#now I have reached another layer of reality

[nninoxasaur]

Genius, Madness and Connection

I love it when shows incorporates cultural signals and interfamily gestures because I feel like it really expands on the setting and makes the characters feel more involved, it is a mark of where they come from and the people they have loved through something as simple as the way they move or the phrases they say so let’s talk about the little bunny signal or ‘genius and madness.’

We first get introduced to this symbol in s1 ep7 in the fight scene between Ekko and Jinx. (if anyone knows other places it shows up before this pls let me know.)

At first it seems like an endearing behaviour displayed by Powder specifically, another character trait to help us recognise her softness and playfulness in childhood in contrast to Jinx however, during season 2 we find that this symbol has a meaning.

In s2 ep7 when Ekko travels to an alternate reality Jinx says this: “You know those ugly twins, genius and madness.” And for the sake of this post we are going to assume it means the same thing in our main universe.

So now this symbol means something – represents two sides of the same coin as Viktor puts it. The idea that with great ingenuity comes a bit of crazy, which honestly fits Jinx pretty well. I’d also like to note that genius and madness are twins, already injecting a familial aspect to the phrase.

The other place we see this symbol appear is with Felicia in s2 ep 6. Felicia uses this symbol as a greeting and in doing so it takes on another meaning. It is “hello, I see you.”

We can guess that this is how Powder uses this action towards little Ekko in their fight in season 1; “Hello!”

So, if the symbol both works as a greeting and has a literal meaning (genius and madness being bound together) then what does it become when these things are combined?  

Like genius and madness are two sides of the same coin, you are a side of my coin. From mother to child, between childhood friends, we are connected, and I recognise that connection. You are a piece of me, for both the goodness and the grief that brings.

And the fact that alternate universe Powder doesn’t do it to Ekko but for him, reaching over his shoulder to do the symbol adds a whole other layer of connectivity to the gesture that is just so sweet and absolutely confirms to me that they are already dating by the time our Ekko gets there (along with Ekko literally saying “pretend it’s the first time” and that fucking adorable blue rose necklace.)

I just think it’s so beautiful that Felicia’s unique way of saying “I love you, you are with me always” has outlived her in this way and I hope this gesture continues to get handed down, possibly through Ekko if we ever see him again.  

[inifinitypink]

Hell Parappa Community, please consider the following:

Sunoodle/Ramen Petals

[leftoverpages]

Loyalty’s embrace

Pairing 𓅪 Benjicot "Davos" Blackwood x betrothed!reader

Tags 𓅪 jealous and protective Benjicot, small fight scene (no gore), fluff at the end, romance, reader uses she/her but no physical description

Notes: i have been writing for years without posting anything so i have a insane number of fics to post, enjoy lol

Wordcount 𓅪 1.3k

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The grand ballroom of Blackwood Manor was awash with warm candlelight and the soft hum of conversation. The air was filled with the scent of roses and the clinking of crystal glasses. Lady Y/N stood at the edge of the room, a vision in her resplendent gown. Her dress, a masterpiece of crimson silk and midnight velvet, flowed around her like a river of fire and shadow. The bodice, embroidered with intricate patterns of gold thread, clung to her form, highlighting her grace and strength. Across her chest and shoulders, the Blackwood sigil was proudly displayed, a symbol of her new allegiance and her own fierce spirit.

The fabric shimmered in the candlelight, every movement sending ripples of light and shadow cascading over her. The skirt, full and layered, swirled around her feet like a tempest, the deep red contrasting beautifully with the inky black. A delicate gold chain rested at her throat, drawing attention to the elegant curve of her neck.

She stood there as her betrothed, Benjicot Blackwood, engaged in conversation with several lords and ladies. She found herself alone for the moment, sipping a glass of champagne and watching the festivities from afar.

Despite the grandeur, there was a nervous flutter in her stomach. Being betrothed to Benjicot, the fierce and enigmatic heir of House Blackwood, was both an honor and a daunting reality. Their engagement was more strategic than romantic, a union meant to strengthen alliances and secure power. Still, she had hoped to find some genuine connection with him, something to hold onto amidst the political machinations.

"Lady Y/N, you look ravishing tonight," a voice interrupted her thoughts. She turned to see Lord Cedric, a notorious flirt and known for his less-than-honorable intentions, standing far too close for comfort.

"Thank you, Lord Cedric," she replied, forcing a polite smile and taking a small step back.

He didn’t seem to notice—or care. "It's a shame you're tied down to Blackwood. A beauty like you deserves better," he said, his eyes raking all over her in a way that made her skin crawl.

"I am perfectly content with my betrothal, Lord Cedric," she replied firmly, trying to edge away. But Cedric persisted, moving closer, his hand reaching to touch her arm.

"Come now, Y/N, you can’t tell me you’ve never wondered what it would be like to be with someone else," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.

Before she could respond, a strong hand gripped Cedric's wrist, pulling him away from her. "I believe the lady has made herself clear," Benjicot’s voice was low and dangerous, his dark eyes blazing with anger.

Cedric paled but tried to maintain his bravado. "I meant no harm, Blackwood. Just a bit of fun," he stammered, taking a step back.

Benjicot stepped between Cedric and Y/N, his posture tense and protective. "Your idea of fun is clearly misguided," he said coldly. "If I ever see you bothering her again, I will not be so forgiving."

Cedric sneered, his fear giving way to indignation. "And what will you do, Blackwood, uh? Throw me out of your pretty little ball?"

A dangerous glint appeared in Benjicot’s eyes. "No, Cedric. I’ll do much worse."

Before Cedric could react, Benjicot’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him staggering backward. The ballroom fell silent, guests suddenly turning to witness the confrontation. Cedric, recovering from the initial shock, lunged at Benjicot with a roar, swinging wildly.

Benjicot dodged, his movements controlled and precise. He landed another punch to Cedric's midsection, doubling him over. "You don’t know to quit, do you?" Benjicot muttered, grabbing Cedric by the collar and lifting him to his feet.

"Enough!" Cedric spat, struggling against Benjicot’s grip. "You think you can control everything? Even her?"

Benjicot’s eyes darkened further. "I don’t need to control her, Cedric. I trust her. Something you clearly don’t understand."

With that, Benjicot shoved Cedric away, causing him to stumble and fall to the ground. Cedric, breathing heavily and bruised, glared up at him. "This isn’t over, Blackwood."

"It is," Benjicot replied coldly. "And if you value your life, you’ll stay away from her."

Guards approached then, at Benjicot’s silent command, hauling Cedric to his feet and escorting him out of the ballroom. The guests slowly resumed their conversations, the tension dissipating, but whispers of the altercation lingered.

Benjicot turned to Y/N, his expression softening as he reached out to her. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentle.

She nodded, but her composure faltered, and tears welled up in her eyes. "Thank you, Ben. I didn’t know what to do..."

He stepped closer, his hand tenderly cupping her cheek. "You never have to face such things alone. Not while I'm here."

Y/N looked up at him, searching his eyes for any hint of insincerity. Instead, she found a depth of concern and protectiveness that took her by surprise. She had always seen him as distant, a warrior hardened by duty, but now she glimpsed the man beneath the armor.

"Why do you care?" she asked softly, her voice trembling.

Benjicot sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I know our betrothal was arranged, but that doesn't mean I don't care for your well-being. I've come to admire your strength and grace, Y/N. I want us to be more than just a political alliance."

Her heart skipped a beat at his words. She had longed for some indication that he felt more than obligation towards her. "I want that too, Ben," she whispered.

He smiled then, a rare, genuine smile that made her heart flutter. "Then let's make it so," he said, taking her hand in his. "Together."

As they stood there, hand in hand amidst the glittering ballroom, Y/N felt a warmth spread through her.

Benjicot glanced around the room, the tension in his shoulders easing. He looked back at Y/N, his eyes filled with a tender resolve. "May I have this dance?" he asked, his voice soft and inviting.

Y/N felt her breath catch. She nodded, unable to speak, and he led her to the center of the ballroom. The musicians, sensing the moment, began to play a slow, melodic waltz.

As they took their positions, Benjicot's arm encircled her waist, his hand warm and steady. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and he guided her with a grace that belied his warrior's demeanor. They began to move, their steps perfectly in sync, the world around them fading into a blur of light and sound.

The music swirled around them, a symphony of emotions. They glided across the floor, each step a silent conversation. Y/N felt as if they were floating, the dance a magical respite from the political intrigue and uncertainty that had shadowed their engagement.

Benjicot's eyes never left hers, their dark depths reflecting a myriad of emotions. In that moment, she felt a warmth spread through her chest, a burgeoning hope that perhaps their union could be more than just a strategic alliance.

The music swelled, and Benjicot spun her gracefully, her dress flaring out like a crimson and black flower. When they came back together, he held her a little closer, his gaze softening even further.

"I meant what I said," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want us to be more than a political alliance. I want to know you, Y/N. To truly understand you."

She smiled, her heart fluttering with a mixture of nerves and excitement. "And I want to know you, Ben."

As the final notes of the waltz echoed through the ballroom, they came to a gentle stop. The guests around them erupted into applause, but Y/N and Benjicot remained in their own world, their gazes locked.

"Thank you for the dance," Y/N said softly.

Benjicot brought her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. "The pleasure was mine," he replied.

In that moment, surrounded by the approving smiles of their peers, Y/N felt something shift. The alliance they had been forced into was beginning to transform into something real, something hopeful.

The future was uncertain, but for the first time, she felt truly seen and protected. And perhaps, just perhaps, they could find love in each other’s arms.

[obsessiveloveistheonlylove]

Hey, I've read your last yandere Bruce, neglected fam reader and it gave me an idea. What if instead of the reader wasting all that money or luxury, she saved most of it in a closed account and when Bruce bought the apartment she made him sign it in her name as a plan to when the right time comes or if she needs to, she will sell the apartment and use all the money she saved to leave to start over in another country. Imagine Bruce finding out when she reaches the point where she put her apartment for sale, or better, actually selling it to a friend or someone they know and actually leaving.

Yan!batfam with neglected!sister reader leaving the state/country

Anon your mind is fucking golden! I also thought of the reader having the apartment signed in her name just because Bruce wanted her to feel comfortable but I love the layers this adds.

Hopefully these couple of hcs are good enough while I work on pt 2. Also if anyone else has any questions about any other scenarios or certain characters feel free to send them in I'll try to respond whenever I have time and I write for any gender reader.

