to come back. He thinks about how your eyes blinked widely, in awe of your husband on the podium earlier that day, how it supposedly didn’t matter he had spent most of your marriage wrapped in her arms, you still looked at him like that. Did you look at him like that? Like the way he looked at you. 

This action could draw out a multiverse of reactions but at the end of the day, he had settled with two. The first was that you understood, that you would see the evidence, and understand the case. Divorce Charles and marry him, even if it meant he would give up everything. 

The second is that you would see the chaos he caused and you would never speak to him again. 

“Mr. Sainz?” The voice at the end of the telephone draws him from his questioning, running a hand across his red, swollen nose. It wasn’t broken, but god it was hurting. Bruised, most likely. “I need an answer.” 

He needed to speak to you. 

“Can you just-” He huffs, running a hand through his dark hair, his fingers almost getting caught in the strands. Of course his hair was tangled, he’d been doing nothing but pulling on it ever since he arrived at the hospital. “Let me speak to her. Hold it for 24 hours. You can do that, yes?” It’s not even a question now, nor a request. It’s a demand. He can’t do this, he can’t openly destroy your marriage for his own sake without speaking to you, without knowing for a fact that you love him.

Your name is carved onto his soul, onto his skin. The first thing he thinks about in the morning, and the last thing he would think about at night. There is no life he wishes to live in if you’re not there. Even as his friend. 

There’s suddenly a light tap against glass, snapping the man’s attention from his device. He mumbles something in Spanish, telling his lawyer he would call him back, dreading who was coming out into the private courtyard. 

He visibly relaxes when he sees it’s just a man, sneaking out whilst tears pool on his lower lashline, giving Carlos a warming nod. 

“You don’t mind if I join you, do I?” The Spainard shakes his head. “My wife- she’s just being induced and wanted some space. She’s…” He gestures, trying to explain to a complete stranger how a few minutes ago, his wife wanted to cry and shake her head, but wanted nothing to do with him. It was all his fault. 

Carlos offers a warm hand on his back, patting him firmly. “Congratulations. Do you know what you're having?” He’s invested, anything to distract him from his previous phone call, the weight of a decision on his shoulders.

The stranger grins. “A girl.” He smiles harder. “I don’t mind, as long as they arrive happy and healthy. But god- a girl, just like her.” He thinks. Carlos thinks. In an alternative universe, he’s sat by your side, pressing kisses and praises to your skin, holding you tighter as your daughter enters the world, ready to meet her mother and father. She would be like you; your eyes, hair, smile. It would be another you to love, to adore. 

“Your first?” Carlos presses his question. The man sighs, shaking his head, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looks into the polished corridor. 

“No. She’s…” He pauses. “We got together after hiding how we felt for so long, how we wanted to be with one another.” He looks to Carlos, clearly ashamed and embarrassed of the situation. “I know how it sounds, but sometimes you can’t help it. I- I love her.” 

A band snaps in Carlos’ stomach; love knows no bounds. 

Love is waking up to think of your person.

The first thing you register when you come around is brightness. You’re not in the soft glow of the luxurious hotel room you and your husband had been given, nor the candle-lit bedroom of Carlos’ apartment. No, the light is bright, blinding. An off-white which made your eyes squint. 

Your senses are heightened; the only scent which flares through your nostrils is hand sanitiser and overpowering lilies. Nose scrunched, you attempt to wiggle your body upwards, aware of the IV line pinned into your hand. Panic immediately settled through your tummy, until your eyes flickered to the bag, realizing it was just water, they just wanted to rehydrate you. 

Hesitantly, you wiggle each part of your body. Arms, hands, fingers. You’re able to move, though you couldn’t…you couldn’t remember why you got here. Memories are hazy, you remember Charles’ podium, the way he kissed you so deeply, so lovingly. Carlos’ hand on your waist, pulling you back to stop you from the champagne trickling over your body. You were overwhelmed, overworked and…you guessed it just all became too much. 

You just about manage to turn your body, the first thing you’re aware of is that your cushion smells familiar. Warm nodes, sandalwood and seasalt. It’s a smell you’ve grown all too accustomed to, burying your face into their chest whilst you took refuge in his arms, in a hotel room. Charles had been there, already. His celebrations had clearly been cut short, whether or not it was for show or because he cared. 

The second thing is the coffee cup. Cardboard, the contents clearly already drained, but handwriting etched onto the side in a thick, black marker. The handwriting, the doodle of a tiny butterfly. Carlos had been there, too. 

There’s a sharp pinch on your cheek, fingers reach up to your skin and feel the butterfly strips against you. Immediately, a thousand questions come back to your mind, none of them being answered through your own memory. Instead, the door opens, a nurse in clean, bright uniform walking in, closing the door behind her. She beams at the realization you’re awake, shoulders relaxing. 

“You’re awake!” Her tone is incredibly warm, seemingly very happy you’ve decided to wake up on your own terms. She’s quick to move to your bedside, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “How are you feeling? Have you warmed up?” You’re not sure what she’s referencing, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She takes the look on your face as unknowingness, able to fill in the gaps. 

“You collapsed on the track.” She’s trying to get through everything she needs to tell you. “We did some tests, you’re incredibly dehydrated for a start, you need to try and get some rest.” She pauses. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, we have collapses from dehydration every so often, more than you would realize.” Her eyes flicker down, finding it hard on how to phrase the next part of the question. “You also seem…incredibly worried.” You’re not sure how she could tell that from simply examining you, but you nod in confirmation. “Your blood pressure, it’s incredibly low. That’s why you fainted.”

“Yes.” You pause. How on earth were you about to explain the past twelve months to a nurse, a complete stranger? “There’s been some…reasons. You know, for the stress.” Her eyes soften, but the questioning continues. 

“Are you trying for a baby?” You shake your head. “Moving house?” A shake. “Have you…lost somebody recently.” 

You freeze, memory flickering to your mother, how in the midst of fixing your marriage, discovering your affection towards another, she had disappeared from the world. This time, you nod your head, drawing your knees up to your body, shivering. The nurse is quick to wrap a blanket over your shoulders, closer to the answer. 

“I lost my mother.” You breathe out, shaking your head. “I lost my mother, and she’s the only one I can go to.” Now you’ve started speaking, you can’t finish. “I want to make them happy. I want to make him happy.” There’s tears glassing over your eyes.

You want him. You want him right now. 

She sympathizes, she understands. “Sometimes, all you need is for them to tell you it’s going to be okay, right?” She lets her words trail off, turning to the door of your room. “He’s outside. He’s been waiting to see you.”

Your blood freezes.

“Would you like me to get him?” 

You nod before you’ve even realized, your body clearly knows better than your mind. The nurse stands up straight, pacing towards the door as you feel your heart begin to race harder, frantically. She steps out of the room, a minute mumble on the other side, clearly a warning to be incredibly careful. It’s barely a minute before the door swings back open, dark hair and frantic panting. 

You glance up, your heart softens at those eyes. 

The eyes that you, the reader, wanted to see as you glanced to the door.

GREEN EYES [CL16 Ending]

BROWN EYES [CS55 Ending]

This is everyone who asked to be tagged! @Mac-daddy-210 @aundercover@barnestatic@omgsuperstarg@chimchimjiminie16@caelum-the-part-time-nihilist @magicalcowboyarbiter @gaslasysblog@junetto @beatrizmel-472 @motorsp0rt@crowdthena@screemqueen@lewislvr@styles-sunflower@itspaddockprincess@adeptustemptations @amalialeclerc @meetmyblondemuffins@formulanando@lorarri@christianpulisic10@gaypoetsblog@thisbitxhs-blog@goldsainz@ru-kru@magical-spit@hrlzy@nooshytushie@gaslysainz@marvel-at-stucky@sugarvibez@adeptustemptations@roseseraj@leclercdream@pjofics@hecatesfavoritechild@poseforme@thisbitxhs-blog @adalynneva @meganlikes2purr @sabrinaselina55 @laneyspaulding19@heavenlyiecreature@pink-teddy-bear@nooshytushie@strawberries-and-racing@milasexutoire@ohthemisssery@florkt@obsessedwiththeideaofyou@ru-kru@myhomeworksnotdone@ineedafictionalman@bregarc@allywthsr@summerslike11@wildcupcake@willowpains@marlenamallowan@leclercloml@katzenwahnsinn@be-your-coffee-pot

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Oooo Drabble requests okay okay

Imagining obsessed fem R and dark Wanda

R is a younger avenger and is absolutely infatuated with the witch. She knows Wanda knows this. How could she not? She makes no effort to hide her thoughts. And she’s ecstatic when Wanda actually asks her out. She’s a little less estatic when she finds Wanda torturing someone in their basement. But it’s Wanda, she thinks. She may disagree with it morally, but surely Wanda has a good reason. So yes if Wanda asks her to stay and help, or course she will. And of course she’ll help her hide the body after that. And the several ones that came after. Wanda relishes in the fact that she has someone so willing, without even having to touch her mind with her powers. And she exploits this daily. But of course she rewards you for good measure. Helped her hide a body? Very good, why don’t you sit between her thighs for awhile and have all the dessert you want. Helped with a torture session? Good girl, let her find a fantasy of yours and act it out for you. And hey, R’s morals? Totally disappeared when she saw a Scarlet Witch fan get a little too close to comfort and ended up as the next victim in their torture room.

This was kinda long, my bad but yeahhh, hope this gives you something to think about! 🤭💕

Let the World Burn

Dark!Wanda Maximoff x Infatuated!Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: You've been infatuated with Wanda for a long time so now that she's yours nothing; absolutely nothing will stop you from being with her.

Word Count: 1.3K

Warnings: mentions of torture, mentions of killing, obsession, infatuation, idolization, mentions of sex, mentions of Wanda using her magic.

Author's notes: This turned out a little longer than I thought it would and I kept things kind of vague because I wasn't sure about actually writing torture, killing, and hiding of bodies. I loved this idea though. It felt refreshing in a way. <3

You can feel the electricity in the air when you’re with her. Wanda Maximoff. The Scarlet Witch. The woman of your dreams, the center of your universe. Your heart beats a little faster every time she looks your way, a smile curving on her lips, knowing your infatuation. It’s no secret; you never tried to hide it. And when she asked you out, you thought you might die from sheer happiness.

The months have flown by like a dream. You’re closer to her than you ever thought possible, and you’d do anything for her. She’s your everything. You’ve told her that countless times, in whispers and cries of passion. You thought she understood, but tonight you’re going to prove it.

When you come home and head down to the basement, you find her standing over a man. He’s bound and gagged, terror in his eyes, and Wanda… Wanda is in control. Her eyes glow a sinister red, and her lips curl into a dark, satisfied smirk. The scene is brutal, a stark contrast to the warmth and love you’ve always associated with her. For a moment, your heart stutters in your chest, the shock freezing you in place.

She turns to you, expecting you to flee or scream or call the authorities. But you’re rooted in place, not out of fear, but out of a deeper understanding. This is Wanda. Your Wanda. If this is what she needs, then you’ll be there for her. You step forward, and she arches an eyebrow, curious.

“Are you going to run dorogoya?” she asks, her voice low, testing.

You shake your head. “No. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes widen slightly, the surprise clear on her face. But then it shifts to something darker, something more intense. A twisted kind of love that matches your own. You take another step closer, your resolve hardening. “What do you need me to do?”

She studies you for a moment, then a smile spreads across her lips. It’s a wicked thing, filled with promises and dark desires. “Stay. Help me dorogoya.”

And you do. You don’t hesitate, don’t flinch, don’t question. You’re hers, utterly and completely. Together, you finish what she started, your hands steady even as your mind races. You’re aware of every movement, every sound, every breath. You’re doing this for her.

When it’s done, you help her clean up. You don’t think about the man, the life you’ve taken. Only about Wanda, and how she looks at you now, with a mixture of appreciation and something far deeper. She knows you’re hers, and that you’ll do anything for her.

This isn’t the last time. There are more nights like this, more bodies to hide. Each time, you prove your loyalty, your love. You become her confidante, her partner in this dark dance. And with every act, you fall deeper, the darkness of your deeds binding you closer together.

Wanda is everything to you, and you’ll do anything to keep her. Even if it means losing yourself in the process. Because you are obsessed, infatuated, and irrevocably in love with the Scarlet Witch.

Each time you help Wanda, she rewards you in ways that make your heart race and your body ache with longing. You’ve helped her hide a body? Very good. You find yourself sitting between her thighs, your senses overwhelmed by her presence, her scent, her taste. It’s her way of saying thank you, of showing you just how much she appreciates your unwavering loyalty. You lose yourself in the moment, your world narrowed down to just the two of you, her pleasure becoming yours.

When you assist with a torture session, she calls you her good girl. The words send shivers down your spine, your heart swelling with pride. She knows your fantasies, your deepest desires, and she brings them to life in ways you never imagined. She makes sure you feel every bit as cherished and desired as you make her feel. Her touch is electric, her whispers intoxicating, and you give yourself over to her completely.

There are nights when she intertwines pleasure and pain so seamlessly that you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins. During a particularly intense session, she might pull you close, her hands guiding yours, her voice low and sultry in your ear. She makes you part of the darkness, but also part of the ecstasy that follows. Her rewards are immediate and overwhelming, her pleasure your ultimate goal.

Sometimes, she indulges your fantasies during the very moments of torture. She’ll glance at you, her eyes dark with promise, and you know what’s coming. She’ll press her body against yours, her lips finding your neck, your jaw, your mouth, as the room fills with the sounds of her power and the victim’s screams. The line between pleasure and pain blurs until you’re lost in a haze of sensation, her magic intertwining with your desire.

Each reward cements your bond, drawing you deeper into her world. You revel in it, crave it, need it. Wanda is everything you’ve ever wanted, and she gives herself to you in ways that make every sacrifice worth it. You’ve become part of her, just as she is part of you. And as long as she needs you, you’ll be there, ready to do anything for her, to earn her love and her rewards, again and again.

Your morals vanished the day you saw a fan of Wanda's getting a little too close for comfort. She was another woman in her twenties, bright-eyed and eager, clearly infatuated with Wanda. You watched her with a growing sense of dread and jealousy as she hovered near Wanda, her eyes filled with the same longing you once had.

Wanda noticed too. Her eyes flicked to you, a silent question in their depths. And you, already knew what she was asking, nodded your agreement without hesitation. It was enough. That evening, the fan found herself in the basement, fear replacing the adoration in her eyes.

You stood by Wanda’s side, your heart pounding, but not from fear or regret. You felt a twisted sense of satisfaction, knowing that Wanda was yours and yours alone. As the fan’s cries filled the room, Wanda’s attention turned to you, her smile dark and approving.