Word count ; 1073

Unedited

___

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ bruce is not happy with this turn of events at all. He wasn't expecting nor did he sense that this was going to happen, you didn't post about it or even reference moving on any of your social media apps which he lovingly stalks watches over to make sure you are content with your life and also because he likes seeing you happy and enjoying all the things he got you. And it hurts him a little that you didn't even say something to him … he knows you don't owe him that, not when your relationship is still in a fragile state but he's trying.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ he only figures out after someone in the fam(most likely dick) broke in dropped by your apartment and likely scared one of your friends shitless.. obviously both parties are shocked but your friend more so as they don't know who the hell just broke into their house, dick is shocked when this random person claims that he's trespassing in their home. After that awkward situation dick immediately reports back to Bruce about this over the comms and with some digging from Tim they're able to find out that you had sold the house and the exact date that you had, approximately a month ago. That sends off alarm bells for the entire batfam, where are you now?! It takes an hour or so of searching to find out exactly where you moved and when they do they can't decide what to do with the information.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚Alfred is the voice of reason in this family, he discourages the batboys from immediately doing everything in their power to bring you home, he advocated for you to live wherever you choose and says that it's your life and that the family cannot choose for you. Alfred loves you dearly you are basically his child he views you the way he views Bruce. He may be a yandere but he's a selfless one he truly only has your best interest in mind. His words are like a slap of reality for some of the Batfam mainly Tim, Steph and Jason all three of then become a lot more hesitant to go through with their plans to bring you home on the other hand dick, bruce, and damian are adamant that you aren't safe unless they can be nearby.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Nobody can come to a decision the night they find out and so they decide to sleep on it until they can come to an agreement the manor will be tense for a week or two at most before they spring into action, they will all eventually cave to their selfish needs even if some feel guilty for doing it. Alfred will sigh disappointedly but ultimately allow them to go through with their plans he only hopes you can forgive him for not doing more

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ you on the other hand will be left unaware to all that's going down you'd gotten a new phone and lived in a whole new state maybe even country! They couldn't bother you here. You were happier than you have been for a long time. Even if you missed your old friends you still tried to keep in touch over the phone.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ as for why you did this? It's likely the other batboys' faults, Bruce is annoying but he's not nearly as demanding of your time as the others, namely dick. Dick is insanely clingy once you're on his radar and he becomes aware of how much his neglect affected you mentally. The guilt for him was all consuming when he found out how much he hurt you and that he neglected you for quite literally no reason, you just didn't matter to him at the time. the thought now makes him sick, of course you matter, what the hell was his problem!! Dick would have constantly broke your boundaries by hugging and touching and cuddling you he feels like he needs to make it up to you by being a good big brother, even if that's not what you need anymore after all it's far too late you're already an adult but he refuses to see it that way you're still his baby sister. He inserts himself into your life constantly and even if he'll pay for things he'll only do so under the circumstances that the money be spent ‘together’ like sure he'll take you to that fancy restaurant but it's going to be made into a sister-brother bonding moment, like yeah he'll let you use his card to go shopping but only if he's going with you. Even if you don't use him for money he will still find ways to insert himself into your life. He's overwhelmingly intense and his behavior mixed with the other overbearing members in the batfam plus the added overwhelming feelings of having people who ignored you all your life suddenly want your time and attention is probably why you felt like you had to leave.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ you won't be gone for more than a month or two before your dragged back to Gotham and back to your family, only this time you've got a metaphorical collar around your neck as now you're likely brought back to the manor always under surveillance and on the off chance you're still allowed to own your own apartment again just know it will be heavily bugged along with your phone courtesy of Tim even if he feels bad about invading your privacy he knows they need to see your texts to make sure you're not planning to leave Gotham again. Oh and now the bat members will each take turn patrolling your house and following you from the shadows to make sure you're safe.

___

All in all I'd say you'll have your fun for a little while but ultimately you'll just drive them deeper in their obsession and they will likely kidnap and bring you home.

[aerynwrites]

Dreams Become Reality

Gale Dekarios x Fem!Reader

A/N: FINALLY got this finished lmao. Posted a teaser of this weeks ago and it has been sitting in my drafts ever since staring at me as I stared back it. Type a few words. Stop for a few says. Few more words, an even longer break. And so on lol. But it’s finally here! Based on the request.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, NSFW, smut, Reader is described as having female anatomy, fingering, gale comes untouched (kinda), choking, wet dreams, inappropriate use of Mage Hand, fluff and slight aftercare at the end.

The air around you is thick. 

Thick with tension. Thick with the warm breaths leaving both your lips. Thick with the smell of arousal. 

It’s all consuming - Gale, is all consuming. Surrounding and overtaking your every sense. 

The scent of him fills your nose - sandalwood, and old books, and right now, sweat. The exertion has made a thin layer form on his skin as his body slides against your own. 

Gale surrounds you in every way, cocooning you between his body and the sheets, his lips very rarely leaving your skin as he moves with you, thrusting his hips against your own, bringing you closer and closer to the edge you long to jump off of. 

“Gale…” 

His name falls from your lips in a whispered prayer, begging for more as he responds with a soft groan of his own. 

He calls your name, and you whine in response. But then he calls it again, the sound falling in a gasp from his lips as one of his hands reaches up to clasp your shoulder in tight grip. 

He calls your name again and this time darkness crashes around you as you startle awake in bed. 

Your sleep clothes cling uncomfortably to your sweat-damp skin. Blood rushes in your ears as your chest rises and falls with effort to suck in air. And worst of all is the ache in your core, arousal burning bright in your belly from what you now realize was a dream. 

Another gentle squeeze to your shoulder makes your eyes finally fall to Gale, who sits beside you in the bed and appears positively flustered. 

He’s as short of breath as you are, chest stuttering as he gazes at you, eyes wide. You look him over quickly, and even in the darkness of the room you’re able to see the way his pupils are blown wide with lust and dark flush on his cheeks. And, you definitely don't miss the sight of him hard beneath the covers. 

“Shit…” you mutter, your own face heating up as you realize what happened. 

“Did I wake you?” you ask softly, trying and failing to tamp down the images from your dream. “I was…I’m sorry-“

Gale shakes his head, his hand falling down to lace his fingers with yours as his lips tilt up in a small smile. 

“No need for apologies,” he tells you, ever so slightly leaning in. “Most people would consider that a compliment. When their partner dreams of them in such a manner, well - at least, I hope it was me that was plaguing your dreams considering it was my name falling from your lips-“ 

You cut him off as you lunge for him, covering his mouth with your hand as you shush him, embarrassment swelling in your chest. 

“Do you ever stop talking?” 

Gale hums beneath your hand, and reaches up to pull it away from his mouth. You expect him to respond but instead, suddenly, he flips you over and presses you back into the mattress, his body hovering over yours as his hands hold your own beside your head. 

“I do indeed know when to hold my tongue but…” He pauses for a moment, and you blink in surprise as a candle on the bedside table ignites with a wave of his hand, casting you both in a dim glow before he continues. 

“I find myself most curious as to what had you calling my name like that even in the deepest sleep.” 

Gods, you feel at war with yourself. The embarrassment creeping up your neck and heating your cheeks, clashing with the arousal still burning bright in your veins. The images from your dream flash behind your eyes as they slip closed, yet the thought of voicing them makes you shrink into the covers. 

As if sensing your hesitancy, Gale is the first to act, leaning in to capture your lips in a soft kiss, lips moving against yours before he pulls away just slightly, nose brushing your own. 

“How about I guess, hm?” he asks, his voice low as one of his hands lets go of one of yours. 

His fingers brush against the shell of your ear, traveling lower over your neck, down over your shoulder to brush against your clothed breast. Your breath hitches with the contact, and you watch through half-lidded eyes as Gale’s lips tilt upward ever so slightly. 

“Was I touching you here?” he asks, voice a mere whisper as his thumb rubs over the stiff peak of your nipple. “Or perhaps it was…here…”

His hand leaves your chest in favor of slipping ever downwards, toying with the thin fabric of your underwear beneath your sleeping gown. 

Without much thought, you nod your head, a moan slipping past your lips as the heat of your arousal burns brighter. 

Gale’s eyes twinkle with triumph, and instead of leaving him with that satisfaction, another flash from your dreams makes you speak before that earlier embarrassment can creep back up. 

“But…there was something else…” you manage to say, your voice soft as your cheeks blaze with heat. 

Gale’s head tilts to the side ever so slightly at your words, brows winging up in surprise as he stills. 

“Oh?” he breathes. “Now I must know what was going on in that beautiful head of yours.” 

Despite your best effort, something akin to shame wells up in your chest, regret at ever saying anything invading your mind. But Gale’s unadulterated interest, that ever present curiosity in his gaze, practically begs you to please him by voicing your fantasies. 

You let out a shaky sigh. “What if…what if you think it’s…what if you don’t like it?” you ask sheepishly. 

Gale lets out a small chuckle, eyes soft as his free hand retreats from between you to rest encouragingly against your hip, squeezing gently. 

“My love,” he says quietly. “I can assure you that you will receive no wayward looks or reprimands from me. Your desires and fantasies are your own, I must admit - but dare I say I would be more than eager to help you fulfill them.” 

His words soothe you slightly, but that doubt is still present, and Gale must know you’re about to protest when your lips part, because he stops you with another kiss. 

“I assure you,” he says as he pulls away just enough to hover over you. “If for any reason I am not comfortable I will make it known. Just as I would expect you to do if our positions were reversed.” 

You manage a small nod, muscles quivering in subdued excitement as you reach down to take the hand at your hip slowly bringing it back on your body. 

“You were touching me there,” you say softly, voice sultry with arousal. “But you were also…here.”

Your nerves are still tingling with a tinge of uncertainty as you guide his hand to the base of your throat. 

A shiver passes the through you as the calloused palm of his hand brushes over the delicate skin, his fingers twitching in surprise as you gently press them to wrap around the sides of your neck. 

You watch through lowered lashes for his reaction, your heart tittering when his breath hitches, eyes widening and going dark with lust all at once. 

For just a brief moment, you expect him to pull away, but Gale - as usual - surprises you. His fingers flex, pressing just a bit firmer into the pulse points of your neck, his palm placing just the barest of pressure to your throat, making your already labored breathing come out ragged as a moan slips past your lips. 

“Gods above…” Gale groans, leaning up so his lips hover over your own. “This is what you dreamt of? My hands on your skin, bringing you pleasure while also toying with the slightest bit of danger?” 

He presses his fingers in deeper, not enough to leave marks or completely cut off air, but more than before and enough to make you acutely aware of the blood pumping beneath his fingers, and the breath straining through your throat. 

You can feel new wetness pooling between your thighs, joining the arousal already present from your obscene dreamscape.

And Gale…Well, he seems just as affected as you are. His hips have slotted against your own, pushing up your nightgown as he presses himself against you. 

All you can manage is a small nod to his question, not sure you’d be able to speak if you wanted to. Ecstasy courses through your veins, buzzing delightfully and fanning those flames burning deep in your core even higher as his hand tightens just that much more around your throat. 

Another moan works its way up your throat, this time getting stuck before it can fully pass your lips, the sound smothered by the pressure again your neck. 

Gale lets out another sinful sound, his hips pressing more incessantly against your own, enough that you can feel the hardness of him against your clothed center. 

Just when you think he’s had enough, that all too familiar heated look in his eyes, he pauses. 

Your brows furrow as his grip against your throat loosens as he mutters an unintelligible incantation. You go to question him, but you hear his answer before you even voice the question. 

His voice is smooth in your mind, as if he’s speaking directly to you, his lips never moving. 

‘I don’t want there to be any question of if you’re able to stop me.’ His thought comes into your mind as easily as if he were speaking, and your eyes widen. 

“Detect thoughts?” you ask, shocked at the brilliance of the idea. 

Now neither of you need to physically speak to communicate, thus no fear for Gale if you need to stop. 

Gale smiles, leaning down to capture you lips in a searing kiss. 

‘Exactly,’ he says in your mind. ‘And now…there is no need for my lips to leave your skin, no distractions from fulfilling that dream of yours…’

“Gale, please-“ you beg aloud, your patience now gone, and your only desire being him touching you, taking you in the way he was before your dream was snatched from your unconscious hands. 

Gale chuckles, lips breaking from yours to travel lower, nipping at your jaw and trailing featherlight kisses down your neck. 

‘Though I must admit…those words sound much sweeter falling from your lips than floating through my mind.’

He continues his path downwards, no doubt leaving behind ample evidence of his attentions, until he’s stopped in his tracks by the collar of your sleep clothes. It’s then that you both finally move to divest yourselves of the offending articles. 

Your hands move frantically against Gale’s velvet shirt, the fabric clinging to your hands as you bunch it up to eventually tug it over his head. His pants are not far behind, the renowned wizard helping you with those before his lips are on you once more, only parting from you as he removes your nightgown, the fabric forcing you to separate for just a moment before you claim him again. 

It feels like déjà vu as Gale presses you back into the mattress, his body caging you in, cocooning you in a heady warmth as his scent surrounds you. 

Flashes of your dream come to mind once more, and you’re forced to swallow the moan that Gale lets out, his teeth nipping gently at your bottom lip as he begs for entrance. 

You grant his silent request eagerly, moaning unabashedly agsint him as his tongue presses forward to glide against your own. 

Gale has always been a giving lover, desperate to show you how much he loves you when his words sometimes fail him. Even now you can tell he’s hells bent on indulging your fantasies. But it feels different…It feels as if he’s more eager than usual. His lips less precise, his fingertips digging just a bit harder into your hips…

He’s ravenous. 

And who are you to complain? 

Sensing your thoughts, you can feel Gale smile agsint your lips, his voice flooding your mind once more as you open your own to the spell.

“Ravenous, indeed,” he affirms, his hand snaking it’s way back up your sternum, closing deftly around your throat as he pulls away only to gaze down at you. 

His lips are swollen from your charred kisses, chest quickened with short pants, eyes blown wide with lust as he fully takes you in beneath him. 

“I have seen your desires in your minds eye,” he says aloud, voice drenched in pure sin. “But perhaps I may make a suggestion?”

You can only nod, a whimper slipping past your lips as his fingers tighten against your pulse point, teasing you with the barest hint of pressure. 

He smiles down at you - a wicked cunning thing, and you can’t help the way the coil in your belly pulls ever more taut, blood hot with ecstasy at the gleam in his eyes. 

He leans back down, another soft incantation falling from his lips before they capture your own again, and he’s speaking in your mind again just as a ghostly touch brushes against the delicate skin of your inner thigh. 

“With my hands most occupied-“ he flexes his hand against your throat, finally giving you the pressure you wish for as his other hand support himself beside your head. “I’ll need another to assist.”

He gives you no true warning before you feel a hand at your center, palm pressed agsint your clit as two fingers drag agonizingly slow through your slick folds. 

Gale’s hand cuts off the moan that bubbles up in your throat, lips swallowing what little sound does slip through, as your hips buck up into his own. 

Mage hand.

You barely have time to register that the sneaky bastard had cast the spell before the extension of himself is teasing you one more, pressing against that bundle of nerves before moving down to sink two fingers into you. 

Gale presses his fingers deeper into the sides of your throat as you groan once more - both from the magic pleasuring you and the rush in your head from the way he chokes you. 

You don’t even realize how close you were to the edge until this moment. The pressure building in your core and in your head feeling like too much in the best way possible. 

Everything feels like it’s been dialed to one hundred. The threads of the sheets beneath your skin, the smell of Gale surrounding you, the way his lips brush against your cheek when he breaks from the kiss, the fingers moving inside of you - brushing against that spot that makes you see stars.

You can feel the way his breath comes out in short bursts, the air warm against your dewy skin as he presses his body into your own. 

It’s just like your dream again. Him cocooning you entirely, his smell making your mouth water, his hand against your throat making your head pound, and his magic finally throwing you over the edge. 

You come with little warning to the wizard above you, but you’re sure he is able to tell. Whether it be from your jumbled thoughts no doubt being shouted at him from your connection, or the fact that he knows you so well…He’s prepared. 

As you tumble over that precipice, Gale applies just a little more pressure to your throat, enough so you can still gain air, but just barely.

You can feel your pulse pounding beneath his fingertips, your breath scratching against your throat as ecstasy consumes you. It feels as if pure starlight ignites in your veins, a ragged moan breaking through as you arch up into the body above you, seeking more from your lover as he does the same, grinding his hips into yours.

Gale reaches his own end virtually untouched, the mere friction from your body against his and the pure pleasure of indulging your fantasy has him spending himself on your stomach with a groan. 

His grip around your neck loosens before disappearing entirely as he all but collapses against you, uncaring of the mess between you two as he slips strong arms around you before rolling to the side, taking you along with him. 

It’s a few moments before either of you speak, and you realize both the mage hand and the detect thought spells have ended. No doubt Gale’s own end brought about the disruption of his concentration. But when words finally come, it’s Gale who speaks first. 

His fingers brush against your neck gently, barely a whisper of skin against skin as he takes a deep breath. 

“I fear I may have gotten carried away,” he says softly, brows furrowed in concern as you pull away just enough to look at him. 

You reach up, your fingers bumping against his own and can feel the way your skin burns just slightly hotter where his hand was earlier. There must be faint marks of your activities, and you have to try to quell the new stab of arousal that shoots through you. 

“You didn’t,” you assure him, reaching up to cup his cheek. “It was perfect.”

His face relaxes at your words, lips tugging upwards slightly. 

“Yes, well…Next time perhaps you can indulge me with your deepest fantasies verbally, instead of waking me in the middle of the night.”

You raise a questioning brow at him, hands sliding up until you can slide your arms around his neck.

“Are you saying you didn’t enjoy yourself?” 

Gale scoffs, nearly choking on air. “By the gods, no!” He says, aghast. “I’m simply saying that perhaps, in the future, we can disclose our fantasies more readily…So we may indulge as we please.”

You hum softly, eyes widening at his words. 

“Our fantasties?” You question, watching as a blush starts to tinge the wizard's cheeks.

“Ah, well - ehm - Yes. You didn’t think you’re the only one with uh…secret desires, did you?”

Slowly, you move so that Gale is laid out beneath you as you straddle his wait, hands planted on his chest as you gaze down at him. 

“And…what would your fantasies be?”

Gale pauses for a moment, unsure. But you lean down to press a quick kiss to his cheek, before pulling back, a smirk on your lips.

“Come, my love,” you tease. “How about I guess, hm?”

Gale lets out a soft groan at your repeat of his earlier jest, and you can’t help but laugh as his hands come up to settle on your hips. You lean down to kiss him properly this time and can’t stop the excitement pooling in your belly once more. 

The night is still young, and you have a feeling that there is much more to discover.

[arcielee]

Fare Well

Photo credit.

Summary: You visit Aegon after another council meeting ends. Paring: Aegon Targaryen x female!reader Word Count: 1600+ Warnings: Reader AFAB, knifeplay, object penetration, kissing, p in v, creampie, using intercourse as an escape from reality. Author’s Note: Listen, the new trailer came out and our muses are buzzing again. This smutty piece was inspired by this story by @valeskafics as well as this beautiful edit by the beautiful @bucknastysbabe. The title is from Hozier, as you all should come to expect now, and this can also be read on ao3. This is dedicated to @f4ll-for-you, my wonderful Tumblr kindred spirit who made me into the Aegon girly I am today. 💜 A huge thank you to @targaryen-dynasty for beta reading and making sure this all made sense. 💜 Enjoy!

“What troubles you, your grace?”

You had remained in the shadows and listened to the voices grow louder, though still muted through the walls, with their worries of what was to come next. They exited one by one, the morose men chosen to serve the king’s council, with the lord commander of the kingsguard escorting the queen dowager donned in green, her eyes downcast and her expression etched with her perpetual worry since her lord husband had passed. The lord hand was the last to leave, his face lined and wearied, his slow gate returning him to the tower where he would–as Aegon confided to you–continue to pen letters to garner support across the realm. 

It was only then that you dared to enter the room. You saw Aegon was seated at the head of the table, his violet gaze placed on the Valyrian dagger in his hands, the iron and rubies that once belonged to the Conqueror gleaming above him. 

The sun was streaking through the windows behind, giving him a kingly glow. His hair was a shade lighter and his cheeks sunkissed from the hours aback Sunfyre; despite the threat beyond the horizon, you knew that Aegon enjoyed patrolling the skies with his brothers.

It was these little confessions that he shared with you in the clandestine moments stolen within the walls of the Red Keep. He told you how he wished to be distracted, to allow a reprieve for his mind that weighed heavy with this anointed crown, and you were just this distraction, flesh and blood pulsing with your desire. 

It was then he looked up to see you still shyly posted in the doorway. “You seemed troubled, your grace,” you repeated with kindness, with concern. 

“I am now always troubled, it feels,” his smile was forced. “It seems to be something that comes with the weight of this.” He removed the crown and it echoed dully as he dropped it on the table. “But perhaps you can serve your king.” 

Your foot pushed the door until it closed soundly, and you took a step towards him. For a moment you saw the boy you had grown up with, mischievous and smirking, peering up at you from beneath the title of king. “This is why I am here,” your reply was sultry, and you saw how the black began to swallow the color of his eyes. “To serve, your grace.” 

Aegon sheathed the dagger and set it aside his crown before slouching back to spread his legs wider in the ornate chair he sat. Your stomach tightened at the sight of his thick outline against his thigh, pressing through his slacks, and you felt the flutter of that desire trilling your spine, spilling back into your veins. 

Your heart vibrated beneath and his lips curled upwards when he noticed where your eyes fell. His large hand patted his thigh. 

The gesture summoned you and you moved within his arms reach. He pulled you onto his lap, his face burying into the curve of your neck with a groan, a deep inhale that tickled. “Your grace,” you giggled, squirming in his hold, your blood warming your skin. 

“It is only us now,” he murmured against your skin, “and all I wish now is  to tear away these layers, lay you on this table, and have what lies beneath your finery.” 

“You would not dare,” you whispered, your eyes bright. 

His fingers dug into your hip while his other hand snaked under your thighs to lift you up from his seat. You giggled again, your arm quick to wrap around his neck to brace for his step forward as he set you on the edge of the table. His hands pawed at your layers, searching to find the dagger and he began to slice through your fabric.  

Your surprise spilled from your lips. “Aegon!”

He did not falter, but sheathed it and set it back down so his hands could grab fistfuls, tearing away the fabric to allow you room to part your thighs and welcome him. Your hands moved from his chest and combed through his hair, smoothing the indent left behind from his crown. He hummed from your touch, his hands moving from your hips and following your curves to your backside, pulling you closer so he could tilt his chin forward and capture your lips. 

His kiss devoured you wholly, pulling the air from your lungs with the dizzyingly desperation of his lips against your own. Your arms wrapped again around his neck and you rolled your hips for friction against the warmth he emitted through his royal garb, your fingers clawing at the fabric. 

You could feel his smile against your lips, his fingers returning to his hold on your hips. The outside of his palm rested on the dip and his thumbs pressed to the bone, eliciting a pleasure that jolted through you. You moaned softly and his mouth broke away, wet kisses that now trailed along your jaw, his teeth nipping at the slope of your neck. 

“Aegon,” you could not help but whine, and you tightened your legs around his hips. 

He turned to look at you, his expression unreadable, flushed. For a moment you were lost in his heady gaze, only brought back once you felt his hand trailing the detailing of your bodice and pressing until you laid back on the table. His other hand retrieved the dagger once more and your smallclothes were cut away, the air crisp against the slick between your thighs. 

“So wet for me already,” he clucked his tongue, “and I have barely begun.” 

Your stuttered response only further goaded him. His brow cocked. “What was that?” 

“Please,” you licked your lips. “Touch me, Aegon. Please.”

The darkness in his eyes glittered with the sunlight, and his satisfaction curled across his square jaw. “No. Not quite yet.” 

Before you could protest, you felt the pressure of something that was smooth, almost cool to the touch. You peered down to see the sheathed dagger pressed sideways to your bare cunt, the ruby stone sliding against the slick, the blossom of your arousal allowing him a circular motion of the gemstone against the bundle of nerves.  

You shuddered in response, your skin rising on your thighs and chest, and your head fell back, your hands pressing flat on the polished wood to anchor yourself. The unfamiliar touch began to build a familiar sensation, something that fluttered throughout, catching your exhale in your throat. 