“You’re not going to run are you, dorogoya?” she asked, reminding you of the first time she asked. You already knew the answer.

“Never,” you replied, your voice steady. Your morals were a distant memory, buried under layers of devotion and obsession.

Wanda’s hands found yours, guiding them to inflict pain, her voice soft in your ear, praising you, urging you on. It reminded you of your first time. The girl's screams became background noise, a testament to your loyalty and your love for Wanda. Each cry, each whimper, only reinforced your commitment.

When it was over, and the basement was silent once more, Wanda rewarded you in the ways you had come to crave. She pulled you close, her lips finding yours in a kiss that was both possessive and tender. She led you upstairs, to your shared sanctuary, where she indulged your every desire.

She whispered sweet praises, calling you her good girl, her perfect accomplice. The darkness of the basement was replaced with the heat of her touch, the intensity of her love. You lost yourself in her, every touch, every kiss a reminder that this was your place, by her side, no matter what.

Your morals were gone, replaced by an unyielding devotion to Wanda. And as long as she was pleased, you knew you would do anything, become anyone she needed. Because in the end, nothing mattered more than the Scarlet Witch and the bond you shared, forged in darkness and sealed with love.

[trashmouth-richie]

master list

eddie! x fem reader

summary: 3 years later; happy birthday

I can’t believe this is almost the end. It is so bittersweet to be uploading this and thanking you all for the continued support on this story. I hope you will miss eddie + tooty just as much as I will. The epilogue is next and then a fun little surprise for you all.

trigger warnings: fluff, sweet sweet fluff 💕

Crinkly paper streamers twist down into even boughs along the cedar planked walls.  A homemade banner crafted with the best paint Melvald’s could offer, hung over the sliding patio door, freckled with glitter and deep hues of scarlet and onyx. 

  Carefully stenciled uniform letters spelling out a greeting for the birthday boy, line the banner— perfectly positioned.  

  Looking at it now, you can nearly feel the backache it caused from the leaned over pretzel position you were tangled in while attempting to make it look store bought. Instead it took hours and a ruined shirt to paint each letter with precision on your living room floor. 

  Red plastic cups were stacked in a corner on top of a cheap plastic table cloth adorned with paper plates and plastic utensils. A smaller card table from the Wheeler-Byer’s held a two tiered homemade cake, dolloped with sticky whipped strawberry frosting. His favorite.

  Polaroids of the birthday boy were placed, in no particular pattern, with sticky tack to the wall above the card table holding the presents. 

  Various shots from the past year capturing adventures big and small. He had wanted that.

  Wanted to remember every detail— an important step to moving forward, leaving the past in the dust and enjoying the second chance at life you had both been given. 

  The pictures were mostly candids, snapped in the blur of a moment, memories to be cherished for a lifetime to come. And although some of them were cheesy, or horribly cliche; they held delicate moments of the past two years of you and Eddie, together at last.

  You suck the sticky remnants of frosting from your thumb as you carefully arrange a framed picture of his graduation day just so on the table, stepping back and admiring the hard work and weeks worth of planning you had done.  

  Your fingers dance along the sharp edges of the selected photos you had given Jonathan to print for you. 8”x10”, 5”x7”, colored, sepia tone, and even black and white you had wanted to give it more of a collage feel to the project, and Jonathan did a great job. 

  The pictures varied from moments that probably didn’t need to be remembered and ones that should have been taken by a professional, but it was perfect, exactly the way you had envisioned it. 

  A snapshot photo of Eddie’s plump lips wrapped around a brown beer bottle after a night of helping Wayne paint the outside of his trailer, his signature middle finger in the air, the rings glittering with the flash— was propped next to a candle.

  One of Wayne and Eddie hugging on Christmas last year, a small tree tucked into the corner of the yellowing smoke stained walls and part of your finger covering the lens, and another one right after the first of them both looking shocked that you snapped the picture. 

  A picture of you and him, holding fishing poles on the bank of Lover’s Lake. His arm wrapped around your waist, your pole holding a sizable fish, his line snagged on moss and a tattered beat up tennis shoe, a proud smile on his face as he looked down at you, you mid laugh as Wayne teased Eddie behind the lens.

  Another of just him in black and white, asleep on the bed you shared his dark tattoos looked piercing against his bare chested. Long angelic lashes closed against pinked warm cheeks, the silver scar barely visible on his bottom lip. 

  One with Eddie and the boys, sitting in the backyard, the tails of the fire licking into the sun fading sky, his hands wild in the middle of explaining a campaign idea. 

  A candid of Steve, Eddie, Robin and Dustin wearing their tuxes and running into the ocean. Shoes snug into the sand and socks left forgotten. Steve’s white jacket thrown into the air, half of a laughing, Leighanne all dolled up and beautiful on their big day. 

  A photo from the same day, but of only you and him, your lips perched on his cheek as he held you in his lap in the back of a limo. His other cheek sparkling with the residue of a lipgloss kiss, one hand holding your strappy lavender heels, the other wrapped around your waist. His dimpled smile wide and toothy.

  And finally, your favorite one: one of just you and him, dressed in your homemade costumes as Mario and Luigi. A felt mustache falling from under your nose,his white gloved hands holding up rock n’ roll. Right before you two had won the Halloween costume contest at Nancy and Jonathan’s house. 

  Wayne had brought baby pictures that he had dug out of an old box in the forgotten storage shed when you had moved in. Dust lining the frames showing a brown haired baby with doe eyes, drooling over a washcloth while in the sink for a bath. A curly haired toddler with a big smile while on the swings at a park. And many more that were placed around the house. 

  The most special of them all sat on Eddie’s bedside table: a woman with soft honey muddied curls sweeping down to the middle of a white blouse, sunglasses pushed into her hair atop her head, kissing the forehead of a baby swaddled in a blanket.

  “Tooty!” Gareth called from the kitchen, “phone call!” 

  You set the napkins next to Nancy who was meticulously adjusting the m&m dish  into its correct place. Trying to balance out the clashing colors with the black and red theme. 

  “Looks perfect as always, Nance,” you murmur as you squeeze her arm gently when you pass her. 

  She huffs in disapproval, sweeping a permed curl behind her ear, her finger to her lips as she tuts, “it’s missing something.” You squeeze her arm again and trot into the living room. 

  Gareth is holding the blue phone by the long cord twirling it around like a pair of nunchucks, shoving the last bits of a hot dog in his mouth, ketchup wedged into the corner by his lips. “ it’s Hig D,” he announciates horribly, “somthin’ about heddie— shit that’s good— something about them just getting ready to leave work.” 

  laughing at him you can only roll your eyes, “you’ll make a good whore someday deep throatin’ like that,” you tease, taking the phone from his hand. 

  Gareth chuckles and shoves your shoulder, “haven't had any complaints yet, Oh! By the way, I need a three day extension on rent. Cool?” 

  Rolling your eyes again, a smile escapes your lips as you flip him off. 

  Of all of Eddie’s friends, Gareth was the hardest one to crack, but now he was easily your favorite. He reminded you a lot of Eddie in high school. A wild haired mess, always down for a crazy adventure to surely land him into trouble. But a big ol softie when it came down to people he cared about, especially Will. 

  Curling your fingers around the telephone cord, you talk into the receiver, “hey D, what’s up?” 

  —-

  Argyle and Jonathan arrive through the front door, smelling like purple palm tree delight and balancing pizza boxes in their arms. 

  Robin spins at least a dozen times trying to find a place for the tower of cheesed pie and nearly knocks into Jonathan in her pursuit of frenzy. The boys slide them into place onto a card table against the kitchen wall, a photo of you and Eddie holding the keys to Hop’s cabin with wide grins on your faces hanging above it. 

  The brisk May breeze flows through the house, flickering the candles and making the helium balloons bump into one another in a lazy staticky dance. 

  A blur of red stalks into the house holding two bottles of liquor in each hand, a baseball hat backwards on her head, “hope Eddie likes whiskey because that’s all Walt would sell me,” she says heaving the bottles onto the counter in a clunkered manner, wiping the sweat from her freckled forehead, sporting a fresh new bob cut all thanks to you, “stubborn ass, he charged me nearly double,” she huffs, folding the paper sacks haphazardly, “son-of-a-bitch wouldn’t even let me use my employee rate!” 

  “Thanks for getting it Maxi-pad,” you say over your shoulder stifling a giggle from the old nickname you hadn’t called her since middle school, “Eddie’ll drink beer from a boot as long as he got a buzz from it—let me know what I owe you.” 

  She spins on squeaky sneakers and grabs a slice of pizza from one of the leaning boxes, squishing the greasy cheese between her teeth, talking with a mouthful “quit— we’re square for all the times you’ve come over since moving back.” 

  A sad expression falters behind the mask on her porcelain complexion. But she’s quick to shove it all away. It had been months since she’d been back in Hawkins, and your friend since elementary school was just starting to get her life back into order.

  “Eddie’s offer still stands by the way,” you gently whisper, turning away from placing candles into the pink frosting to give her a quick squeeze, the fringes of your friendship mending together after years of not really speaking. 

  Holding Max at arms length you raise your eyebrows at her, “I’m serious,” a clip in your voice that even Nancy would envy. 

  She shrugs quickly and looks back with wet blue eyes, not willing to let her guard down on the eve of a party, “I’ll think about it,” her jaw set tight. 

 “Let's have fun tonight, okay?” she begs, “it isn’t every day Eddie’s old decrepit ass turns forty.” 

  The giggle she was hoping for to ease the tension tickled your throat, “he’s twenty nine, Maxine,” you tease back. 

  “Oh-ho-ho,” she chuckles, crossing the linoleum to the fridge in a swift motion, throwing open the door and leaning into the illuminated box, fingers dancing along the brown neck of a Bud Light, a smug smile on her salmon lips, “government names huh, T? I’ll remember that.” 

  —

  Will and Mike were in charge of moving vehicles behind the north tree line away from the driveway and out of sight. Each car owner silently held their breath and the litter of anxiety rising higher as Mike got behind the wheel of each car. 13 tickets by Hopper’s deputies hadn’t slowed him down yet. 

  Leighanne, and El had just finished hanging the decorative white lights on the back deck and around the trees. The backyard looked like a little cozy oasis. And it warmed your soul to see it all come together. 

  It was rough when you had first moved in here. Hopper had a buddy who owned the cabin you now call home. It was far from town but hadn’t been renovated in years. Nothing a little elbow grease and nights after work wouldn’t fix, it took six months with help from just about everyone you knew, but the place was perfect. 

  And after everything that happened in Hawkins, Eddie’s promise stuck. 

  He got you both out. Started a new life away from the wandering eyes and whispered lies. Even after he was cleared, people still wouldn’t let it go. 

  But, the cabin was everything you could imagine and more. Perched into a thick grove of trees. Secluded. Secretive. Exactly what you both needed. 

  It was  heaven. 

  Lounging on blankets in the soft grass, bare toes curled into the soft comforter, the girls sat back and laughed as Steve nearly tipped over the entire pan of grilled burgers and hot dogs.  

  “Yeah laugh it up you two!” Steve scolded playfully, tugging and shoving a hand into the thick tuft of hair on his head, “you won’t be laughing when there’s nothing to eat!” 

  “Such sass from The Grill Master,” Leighanne giggled, covering her mouth with a delicate hand, a large diamond on her ring finger.

  Before Steve could whip up something cheeky, Arygle’s smooth baritone voice broke amongst the laughs, “Damn my dude,” he chuckled, leading Eden’s small frame through the patio door, “smells good out here.” 

  Steve huffs again, “Thanks, I’m just doing what I’m told, don’t mind the peanut gallery back there,” he gestures with his spatula to the two giggling gals on the blanket. 

  The keg was perched on the small back deck, ice melting slowly around the tin base. Steve had been grilling burgers for the last half hour, smears of grease rubbed on the bottom of his red apron embossed with fancy lettering, kiss the cook.

  “And you’re doing it man,” Argyle salutes him as a fellow culinary soldier, “it’s art what you’re doing dude, pure fuckin art—like Picasso if he was a chef… piSteveo.”

  “Okay man—yeah, I get it,” Steve says all in one breath, rolling his eyes and cracking a grin back at his bride who was biting her own cheek and trying not to laugh. “Dustin and Susie ride with you?” 

  “Yeah,” Eden scowls, crossing her legs and dragging Argyle down to sit on the picnic bench, her black pixie cut fluttering in the light breeze resembling a real life goth tinkerbell, “that four eyed little shit kept going on and on about the ecosystem and methane gas or whatever, so yeah they’re here— probably terrorizing everyone else about the election or some shit.” 

  Steve snorts and flips another burger onto the grates, the sizzle of charred seasoned beef signaling the first signs of summer, “sounds about right.” 

  “Alright guys,” you say stepping through the sliding patio door, the sun close to setting in the west taking the warmth with it, “D said they’re just leaving so everyone get in position.” 

  -

  “..I’m just sayin’ is all,” D barks, finishing wiping the grease from a gas station bean burrito on the back of his hand from his pudgy lips, “I’ll give you top dollar for it.” 

  Eddie took another sip from his Mt. Dew, barreling down the highway and thumping his thumb along the steering wheel, contemplating heavily on what Big D had been asking of him. 

  “fuck I dunno man… it’s like a part of me y’know?” 

  Eddie rubs the beginning of his scruffy chin, unable to grow a full beard even though he’s nearly in his thirties, Peter Pan syndrome hitting him square in the jaw. 

  “had it since I was fifteen, fixed it all up with my uncle,” he mumbles lighting a cigarette between his teeth, “it’s a staple to the Munson name.” 

  D rolls his eyes and tosses the foil wrapper to the floorboards of Eddie’s truck. “that was like twenty years ago man, you don’t even drive it anymore.”

  Eddie chuckles through a cloud a smoke, turning the steering wheel to the right down the hidden driveway, overgrown grass on both ends of a rotted through fence post, “easy there asshole— ‘sides, thought you were buying Jeff’s mom’s car?” 

  D slides belches loud and throws his chubby hand out the window, fresh air wiggling his fingers slowly, “I did, just gotta fix it up, but the van would be my daily driving chick magnet.” He wiggles his eyebrows like two black caterpillars dancing a tango. 

  Eddie smiles to himself, memories of past times booze cruising to Rick’s and hauling band equipment to the Hideout. Times long gone and fading like the moon into dawn. 

  A time when he was ruthless, chaotic and hungry for the world’s shittiness just so he could add his own fucked up version to it. A big fuck you to anyone who ever doubted him. 

  A time before you were officially his. 

  Nowadays the bear inside of him was tame, licking its paws in laziness, hibernating with the sounds of a calm beating heart. Fed and cared for, content. 