“Aegon,” you cried, his name spilling sickly sweet from your lips, an endearment with the desperation of your tone. 

“Let me,” he soothed, his voice rasped with his intent focus. 

He moved the hilt and its decorative ridges rubbed along your swollen nerves. You squealed with the touch and then the intrusion, feeling his palm press to the inside of your thigh. “Trust me,” he whispered, his eyes boring between your thighs. You relaxed to his touch, feeling the curve of the handle pressing sweetly within you.

It sparked lights before your eyes and Aegon was pleased. He moved his thumb to replace where the gemstone rubbed enticingly before, matching the tandem of the hilt that now pulled you upwards to the prior peak and then past. It filled your chest, a bursting euphoria that pulsed your walls around the handle.

“Sȳz riña,” his voice low with his praise. Good girl.

Your head lifted, drowsy, and you saw him touch the glossy shine that now covered the hilt, his fingers showing the sticky web of your climax. His eyes met with yours as he showed you, and his eyebrows raised when you pushed to sit up, your hand gently covering his own to pull it towards your lips, licking the ruby and tasting yourself.  

It clattered to the cobblestone and his free hand now grabbed the nape of your neck, his lips finding yours with his returned desperation. Fingers collided to loosen his drawstrings, your hands pulling his cock free and guiding his blunt head to press against your silk entrance. 

His large hand wrapped around the base and you cant your hips, angling yourself so his cock can slowly sink into your wet warmth. You mewled from the delicious stretch and he shuddered once he was fully buried between your thighs. Aegon paused, stealing a kiss, a taste of tenderness on his lips as he began to rock against you. 

It started slow with a low groan spilling from his kiss swollen slips as he watched his cock disappear inside you again and again. He savored the lewd sounds, your soft cries as he pushed deeper within you, your fingers grasping to hold yourself upright, to remain as close to him as possible. 

Your body still simmered with your prior release and it did not take much to build again. His hips snapped against yours with the wet sound of skin to skin, and your walls began to flutter. It is a breathless chorus, your soft gasps and his low groan, your pleasure pulling with a creamy spill of passion that tightened around him, his cock pulsing hotly within you. 

You fell back to your elbows, trying to catch your breath, and Aegon slumped over, his damp brow pressing to yours, the mess of his golden waves falling across your face. His scent washed over you, exotic oils that were sent as gifts and the sheen of sweat on his skin. 

The council chambers are noiseless now, and you hold still under the dimming candles lit for the chandelier above. It is another clandestine moment stolen, where your hearts thrummed in unison before slowing back to their regular pace, pulling you back to the heavy reality that settled in the quiet.

It lingered in the shadows, the faraway thought, the threat beyond the horizon, the echoed worries returning of what will come next. 

Tumblr kindred spirits [taglist]: @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @fan-goddess @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @girlwith-thepearlearring @theobjectofyourire @troublesomesnitch @multyfangirl @darylandbethfanforever9 @snowprincesa1 @officerbrowneyes @qyburnsghost @namelesslosers

[cookie-kat777]

4 Minutes and the Great Depression

Now that we have seen Great's experiences in the original timeline and get to see more of Great's "true" character, I feel like people are really misunderstanding him and his behavior. I see a lot in the tags about his actions being that of a spoiled and selfish asshole rich kid--and he probably is--but I think there is more going on here.

Maybe people aren't seeing it because they haven't personally experienced this, or at least not in this particular way, but I have: Great is depressed.

Depression doesn't always present as rotting in bed and being unable to perform basic self-care. Sometimes depression can look like a generally functional person, who underneath the facade is numb, self-destructive, apathetic and overall disregarding of his or her own well-being. Depression can feel like you are anesthetized to reality, like there is a barrier between you and the world around you. You aren't fully present, things don't fully feel real; even your reaction time can be slower (ex. Manee, Dome, Nan).

I believe that Great doesn't appear to care about anything that's happening because he is experiencing all of the above, and is also maybe a little manic (judging from his impulsiveness).

There are clues that he is indeed affected by what is going on: he can't sleep, he needs anti-anxiety meds, he's drinking alone. He doesn't express this more obviously because, as we've seen, no one in his life really gives a shit about him. Not his parents, not his friends. Who is he going to talk about his feelings with? Korn might be the exception, and we do see that they spend time together, but Korn also has a lot going on; he doesn't have a ton of time for Great.

It seems like Great has been emotionally neglected for quite some time. He desires acceptance, love and attention from his parents so badly, but he only ever gets scorned and rejected. A situation like that is the perfect cocktail for depression.

The biggest indicator for me that this is not some cut-and-dry case of rich kid entitlement is that, in the 4 minutes timeline, Great expresses a different personality. He is not just going over his past decisions that led him to this point of near-death and correcting them, he is also adorning these visions with the things his heart yearns for. He gets to be softer, more open, more vulnerable. He reaches out for connection, care and intimacy with another person and finds it returned. He (ironically) starts to come more alive again inside as the clock ticks closer to his death.

I think 4-minutes Great is who Great could be (or thinks he could be) if given the opportunity. Someone who is braver, more upstanding, more gentle, more sensitive. Someone who gets to go on cute dates with cute boys and take home matching cat doll souvenirs. Someone who gets to have tender sex in a glamping tent with soft lighting.

Anyway, I'm not bringing all of this up to excuse his actions or defend him. I just think Great has a few more layers than people might be giving him credit for.

[madwomansapologist]

stay soft, get eaten | tanjiro kamado x hashira!reader

tanjiro was accused of treason, and there was more than enought proof for you to cut his head and damn his existence. that was your duty as a hashira. but as a friend, you couldn't. you could never.

cw: angst. hurt/barely any comfort. childhood friends to strangers to lovers. kny level of violence. death and gore. more than one character actively trying to kill nezuko.

an: messing around with the idea of an oc. can anyone rec an artist that accepts commissions? another chapter of me finding a way to put a undertale reference on my fics.

A ghost stood before you, forcing you to face your past.

Once more you were that innocent girl unaware of how your life would change. Focused on the basket between your hands, making sure to protect the bread inside it from the snow, you had no real worries.

You didn't saw the blood. You didn't smell the putrid stench. It was right in front of you, and still you noticed nothing. How you despise that clueless girl. She knew the world was a kind place. She didn't believed that, she knew that: nothing bad has ever happened for her to think otherwise.

How dumb you were. To only notice the blood after stepping on it.

You never truly understood what it meant to be a person until that very moment. To be alive is to have a body, and to have a body is to suffer. A layer of skin, a layer of fat, a layer of muscles, a layer of bones. Nothing can change that.

And blood. So much blood. You threw up on the snow, and continued until your throat burned. With the scarlet red carved on your eyes, you saw the graves. That made you remember exactly where you were.

Kie Kamado. Takeo Kamado. Hanako Kamado. Shigeru Kamado. Rokuta Kamado. Nezuko Kamado. Tanjiro Kamado.

All dead.

You were shaking when he came. Was it because of the snow falling on your skin for hours on end, the empty on your stomach, or the violent cries taking over your body? When you left with Giyu Tomioka, you knew why: you were enraged.

From then on, you trained. You almost died, then did it all again. Until you reached perfection. Every movement, every breath, every muscle of your body. You made yourself excelent. You protected those that couldn't, killed oni after oni, slayed a kizuki without hesitation.

That innocent girl you despise died because of what you saw that night. That girl you envy, that had silly dreams and could afford not to learn it was already time to grow for a few more years died that night. So why you're looking at Tanjiro's sleeping face?

Unaware of the string muzzling your heart as if it was a beast in need of taming, the Pillars argued around you. You couldn't quite catch their words, all meaning lost in the air around you.

You pinched yourself, as if you didn't already knew it wasn't a nightmare. Life taugh you a funny trick: when you don't know what's happening, all you had to do is to imagine the worst possible scenario and accept it as reality.

And so you knew: you were late that night. More than you could ever imagine. Late so you couldn't see they alive, couldn't help Tanjiro, couldn't save Nezuko. And Giyu lied to you. If not, he at least omit the truth from you.

"Tomioka", you interrupted Tengen, just now realizing the voice you heard belong to him. You have never been so upset, and still your concentration on your breathing technique never shattered. "You knew from the start, didn't you?"

"I believe Shinobu said-", Mitsuri thought you had misunderstood Shinobu's report, but decided to remain silent when she noticed your clenched fists. She observed you, more carefully now, and saw the truth.

After all, when someone does their best not to cry the only decent thing is to pretend they're doing a good job.

Giyu didn't return your gaze. You were almost grateful for it. You don't know if you could endure his coldness now. "You found me mourning his family, and knowing he was alive you chose to say nothing."

How loud the silence that came after it was. Not a single breath was heard by your attentive ears. In the absence of an response, you found one: your trick never fails you.

Kyojuro turned to you, his smile brighter than the sun. "All slayers involved in this case shall face punishment", Kyojuro's energy had no effect on you. "We'll find a way to punish the Water Hashira."

Instead of moving forward, you looked back. "Tomioka", your calm voice made him look at you. This time, you were ready for what you would face. Even know, he was so aloof. What a nice act.

Giyu Tomioka gave you no comfort when he found you that night, only the truth. Giyu Tomioka told you a tale of demons and slayers, of blood and ashes. Giyu Tomioka gave you a reason to get up, clean the vomit on your face, and pray one last time for the family that always treated with care.

"What I do now?", the wind shoved your tired words towards ears. "How can I stop then?"

Giyu thought about your questions for a while. Just when he decided it was best to turn his back on you, something on your eyes stopped him. They burned. "There is a cultivator a few cities away."

You smiled.

Mitsuri gasped. She can still smile at him even now, her dreamy eyes gazed upon you. Sweet like sakuramochi. And as pretty too.

You thought about hiding yourself behing Gyomei when Tanjiro started to wake up. You didn't, you couldn't move. As he tried with sleepy words to protect his sister, you stood as quiet as you could. But his eyes found you, and for a second the world around you faded away.

⋆✦⋆

Tanjiro was dreaming again.

As the Pillars argued about his future execution, Tanjiro couldn't quite believe it all was really happening. Broken bones, exhausted mind, sore muscles. He must be hallucinating from the pain. That's the only possible explanation.

Because you're right in front of him, and that only happens when he dreams.

And still, even so sure it was just a fantasy from his tired mind, Tanjiro could do nothing but to stare at your sweet eyes and pretend it was reality.

How he wish to go back in time and be that boy who worried if you would look at him at during his daily walks throught the village. He could almost feel the softness of your hair against his once scarless palm, hear the poems you declamed with such a passion, see the careful way you treated your siblings.

Tanjiro isn't that boy anymore, and your perfume reminds him of apple and cinnamon. You smell like exhaustion and regret. Like hopes and dreams. Kindness and duty.

"Were you happy?" He interrupted one of the Pillars, not that he ever heard about them before, and in response to his disrespect Tanjiro was shoved on the ground. He contorced his body to look at you, ignoring everything else. "Was life good to you?"

Your smile burned your cheeks, so big it showed a bit of your gums. Usually you tried to keep it cover, but not this time. This time you could afford to smile without a care. "No, it wasn't", you answered with a voice covered in honey. "But I made it good."

Tanjiro smiled. The pain, the loneliness, the fear: it all disappeared. Smelling joy, Tanjiro was glad it wasn't a dream. But of course that meant the execution discussed was real too.

"That won't be a problem, right?" Shinobu questioned. "As a Pillar, we expect you to do what must be done."

Looking into his eyes, a stare so strong you felt hazy, you didn't hesitate. "The only mercy a demon deserves is a of a quick death." You turned to Shinobu, so she could see you meant it. "It's our duty to do so."

"And the boy?" Shinobu smiled, but it was so emotionless. It felt like a performance, but to what audience? Who Shinobu was trying to fool? You can't imagine.

You could feel his gaze burning your temples. "I won't pretend to be our Master and decide his fate", you wondered if your eyes were emotionless too. Were you trying to fool someone? "I know my place."

As Rengoku reenforced Tanjiro was to be killed by his act of treason, you looked at him again. Hoping to see disgust on his eyes, you saw something you couldn't really comprehend. Something warm and soft.

You saw your Tanjiro again. That sweet boy who would protect you from the snow, even if he would get sick because of it. You wondered if he saw that girl you once were. If he could remember your tales and desires.

You hope that girl is still alive somewhere safe. It would be enough for her to be alive on his mind.

She would've protected Tanjiro now. Don't matter the size of the threat, she would fail but would never give up. Now you're bigger than most threats out there in the world, but nothing could change the fact Tanjiro protected a demon.

You stood quiet, dreaming about a world were demons were still just tales. You smelled like defeat.

⋆✦⋆

And still, despite your desire to never speak again, you couldn't ignore it.

"Nezuko glowed, Master", you gather all your strenght to disagree. It pierced your very soul to do so, but how could you agree with that? "She was the jewelof our village. A dear friend, my Flower, so kind and generous."

You felt the weight of his gaze on you, knowing that Tanjiro would never look at you again. You love him, you really do, but if he really wanted to protect Nezuko he would let her go. You would be kind. You would do it swiftly, and endure the weight of her death for him.

"She doesn't deserve to be remembered as one of them", you said. "If her body won't be respected, then let her soul be. Allow me to free her, please."

Mitsuri would do anything Master asked for, but that made her desire he would want something else. That's a sort of strenght I didn't knew you had, Mitsuri thought to herself. Am I strong like that?

Looking into Tanjiro's eyes, you didn't noticed as Sanemi moved. You only understood when he screamed, and Iguro decided to put him down on the ground. Again and again, Sanemi pierced the box, offending Nezuko.

"Master, forgive me for this", you raised your voice. You would never do that in front of your Master, but he was the one to start this. In a instant, you were besides him with your sword on your hands. "But if Sanemi will be cruel, I will be fast."

But before you could cut off her head, Nezuko looked away.

"Flower?" You asked, sword falling down on the ground. "Are you in there?"

Nezuko hugged you, and once again a Kamado shattered your world.

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

general taglist: @lovelyy-moonlight

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake & Danny Phantom: Two Lost Souls

So, here’s the thing: Tim Drake and Danny Fenton are kinda like two sides of the same coin, right? Both of them have this deep, gnawing loneliness that follows them around like a shadow. Tim’s always the reliable one, the one everyone leans on, but inside, he’s just as lost as the rest of them. And Danny? He’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders, juggling being a half-ghost while trying to fit in as a regular high school kid.

When they finally meet, it’s like fireworks and disaster all rolled into one. Tim sees in Danny a kindred spirit—someone who knows what it’s like to fight against the odds. But the truth is, they’re both haunted by their pasts. Tim’s trying to live up to the legacy of the Robins before him, and Danny’s just trying to find his place in the world.

In those quiet moments they share, you can see the pain in their eyes. They both carry scars, some physical, others hidden beneath layers of bravado and humor. It’s a fragile connection they have, filled with unspoken words and heavy silences. They want to reach out to each other, to be the support the other desperately needs, but fear holds them back.

What if they get too close? What if they’re both just too broken to be each other’s salvation? Tim’s seen too much death, and Danny’s tasted the darkness that comes with being a ghost. They share a fear that if they lean on one another too hard, they’ll end up shattering.

But then there are those moments when everything feels too heavy. Times when they’re fighting side by side, and one of them gets hurt—just a little too close to the edge. In those seconds, the reality hits them hard: What if one day they lose each other? It’s a thought that makes Tim’s heart race and Danny’s breath hitch. They both know what it’s like to lose someone they care about, and the idea of facing that pain again feels unbearable.

Danny sometimes looks at Tim and thinks, What if I can’t protect him? And Tim, always the strategist, thinks, What if I’m too late next time? They’ve both lost so much already; losing one another would be the breaking point.

But for now, they’re stuck in this endless cycle of longing and loneliness, two lost souls trying to figure out if they can even be saved. The fear of being left behind lingers in the air between them, a tension that keeps them from getting too close, even as they yearn for something more. They know they could have something beautiful if they could just break down those walls—a friendship, a partnership, something more.

And yet, as they stand together, fighting the darkness, they can’t shake the feeling that every battle could be their last. They cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, they can face whatever comes next together.

[piastrisun]

vortex.

pairings: max verstappen + fem reader.

summary: love brought you together, but the dreams that once aligned have drifted apart, leaving only the ache of goodbye.

genre: angst.⠀word count: 5.2k.⠀ warning: cursing.

notes: named after the song ‘vortex’ by lizzy mcalpine. no use of y/n or any names at all.

you sit curled up on the couch, knees pulled close to your chest, fingers nervously biting into your nails as your leg bounces uncontrollably. the weight of what you’re about to do presses heavily on your chest, almost suffocating. the sound of footsteps grows louder, each step tightening the knot in your stomach. max is about to walk through the door, and your anxiety spikes beyond what you're used to. he’s close now, the key turning in the lock, and your heart races, your pulse thrumming in your ears. you’ve rehearsed this conversation in your head a hundred times, but now, the reality of it seems so much harder, so much more painful. you can't avoid this feeling any longer—it’s overwhelming, consuming. you can’t keep burying the sadness that's been weighing on your heart.

when the door opens, max steps inside, carrying that same easy smile he always does when he comes home to you. the warmth in his eyes is enough to make you falter, but you push the feeling down, steeling yourself. you stand up slowly, nerves tightening every muscle in your body.

"hey, love," he says, his voice soft and affectionate. but then, he sees the way you're standing—rigid, tense. the light smile on his face wavers. his brows knit together in concern. "what’s wrong?" he asks, stepping toward you, his hand instinctively reaching out as if to comfort you.

you exhale shakily, eyes darting to the floor as you brace yourself. but you gather the strength to look at him. "this isn’t working anymore," you say, the words trembling on your lips.

max stops in his tracks, confusion flashing across his face. "what are you talking about?" he asks, his voice a mix of disbelief and worry.

you take another breath, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to shield against the pain you’re about to unleash. "this," you say, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. "i can’t do it anymore, max. it’s killing me."

he moves closer, kneeling in front of you, his hands gently finding your knees as he searches your face. "what? us?" his voice is laced with disbelief.

you’re shaking now, your chest heaving with each breath. "you know what i’m talking about, we’re stuck." your voice is barely a whisper, full of the heartache you’ve been trying to hide.

"no." his voice is hoarse, strained. "no, you can’t… you can’t do this to me. i thought we were okay. i thought we were—" he swallows hard, his voice breaking. "i thought we were in love." his grip on your knees tightens, not painfully but desperate, as if holding onto you physically can stop what’s happening.

his words hurt because they’re true. you are in love, you’ve been in love with him for years. and that’s the worst part. love isn’t enough to stop the ache that’s been building in your chest for months, the feeling that you’re both watching life pass you by while everyone around you seems to be moving forward.

"and we are," you choke out, wiping at your tears with shaking fingers. "i do love you, max." you look at him through the blur of your tears, your voice trembling.

max’s eyes widen, his voice rising in desperation. "then what’s the problem? what did i do wrong?" he barely pauses, his words tumbling out as his mind races for answers. "how do i fix this?"

you cut him off quickly, raising a hand. "max, wait—"

but he doesn’t stop. he keeps talking, his voice layering over yours, growing louder with each syllable. "how do i fix this? tell me, what can i do to make things right?"

your breath hitches as a tightness coils around your chest, frustration and sadness twisting like knots in your stomach. you press your lips together, eyes searching his face, but all you see is his desperation, his fear. you drop your hand, letting it fall limply by your side. "max, please."

but he presses on, determined, searching for a way to pull you both back from the edge. "no, tell me. how do i fix this? what do i have to do for us to be okay?" his voice rises, sharp with panic and an unrelenting need to find an answer.

you shake your head, swallowing down the lump in your throat. the ache makes it hard to speak, harder still to explain something you can barely untangle yourself. "it’s not like that."

"then tell me, for god’s sake!" his voice cracks, his eyes pleading. max’s voice cracks, breaking the last barrier between him and the vulnerability spilling out of him. "talk to me!"

you lean back into the couch, running your hands through your hair, your own frustration reaching a peak. "all our friends are moving on, getting married, starting families, and we’re still stuck here. max, we’re still in the same place we started at."

max stares at you, his face full of confusion and hurt. "why didn’t you tell me?" his voice softens slightly, disbelief flooding his tone. "why didn’t you just talk to me instead of showing up one day and saying you want us to be over?"

tears prick your eyes again, and you blink them back furiously, trying to maintain some semblance of control. "because i didn’t want to hurt you."

"well, you are now," he says, his voice quieter, more vulnerable, almost fragile. his words cut deep, you flinch at the truth of them, your chest tightening with guilt.

"i just—." your voice trembles, barely holding steady as you shake your head. "i can’t keep pretending i’m okay with this. i’m not, max. and i don’t know how to keep going when it feels like everyone else is moving on with their lives and we’re just… stuck."

max’s eyes widen, the panic flickering. he looks at you, the desperation in his eyes returning. "but we can fix this, right? we can find a way through this. together."

you hesitate, your heart aches, each beat dragging slower, weighed down by the reality you’ve both been avoiding. "do you really think we can?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "with the way our lives are?"

his eyes narrow, and he shifts slightly, defensiveness creeping into his tone. "is this about my job? about how much i have to travel?"

you sigh, biting your lip, feeling the frustration rising within you again. "max—"

he cuts you off, his voice rising, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "you told me you were fine with it," he says, almost accusingly, his eyes searching yours for the reassurance you used to give so easily. "you said it wasn’t an issue."

"i was!" your voice breaks, your voice rising with the frustration that’s been holding back for so long. "five years ago, i was fine with it. i wasn’t lying when i told you i could handle it."

the fight draining from him just as quickly as it had built, his eyes locking with yours, and for a moment, he looks like he’s bracing himself for a blow. "then what changed?" he asks, his voice barely audible now, like he’s terrified of what your answer might be.

you sigh, your hands dropping to your lap. "nothing, max. that’s the problem. we’re still in the same place we were years ago, and you know it." the weight of the truth hangs in the air between you. max says nothing, his face clouded with a kind of quiet realisation. deep down, he knows you’re right.

after a long silence, he speaks, his voice shaky with emotion. "i’ll retire," he says, his eyes wide, as if the solution has just dawned on him. "i’ll quit my job and be here full-time."

“no.” you take a deep breath, wiping away a tear before meeting his eyes. "stop pretending we can fix this by changing something on the surface. you quitting your job—it’ll make you unhappy eventually. and we’ll end up right where we are now, only more frustrated and more lost."

max’s expression falters as your words sink in. he looks away, his jaw tightening as he struggles to come up with a response, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "but what if it’s the only way?" his voice is barely above a whisper, a trace of desperation lingering in the air.

your heart sinks at the offer, and you shake your head, tears welling in your eyes again. "no, max. that’s not what i mean."

he looks at you, his face falling as he realizes just how far apart the two of you have drifted. his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to process your words. his hands drop from your knees, and for the first time, he looks uncertain, as if the ground beneath him is shifting. "then what do you need?" his voice is quieter now, almost a plea, as though he’s searching for something to hold onto.

you close your eyes for a moment, trying to find the right words, but all that comes is a deep, aching sadness. "i don’t know, max," you whisper, your voice trembling. "i really don’t know."

the silence between you stretches, heavy and suffocating. he runs a hand through his hair, frustration clear in his every movement. "but we love each other," he says, his voice breaking slightly, like he’s clinging to that one truth. "isn’t that enough?”

you open your eyes and look at him, the man you’ve loved for so long, and your heart aches because a part of you wants to believe it could be. but love, as much as it binds you together, can’t erase the feeling that’s been gnawing at you for months, the feeling that you’re both stuck in a place you don’t belong.