  “We’ll see,” he replies, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth, “you still owe me $40 for that service you gifted to that waitress last week, fucker.” 

  “Pffft,” D says lighting a cigarette, “take it out of my check boss man.” 

  Eddie cranked his lips into a smirk, it still didn’t feel real.

-

  The roar of Eddie’s diesel truck echoes along the tree line, vibrating against the fallen branches from the late winter storm that snapped full grown Red Oaks like matchsticks when the ice built heavy onto its branches. 

  The cabin lights were dim, curtains pulled tight to barely show the glimpse of any crack of light. It wasn’t unusual, your lives were kept pretty private after everything that happened, doors always locked. 

  “The hell?” Eddie grumbled, wiggling the stick into neutral with the palm of his hand and killing the engine, the old dodge sputtering out to quiet, “thought you said Gareth was comin’ over to practice tonight?” 

  D fumbled for words, reaching for the metal door handle “no, yeah he’s here— maybe Will dropped ‘im off.”

  Eddie quirked an eyebrow, the exhaustion from work taking over his features as he let out a loud yawn and arched his back against the velour seats, he climbed out of the pickup, lunchbox in tow. 

  “alright man, ‘m just gonna shower quick,” he hooks a thumb behind his shoulder, walking up the stone path to the front door, “think Tooty still has the hose hooked up if you wanted to rinse off.” 

  D stomps around the truck, leaning a thick arm onto the hood, “don’t make any special accommodations for me dude, I’m cool.” 

  “Yeah yeah you’re pretty cool alright,” Eddie said climbing the two steps with heavy footsteps, and putting a brass key into the knob, twisting it in his grasp, “why’d you think I had the window dow—”

  Eddie is almost knocked back into the wall by the room full of his friends shouting surprise! as he entered the cabin. 

  Shock and a racing heartbeat wash away to a dimpled smile and squinted eyes. It was worth the weeks of planning and aligning everyone’s schedules to make it all work out. And in the end, the crowd turned into a blur when you peaked your head behind the kitchen wall grinning wide at the handsome man at the door. 

  His girl. His one and only. Spoiling him with a surprise party. Mouthing “happy birthday baby,” from across the room with a warm smile that still was able to tinge his cheeks in the prettiest shade of bashful. 

  Backs were slapped and shoulders clapped as Eddie made his way around to the guests. His smile was wide and toothy, lighting up the room with his deep laugh and dimples. 

  He hugged friends like he hadn’t seen them in years, pressed cheek to cheek and apologizing later for grease smudges left on their shirts. 

  “Shit,” Wayne breathed, as he stepped into the doorway, finding you immediately and looking sympathetic, “sorry we’re late, the missus was wrappin’ a last minute gift.” 

  Nancy and Mike’s mom stood tucked beneath Wayne’s arm. Four gifts wrapped tight and pristine, held in her arms. The alimony from Ted was still treating her more than well. 

  “Wayne,” Karen giggles like a schoolgirl, a long manicured hand to his denim jacket, dismissing him with a wink, “here Tooty,” she gleams, walking towards you with her arms outstretched, embracing you in a hug, “it’s just a little something for the two of you, saw it at the mall and couldn’t resist!” 

  It was an adjustment for the youngest Wheeler when Karen left Ted. Nancy and Mike didn’t seem to care, having already been moved out of the house and living their own lives. But Holly took it hard, refusing to see her mother at all. 

  “It’s perfect thank you Karen,” Eddie said, sneaking around you, his fingers dragging along your lower back  and down your hip, sending shivers to your core. A quick wink to you as he grabs the gifts from her and Wayne. 

  He was happy for them, he had never seen Wayne with someone who treated him so well before  in his life, he gave his shoulder a squeeze, “next time put your glasses on so you can see while driving, might get here on time, old man.”

  Wayne rolled his eyes and put Eddie in a headlock, “I ain’t here to see you anyhow, came to see my favorite daughter in law to be if you’d just marry her already, didn’t even know it was your birthday you little punk.” 

  “Yeah yeah,” Eddie scoffed, “that’s why it says ‘Ed’s birthday’ on the calendar in your office, right? Because you didn’t know?” 

  Wayne releases Eddie and gives him a side hug, “been celebratin’ this day for twenty-three years with y’ boy, I ain’t never forgettin’” 

  Karen was always like a mother to you. The Wheeler’s held such a special place in your heart, and you’d always be grateful for the kindness both her and Ted had shown you when you were growing up. Seeing her now with Wayne surprisingly wasn’t that odd. They balanced each other well. 

  Wayne pulls you into the other side of him, keeping you and Eddie under each arm, “looks real good in here darlin’” He says, looking down at you with icy blue eyes, “sure am glad  y’ learned how to tame this wild li’l shit.” 

  you smile up at the Munson’s and Eddie sticks out his tongue at you. 

  “Now,” he says addressing only Eddie, “I swear on my mama and daddy’s graves, Ed, you better marry this girl someday or ‘m gonna hang y’ from your toes by that clothesline out back.” 

  Eddie rolls his eyes, but before he can speak, Nancy  waves at her mother and stands atop a metal chair.

  “Alright everyone, let’s go out back and we can start eating.”

  Once the room emptied it was just you and Eddie. The tension was always thick in every room you were in with him, electric in ways that buzzed between your legs and made your head feel fuzzy. 

  You waited your turn patiently. 

  Eddie coins a coy grin behind his plump lips, walking with his hands behind his back and moving his shoulder low, cocking his head. 

  Your hands, busy themselves with arranging presents, fingers slipping between the silky ribbons and plucking the ends to watch them curl.  Warm arms surround your waist and you act surprised and let out a squeal. 

  He sets you down and pushes the collar of your shirt to the side, pressing his lips like angel’s wings to the skin on your shoulder, relishing in the way the goosebumps crawled across your flesh. 

  “Eddie,” you hum, working your fingers behind you to pull on the tendrils of sweaty hair tucked behind his neck. 

  “Hmm?” He breathes hot across your neck, working his way up to the dainty gold necklace, the same one brandishing the ring he gave you for Christmas in 1992, nothing compared to the one he was eyeballing at the jewelry store in the mall. 

  Rubbing the underside of your chin with the bulb of his nose, you shudder and feel his grin on your skin, “all of this for me?” 

  You nod and whine when a large hand dances across the waist of your jeans. And almost let out a moan when he nips at your earlobe. 

  Eddie’s work days were long but the nights spent between the sheets were longer, both of you never getting enough of each other. The passion and static was always there. 

  “Wanted to surprise my birthday boy,” you breathed as your head fell back into his shoulder, and he bucked his hips into you, pushing you into the rickety table and shaking the presents. 

  “You’re too good to me,” Eddie whispered into your ear, his fingers digging into your hips. “How am I ever going to thank my pretty gir—?”

  “Hey you guys comin’ or what?” Steve asks, hands on his hips and a scorch mark on his apron, “Nancy’s making a fucking seating chart out there, and I really hope you have liability insurance because Argyle is trying to teach Dustin yoga.”

  Eddie takes his lips from your neck and turns to face Steve, “I mean, we coulda been if you hadn’t barged in.” 

  “Eddie!” you laugh, slapping his chest lightly, and straightening your shirt, “we’ll be right out Steve, just going to give Eddie his birthday present.” 

  His eyes sparkle in mischievous wonder, “oooh you think we have time?” He says unbuttoning his work blues, “I like the way you think dirty sweetheart.” 

  You roll your eyes and tug him down the hallway to your bedroom. 

  “Jesus Christ,” Steve mutters under his breath, shaking his head and making his way through the patio door, “nah don’t worry I’ll entertain the guests,” he says in annoyance, “maybe we can play parcheesi or hotdog Jenga.” 

  —

  “Don’t peek!” 

  “Oh c’mon!” 

  “Eddie.” 

  “Ugh fine, but you better be naked or I’ll pout.” 

  “Such a brat...”

  “Don’t act surprised babe.” 

  “Alright open, but I am very much still dressed, that part of your present is later tonight.” 

  Eddie had showered and was getting dressed shoving his feet into a worn pair of converse when you waltzed into the room, a small oblong box behind your back. 

  Dropping the carefully wrapped present into his awaiting hands, he holds the box like a carton of eggs. One eye peeked open, “well,” Eddie says rubbing the corners of the box with the calloused pads on his thumbs, “this doesn’t feel like a puppy.” 

  “You poor boy,” you tease with a shove to his shoulder, and a kiss to his cheek, “how will you ever live?” 

  Eddie tears the paper with a hook of his finger where the tape joins the pieces, wet tendrils of hair dripping water marks onto the wrapping, “it’ll be hard but I think I’ll manage.” 

  Biting your lip in anticipation you watch as Eddie tears the paper in boyish glee. And you aren’t sure who’s smile is wider when he finally opens the small rectangle shaped box. 

  It took awhile to save up for it. Cutting countless heads of hair in the renovated room above Master Mechanic’s, the auto shop Eddie co-owned with Wayne in Bridgeport, and earning a small wage by cleaning houses for a few hours on the weekends. 

  But every scrubbed toilet, every rolled perm rod was worth it when Eddie opened his present. 

  “It's about time you saw them live, yeah?” 

  Tickets to Metallica, the same gift. But this time with the promise of actually going and witnessing their magic. 

  “Oh baby,” Eddie nearly cried, running his fingers over the inked words carefully, he set the tickets down on the comforter and wrapped his hands around your waist pulling you into him, “why are you so good to me?” 

  And just like the first time he asked you, years ago, before you were his and he was yours. When you were just roommates exchanging gifts on Christmas. You told him what you should have then. 

  but you don’t fight to find the words anymore, or wonder if it’ll sound dumb. Everything you've been through with Eddie you could never imagine living life with anyone other than him. 

  The words come easy, and it’s one of the truest things you’ve ever said. 

  “Because you’re a good man. Because you’re the reason I wake up smiling every morning. Because I have never loved anyone the way that I love you, and I’ll always, always regret not telling you sooner.” 

  Eddie smiles with a quivering lip and you lean down to wipe the tears from his eyes, his arms wrap around you tight like a vice grip.

  Looking into his eyes, he somehow looked better with every year passing, truly aging like fine wine, and you were drunk on him.

   “Don’t cry on your birthday baby, it’s supposed to be a party,” you smile warmly at him, bringing his chin up a bit

so you can press a gentle kiss to his lips. 

  Pulling you into him so you’re straddling his hips, he whispers an I love you into your ear with your real name attached at the end, all satiny on his breath like a Hershey kiss.

  You don’t hear your God given name very often, having hated it for as long as you remember. Stubbornly telling everyone at a young age that your name was Tooty. Even writing it on all of your school papers as early as kindergarten. 

  But when Eddie said it, it set your soul on fire. Like a secret kept finally being told. Like another wall breaking down with him holding the sledge hammer. Like the first bite of a warm brownie from the oven. It felt good. 

  He presses slow kisses into your neck and moves his large hands to rock your hips against him, “you’re never gonna get rid of me, you know that right?” 

  “Fuck I hope not,” you whisper as you nip at his bare  shoulder,  “I made your favorite cake for tonight and everything.” 

  “Mmm,” Eddie purrs against the column of your throat, “strawberry?” 

  Gathering skin between your teeth you suck a small bruise into his pale neck, tongue swirling soft then firm, his pretty noises filling the bedroom walls. 

  “Yep,” you breathe with swollen lips, and popping the ‘p’, “extra frosting.”

  “Lady evil at it again,” Eddie teases, capturing your lips into a hungry kiss, his hands scoring down your back and bringing your hips impossibly closer to where you were both aching. 

  You giggle as he breaks away, and tickles your sides. He flips you onto the bed. The bulb of his nose wedging between your neck and shoulder as his hips hold you in place, his fingers dig into your armpits, and your ribs. 

  You laugh until your face is red and your neck is slick and painted with a stain of raspberry teeth marks and the lap of his tongue licking the bites better. 

  He gives you a wicked grin, out of breath and his lips swollen, his demeanor changes into something serious. 

He holds his hand on your cheek, sweeping your skin delicately with the pad of his thumb, holding you so gently as if you were made of porcelain, “I’m gonna make you my wife.” 

  Your fingernails scratch lightly down his chest, skipping over the tattoo of little angel wings and a halo for the unborn child you didn’t get the luxury of holding, matching the one on your inner arm. The date etched below in Eddie’s own handwriting. 

  It wasn’t the only new tattoo he had gotten since that day.

  He also had a mockup of a cartoon lady, devil horns on her head and a long black demon tail wagging behind her, that sat on his bicep. A pout identical to yours on her pretty little face, arms crossed in a fit.  ‘my girl’ in old English font beneath her little stiletto heels. 

  Your fingertips trace the lines of blank ink on his chest. And you lift your eyes to his. 

  Opening your soul to him for the millionth time, spreading its wings and joining with his into that dream land he swore he’d take you to, dancing on the rings of Saturn, bathing in the springs of Jupiter. 

  He smiles softly and so do you, heart soaring and beating fast, “about damn time,” you whisper softly just before his lips close around yours.

  Although your life would never be the same after that awful day, the one you were crafting and coloring outside the straight black lines with Eddie by your side, was pretty damn great. 

  And you wouldn’t change a thing.

🤧

🏷️

@bebe07011 @dashingdeb16 @hiscrimsonangel @luxaeterna13 @enam3l

[danikamariewrites]

Nexus Being

Cazriel x reader

A/n: Happy poly week day 3! I am so excited to give you this scarlet witch reader fic and hope you like it. @polyacotarweek

Warnings: slight angst and fluff at the end

You pace in front of the hearth in Rhys’s office. Lost in thought, sorting through the pros and cons of what your High Lord, friend, and brother has just asked of you. 

Rhys leaned forward. His elbows on his knees, jaw clenched as he waits for your response. The High Lord didn’t feel good about asking this of you. But Helion couldn’t come up with a solution nor Thesan. Prythian was out of options and you are the last resort. 

You stop, inhaling deeply before closing your eyes. Rubbing at your face you turn to Rhys. That distressed look from when he asked you the unfathomable still pulling at your features. 

“She didn’t leave me the book.”

“I know, but you have to understand-”

“No, Rhys,” you say as calmly as you can, “she didn’t leave me the book.” 

The High Lord nods slowly, taking in the vital information you just dropped on him. “She did leave me other books. Spells that can help but that one is gone. I can come up with something but I need all the time you can give me.” 

“I will do what I can, but delaying Koeschi doesn’t seem likely.” Your eyes wander as you think. 

“I haven’t done this since before she died. Not even Cass and Azriel know.” 

“I can tell them if you want.” He offers gently. “No,” you whisper. “I’ll tell them myself. I just need time.” Rhys nods again. It seems like that’s all he can do right now.

———

The first step was Windhaven. The next, a High Lords meeting. Your stomach was in knots over the thought of telling your mates who you are. What you inherited. 

Your mother, an advisor to Rhys’s father, was the infamous Scarlet Witch. A gift that wasn’t supposed to be passed down. Or so harshly. According to Rhys you rivaled your mother in power. 

Scared of the potential destruction you could cause to the world or reality you buried your powers. Only letting magic out when there was an unbearable tightness under your skin. You passed it off as the magic you inherited from your High Fae father. But that can only explain so much. 

Staring at the suit you made changes to to fit your body and be more in line with your fashion sense. Your eyes quickly glancing over the crown that rests across your forehead has you losing a shuddering breath. An intimidating gift indeed. 

You could hear Cassian and Azriel changing into their leathers in their own closet. Speaking in hushed tones. 

Your mates still don’t know you are going with them to Windhaven. Rhys couldn’t give you the time you needed. Thanks to Koeschi’s new impatience the plan has been moved up by weeks. 

A knock on your closet door had you jumping out of your skin. A ring clad hand resting over your chest to keep your rapidly beating heart inside. It was now or…later you guessed. Better now. 

Slightly opening the double doors so your mates could only see you, you stare up at them. They tried their best not to look so tense but failed miserably. “Hey y/n/n, we just wanted to say bye. It’ll be a few days but we’ll be home before you know it.” Cassian said softly, cupping your face in his large hands. Azriel’s shadows began to stir curiously. His eyes narrowed as two floated up to his ears. You swallowed nervously which Cassian mistook as longing for your mates. 

But Azriel knew. Knew you were holding back. Opening the doors wider you look down at the duffle bag you packed hours ago when Rhys told you to. The males looked down then back to you confused. “Why are you…” Azriel trails off. One of his shadows quickly darts into the closet to investigate your secret. When it hits the shield you put up a red ripple, like a rock hitting a pond's smooth surface, disturbs the darkness of your closet. Opening the doors all the way you turn your back on your mates. Not wanting to see their reactions. 

“I have something to tell you.” Your shoulders tense as you feel their apprehensive gazes on you. Raising your hand a pinkish-red light surrounds your fingers. Waiting to do your bidding, to be shaped in your image. With a slight swish of your fingers the shield dropped, revealing your black and scarlet ensemble with the crown to match. 

Turning back to face them you had silent tears running down your cheeks. Their mouths opened as shock took over. They knew that crown. What power you possess. Before the males could ask questions you went on.

”My mother was the Scarlet Witch. As you know she was part of Rhys’s fathers council. I was never supposed to inherit her power, but the universe has other plans. I know she is supposed to be a horror story. But my mother was the kindest woman I knew. She taught me everything to know about wielding this…unusual power. 

“I don’t know everything though. When she died her book went with her. I’m not sure if it just turned to dust or if the gods placed it elsewhere. Truthfully, I’m glad it’s gone. The thing turned sane people mad and I had no interest in ever opening it. My first lesson was that all magic comes with a price and there is a lot I’m not willing to pay for.” 

You turn to face them, standing taller than before, tears now dried. “I’m coming with you. Rhys asked. And before you say anything, know he gave me a choice. I am doing this to save us.” Your voice broke on the last word. Tears threaten to spill again at their silence.  

There was a quiet rage swimming in Azriel’s eyes as he held his tongue, not daring to speak in case he said something he regrets. His eyes glued to your suit. Cassian was in awe of you. Of the power you hold. The bond humming as the full power between the three of you is revealed. 

All Cassian did was hold out his hand to you. Showing he did not fear you. Waving your hands over your torso that scarlet light runs down your body, dressing you in your suit and crown. 

When your mother wore it you thought it was the most beautiful piece of clothing. Now that you wear it you don’t know what to think.

It is your now though. The cloak clasped around your shoulders is your mother’s broach of the three faced goddess. You kept the scarlet corset, adding a black body suit under it. The elbow length gloves stayed the same except for the fingers. You changed them to a black fabric to mimic your mothers hands after using that damn spell book so much. The boots were new too. A matching scarlet leather with black ruins painted on them for protection. 

Taking Cassian’s outstretched hand you grapes your bag in the other. He gave you a small smile. Azriel couldn’t even look at you. Wouldn’t. 

As shadows wrapped around the three of you, you reached out to Azriel only to hit a dark wall guarding his heart. 

———

The trip to Windhaven went exactly as Rhys had planned. Devlon was terrified to see the Scarlet Witch once more. The soldiers fell into line out of fear, ready to listen to Rhys and Cassian’s every command. 

You had trailed them through the camp. Head held high as you kept power eminanting from your hands. You felt uneasy about the whole thing. Like you were lying.  

As soon as you got back to Rhys’s mothers house you made a beeline for the bathroom. Gripping the the sink, closing your eyes, you take a deep breath. A soft knock on the door has your head shooting up. Looking at your reflection your eyes glued to the crown perfectly balanced on your forehead. It had never felt so heavy before.

Another knock, a little louder this time, forces you to open the door. Your met with Cassian’s soft face as he looks down at you. “Hey sweet pea, want to talk?” You nod. He steps aside, following you to the empty bedroom. You noticed your and Cassian’s bags were unpack while Azriel’s still sat at the end of the bed untouched. 

You nervously pulled at the fingers of your gloves, pacing next to the bed. Cassian gently perched himself on the edge of the bed, waving you over to stand between his massive thighs. Cass dramatically swishes your cloak out and places his hands on your hips. 

“I’m very proud of you, sweet pea. Today was tough but you got through it. It is no easy feat to face Devlon and our armies like that.” Cassian pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist. Rubbing a hand up and down your spine. 

“Thank you, love.” You softly kiss his forehead, holding his jaw. It’s hard to fully accept that your mates are proud when one of them isn’t here. Azriel hasn’t spoken to you all day. Just to Rhys and Feyre when needed. Other than that he has been doing only the Mother knows what. 

Cass sends love and adoration down the bond noticing the shift in your mood. “Give him time. We’ve all had secrets, he’s just processing.” You nod, running your fingers through his hair. “Can we go to bed, it’s late?” “Of course, sweet pea.” 

Sleep evaded you that night. Trapped in Cassian’s arms you waited for Az to come to bed. Tears pricked your eyes when the sun started to come up, yet there was no sign of your mate. 

—-——

The High Lords meeting had you even more anxious than the camps. Rhys made sure you stayed hidden. 

Before heading into the meeting your High Lord asked you to wait until you were called upon. Your mates didn’t like that. They fought with their brother, accusing him of treating you like a party trick when you were so much more. “Whatever it takes to convince them.” You had bravely told the males you love. It made their bickering cease but you could still feel their unease.

As they left Azriel’s gaze lingered on you. Giving him a small wave, sending a pulse of love down the bond.  

Pacing in front of the doors to the meeting room you toy with the gold rings decorating your gloved fingers. The Day Court sentries guarding the room were tense. You could smell the fear on them as they looked everywhere but at you. 

Rhys tapped on your mental shields. The signal for you to finally present yourself. With a wave of your hand the gold and mahogany double doors open. All eyes were on you except your court. You knew they were sat with smug, nonchalant looks on their faces. “May I present, the Scarlet Witch. Born again and even more powerful than her predecessor.”   

There was an sharp intake of breath that echoes around the room. Helion and Kallias and Viviane looked surprised but bowed their heads at you. Tarquin was just exasperated. Sick of the tricks the Night Court has up their sleeves no doubt. 

Tamlin and Thesan looked shocked. Like they were ready to attack in case you breathed wrong. You stood by Rhysand, looking like the perfect picture of boredom as you stared down your nose at the Lords. 

Beron stood, surprisingly in front of his wife and children. Flames dancing wildly at his finger tips. Pointing at you Beron began his tirade. “We knew how her mother was! How dare you keep this from us Rhysand! The witch must-” Shadows swarmed the Autumn High Lord, binding him to his seat and keeping his mouth shut. 

“Must what Beron?” Azriel asked, tone cold as death. Anger danced in his eyes as he moved to the edge of his seat. Poised to attack no matter the outcome. Before the situation could escalate you hold up a hand wreathed in that scarlet light. “Thank you love, but you can let him go.”    

“If you want to have a chance against Koeschi I am your best bet.” You say staring down the High Lords. “Now,” waving your hands sending scarlet power out candles appear in a circle on the floor and floating around the room. A stack of spell books in the center of the rune on the floor, “I have casting to do and it would be best to leave me be.” 

As they head out Azriel and Cassian linger in the doorway for a few moments. You don’t look back, knowing they’d distract you. Sitting criss cross on the floor you spread the books out with a wave of your hands. Turning your hands palms up the books float up as you do keeping your legs crossed. Closing your eyes you focus on Kosechi, the spell to keep him bound to the lake, and how to rival his power.   

Hours later you're finally back in the room you're sharing with your mates. Leaning against the door you rub at your temples. Mother, you forgot how much of a headache spellcasting gave you.

Your mates stood from their chairs in the small sitting area. Looking at you like you were a power bomb ready to explode at any moment. Breezing past them you stop at the vanity, beggining to take off your rings and other accessories. The crown coming off last.

Behind you, Cassian and Azriel are having a silent conversation. Cass urging Az with his eyes to say something. Azriel clears his throat, "Y/n, can we talk?" Letting out a sigh you turn and lean against the vanity, crossing your arms. You raise a brow at him to go on.

"I want to apologize for my silence towards you, my love. Processing your powers has been a lot for me." You couldn't believe your ears. This was a lot for him? "It's been hard for you? Imagine what it's like for me! I never wanted to inherit this or control it. I live in fear of what I could potentially do to the world. I thought you, my mate, of all people would understand, especially with your shadows."

Cassian looked terrified. He just wanted peace between the three of you restored. The stare down going on between the two of you was nothing like he had ever seen before. Two different sets of dark power ready to be let loose.

Azriel broke first. His shoulders slump with silver lining those bright hazel eyes, now dim from shame. "It made me doubt the bond." You and Cassian were caught off guard by his vulnerability. "What," you whisper. Cass stepped up to hold his shoulders, leaving a small kiss on temple. "C'mon Az, tell us what's wrong."

Guiding him over to the couch, Cassian sits next to Azriel as you kneel in front of him, holding his scared hands. "When you revealed you were the Scarlet Witch all I could think of was the reality bending aspect of your powers. I immediately started having thoughts about the bond between the three of us not being real. That the Cauldron didn't gift me this love. That you created it and my world was going to come tumbling down. I know you would never do that after seeing you in the camps and at the meeting today. Hell, I knew you would never do that period.

"I'm sorry I thought so low of you. I just-I got so scared that you kept this from us, y/n. Please forgive me." He give you a pleading look as tears fall down his cheeks.

You can't deny the pain in your heart at Azriel's confession. You could never in a million years even fathom manipulating a person into a mating bond. Closing your eyes your own tears fall silently down your cheeks.

"Azriel, I would never ever do that. To either of you." Your voice wavers from the lump forming in your throat. "I can't say I'm not hurt but I do understand where you are coming from." Standing, you place yourself on Azriel's lap never breaking eye contact. He wraps his arms around your waist to keep you close. Cassian watched you both with hopeful eyes.

Placing a hand on Azriel's chest you send love down the bond. "Do you feel that?" "Yes."

"Does it feel real?" "Yes." You give him a small smile. "Then it's real Az. No spells, no witch craft. That golden thread between us is as real as the Cauldron." Azriel pulls you into a crushing hug against his chest. "I love you," he whispers into your hair. "I love you more."

"I love you most," Cassian chimes in, gathering the both of you in his strong arms. "Lets make a promise that from now on there are no more secrets between us, yeah?" You both stare up at him, nodding your heads. "Promise," you say in unison.

[enbyfrogwrites]

you're so needy, baby pt. 2

so! y'all voted for the content of pt 2. I hope y'all enjoy, again mdni and everything is under the cut <3.

tags: dead dove do not eat, mommy kink, sub!choso, smut, begging, afab reader but reader is nb coded, reader is mix coded but there's nothing pertaining to race outwardly, cockwarming, reverse cowgirl, needy!choso, dom!gn!reader, reader is FAT not chubby or curvy, squirting, 18+; i don't go into details of what reader has, but reader is afab!coded but no outward description of their bottom half. Additionally, no use of y/n, unprotected sex

i'm trying my best, my physical and mental health went down the drain so i'm sorry that it took literal months to even begin this. there's going to be spelling and grammar errors cuz i'm just one person and that's just how it goes. please send me asks of yummy content. i think im gonna make this sub characters blog lmao

thanks for reading <3

word count: ~1.8k

You look back at Choso, his face wet as he pathetically whimpers a combination of pleas and 'Mommy'. You've been playing your game for a while. You haven't checked the time yet, but you figured it was close to an hour since you actually started playing.

"M-Mommy-" Choso huffed hotly into the nape of your neck. "Has it been an hour yet?" His voice was so whiney, the tail end of his question ended in a higher pitch. You chuckle as you felt your boyfriend nuzzled his tear-stained face in between your neck and the soft meat of your shoulder. The sensation caused you to shiver slightly, in turn making Choso groan loudly as you felt his still hard cock twitch inside of you.

"I don't know, baby. I have to check." You answered truthfully, your hand reaching up and ruffled your boyfriend's fine hair. Choso leans into the touch, letting out a small noise. You paused your game and grabbed your phone which sat next to your desktop. You swiftly tap your screen as you bring the device to your face. As you looked at the time, you felt your cute boyfriend grab at your apron belly, squeezing tightly in need, but not enough to physically hurt you.

You notice you have ten more minutes left before it would be a full hour...but you were in between quests in your game. Not only that...but your boyfriend was being such a good boy too...ah, fuck it.

"Yeah, baby." You coo as you take your headphones off and set them in front of you. "Are you ready for Mommy's reward?"

"Please, please!" Choso cried softly into your plump shoulder, his hands skirting up your stomach so he can wrap his arms around your waist. "Mommy, it hurts. Have I been a good boy?"

Your boyfriend squeezes you tightly, whining and sniffling pathetically. You again reach over your shoulder to pat his head lovingly before placing both of your hands on your desk for better leverage. You propel the desk chair backwards, pushing off your desk just enough for you and Choso to get up, not to fling yourself across the room.