“i wish it was,” you finally say, your voice soft, almost apologetic as your eyes drift away from his. “i wish love could fix everything. but it doesn’t change the fact we... we’re just standing still while everyone else is moving forward.”

max shakes his head, disbelief etched in every line of his face. “that’s not true. we’ve built a life together. we’ve made memories. we’ve—”

“but what’s next, max?” you interrupt gently, your heart pounds heavily in your chest. you finally look back at him, your eyes searching for something—anything—that might tell you he understands. “what are we building towards? because right now, i feel like we’re just watching everyone else from the sidelines.”

his jaw tightens as he stares at you, as though trying to figure out how to fix something he didn’t realize was broken. “we can make plans.” his voice growing firmer, almost as if he’s grasping at a lifeline. “we can take the next step if that’s what you need. we’ll talk about marriage, about a family. we can do all those things.”

your chest tightens at the sound of it—the promises, the hope. for a brief second, you almost want to believe him. “it’s not that simple.”

“why not?” his frustration is back, a hum of impatience in his voice. he steps closer, his eyes imploring. “why can’t we just talk about it and make a plan? we’ve been through so much together. we can do this too.”

you stand up from the couch, the weight of the conversation pressing down on you, suffocating, and you need space, air—anything to escape the intensity that’s threatening to crush you. “because it’s not just about making a plan,” you pace for a moment before turning back to face him, your heart heavy, your throat dry. “because we haven’t talked about it for years, max. we haven’t been moving toward anything. we’ve just been… here. in the same place.”

he watches you closely, his brows furrowed in confusion and concern. then he stands up too, his body moving in sync with yours, as if afraid to let the distance between you widen further. “i didn’t realise you felt like this for so long.” he says, his voice cracking. “you never said anything. i thought we were happy.”

“we were,” you admit, your voice a fragile whisper that barely makes it past your lips. “but time passed, and i started to feel like this. and i didn’t know how to tell you without hurting you.”

max steps so close now that you can feel the heat of his body. “i get that,” he murmurs, his voice raw with emotion. “but you’re hurting both of us.”

tears begin to well up in your eyes again, and you quickly look away, trying to hold them back. but they slip through the cracks, the weight of everything finally too much to bear. “i know!” you say, your voice rising with frustration. you wipe at your eyes, your hands trembling. “but i don’t know how else to make you see. i love you, but we’re not okay anymore.”

he takes a small step back, his hands falling to his sides, fingers clenching and unclenching as if he’s trying to grasp something solid, something to anchor him. “why didn’t you tell me before?” he asks softly as he looks at you like he’s trying to piece together everything that has brought you both here.

you inhale sharply, feeling the pull of his question. “because i didn’t want to pressure you,” you reply, your throat tight with emotion. “i didn’t want to put weight on you or your career. that maybe i’d put an expectation on you that you might not be ready for. i thought the topic would come up at some point, and it didn't. then i just knew, we want different things.”

max watches you in silence for a moment, absorbing your words. “i never realised you were carrying all of that on your own.” his voice filled with regret. “if i had known earlier... i don’t know, maybe things would be different now.”

a heavy silence falls between you both, the weight of his words settling like a stone in your chest. you swallow hard, your mind racing with a thousand unsaid things, things you had kept buried for so long. a part of you wants to reach out to him, to tell him it wasn’t entirely his fault, but your hands stay at your sides, frozen in indecision. would things be different now if he knew? for your own good you want to convince yourself the answer is yes. and still, you know a ‘yes’ wouldn’t be the right answer.

“you’d be settling for something you don’t want—marriage and a family,” she says, her voice tight with frustration. “and if we waited, i’d be settling for something i don’t want either.” she pauses, her eyes searching his face for any sign of understanding. “i don’t want to force you into a life you’re not ready for, just like i don’t want to keep holding on to something that’s only going to hurt us both in the end.” her voice softens, a tinge of sadness creeping in. “we both deserve more than just... settling.”

he shifts uncomfortably, his hands resting on his knees as he looks down at the floor, unable to meet her eyes. "but what if—" he starts, his voice low, uncertain, "what if i could change? what if i’m just scared right now and..." he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck, frustration tightening his features.

she lets out a slow breath, stepping closer, her tone soft yet firm. "max, it’s not about changing. it’s about what you really want, deep down. i don’t want you to wake up one day feeling trapped, regretting this. and i don’t want to be waiting for something that might never happen."

he finally looks up at her, his eyes clouded with conflict. "but i don’t want to lose you," he says quietly, almost a whisper.

her heart aches at his words, but she keeps her gaze steady. "i don’t want to lose you either," she admits, her voice wavering for a moment. "but we can’t hold on just because we’re afraid of what happens if we let go." her hand brushes his arm gently, a bittersweet touch, like saying goodbye without the words. "you deserve to figure out what you really want. we both do."

the distance grows not just physically but emotionally between you two. the space between feels like a chasm you’re no longer sure how to cross. he reaches out, his hand finding yours, his grip tight but full of tenderness. “don’t do this,” he pleads. “we can figure it out. we’ll talk more, we’ll make plans. we’ll take the next step, whatever that looks like. just don’t walk away from this.”

his hand rests gently on yours, his touch warm, a reminder of everything you've built together—the good, the bad, the memories that tether you to this moment. for a brief second, you want to surrender. you want to believe that love, his love, will be enough to carry you both through this storm. but something inside you resists, a quiet voice that whispers the truth you’ve been avoiding. it’s not enough. “what if taking the next step isn’t enough?” you ask, your voice small.

his hand tightens around yours for a moment, but there’s a hesitation in his eyes—a fear of what’s to come. “what do you mean?” he asks, his voice gentle now.

you take a breath, your eyes searching his, hoping, needing him to understand, to feel what you’ve been feeling. “i mean… what if we go through all the motions? we move forward, make these big decisions. what if we’re just stuck, and no matter what we do, we won’t move forward like we’re supposed to?” the weight of your confession lingers between you both, thick, like the air before a storm.

his face falls, and he pulls back slightly, the warmth of his hand fading as reality starts to sink in. "we’ve been together five years," he says, his tone almost defensive, like he’s trying to remind you of everything you’ve shared. "we’re fine. we’re happy, right?"

you look away, your chest tightening at the weight of those words. five years. half a decade, and yet here you are, still talking about ‘someday.’ still waiting for the proposal that never came. "but we’re not, are we?" you shake your head, your voice breaking as you continue. "all of our friends are getting engaged, starting families. and we’re… we’re just here. stuck in the same place we’ve been for years."

he opens his mouth to say something, but you push forward before he can interrupt. "i’ve been patient, waiting for us to get on the same page, but… i can’t do it anymore. i want more than this. i want to get married. i want to have a family. i need that. and you—you’re still not ready. after all this time, you’re still not there."

"you know i love you. you know i want to be with you." his face softens, but there’s a flicker of panic in his eyes. "i thought we were taking things at our own pace. i didn’t realise—" he pauses, his hands reaching out to yours again, desperate. "i just thought we had time."

your heart clenches, the familiar ache spreading through you. "i love you too. but i need more. i’ve tried to wait for you to catch up, to be okay with the pace we’re going, but watching everyone else move forward while we stay stuck—it hurts. it’s like i’m always waiting for you to be ready, and i don’t know if you ever will be."

max’s face falls, and you can see the moment they hit him. he lets go of your hand, taking a small step back as if the distance will protect him from the truth you’ve just laid bare. "you really think that, don’t you?" he asks, his voice hollow now.

"i don’t know, i just know that i’ve been feeling this way for a long time." you admit, your voice raw with emotion. you look down at your hands, struggling to meet his eyes as you speak. "every time i see everyone else having all of it, i realise more and more that i want that too. but you… you never bring it up. we’re only talking about it now because i brought it up. not because it’s actually in our plans of our relationship. and i can’t keep waiting for something that might never happen." your words are gentle but pointed.

he stands there, motionless, as if your words have drained the energy from his body. his shoulders slump, and for the first time, you see the exhaustion written on his face. "so what happens now?" he asks quietly.

you wipe at your eyes, trying to steady your voice. "i don’t know exactly," you say again, your words thick with uncertainty. you wish you could give him more, offer him some kind of direction, but you’re just as lost as he is. "but something has to change."

max looks at you one more time, his eyes full of sadness, and for the first time in the entire conversation, he doesn’t have an answer. he stares at you, his confusion morphing into anguish. his voice cracks as he whispers, "i don’t understand anything," and before he can stop it, tears begin to fall, his chest heaving with emotion.

the moment you see him break, your own resolve crumbles. tears stream down your face as well, and for a few moments, you both stand there, broken together.

“i know it’s hard,” you say, your voice barely steady through the sobs. “and believe me, this is the hardest thing i’ve ever had to say in my life. but you know it’s the right thing.” your voice wavers, but the truth lingers in the air between you.

max wipes at his eyes furiously, shaking his head. “but i don’t want this,” he says, his voice thick with desperation.

“and you think i do?” you reply, your voice rising but still gentle, the sharpness cutting through the tension between you, showing that you’re not angry at him. “do you think i want to walk away from the only person i’ve ever loved? from the man i imagined marrying, sharing everything with?” your voice rises, raw and emotional, and max looks down, shaking his head as if trying to deny the truth, his eyes fixed on the floor.

for a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of his quiet sobs, tears falling freely from his eyes, splashing against the floor. he’s silent, his tears falling freely. the sight of him—so vulnerable, so lost—makes your heart ache in a way you can’t describe. you feel torn between staying in this familiar pain and walking away for the sake of your own heart.

max finally lifts his eyes to meet yours again, his face wet with tears. “i don’t know what to do,” he admits quietly. “i don’t know how to stop this.”

you take a shaky breath, stepping closer to him, feeling the overwhelming sadness of this moment wash over you, it’s inescapable. “neither do i, max,” your voice small. “but staying like this… it’s not fair to either of us.”

but there’s nothing to grasp onto anymore—not for either of you. he finally speaks, his voice low, almost like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “i thought we had more time. i didn’t think... i didn’t realise this was such a deal-breaker for you.” he looks up, the vulnerability in his eyes disarming, but the ache in your chest only deepens.

you shift slightly, wiping at your eyes. "i didn’t want it to be," you admit, your voice breaking just enough for him to notice. "but it’s been years, and every time i tried to talk about the future, never came to anything.”

he closes his eyes, exhales sharply, his breath hitching as he struggles to contain his emotions. “so, what now?” he asks, his voice cracking with desperation. “we just… end it? after everything?”

tears blurring your vision as you shake your head, your heart breaking with every word. “i didn’t want to end us,” you say, your voice quivering with emotion. “but i’m not okay with where we are. i want more than what we have. and if you’re not ready for that, if you’re not ever going to be ready for that... then what are we doing?” your voice wavers, each word a knife to your chest as your decision was turning into a reality.

max looks at you, still crying, he reaches out for your hand, his grip tight—desperate—but still full of love. “we can figure this out, maybe we need more time,” he says again, softer this time, but there’s a glimmer of hope in his voice, a small light in the darkness. “please.”

your heart pulls in two directions, the weight of everything pressing down on you from all sides. the years of stagnation, the longing for something more—something that feels out of reach—it all settles over you. “then maybe i’m not the person you should be with,” you fix your gaze on his bright blue eyes that you adore deeply, shaking your head slowly, your voice breaking. “i can’t be the one waiting forever. i’ve already been waiting.”

his hand tightens around yours as he searches your face for something—anything—to convince you to stay. but in your eyes, he sees the truth, and his face falls once again, now knowing that nothing he says can change what’s already in motion.