"C'mon, Pookie;" You turn your head to look at Choso's beautiful dark violet eyes. "Let's take this to the bed, Okay? Mommy wants you to lay on the bed for them." You slowly pull yourself off his length, making your boyfriend gasp as your wet hole left his aching cock. His cock was slick and shiny from your hole, glistening in the natural lighting in your bedroom. Gods, his cock was beautiful, the head leaked profusely and was a glorious shade between dusty pink and scarlet red. Choso's cock twitched temptingly from the sudden temperature difference. The shaft was just so thick and veiny, and absolutely delectable to look at.

You look up and noticed how wrecked Choso truly was. The shorter front pieces his hair was plastered to this forehead. Your boyfriend's cheeks were so flushed that it somehow made the mark on his nose stand out even more. When you make eye contact with the poor half-curse, his dark circles were more pronounced from how much he was crying and begging. The blush from his cheeks traveled all the way down his neck to just a bit under collar bone that peaked from his V-neck.

You gestured to the bed next to your desk with your hand before gently leaning down to lick your way into Choso's mouth. The mewl that left his mouth as you caressed his tongue lovingly with your own was delicious. You pull away and made the short distance to the bed. You plop down on the edge of it and stared at your boyfriend expectantly as you patted your shared bed.

Choso scrambled off your desk chair, his feet shuffling swiftly and softly across the hardwood floor. He climbed dutifully on the bed and went to the center of the mattress where you patted.

"Scoot up for, Mommy please. Mommy wants their good boy's back on the headboard, can you do that?"

Choso nodded eagerly, his hands pushing the majority of his body weight so he can maneuver to how you wanted him positioned. You move up with him and made sure to tuck a couple of pillows behind him in preparation for his...reward. In addition, you slide your chubby fingers under his V-neck and pulled the fabric off his chiseled abdomen and carefully made sure that it didn't snag on any of his piercings on the way up.

"Mommy, please." Choso choked out, his right hand sneaking past your heated core to grip his cock. Really it's been only a few minutes, but the tone of his voice and desperation in your boyfriend's eyes made it seem it's been like a million years. You giggled as you gently pried his hand off his leaking cock, giving a small peck on his cheek in compensation.

"Relax for me, baby."

You palm your boyfriend's cock with one hand, starting from the base and leave fleeting touches across his tip with your fingertips. You repeat this motion a couple times, making Choso squirm and gasp loudly at the sensation. On the downwards stoke, you continue further down and cupped Choso's balls and gently massaged them. You pull a few more moans and whimpers from him before letting go completely.

You turn yourself around and backed your ass up enough, so your boyfriend's cock lined perfectly with your sopping hole. You hold your breath as you grip his cock and began to sink down on to it. Gods, he was just in you, and he still felt so damned big. You wait a moment after Choso bottoms out to catch your breath before to turning partially around to face the half-curse.

"Let Mommy do all the work, okay? You can cum in Mommy's hole whenever. You were such a good boy today, Cho!"

Choso's only response was a meek 'please, Mommy' followed by a shuttered breath. His pupils were blown wide, his beautiful violet irises almost swallowed whole as he made eye contact with you. You gave him a lopsided smile before facing forward so you can grab at the bed between Choso's thighs.

"My thighs, Mommy!" A pause as you whip your head back towards the half-curse. "I want to feel you grip my thighs as you fuck yourself on my cock, Mommy."

You face heated up immediately. You felt yourself get even more wet on his cock before hurriedly turning back around in slight embarrassment. You go to do what your boyfriend requested of you, but you felt him yank on your t-shirt.

"I love seeing all of you, baby. It's not fair if I'm the only one naked." Choso's tone was between husky and needy.

A twinge of self-consciousness peaked in your head at the thought of riding you boyfriend with all of you exposed. You apron belly, your back rolls, and your stretch marks would be on complete display. But just as those thoughts came into your head, they vanished when you felt Choso sit up more just to grab at your fat stomach.

"Please, baby? I love you. All of you."

You felt your body relax- you didn't even know it tensed up in the first place quite frankly. Warmth blossomed throughout your chest as the love and comfort radiated from Choso. You nodded your head and swiftly pulled off your shirt. You didn't wear a binder or a bra today, so you felt your nipples pebble immediately in the open air.

Fuck, you loved Choso so damned much.

"I love you, too. Lean back so Mommy can take care of you." You twist your head enough so you can watch him obey you before you faced forward again.

You gripped Choso's thighs as you lifted your hips up and slammed them down again. Choso made a choked sound behind you, making you smile at the noise before repeating the motion again. You began to rock your hips at the end, making your boyfriend hit deep inside you. Helpless, you yelp in pleasure as you do it again. Small 'ah ah ah's kept being punched from Choso's lips as you sit fully on him again.

"Fuck, baby, meet me halfway?" You groan the question out as you grind your core on the half-curse's pelvis.

"Yeah, Mama," Choso didn't even hesitate before grabbing your plump hips as leverage to thrust up into you.

You both moan when you meet perfectly in the middle. The skin-on-skin slapping echoed loudly throughout the room, which surprisingly wasn't half as loud as Choso's cries of 'mommy' and his high-pitched keens.

"Mommy, mommy, mommy-" the noise Choso let out following the last plea was between a choked sob and a frustrated whine. "I'm gonna cum! Please! Puh-lease." You twist your head to look behind you and noticed your boyfriend was only using one hand on your hips as he gripped on to his hair with his other hand...in desperation.

You were close too- fuck. Your legs were getting tired, but you weren't going to stop now especially if your boyfriend looked like that. Gripping his thighs even tighter- he's definitely going to have bruises tomorrow- you push yourself even further. Your hips came down harshly and unrelenting. You purposely kept grinding your core on every down stroke to bring yourself closer to orgasming.

"Cumming, Mommy!" Choso keened, he learned forward and grabbed your fat stomach, as he held your hips still to pump his hot seed into your sloppy hole. You felt his cock twitch inside your gummy walls, and you quickly reached between your legs to rub yourself furiously.

It didn't take much, a couple of swipes of your chubby fingers on your nub and the dam broke. A small cry left your lips as you felt a small distant feeling of being...more wet than usual when cumming this time around.

You rested on your haunches as you tried to catch your breath. Unconsciously you rubbed at the now red fingerprints blossoming on Choso's thighs. Speaking of him you felt the half-curse lovingly rub your stomach as he nuzzled his face into the plush middle of your back.

You then felt Choso began to shake uncontrollably, and you began to worry. Just as you tried to turn around, you felt Choso smile into your back, and you noticed that he was fucking...laughing?

"Look down, baby." Choso giggled.

You do as you were requested and look down. To your horror your sheets were soaked.

"Holy fuck! Did I really squirt?" You also noticed that your boyfriend's cock and balls were sopping.

"And here you were trying to play your game, but you wouldn't have done this if you did, Mommy."

[murkysirenblue]

Humpty ⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

In your opinion, you had always lived a relatively normal life.

You were a fisherman, as were your forefathers for as long as it could be recorded. You lived alone in your little cottage by the sea, and rarely found yourself caught in precarious situations. A storm like none you’d ever seen before quickly changes that, and now housed in your tiny cottage is an injured yet vicious mermaid. With such a beast subdued, all lines of predator and prey are blurred- who is the hunter and who is the hunted?

Never forget where you belong on the food chain. (Title from Mitski)

Heres my boat inspo but im too lazy to talk about the sails

http://www.nefa.net/nefajnr/archive/peopleandlife/sea/fisherfolk.htm its the (M.V. “Trustfull” under the motorboat category

Chapter 1: Chapter 2: Chapter 3: Chapter 4: Chapter 5:

A sailor would never be able to predict the sea.

Skies shifted quickly from light blues with gentle winds to storms that could engulf entire fleets. Frevent waves crashed against your own little wooden boat more times than you could count. Tempestuous winds would strike you down to the deck amidst a storm with a loud thud- an injury more to your pride than yourself. 

But despite these turbulent waves, those storms with no visible way out, you thanked the sea for leaving you alive to tell the tale.

The sea was your life, your livelihood. Yet you were no great sailor, with no great ship. A mere fisherman, as was your father before you and his before him. A nickname befitted you, dubbed by townspeople behind clasped hands and through whispering lips, ‘Hermit Fisher’. You enjoyed peace, time on the sea and in your secluded cottage, you found no issue with your way of life. You sighed, shuddering and clutching your coat closer to your body as you trekked through the cold fog towards the boat dock. Today was one of the many days you ventured out to the ocean- you lived out the fisher part of your nickname quite frequently. 

A biting coldness pervaded throughout this little island you called home more frequently than not, even during the heights of summer. Winds whisked through rocky cliffs, sending harsh icy gusts throughout the isolated land. As you walked down the dirt track you listened, hearing sea birds cry overhead- their calls mingled with the sounds of the waves that crashed against the base of the cliffs, their violent icy waters molding them like clay. Familiar clouds hung above you, dark grey and ominous as they so often were. Tugging within you yelled two thoughts. The first one begged you to stay home, to prevent pride from persevering and to not put yourself at risk. The other merely told you to bring a raincoat. 

You, of course, travelled onwards, for you were no fair weather fisher. A gut feeling told you these next few days would bring a good haul, and if it wasn’t too windy on the sea then lady luck was on your side. 

You restocked the boat just yesterday- enough to last you a week. You had emergency rations plus a whole sea of fish in the water below. A plan lay in your pocket to be out for six days as well as the path you’d take. You’d go just a little ways past the Crone’s Finger, however if the weather made a turn for the worst you had another plan for what path to take homeward.

Bobbing up and down on gentle water was a familiar red boat- your one. Its scarlet red paint was slightly faded on its pine wood exterior, but vibrant enough to stand out against the ever expansive blue. Along the bottom of the ship in white paint read ‘The Salmon Seeker’. Your great-great-grandfather had named the ship in hopes of fishing lots of the stuff, or so the family legend said. 

Unfortunately for him, all there was to be found for you was herring. Your father and his as well all found themself stuck with a similar issue, your father often floated the idea of a curse. Superstition was a sailor's best friend after all. Often you considered changing the boat’s name, as if to spare yourself from any more jokes at the town market- yet the humour in it held you back from doing so.

As you inspected your boat, footsteps followed by a familiar head of thick orange hair found itself in the corner of your eye. You quickly turned around, a smile spreading on your face.

“Well, who do we have here,” you mused.

“Mornin’ Yuu, figured I’d meet you here before you left,” Ace said, throwing a lazy arm around your shoulder, “And also to get that key,” 

You reached into the pockets of your pants, retrieving a small chain of keys and placing them into Ace’s open palm, “Make sure you don’t break my windows this time,” you teased, poking him in the chest.

“Well you forgot the keys that time! How else was I supposed to get in?” He quickly came to his own defence, a playful pout on his face.

“Typically by checking under the mat for the spare ones,” You replied.

Ace quickly muttered something under his breath before quickly changing the subject, “So, getting any salmon this time round?”

“You know it,” you slapped his shoulder lightly, a gentle laugh leaving your lips, “Say, where's Deuce? You’re usually attached by the hip,”

“Eh, he had to go into work early, you know how Riddle is sometimes,” he sighed, “And before you ask, no, I’m not slacking,”

You and Ace made simple conversation as you finished up your inspection of the boat, running your gloved hands against the outside of the boat. The coating of pitch was cracked, with small bits peeling off as your rubber-covered fingers made contact. You made a short mental note to buy another can once you returned.

“Don’t worry about Grim’s breakfast today- he’s already been fed. He’ll be expecting his dinner at 6 though,” You said, heaving yourself onto the boat.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be yowling at us till we do,” Ace said in his typical relaxed tone, “Try not to die this time round?” he said with a wink.

“Always,” you winked back.

You entered the steering room with one last wave to your friend, finally beginning to head out to the fog covered sea. The scent of salt was thick in the air, carried by the early morning breeze. The fog quickly made the view around you murkier than the depths below, and it didn’t take long for the red-head’s waving form to disappear amidst the wraith-like tendrils of mist. A cone-shaped flash of light occasionally appeared overhead, and you silently thanked the lighthouse keeper for operating the beacon.

If you were considered a hermit by the townsfolk, you could only imagine what they said about him.

It was operated by one Idia Shroud, the lighthouse having stayed in his family for generations. He was so rarely seen, that son of theirs. Only once or twice had you ever even seen Idia in town. Though you hadn’t much else to say about the man, you felt appreciation for the light flashing above. 

Despite the surrounding dimness, the sea looked to be calm, with the waves playfully bopping your boat up and down as it journeyed through the blue. It was a comforting rocking motion, like a mothers cradle. You’d known the sea long enough to know that the conditions in the open ocean were far better than the ones surrounding your home- all you had to do was traverse the misty grey haze. The winds felt slow and humid, a good sign that any schools of fish would be larger than usual. Windy days led to them being split up into smaller groups against the harshened currents. 

You leaned against the wheel, waiting as the propellor pushed you through the greyish blue expanse. You’d occasionally catch sight of another boat's light through the dizzying mist, but not much else.

After what felt like hours of waiting, you finally found an end to the fog. Passing through, you looked back on the wall of grey that engulfed the area, spilling out slightly along the top of the water. You coughed slightly as you breached through, eyes trained on its almost wave-like appearance. Soon all that fog was but a memory, and you pulled out your map and pencil. It was an older map, covered with dates and small markings of where not to go and where bigger schools met up and what seasons you should go where. You drew small dotted lines spreading out from your island, tracing along a larger, older circle. It seemed as though your home were encased in a dome of fog. It ended at roughly similar coordinates each day, and rarely did you see it dissipate. 

You liked to track where it ended, searching for a hint for something. You weren't sure what you were trying to solve, or how anything connected- you knew you had to work it out though. 

As you left the sight of the misty wall, you began to lower your net in the water, watching as the hemp material all but disappeared as it sank into the depths. There was a lot of waiting in this job. 

As you drifted, you looked out at the dull sea- the clouds overhead having turned everything into a blueish grey. It was lonely at times; boring at others. Minutes turned to hours and hours to days. Days and days of looking out at nothing but blue. Sevens, it was lucky to even run into a merchant ship- anything to keep you from going crazy. As time ticked by, you were left wondering what to fill the empty minutes with. Tic-Tac-Toe? No, it’s no fun to play by yourself. Filling in the Captain’s Log? There wasn’t really much to write about either- not even far fetched theories on the nature of the misty dome. And you didn’t particularly feel like doing that kind of work anyways.

You sighed and looked out at the sea, pondering the idea of hiring a deck-hand. You were sure Ace and Deuce would be happy to hang around on a little journey out to sea, if only to escape their boss from having their heads… Actually, considering the amount of meticulous tasks there were, those two probably wouldn’t be the best to hire. You also doubted Riddle would even allow them to spend that long away from work to fool around on your boat anyways. Perhaps your cat - a gluttonous grey chartreux- could stand to see where you went so often for days on end. However, the more you spent thinking the more you realised what a disaster that would turn out to be. Fish, Grim and hard work would not be a very good mix.