"i really want to fix this,” he says, his voice barely audible now, as though he’s losing faith in his own words. he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch for just a second before pulling back, his face tight with emotion. "i wish i knew how. i wish i could give you what you need. i really do."

"i wish you could too," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. and with that, the final thread between you seems to snap, the silence settling in like a goodbye neither of you wanted to say out loud.

and you don’t have an answer for him either. both of you crying, both of you hurting, and the stark understanding that sometimes love, no matter how deep, isn’t enough to fix everything settles heavily between you. the room is suffused with a crushing silence, the weight of the moment almost unbearable, the acknowledgement that this might be the end.

max stands with his shoulders slumped, his face streaked with tears, his voice barely above a whisper. “i guess... this is it,” he says, the words heavy with defeat. “we’re really doing this.”

you nod, your tears falling relentlessly, each drop a testament to the heartache you both share. “yeah,” you manage, your voice breaking. “we are.”

max’s anguish is palpable. his hands desperately shaking as he tries to wipe away the tears that won’t stop coming. “i didn’t want it to end like this. i never wanted it to end at all,” he says, his voice cracking with every word. “i thought we’d find a way to fix this. i thought we had so much time left.”

you place a trembling hand on his arm, the gesture both a comfort and a farewell. “yeah, so did i,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “but we’re not on the same page anymore.”

max’s gaze, filled with a mix of pleading and resignation, still meets yours. “yeah,” he says quietly, his voice hollow. “i’m sorry, i really am.”

his apology catches you off guard, and you realise that, despite everything, some part of you needed to hear those words. you take a deep breath, steeling yourself against the finality of it all. “i’ll pack up my things.”

“no, i think i should be the one to go,” he says softly, his voice filled with sorrow. “take the flat. i’ll have someone come by later to pick up my stuff.”

you shake your head slowly, the tears streaming down your face uncontrollably. “i don’t want to say goodbye,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “but it’s the right thing to do.”

“please, not now.” he pleads, his voice breaking as he pulls you closer. “please, not now.” he repeats, his voice lowers.

you can feel his pain matching your own, but the weight of your decision lingers in the silence between you both. “max, we have to,” you say, your voice breaking under the strain.

he pulls you into a final, tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you with a mix of desperation and sorrow. the hug is filled with the ache of everything that has led to this moment, the finality of the separation settling in as you hold each other tightly.

“you’re right. i’m so sorry, for everything.” he says quietly, his voice trembling, his head resting against yours and the tears falling off his face and yours, the quiet sobs under of what used to be a warm home. “i see now that this isn’t fair to you.”

you pull away after a few minutes and look at him, your heart breaking further at his words. “thank you, for understanding,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion. “it means a lot to hear you say that.”

max nods, his expression one of resigned acceptance. “i hope you find what you’re looking for. i mean it.” he says softly, his voice cracking with the weight of finality.

“i hope you do too.” you reply, your own voice breaking as you turn to leave. you offer him the most genuine smile that could have come out of you in a moment of so much pain. after all, you couldn’t stop loving him just like that. “goodbye, max.”

each step away from the flat feels like an immense effort, the weight of your shared memories and the pain of parting settling heavily on your shoulders. you watch max walk away, your eyes filled with a mixture of hope and heartbreak, silently wishing for one last look from you as a sign that this isn’t the end.

his desire to turn around and see you one last time clashes with the reality of the moment, and he does. as he turns back, his eyes search yours, hoping to find a flicker of what once was. your heart races at the sight of him, a mixture of longing and sorrow washing over you. with one last shared look—filled with all the love, regret, and heartbreak—you silently acknowledge that this is truly the end. and even with that, in that fleeting moment, a quiet wish lingers between you, a shared yearning that this look signifies more than just farewell.

he finally exits the flat, closing the door behind him with a finality that echoes through your heart, the reality of the breakup envelops you. the flat, now a silent witness to the end of what was once a shared life, feels cold and empty. both of you are left in the aftermath of raw grief, each step away a painful acknowledgment of the dreams and hopes now irrevocably lost.

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 24’.

[ceilidho]

exit, no entry wound joe bear graves x reader; part 1 (3.8k)

-

Local time at destination: 0500 hours.

And then the world rushes back to him like the culmination of a terrible dream.

Bear wakes up in another rosebush outside the front steps of the local library worse for wear. Blinking out of sleep-crusted eyes, shapes diverging in blurry unfocus before slipping back into material objects. A bench. A door. The thorny stems of roses already on their way out, already depetalling, the ground below covered in a thin layer of them. One petal even sticking to his cheek when he pulls himself off the ground, wincing at the branches that crunch around him, that tug against his skin and clothes.

His clothes smell of cheap liquor. Gin. Bourbon. It hurts to open his eyes, to sit up. 

“Morning, sunshine,” someone says. He remembers hearing it in his dream too. 

He looks to the source of his awakening, blanching when he notices the man staring at him.

Rip sits on the other side of the bushes on his haunches, looking deeply unimpressed. Hair slicked back for a change. “This what you get up to when I’m gone?”

Bear doesn’t respond. He struggles to his feet instead, hangover only just creeping in. Still drunk, to an extent. His knees threaten to buckle under him, forcing him to lay a hand flat on the wall to keep himself upright. One foot in front of the other. The walk home feels endless in the hour before dawn, hardly any light to guide him. 

“Pretty pathetic shit, Bear,” the man says, trailing along behind him. Not quite mockingly, but bordering on it. “Getting piss drunk and passing out in a bush? Really? C’mon, man. You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

There’s no sense in responding, Bear knows that now. No sense in even turning around to look. One foot in front of the other. Stumbling home alone under the cloak of night, dawn just around the corner; terrified that one day he’ll have to see it—the sun coming over the mountains, over the horizon. 

It’s been less than a year. He hasn’t yet made his amends with God. Forgiveness sits outside of him. Not quite the right time to let it in. Maybe that time passed a long time ago, a small aperture that shuttered closed at the approach of his eyes. He missed it sometime between killing a boy and losing his mind.

A man cannot hold himself up on the scaffolding of the world alone. There has to be something beneath him. There is no sense in repeating the horrors of the world back to him; he’s already lived them. He’s got something of a Midas touch for death. 

The months have been long since the divorce was finalised, since Lena left for good, since Buckley died, since Rip—since it all went down. If he thinks about it for too long, it seems like a nightmare that he woke up from still mad about; a nightmare he had no choice but to drink himself into a stupor over to escape. That’s the reality of the world. 

“You know, Bear, you’re not the one that’s fuckin’ dead,” Rip spits as he follows behind, matching Bear’s stumbling gait stride for stride. “So you can stop acting like it.”

There’s a truth in Rip’s words and it leaves him feeling nauseous. There’s also a kink in his neck and a headache threatening to split his forehead open. In the belly of him, he has a truth that says that the firmament of heaven is beyond his reach. When he looks up and the sky is void of coruscating light, the meagre stars like an exit with no entry wound, it doesn’t surprise him. Of course there wouldn’t be anything there.

On a good day, his heart feels like it’s weathered a siege. 

“So she left you! It’s time to fuckin’ move on. Go to a bar—I mean, you already are, so step one done—and pick someone up. Go on Christian Mingle or something. You keep living your life like this and you’re going to wind up killing yourself. And then the fuck good that’ll do?”

It takes everything in him to not turn around and do something rash. Only the nausea keeps him from making any sudden movements. Even if he were to turn around and do something, his knees would probably buckle under him. Probably throw up the contents of his stomach. Not much in there either. It rumbles when he thinks that, clenching at the thought of food. Then it twists, the nausea returning. 

One foot in front of the other. The walk home takes twice as long, his whole body aching.

“Heard you almost quit. Wouldn’t be the worst idea you ever had. Let Buddha take over—he’s earned it. Get yourself a nice piece of land in fuckin’…Montana or something. Couple cows, maybe some chicken—you could get a dog, Christ. You look like a guy who’d have a dog. Why don’t you have a dog, actually? You would’ve told me if you didn’t like dogs, so it’s not that.”

His forehead is greasy when he touches it to rub his head. Body secreting poison in his sleep. Oily. The corners of his lips crack when he yawns. It’s not like he’s never thought about a dog, about having something to care for, another living thing in his house. 

But—

(“Bear? …I don’t think we should have a child.”)

What he wants often falls to the wayside, slides off him like a glancing blow. 

Her old, familiar shape appears at the sudden loss of a dream: one where Lena’s gaze lingers on him long enough to burn; but then it is the sun.

Bear watches dawn break. Sunday morning. In a different life, he would’ve squinted into the light of a new day and closed his eyes against it, curling into the slighter body tucked into his chest for another hour of rest. Felt the rise and fall of her chest. Woken up to a hot mouth on his cock or fingers curling in his chest hair, petal lips seeking him out. Church after that, showering off the remnants of their morning, solemn in their pews with their chests still holding the laughter of an hour previous. Light as air, as a feather. 

He won’t go to church today; hasn’t in months. Not with the guilt of missing it the week before trailing after him, each missed week compounding month after month. The cracks in his faith webbing. Splintering out like stepping on the lake when it freezes over in the winter, crunching under his boot until he holds his place. Conscious that it could break under his feet.

“I grew up with a dog,” Bear finally responds, voice hoarse. First thing he’s said since last call at the bar. 

“Yeah. Figures. What kind?”

“Black lab. We called her Daisy.”

It’s another lifetime ago. Still living in his parent’s house, Daisy curled by his dad’s feet, her favourite spot to sleep. Television playing at a low volume, mom at the kitchen table doing her crossword, ink bleeding into the side of her hand. It’s been a long time since Bear buried all of them. He’s buried countless people since. 

“What—can’t get another? One and done? That’s how everything works for you?”

Teeth raze across his skin again. Trust Rip to always cut to the quick. Finally back in his neighbourhood at least, the street empty apart from the cars parked in their driveways or along the sidewalk. Bear’s stomach rumbles something fierce now, entreating him to eat. Worse than hunger is how he’d kill for a glass of water though. Anything to settle his head.

“Haven’t wanted a dog,” Bear grumbles, then clears his throat.

“Yeah, you have,” Rip scoffs. Bear hears him kick a rock, sending it skidding across the asphalt. 

“Fuck off.”

Heart silicified in his chest, composed of fossilised shells and rocks and bones. It feels heavy in his chest. 

He turns down the street leading to his house. 

“Gotta let someone else in, Bear. Girl, dog—whatever. You can’t keep this up forever or it’ll kill you.”

When he turns around at the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys, the sidewalk beyond his house is empty. 

(So a man lies down and rises not again; till the heavens are no more he will not awake or be roused out of his sleep.)

Every Friday like clockwork, Bear stops at the diner down the street for a coffee and a slice of cherry pie before heading to the bar. 

Today is like any other. He leaves the house with only his keys and wallet and walks the long twenty minutes to the diner. Every time he fights the urge to drive, but there has to be something holding him in place. A reason not to throw it all away. 