Sighing again, you looked out into the surrounding ocean - after all there was very little else to look at. You leaned on the edge of your boat, looking up at the seabirds that occasionally flew above your boat. Their loud calls echoed through the expanse of the open seas as they dived down below looking for their next meal. It all felt like a careful, frenzied dance. Like the outstretched arms of spinning dancers just shy of missing each other. Their wings whirled as the oceans twirled, opening its mouth for them to enter within. They would launch out again, fish of all sorts wrestling against them as they were made a meal. Everything danced, everything moved around, spinning and spinning into each other- your own personal vicious ballet to view. 

Suddenly, there was a pause in it all. A flash of light. Then a splash of a long, slender scaled tail. Everything felt as though it stopped, and you couldn’t help the gasp that escaped your lips as you stood up straight. You surveyed the sea with a critical eye, leaning over the edge as you tried to force your eyes to see past the blue barrier of the darkened ocean. You spied black tendrils, something pale and a bright flashing emerald green. The scales when they had breached earlier were gleaming, managing to catch what little light the sun provided. You stood back from the edge, throwing your hands away as though burned. 

Could such tales your father spoke of be true? Could it have been…

You were no stranger to tales of mythical creatures. In taverns you had often overheard tales of 30ft long tentacles ripping great hulking ships in two as though it were nothing, legends of whirlpools the size of whole countries sucking fishing boats into its mass. Stories of sirens driving sailors mad with their voice along. And quite frequently of mermaids, most of such from your father. 

Could it have been a trick of the light? Could such an impossible sight be a cruel joke your mind was playing on you? Sailors were often plighted by ocean madness, could it be ailing you? But with such a calm, darkened ocean there was no possible way you could mistake something for the view you just saw. 

Half fish, half human- something your father avidly believed in. You let out a shaky breath as you took another step back from the edge. Petty beasts, you corrected. No matter what role they played in the stories spun by him whilst at sea together, whether they were healers, guides, all powerful; they were always spiteful at heart. Without feelings, without empathy. Accursed and too far removed from the Sevens love. 

You tried to recompose yourself, ignoring your rapidly beating heart. You closed your eyes briefly, remembering an encounter with two passing merchants from the Scalding Sands. Kalim and Jamil, if your memory served you right. Kalim had been excitedly telling you he once saw a mermaid- with scales of amethyst and a beautiful face- just a ways past the Coral Sea. Taking a swig of your drink, you prayed to never see such a beast. He didn’t understand, others did.

You knew all too well what became of people driven by delusion. Stuck in sights they couldn’t prove they’d seen.

After more minutes of staring into the expanse of blue below bore no change to the surface and what came from it, you breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it merely was a trick of the light. You wouldn’t be swayed by delusion or superstition, you thought, taking one last look back as you returned to the steering room. Maybe you should fill your logbook out after all.

There was no fog out here, but dark clouds remained above. You felt an odd itching feeling build within. The air felt dry around you, but there was still a pleasant warmness to it. You’d been sailing long enough to know there was nothing good about that. You left the steering room, deciding to bring your net in one final time. It had been a full day out at sea already, and your initial gut feeling was correct- you had a good haul. However you would have to cut the journey short, for you wanted to make it back before whatever was brewing above hit. You heaved in your catch- all herring as usual.

Part of you felt almost disappointed nothing ever came of that long tailed mer- creature, but another, far larger part of you was relieved to not bring such a bad omen onto your boat. With your catch, you made your way down into the cabin to pack them away in ice-filled crates. Your step backing a bit more speed than usual and a furrowed brow were the only visible signs of your worry. 

It felt a bit silly to believe that the ocean could sense fear the same way a predator could- that it could smell the trickle of nervous sweat running down your forehead, or feel the increase of your heartbeat vibrating through your body like a snake hiding beneath sand, waiting to strike. Yet despite knowing how irrational this fear was, you still attempted to keep up the brave face to cover the increasing worries seeping through you. 

Looking down, each fish was stacked into a crate, their scaled bodies writhing against each other as the cold sent them slowly into shock. You once heard someone call herrings 'silver darlings’ at the markets once, for their scales were as slick and as bright as liquid mercury. Ever since you were a child fishing with your father you had seen schools of them shimmer beneath the golden setting sun. The soft yellow light radiated off their scales, penetrating past the blanket of darkening blue above them. Standing by your father, he would smile down at you. Fleeting moments that had long fled, and you were grown now, left to appreciate the sight alone.

The herring’s stare had also long unnerved you. They seemed to look right through you with those bulging, cold dead eyes. They were nearly as large as their head, with uneven black pupils surrounded by a moat of silver. The pupils weren’t perfect circles like most creatures- hell, not like most sea creatures, giving them an awkward gaze. When you would scale them, oftentimes the vessels near their eyes popped, leading to them being filled with blood and turning the silver iris a dark red- as did their flesh when they were smoked. A ‘red herring’, you chuffed.

You shook your head- you were getting distracted. As you stacked the crates, you secured them in place with a tan hemp rope. The storm brewing above told you many things. That you would be getting saturated, that you probably should have bought that can of pitch this morning, and that if you didn’t secure everything now you would be very pissed at yourself later. 

Looking over at the ladder that led to the deck, you noticed a couple fat droplets of water had splattered across the floor and began to stain the ladder a darker colour. Sighing, you grabbed a yellow raincoat from a shelf securing it on as you quickly made your way up the ladder, almost an eyesore- you had bought it from the Al Asim merchant.

Procuring a key and padlock from a shelf below, you locked the hatch leading to the cabin as you exited. As you popped your head up, you could already see dark waves beginning to build up as the skies turned black above. You had anchored the boat early, and that was the only reason you hadn’t drifted away yet. After turning on all the boat lights you could, you rushed to the bow side, deciding if you should unanchor or not. On one hand, you could remain secure to the seabed, and hopefully not be bashed around too much by the waves. The seabed wasn’t too deep, but it would still take about 5 minutes for you to unanchor; it already began to rain, you didn’t have long till the storm decided to hit. 

But on the other hand, the anchor could be ripped out by the waves if they were harsh enough, and you would be in a very precarious situation. Also depending on where the waves hit, your boat could take a lot of damage. If you were to push it enough now, you might be able to get away before the worst of the storm hits. You were a few hours away from home, and you weren’t a fan of returning late in the night. However the more you spent thinking about it, the less time you had.

You let out a huff as you decided to bring the anchor in, listening to the rusted chain rattling as you strained to pull it up into the boat. You heaved and panted as the boat now began to rock to-and-fro amidst the navy waves, with white foam occasionally spraying across the deck and soaking the few exposed parts of your body. Your rubber gloves clutched onto the chain as you used your full body force to pull it on board, silently praying you wouldn’t lose your grip or slip on the rapidly wettening ground. Your teeth were clenched so hard you near feared they would shatter had you not done this hundreds of times before.

Lead grey clouds let out deep rumbles above as they sat across the skies, a fully darkened suffocating mass. Splutters of rain fell harder and colder as the minutes pressed on, and you shivered despite the layers of clothes you wore. Your boots squeaked against the slippery wood below with each step, your heart near palpitating as you tried not to fall.

You anxiously watched the stygian waves around you, relief spreading through you as the anchor finally revealed itself from the embrace of the sea. “Finally,” you wheezed as you locked it back in place, a dull ache spreading through your tired arms. Looking around you, you wished the clouds from this morning were enough to persuade you from going out to sea. You weren’t a fair weather fisher by any means, but you were foolish to doubt the storm brewing.

And as such, whatever God of Storms existed decided to unload all they had on you. Waves were beginning to build all around you- far worse compared to before pulling up the anchor. Rain was pelted down as well, dying your world a dark and vicious grey haze. You would have to get to the steering room soon to even have a chance to get yourself out of here. Spying something from the corner of your eye, you look to the left, just in time for a leviathan wave to crash beside the boat, throwing your little ship like a ragdoll with its sheer force. You quickly gripped onto the railing, practically hugging it as you used everything from your fingers to your arms to remain on the boat. You were sure your fingertips were turning white as you clutched with all you had, waiting for the spinning to stop so that you could dash into the steering room that sat at the other end of the boat. Your heart pounded against your ribs as you tried to calm your breath.

The boat suddenly began to tilt upwards at the bow, and looking down past the railings you saw another large wave begin to build up towards the sky, slowly pulling your boat up at its base. Your heart dropped. From the sheer size and speed, it was likely a rogue wave. This quickly shifted to a ‘get into the steering room to have any chance of living’ situation. You would, quite simply, die if you were to stay out here. The chances of survival even in the steering room began to dwindle too, you knew it deep down.

Grabbing a spare rope, you made a run for it. You all but swung the door off its hinges as you barged into the room, swiftly slamming it shut. You clutched the steering wheel and pulled the level below to full throttle, feeling the vibrations of the propellor as it whirred to life amidst the chaos around. You tried your best to power the boat across the water, pulling the wheel to turn the boat as fast as possible.

If you were to go forward away from it and take the full force of the wave from the stern-side, you would be completely wiped out- same case for the bow-side. Repairs would be costly as well, if you were to even survive. Taking such a blow across the side would be your best option, and hopefully if the Sevens were to smile down from above onto this poor fisher's soul, you could make it out before such a thing happens. As you navigated through the swirling ink all around, you tied yourself to the steering wheel with your rope; if only not to lose your balance amidst the shaking sea below. Thunder rolled above, near deafening as the noise rang through your ears. Your father always knew how to stay calm in storms- you wished desperately for any kind of guidance in a prayer spoken through gritted teeth.

Just as you neared the whirling edge, the curling mass of water above decided to give in, crashing down on itself with a noise not unlike the thunder above. Water quickly blackened the windows in front of you and began to seep through the cracks in the door. You cursed loudly, oh shit, oh shit, oh fuck. In hindsight, you should have bought more seels. Actually, you could have done a lot more in hindsight.

Everything then began to groan and creak as you felt the boat begin to tilt even more. You grabbed onto whatever you could and braced yourself as it then rolled over, again and again and again, as you were blown several metres across the abyss. You tried to remain upright the best you could, but even as it finally stopped spinning and something other than water could be seen through the window, your ship continued to be roughhoused by the conditions around you. Suddenly you lost your footing, smashing your head against the ship's wooden wheel- the world turning black again, as though your head was underwater.

—

Somewhere on a lonely little island in the middle of a stormy sea, two men sat in a quaint little cottage slouched by a cosy fire; its warm glow the only thing illuminating the decorated space. The ginger one of the pair looked out the window, watching out as rain pelted loudly against the glass panes. Time was passing on still, and the night began to grow late. There was nothing to do but sleep. He sighed, bored as he looked over at his usual accomplice, a worried look staining the bluenettes face.

“Yuu is fine, Deuce - they’ve handled weather like since before they could even walk,” he said, a relaxed grin hiding his own uneasy feelings.

“I know, but it feels weird that we’re relaxing in their house by a fire while they’re stuck doing Sevens knows what in the freezing cold alone!” He said exasperated, startling the sleeping grey cat, “Sorry Grim,”

Grim merely mewed in return, promptly falling back to sleep.

“See, Grim isn’t worried about them- you should follow in his paw prints,” Ace said lightheartedly.

Deuce scowled at him in return, and the two promptly argued to the background of distant thunder and rolling waves against jagged cliff-side rocks.

[shy-urban-hobbit]

1.

The Cat had a habit and God's alone knew when exactly Lambert had starting indulging it.

"What you working on?" Aiden asked as he came up behind the Wolf, hooking his chin over Lambert's shoulder, hands - as always - folded behind his back in a way he presumed was supposed to come across as harmless (and according to Aiden, removed the temptation to touch) but had Lambert convinced for the longest time those hidden hands held a knife which was about to find itself buried between his shoulders. He had no idea when exactly he'd stopped moving away whenever he heard the other approach, or warning him off completely with a low growl or other threat, but it's what had led him to his current situation. That situation being working on a new bomb with the Cat watching his hands intently.

"Curiosity killed the Cat." Lambert replied, always one to keep his answers vague when it came to his experiments until he was sure it was working as it should. He cursed himself when he realised he needed to swap out the tool he was working with for one which was in his other kit back in his saddlebag, which was way over on the other side of their small camp.

"Hmm." He heard Aiden shift behind him before the required tool entered his field of vision, dangling between dark skinned fingers, "Not just yet, it hasn't."

Lambert said nothing, his brain flitting between his current project and wondering exactly how closely the other had been watching him.

2.

Lambert stiffened under the others weight. He'd grown to tolerate the Cat draping himself over him in one form or another, whether it was plastering himself against the Wolf's back or leaning against his side. Aiden was always quick to move at the slightest hint so it wasn't as if it was too much of a hindrance. The scenting however, was new.

"...Can I fucking help you?"

"Sorry, sorry." Aiden said, bringing his nose away from the crook of Lambert's neck and moving away so he was kneeling next to Lambert instead, the scent of embarrassment growing stronger, "It's been a long day and you're scent...it...."

"You trying to say I stink?"

Lambert was sure if Witcher's could blush Aiden would be scarlet right now, "It's grounding, alright!" Aiden spat out, "It's been an absolute shitshow of a day, and your scent makes me stop feeling like I want to claw my own skin off and don't ask me why because I don't fucking know, but it does!"

"Is that why you've started more or less sitting on top of me some nights, because you like how I smell?"

Aiden shrugged, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable and I swear I didn't plan to scent you, it just happened. If you want me to set up somewhere else, I understand."

"Aiden." Lambert threw him a look the Cat recognised as the Wolf's silent request to 'shut the fuck up' whilst tilting his head.

Aiden blinked, "You're sure?"

"Just don't make it weird."

Aiden tentatively rested his head on Lambert's shoulder, the tip of his nose cold against Lambert's neck, "Thank you."

"Whatever. I just don't want you getting twitchy enough to go on a murder spree or some shit."

3.

Lambert winced in sympathy as Aiden continued to whimper and cry out, trying not to let his own panic bleed through too much and make things worse as the scent of the other pain made his eyes sting like they'd been rubbed with nettles. The burn was deep, leaving Aiden's left leg a mottled mess of raw red and charred black from knee to hip. It was bad - far worse than their potions and enhanced healing were equipped to deal with alone, especially when Aiden's body had decided to go into shock.

The healer had refused to take any coin in payment, insisting it was the least she could do unless the two of them wanted to have effectively done that slyzard contract for free. Lambert felt he owed her something regardless. The healers assistant had taken care to hold Aiden's legs down, but he'd managed to get a few solid scratches in before Lambert had even thought to do the same to the Cats arms, sitting bolt upright with a screech as soon as the healer had touched a finger to the wound. Lambert could only hold Aiden to his chest, his arms pinned by his sides as he continued trying to squirm away from the salve.

"Aiden, you need to calm down alright?" He said as Aiden almost dislodged the assistant for the third time.

"Hurts". The Cat whimpered

"I know, but she can't treat you if you don't stop moving and then it'll feel even worse. You need to try and keep still."

Aiden gave a bitten off sob as he looked at Lambert, his eyes clouded with pain and adrenaline, "Hurts."

And that was a look Lambert never wanted to see aimed at him ever again.

"C'mere." He quickly shuffled so his head was level with Aiden's before quickly relinquishing his grip on Aiden with one hand to tip the others face towards his neck, Aiden immediately sniffing deeply and greedily, his body losing a little of it's stiffness so whilst he was by no means relaxed, he no longer felt close to snapping he was so tense.

"That's it, calm down for me. She's almost done, it's almost over." He soothed awkwardly, feeling every single one of Aiden's punched out breaths and sniffles ghost over his bare skin as he finally tried to do as asked and hold still, although his body still jerked every now and then, especially when his leg had to be lifted so it could be properly bandaged.

"All done." The healer said, placing a sealed jar and a roll of bandages on the small table by Lambert's elbow, "You're welcome to stay back here until he's a little more coherent. Don't forget to take those with you when you leave."

"Thanks." Lambert said with a nod, continuing to run his fingers through Aiden's hair after his hand has somehow found its way there whilst the other pressed their face deeper into his neck.

4.

Lambert huffed a laugh as true to form, Aiden zeroed in on the crook of his neck - alternating between sniffing obnoxiously, leaving nipping kisses little kisses up and down his throat and licking the sweat off his skin with either a quick kitten lick or a long swipe of his tongue.

"And here I thought you couldn't possibly smell any better."

"You say that like you haven't smelt sweat and sex on me before. Probably smell like a brothel."

"You smell like us." Aiden answered, giving another comically loud sniff, "Did you know arousal smells like cinnamon on you?"

Lambert gave a surprised laugh, "Can't say it's something I've ever been curious about."

"Well it does. Cinnamon and-" Another sniff, "Black pepper. It suits you."

Lambert pulled him up for a deep kiss before flipping them so Aiden was underneath him, nuzzling his neck as his hand found its goal between his legs.

"Lambert." Aiden sighed, arching his back.

"Shush now." Lambert admonished lightly with a nip to Aiden's earlobe, "I'm trying to figure out what yours remind me of and you know if you distract me, I'll have no choice but to start over."

Turns out Lambert was very easily distracted that night.

5.

Lambert turned the small trinket over in his hand. Everything looked in working order, so why the fuck wasn't it actually working? He reached a hand behind him when he felt the bed dip to rest it on the first body part he could reach (a thigh this time) as he tilted his head to the right to make room - always the right nowadays - his Cat liked being able to see his face afterall.

"What you working on?" Aiden asked as he hooked his chin on Lambert's shoulder, wrapping his own arms around the Wolf.

"Just something dumb for Ciri." He answered, placed it on the bedside table, "How was training?"

Aiden gave a short, derisive hum and Lambert smelled a spike of annoyance as Aiden shifted to press his nose to his lovers neck as his arms tightened marginally, "I don't think my knife skills will ever be at the level they were now that my depth perception's fucked."

"Oi, less of that." Lambert admonished, loosening Aiden's hold on him so he could turn to see his face and once again feeling a twinge of fondness for Jaskier that the bard had searched high and low to find a shade of green for Aiden's eye patch that matched his remaining eye (everyone who knew him knew he was surprisingly vain about them).

"You weren't an expert from the get-go the first time you learned all this, right? It's only been a few months, you don't need to be so hard on yourself."

"...I hate when you're right."

"You're proud of me when I'm right. Now c'mere and let's see if I can't cheer you up."

Aiden allowed himself to be reeled in, languid kisses turning needy as Lambert worked on the laces of Aiden's shirt before pressing his face to Aiden's neck to fill his senses with the smell and taste of home.

[hoffmanxfurthermore]

Strawberry Sunscreen

(Chase Harper x reader)

Collab w someone.

Content: age gap, daughters best friend, reader is a 19 year old virgin, taboo stuff lol EVERYBODY IS OVER 18 AND CONSENTING

Word count: 3.9k

(Gif by @angels-holocaust)

"I'll be there at 5 :)" You send the text and smile, setting your phone on your desk. Claire, your best friend, invited you to her family's fourth of July party, and you're beyond stoked. This year has been rough on you. You took the year off of school to help your sick mother. Now, at 19, you're starting your senior year of high school in less than two months.

It's a pool party, so you opt to just wear your bathing suit, a dark purple tankini, under your dress. It's not likely that you'll get into the water, but you like to be prepared. The rosy pink sundress fits perfectly, accentuating your curves, the hem reaching just above your kneecaps. Your wavy brown hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and you complete your look with a pair of small silver hoop earrings and a pair of black sunglasses before setting off to Claire's house. 

There aren't a lot of people at the party, just you, Claire, her dad, and a couple of friends that you'd lost contact with since being out of school. It's a little awkward since you don't really fit in with Claire's friends. But Claire made sure to include you in their activities so you don't feel left out.

When everybody decides to get in the pool, you opt for sitting in the sun instead, watching Claire's dad cook burgers on the grill. You aren't sure, but you swear you could see him glance over at you once in a while, trying to be subtle. Especially after your dress came off, while you're lounging in a lawn chair in your swimsuit next to the pool.

As the night went on, the subtle glances turned into innocent flirtation. You blush, not used to the attention. You shyly turn away as he comments on your bathing suit.

Mr. Harper makes small talk with you, telling you he's proud of you for going back to finish high school, asking how your mother is doing. The sun is setting, turning the sky beautiful shades of scarlet and purple. You two sit next to the pool, chatting, catching up since it's been a while since you've visited Claire.

People start to leave, and the party is just about over. Claire's dad had given her permission to have you over for the night, so you change into a large t shirt and some clean underwear, ready to settle in for the night.

"Thanks for inviting me today, I really needed it," you say to Claire as you're both sliding into bed, just a little past midnight.

"I'm glad you had fun," she replies, smiling, "you know me and my dad love having you over."

You both slowly drift off to sleep, the cool breeze coming in through the open window, cooling down the stuffy room as the heavy down comforter covers your bodies.

3:34am.

The bright red LED analog clock on the nightstand nearly blinds you as you awaken in a panic, escaping from a horrible nightmare. Your mouth is drier than a desert. The oversized t shirt you wore to bed is soaked in sweat. Glancing over at Claire, you slowly sit up, trying not to wake her up.

Making your way down the dark hallway of the house, you hear what sounds like liquid pouring coming from the kitchen. As you approach the kitchen, Claire's dad turns to face you, a glass of whisky in hand. You pretend not to notice him looking at your bare legs, barely covered by the fabric of your shirt. He's dressed only in green flannel pants, hanging low on his hips. You stifle the urge to let your eyes roam his body.

"Hi, Mr. Harper, sorry, I just came in here for some water," you say, your voice dry and hoarse.

"Let me." He smiles at you, setting his glass down as he opens the cupboard, pulling out a clean glass. He fills it up with water from the dispenser on the refrigerator door.

"Thank you," you barely manage as you chug the cool liquid quickly, water dribbling down your chin onto your large grey t shirt. Wiping your face on your hand, you set the glass into the sink, your arm brushing against his as you withdraw your hand. You're not sure how to describe it, but that split second contact sparked something inside you. Is this your chance? Your gaze meets his for a second before you quickly look away.

"I should, umm, get back to bed," you say quickly, turning around to leave.

"Wait," he protests. Turning around, you can see he's walking toward you.

Your heart skips a beat as he steps toward you, placing a hand on your hip. The contact makes you gasp.

"I need to say something... Every time I see you, I can barely contain myself," Chase's voice is low, sultry, lustful, "and you looked so beautiful earlier," he confesses.

Your eyes widen in surprise. You've always had a thing for Mr. Harper, but he's your best friend's father. You'd be lying if you said you'd never had your own little fantasies about him, but the idea of actually doing anything with him scares you, not to mention would be the ultimate betrayal to your best friend. Especially given the fact that nobody has ever gotten further with you than reaching a hand up your shirt. Being a virgin, still, at 19 is a little embarrassing, so it's not something you usually tell people.

He takes a step closer to you, standing only inches in front of you, his hand still resting on your hip. He's taller than you are, and his frame is much larger. 

"I saw you looking at me earlier..."

"Mr. Harper," you whisper, "I can't." Your heart is pounding in your chest.

"Chase," he whispers in your ear, "call me Chase."

His hand leaves your hip only to travel up to the back of your neck as he gently laces his fingers through your soft, silky hair, causing a slight moan to escape your lips. Shivers run down your spine as he backs you against the counter, and you grab onto the edge to steady yourself. Your face is inches from his neck, and you have to fight the urge to kiss his skin.

"Claire would kill me," you gasp. Chase leans down and levels his face with yours. His lips are just inches away from yours, and his blue eyes feel like they're staring deep into your soul.

"Then we don't tell her," he whispers before pressing his lips to yours. His lips are soft, and they taste like whisky with a hint of peppermint. The stubble scratches your face as you lean into the kiss, your tongue slowly tracing around his plump lips. At that moment, the fear of Claire finding out and how she may react goes out the window. You want him. God, you want him so bad.  Chase pulls away from the kiss, his eyes full of lust and the desire to explore your body.

Kissing your neck softly, his hand snakes up your t shirt, feeling the soft skin on your lower stomach, just above the waistband of your panties. You inhale sharply as you feel his hand move down, his fingers grazing lightly over the thin fabric. There's a warm, tingly feeling between your legs, one you've only ever felt in your own bed, thinking of the very man who had his big hands on you right now. You're eager to continue but nervous at the same time.

"Can we, umm," you take a nervous gulp, "go to your room?"

A smile spreads across his face as he nods. He wraps his arm around your waist, leading you to his bedroom. Luckily, his room is across the house from Claire's. But still, he locks the door behind him just in case.

His bedroom is big. A large bed sits against the wall in the middle of the room with a big blue comforter and matching pillowcases on the pillows. The ceiling light is off, but a tall lamp in the corner of the room shines a soft white light in the room.

Sitting on the bed, you smile up at him, trying not to look scared. But he can see the uncertainty in your eyes.

"What's wrong, baby?" He asks, sitting next to you, "if you've changed your mind, I understand."

"I didn't. It's just... I've never had sex before. I'm still a virgin."

His eyes widen with surprise.

"Really? A pretty girl like you? No way."

"I've always been too scared to go through with it. I'm scared the guy will be too rough, or it will hurt, or that I'm not attractive enough..." Your voice trails off as he slowly tucks your hair behind your ear.

"Dont worry," he whispers as he places a hand on your bare thigh, "I'll take care of you. And I think you're gorgeous."

You cover your face as you blush, giggling nervously. Chase slowly pulls your hands from your face and kisses you again, running his fingers down the side of your face and making your skin tingle.

“I’m going to make you feel so good, baby.” Chase whispers against your lips, his hands moving down to your hips. You moan in response against this lips, your arms wrap around his shoulders as he guides you onto the bed, and your head rests on a soft pillow.

Chase’s hips press between yours, his hardening cock presses against your clothed cunt.

A soft moan escapes your lips as Chase begins to kiss your neck, trailing from your jawline all the way down to your collarbone.

You arch your back ever so slightly as his hand moves the fabric up your chest, offering yourself up to his touch, eager to feel the warmth of his hands against your bare flesh. He pulls your shirt up to unveil your soft breasts, emitting a low growl as he takes your nipple into his mouth.

“O-Oh,” You whisper, his tongue swirls around the soft bud, sending shivers down your spine. Your hand laces through his soft brown hair, watching as he happily takes in your breast while his other hand caresses your thigh.

A soft whimper escapes your lips as you feel Chase’s fingers brush over your clothed cunt, feeling your arousal. “You’re so wet for me, baby.” He purrs.

Before you can reply, you’re cut off by feeling Chase’s finger slipping behind the fabric of your panties and into your wet cunt. He continues to kiss your neck softly as he allows you to adjust, his finger moving slightly inside of you. This is a new sensation for you, and you cry out in pleasure.

"You're so tight... fuck," he groans as he pushes a second finger in, "Let me know if it's too much."

"It's... oh god!" You gasp loudly as he curls his fingers inside you, sending a sudden surge of pleasure through your body. He kisses you to muffle your noises as you moan loudly.

"Tell me how it feels, baby," he whispers, moving his fingers inside you faster, his thumb massaging your throbbing clit.

"It feels so good, Chase, oh fuck!"

Chase moans in response as he pulls his hand away, sitting up on his knees. Biting his lip, he tugs at the waistband of your panties and pulls them down your legs. You can see his cock throbbing against the thin material of his pants, and you lick your lips at the sight of it. You pull your shirt the rest of the way off and toss it to the hardwood floor.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, his blue eyes wide with desire as he looks at your body, laid out before him. His comment makes you blush again. Never in a thousand years did you ever think your best friend's dad would be into you after crushing on him for so long.

You don't even care that maybe he's just looking for a quick lay. You don't want to know. Chase could never have a relationship with you without jeopardizing your friendship with Claire, as well as straining the relationship he has with his daughter. He could never do that, and neither could you.

But you want him regardless. You know he has experience. He wouldn't hurt you. Still on his knees, he slowly lowers his flannel pants, and his dick springs free. You gasp at the sight of it as he removes his pants and throws them to the floor.

"Dont worry, y/n," Chase says, catching you gawking, "Relax..." he leans down, slowly kissing from your knee up your inner thigh. You're completely mesmerized with the sight as he looks up at you, his soft lips making contact with the top of your clit.

"Ooh," you gasp as he slowly drags the tip of his tongue over your clit, flickering over it with just enough pressure to make your legs twitch. You squeeze your eyes shut as his tongue travels around the most sensitive spots, his hand making its way up your body to play with your right nipple.

"Oh my god, Chase..." You run your fingers through his hair and buck your hips up as he swirls his tongue all around your sensitive clit and pussy.

"You taste so good," he growls between licks, "so sweet, like strawberries, mmmm..." he moans, his tongue dancing around your dripping cunt and the sensitive bud above it. His words only add to your pleasure. You moan loudly in response, an indication that you're getting close. Chase digs his nails into your thighs, holding your legs apart as you tremble. Sensing your impending orgasm, he quickens his movements, licking and sucking and nibbling.

"I'm gonna cum, Chase," you moan, your voice breathy, gasping for air. His hand moves from your breast to cover your mouth as you come undone. You squeeze his head with your legs, and you scream against his hand, your fingers claw at his shoulders as you cum. As you're coming down, he slowly plants light kisses around your throbbing pussy, looking up at you as your breathing slowly returns to normal.

He looks up at you, taking his hand from your mouth, licking your juices from his lips slowly, savoring every little bit of it.

"How was that, babe?" He asks in a hushed tone, slowly crawling up the bed next to you.

 "It was amazing," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, "Thank you."

Chase leans in to press a gentle kiss to your lips, his touch tender. You can taste your fluids on his lips, and despite the initial surprise, you find yourself strangely aroused by the taste.

Feeling Chase shift and position himself between your legs, a shiver of anticipation runs down your spine. Your heart pounds in your chest, eagerly awaiting his next move.

“Are you ready, baby?” He pulls away from you for a moment, scanning over your face for any sign of unease.

You look down to see Chase fisting at his cock, the tip is red and dripping with clear precum. It’s much bigger than you imagined,  but you can take it.

“Yes,”  You nod, looking up at Chase with pleading eyes. “I’m ready for you to fuck me. I wanna feel cock for the very first time….”

Chase is taken aback at how filthy your words are, seeing as he’s always viewed you as his little girl’s best friend. “That’s what I like to hear.” His voice is a low growl, a smirk tugs at his lips.

You feel the tip of Chase’s cock press against your slick entrance. He watches as your mouth opens and your eyes widen when he pushes his hips forward slightly, just the tip at first.

“Chase..” You whimper, your face scrunching in discomfort the more he stretches you open.

“Do you want me to stop?” Chase asks, stilling his hips for a moment.

You shake your head, assuring Chase that you don’t want him to stop. “Just relax honey, it’s gonna feel so good.”

"Oh my god!" Tears well in your eyes as he pushes further, slowly. It hurt like all hell, but you figured it would pass slowly. Your brows furrow as you look up at him, digging your nails into his shoulder.

Sure enough, the initial pain you felt at first slowly dissipated, and you soon find yourself drowning in waves of pleasure. In that moment, you give not the slightest fuck about anything else besides this newfound bliss that you'd deprived yourself of all these years.

"Chase," you whine as you move your hips to match his movements, to which he responds by picking up his pace. The sound of skin slapping skin and the blissful moans coming from the both of you fill the room.

“You’re doing so well,” He praises you, kissing your forehead softly. You bite your lip, closing your eyes. The bed squeaks below you as Chase picks up the pace, his thumb goes down to your clit to thumb at the sensitive ball of nerves, adding to your pleasure. “How does it feel, baby?”

“It feels….so good.” You whimper, spreading your legs even further to allow Chase to fuck you deeper. You flash a small smile at him, your mouth opening a little wider as small moans spill from your lips.

“Atta girl,” He locks his lips with yours, cupping your cheeks gently. “Your pussy is so ready for me baby, taking every inch.”

“Out of all the men to fuck me for the first time…I’m so glad it was you.”

"I'm glad it was me too, sweetheart," He whispers.  "I've wanted this for so long to be able to share this moment with you."

You smile up at him, feeling a deep sense of connection with him in that moment.

You trust him. You feel a certain way you've never felt with anyone before. Wrapping your arms tightly around his shoulder and moaning in his ear, you've never felt closer with anyone else in your life. The sounds emitting from Chase's mouth only add to your pleasure as he fucks you deep. A warm, bubbly feeling starts to develop within you, making your legs twitch. Chase continues twiddling at your sensitive bud, bringing you closer to the edge.

"Oh my god Chase, I'm gonna cum..." You whisper in his ear as he kisses your neck.

"Cum for me baby girl," he says, keeping the same pace, "I want you to cum for me..."

"Ohhh..." You groan loudly as the impending orgasm builds up, "please don't stop, Chase, please..." You beg.

Within seconds, you're wracked with the most amazing feeling you've ever felt in your life. This is totally different than when you're alone in your own bed, fantasizing about Chase. Your own fantasies never measured up to what this man was doing to you in this moment. Your walls tighten around his cock as he fucks you deep and hard, but he never breaks his focus. He fucks you right through your climax, dragging it out. Your eyes roll back and your mouth is hanging open as he presses his thumb down on your throbbing clit.

"Y/n..." he groans, "where do you want me to cum?"

"I don't care," you whine.

"I'm gonna fill you up," he whispers, his lips grazing your neck, making you shudder. He pulls his hand away from between your legs and gently caresses your face, "would you like that, baby?"

"Yes, please, fuck, fill me with your cum, please..." You beg him, looking at him with desperation in your eyes. Chase looks into your eyes as he bites his lip, breathing heavily.

"I don't wanna cum.. you feel so good, y/n... your pussy is so good for me... fuck..."

"Please," you plead with him, "please cum in me."

"Ohh fuck, I love hearing you beg..." he slows his movements, presumably so he doesn't cum too quickly, "beg me more... beg for my cum..." he continues fucking you deep, but really slow, teasing you.

"Chase, please, please cum inside me, fuck me hard till you cum," you cry out, looking up at him, your eyes wide, begging to feel his hot seed spill inside you.

"That's it, baby girl..." he picks up his speed gradually, holding your legs apart, his hands gripping the back of your thighs hard. His hips slam against the back of your thighs as you moan loudly, begging with your eyes.

"I'm gonna cum, y/n.... are you sure?"

"Yes," you gasp.

As soon as you say that, he sheaths his cock deep inside you, throwing his head back and groans loudly as his warm cum spills inside you. You wrap your legs around him and grind your hips against him, desperate for every last drop of it.

"Oh god," he groans, holding his cock deep inside you, "fuck, y/n, so good..." he whispers as he rides out his high.

Gasping for breath, he rolls off of you. He came a lot. You can feel it dripping out of you and between your ass cheeks as you look over at him, gazing into his beautiful blue eyes. You're unable to form words, but your face says it all. This was the most amazing thing you've ever felt in your life. You don't even care that you just lost your virginity to your best friend's dad at 4 on a Friday morning.

"That was so good," you gasp as your breathing slowly returns to normal. He rolls over to his side, facing you, and wraps his arm over your waist, pulling you close.

"It was amazing," he purrs, "I'm happy I could help you experience your first time."

You roll over and cuddle into his chest. He moves onto his back as your face rests against the soft hair and his warm skin, your hand gently resting on his hip.

"Thank you," you sigh happily as you cuddle him close. He reaches up and softly pets your hair. Your eyes are heavy with sleep. It's half past 4 at this point. His big arms wrap around your naked body as he gently kisses the top of your head.

11:23am.

You awaken in a panic, still in Chase's bed.

"Oh my god, Claire!" You gasp as you jump out of bed and rush to get dressed, praying Claire is still asleep. Your legs are shaky and sore. It takes a moment to find your balance. The sudden movement causes Chase to slowly wake up, and he turns his head to face you.

"Mmm, what's wrong, baby?" He mumbles as he rubs the sleep from his eyes as you pull your t shirt back on.

"I fell asleep in here! Crap, it's already after 11. I gotta get back before Claire wakes up."

"Shit," Chase mutters, sitting up in bed, a panicked look in his eyes, "I didn't even know we fell asleep."

As you slowly pull the door open, you barely have a moment to react when the door swings open with almost enough force to put a hole in the wall. Claire is standing in the doorway, looking pissed as all hell.

"What the hell is this?! Are you fucking kidding me?!" She shrieks.

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XXX

Find all previous parts on Ao3 :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @sad-scarred-sassy who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere / @the-darkestminds / @lady-of-tearshed / @what-about-elvenis / @gameafoot /

The sky was a vicious blue, bright and cloudless. The smell of blooming flowers was in the air, strong enough to choke. Elain had to raise a pale hand to cover her eyes, blocking the unforgiving sun. A gentle wind blew, kissing her cheeks. The grass was cool beneath her bare feet, dew drops making the edges of her pink skirts damp. 

Elain glanced down, tilting her head when she noticed that it almost looked like blood. It stained the elegant fabric, ruining it. She frowned as she straightened the wrinkles, her brows pinched. Red rose petals were littered between the emerald blades of grass, a perfect path that she chose to follow. 

Elain walked with steady steps, unnerved by the silence in the open space. There were no singing birds, no buzzing bees, no trickling streams. A shiver danced along her spine as she continued forward, the scarlet petals shifting until they whirled together like a rushing river. 

It looked like hair, she observed. She tracked the length of it, searching. Her mind moved slowly, her thoughts disconnected from what she saw. 

Empty eyes stared upwards, unblinking amber gemstones. 

Elain woke up with a gasp. Her body moved involuntarily, shooting upwards despite the numbness she felt in her limbs. Someone quickly created more distance between them, and Elain twisted her neck so she could face whoever it was. 

“Vassa?” She said, voice a strained rasp. She had forgotten to refer to her using a title. Elain cleared her throat, wishing she could have a sip of water. She let her vision adjust to the night, pretty hair the colour of a copper coin flashed as the other woman nodded. 

The cursed queen breathed a relieved sigh, tension leaving her shoulders as she slumped into a more comfortable position. “Elain?” At the tilt of a chin she received in response, Vassa ran a hand over her face roughly. “You weren’t waking up,” she declared, her accent similar to the one in cities that had bordered the wall. 

Koschei. 

The death god’s name echoed in Elain’s mind. If Vassa was with her, his involvement was the only explanation she could think of. 

Elain took a shaking breath. “That happens sometimes,” she mumbled, letting her fingers dig into the soft earth in an attempt to ground herself. She checked her surroundings to decide what she might do next, hoping that she recognised where she was. 

The moon was high, and stars glittered tauntingly against the endless dark. Elain was left with the impression that they were laughing at her misery. She could tell that she was near water, perhaps past the forest’s edge and a bit farther than the clearing she found herself in. The air was damp, a humid fog clinging to the trees and creating a rather uncomfortable atmosphere. 

Elain was certain that she was no longer in any of the seasonal courts of Prythian, and although she might have been in one of the solar ones, she determined it was quite unlikely. There was something distinctly ancient about the forest, leafless branches reaching up towards the sky like hands made of bone. The wood of each tree was a ghostly white, a stark contrast to the dirt covering the map of roots beneath the surface. 

There was magic thrumming all around her, Elain knew, but it was unlike her own. There was something about it that briefly reminded her of Nesta. She frowned, concern replacing all other emotions. She wondered if she was in the Middle, keeping in mind the stories Feyre had told her. 

“Had a good night’s sleep?”  

The question rocked Elain, snapping her out of her own thoughts. She had not noticed that there was someone else there, but the familiar voice was enough to make anger rush through her veins. 

Elain faced Lethe, scowling as she saw how beautiful the other female still looked despite the ordeal they had endured. Her dress was left in perfect condition, no tears in the expensive fabric. She had unpinned her hair, and it fell in an icy sheet to her waist, not a single knot between the strands. Embers sparked to life in her eyes as she raised an unimpressed brow. 

“You’re here.” Elain said without thinking, stating the obvious. For a moment, she was glad to have someone she knew with her, but she was quickly reminded that the two of them did not exactly get along.  

“I’d rather be dead,” Lethe declared with a sniff. The words hung between them, sharpened by the silence. 

“That can easily be arranged,” Vassa offered, but was promptly ignored. 

Elain kept looking at Lethe, their gazes locked, when a horrifying realisation dawned on her. “No one knows,” she muttered, heartbeat thunderous in her ears. Panic gripped her like a claw and she tried to pull at the mating bond with no success. While she thought it was probably the distance, a million awful scenarios came to mind. 

Lucien. 

Elain grabbed at the curls against her scalp, tugging to stop herself from whimpering. If Beron would go so far as to harm Eris, she had a hard time believing he would have second thoughts about doing the same to her mate. 

“No one knows,” Lethe confirmed, sounding exhausted. 

“Fuck,” Elain mumbled under her breath, the foul language slipping from her tongue easily. “What about Eris?” 

Lethe straightened, a commanding air to her at the mention of her friend. “What about him?” When Elain remained quiet, the other woman shook her head. “There’s nothing to be done for him.” 

Elain felt the events leading up to that moment crash down on her like a wave. With no outlet for her frustration, she heard her own voice raise accusingly. “Some friend you are,” she spat, the anger making her brave. “We should have helped him, he’s hurt–”

“Hurt?” Lethe snarled, interrupting the rest of Elain’s sentence. “You think he’s hurt?” 

Elain winced at the aggressive tone. “I think–”

Lethe laughed, the sound grating like a blade against marble. “You think Eris is hurt?” When Elain remained silent, she waved a hand, the nails on each finger filed to a dangerous point. “I think you’re stupid,” the Autumn noble snarled. 

Vassa made a soft sound, a gentle warning. Lethe continued as though she had not heard, teeth bared threateningly. “Eris is dead, and I’m stuck here with the foolish little human girl he felt responsible for.”  

“I’m not human,” Elain corrected, a finality to the statement. It was the first time she had said the words out loud, acceptance sneaking up on her as steady as the rising sun. Where grief once would have been, confidence in herself only remained. “I’m not human,” she repeated, “and Eris isn’t dead. He can’t be.” 

Elain refused to consider it. There was something constant about the Autumn heir, like the unchanging seasonal court he had been born in, timeless.

All the fight seemed to leak from Lethe, her shoulders curling inward as she bent her legs to her chest. “No one could have survived that.” She rested her chin against her knees, looking very young, voice breaking like glass as she spoke. “You wouldn’t have recognised the dagger, but it’s made entirely of gold and tipped with ash.”

“The ash is enough to kill him?” Elain asked, her question wavering. She felt a burning behind her eyes, and she blinked to keep her tears at bay. 

Lethe sighed, but there was no judgement in the sound. “Our teachers in the Forest House told us that the High Lord slaughtered his father with that weapon and forced himself onto the throne.” She paused, using her sleeve to wipe at her cheeks. “Ash wood is like a poison without a cure for the fae.” 

Elain closed her eyes, clenching them shut to cut herself off from the rest of the world. There was a sharp ringing in her ears, like the aftermath of a bell’s toll. It took all of her willpower not to break down into wretched sobs. 

A gentle hand rested on Elain’s back, a comfort as she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. 

“Everything is going to be fine,” Vassa lied. The human queen rubbed at the spot between Elain’s shoulder blades, staying close even as her nerves settled. 

“Hope is for those who don’t know any better,” Lethe offered, no matter how unwelcome the opinion was.  

“Lucien is going to come for us.” Elain said softly, putting her wish into the universe and hoping against all odds that it would become a reality.