It’s never completely empty when he shows up, but it’s never full either. His seat at the back of the room is open as usual, like they put up a sign before he comes ambling down the street that says Reserved for Joe Graves and then pluck it away before he opens the door. It’d be nice if that were the case. Nice to have something just for him for a change. The thought comes with its accompanying pang of shame. Desire is a dangerous thing; anything he’s ever wanted has come at him with sharpened teeth, clamping down on his leg and ripping through the flesh. Bear trap for old Bear. 

He slides into the booth and waits for someone to notice him. Never bothers to flag someone down—if it’s ten minutes or even half an hour before he’s served, that’s fine by him. 

“Hiya,” a clear voice says to his right, pulling him away from staring through the blinds out the window. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea?”

The face Bear turns to meet is pleasant, smiling. Wide and untroubled. It’s not a face he recognizes though, despite months coming to this diner and becoming familiar with the staff. If he had to guess, he’d bet she only started a few days ago, maybe a week at most. She still has the sparkle of someone who hasn’t had the goodness beaten out of them yet. 

“Coffee,” he says, his own smile strained. “And a slice of pie.”

“Sure—we have key lime, blueberry, apple—”

“Cherry,” he interrupts, not letting her build steam. The wick in his chest burns too low for any conversation. The quick flicker of her brow makes the shame in his chest swell again. Forgive me sitting on his lips, unsaid. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I do this. 

She nods and scurries off to the back, skirt swishing with her movements. Bear notices only because his eyes get stuck there, somewhere between the curves of her hips and the roundness of her ass. When he realizes where he’s let his mind wander, he pulls it back, flattening his lips into a hard line. Any sort of indulgence feels wrong, a taking that shouldn’t be taken. He hasn’t even begun to pay penance for all the damage he’s wrought. 

It’s only on her way back that Bear notices the small bump protruding from under her apron. His mouth goes dry. When she reaches him again, he wordlessly accepts the cup of coffee and her reassurance that the pie will be out in just a minute. For a moment, he can hardly meet her gaze, eyes locked on the gentle curve of her belly, caught off guard in a way he hasn’t been in months. 

The first thought with any clarity is, what is she doing working here? A crummy diner on a Friday night. Down the street from an even sleazier pub. His second thought is to look outside at the poorly lit stretch of road and think that this is no place for a pregnant woman to be alone. He recognizes each car in the parking lot save one, likely hers. Drove herself here with the expectation of driving herself home at the end of the night.

If it had been Lena—well, he never would’ve let it be Lena, but if it had been, Bear can’t imagine letting his pregnant wife drive herself home in the middle of the night. Can hardly stomach the thought. 

She’s not Lena though, so he has no right. 

She’s gone before he has time to say anything else, skirt swishing behind her. It catches his eye again. When he tears his gaze away for a second time, he swallows back the metallic taste of self-loathing. It curdles in his mouth. It’s the sign telling him to stop coveting, stop looking out into the world and wondering what he can take. It’s his hamartia, his fatal flaw; thinking himself above the reproach of God. Thinking that he can kill, fuck, curse, and stray farther and farther from the light only to find his way back in the dark. 

The bell above the door rings when someone else comes in and Bear tenses. His shoulders only relax when two older women step in and head to a table. 

He watches as she picks up a plate from the pass-through window and heads back towards him. When she places it in front of him, he draws a deep breath in, trying to catch more than just the aroma of fresh baked cherries. 

“Here we go…one slice of cherry pie, straight out of the oven.”

“Thanks, honey,” Bear rumbles, smile finally meeting his eyes. 

“No trouble. The guys in the back said they make it special for you. Joe, right?”

That gets him to levy her with the full weight of his attention. The thought of her asking about him. “I go by Bear.”

“Oh. Alright, Bear.” She twists the word around in her mouth and seems to find it satisfying. “I think I’ve heard your name before. You were—I mean, you’re part of Pastor Adams’ parish, right?”

He clears his throat, cutting off the triangle point of his pie with the side of his fork. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Me too,” she confides, voice a low whisper. A secret between strangers. She doesn’t glance around though, doesn’t bother to draw out the ruse. “Or, I was, anyway. Haven’t been to service in awhile. I, um…I remember you. From a year or so back. You and your—um…you and your wife used to always sit up at the front.”

The fork scrapes against the plate. “Ex-wife.”

He catches her wince from the corner of his eye. “Oh. Sorry. You just—” She doesn’t have to say it. The slight dip of her eyes tells him all he has to know, and besides, it’s his own fault for still wearing the ring. Even with the paperwork signed and dated, even with Lena in another state now, starting a new life without him, the thought of taking it off makes him break out in a cold sweat. 

“It’s not—” Bear starts before giving up. He curls his fingers into a fist on the table. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Not a big deal.”

She fidgets in the silence. Bear can’t bring himself to break it or make the atmosphere less oppressive. He tenses under it, the ache in his low back worsening. These days, he always aches. Nerve damage, a disc on the verge of slipping, an old ankle injury that flares up whenever he goes running. A ghost that follows him from haunt to haunt. The ring on his finger is just another old ache. 

“So, uh—” he clears his throat, nodding to her belly. “Your first?” 

It’s inappropriate, hardly his place to ask. Incredibly intrusive for someone he’s met for the first time, a stranger just trying to do her job and serve him coffee and pie before he goes off to drink himself half to death again at the dive bar down the road. 

Still, he asks. 

Only the faintest wrinkle of her nose betrays any embarrassment. “Oh. Yeah. First one.”

“Congratulations.” It’s sincere. The envy in his gut is old, but it’s a manageable pain. 

“Thanks,” she says, with a small, private smile, hand resting absently under her belly. “I’m excited. I’m only a couple months along, but, uh…it’s been a journey. Just me and baby against the world, you know.”

That stops him in his tracks. Screws up the whole course of his evening because suddenly the sound of the bell over the door jingling doesn’t draw his attention away. It stays fixed on the smiling girl to his right that just opened her mouth and said something unacceptable. 

“Where’s the dad?” he asks, far too bluntly. 

She shrugs. “Somewhere. Didn’t stick around long enough to tell me where. It’s fine though—I’ve got my little peanut. That’s all that matters.”

“You told him and he left?” 

The pie sits cooling in front of Bear as a pit in his stomach opens up. It’s a terrible, empty hole that holds truths like the fallibility of the body and the good shouldering the burdens of the world.  

He only regrets being so direct when her lip quivers, a little motion that betrays her until she wrests control over her face again. “It’s not his fault. I don’t think he was—well…you know, it was a surprise.”

“That’s—” he struggles to find his words, “—that’s not right.”

Again, she shrugs. “That’s life.”

Bear feels his eyes go hard. A coldness settles under his skin. 

In the deep, dark gut of him, only anger lives. He spends his days questioning why God has allowed everything else in his life to fall apart, has allowed countless other people to die, but refuses, for reasons unbeknownst to him, to kill him. He’s given him enough opportunity and enough reason. 

The answer he circles back to time and again is the same. An eye for an eye. Divine wrath. The litany of his sins could be sung until the end of time and there’d still be more to sing. It’s only right that there would be consequences for him. 

The rage that simmers in his blood now is twofold. It begins with the sharp pang of injustice, of witnessing a punishment meted out to someone innocent. The girl standing by the booth he’s shoved himself into, almost too small for a man of his size, cannot be deserving of the same punishment that he’s brought upon himself. She has never killed. The babe in her belly has never killed. The two of them should never have to meet at the point of two paths converging with the likes of someone like Bear and proceed down the same road together. 

Then it sinks into a familiar territory. A place at the core of him where righteousness gives way to envy, as it always does. After what he's been through, the thought of someone having everything that he's always desperately wanted handed to them on a silver platter and then sending it back leaves him feeling a bit off-kilter. Not quite right. 

“Bear?” Her voice breaks the silence. When he blinks, concerned eyes stare down at him, brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, dragging a hand down his face. Shaking it off. “Sorry, I—got lost in my head. Sorry.” 

“That’s alright,” she says, again gentle in her voice and smile. “Easy place to get lost in, isn’t it?”

He makes a sound in acknowledgment. Drags the silence out. Her mouth twists shy under his scrutiny. 

“Anyway, I have a few other tables to get to, if you don’t mind. Enjoy your pie. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

He eats his slice of pie in silence as she leaves, eyes following her to her next table. Rage still sizzles under his fingertips. It makes his hands shake, old nerve damage and anger problems. 

It’s like a gun punch to think of her all on her own. It’s not right. For someone like him, well, it’s—deserved, earned. Inevitable, even. Every step taking him further away from grace, from its light. No one who knows his story would think otherwise. 

She’s a pretty thing though, this new waitress. Too tired, the bags under her eyes testament to that, no matter how well she hides them with makeup. Slightly puffy anyway, maybe from a lack of sleep or too many tears. His stomach aches at the thought. It must have come as a shock, the bottom of her world dropping out from under her when the baby’s father took off. Dragged away from the church not through her own doing, but the fault of another. Not her shame to bear, and yet. 

He forces the pie down. Bites that taste like nothing, 

Bear hears the lilt of her voice from two tables over. “Refill on your coffee, hun?” 

A supplicant sits in his place as he sips his coffee. The hour slips by into the next and it starts to come together in his mind. Why he's been forced down this long road alone, why God hasn't struck him down yet despite every terrible thing he's done. His eyes follow her flit across the diner, the light seeming to bend around her like a halation. 

When Bear looks across the room at her, he thinks, Lord, do not think I am waiting patiently for your hands. Every part of me trembles with anxiety.

(O Lord, show me I can fall apart together again; but not just yet.)

He stays until the last customer has finally left, waiting for her to come back to his table with an apologetic smile. When she does, Bear hands her his empty plate, watching her take a step back when he scoots out of the booth, rising to his full height. He makes note of the way her eyes round as they follow him up. Taller than her, unsurprisingly. Surprising though, the way her bottom lip droops just the slightest bit. 

“Is it just you closing up?” he asks, voice a tad too gruff. He clears his throat again, looking around for anyone else. 

“Well, the chef’s cleaning up in the back, but, uh—” she looks around the diner, conspicuously empty apart from the two of them. “Yeah. Just me.”

Bear gestures with his chin towards the door. “I’ll wait ‘till you’re done, then walk you to your car.”

“Oh, Joe—”

“Bear,” he corrects.

“Bear,” she amends, fingers twisting together now. He relishes the sound of it on her lips. “You don’t have to. I’m used to it, honestly. I know I just started here, but I’ve done closes before, you know.”

“I’ll wait outside.” A statement now. Stubborn. He’s always been a bit mulish, hard to shake off. 

He can tell the second she relents, shoulders slumping. “Alright. I shouldn’t be too long…you can leave if you get bored though. Won’t blame you.” 

He fights the urge to tilt her head up by the chin to make her meet his eyes. Just barely restrains himself. 

Leaning against a tree out front, he twirls the ring around his finger as he watches her clean up. For the first time in a long time, he slips it off.

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (22/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: This friendship is off to a great start. Or something like that.

Warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff because you all deserve it, tiny but of angst (because it wouldn't be my work if there wasn't angst in it), google translated French

Word Count: 2.9k

series masterlist

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A/N: tadaaaaaa. did my best and I hopefully have time to update this story weekly. feedback is appreciated!

The other side of the bed is empty when you open your eyes. 

Sunlight beams through the window and warms your face as you stretch your arms and lie back. A loud yawn escapes your mouth, but you are so well rested and relaxed that you don't care who can hear you. 

Charles is probably hanging around the apartment somewhere and you can't help but smile at the thought of him. 

You didn't expect you two to talk so soon, but now that the weight is off your shoulders and the secrets - both your unemployment and the Formula One thing - are out in the open, you feel a lot better. You slept well, snuggled up to Charles with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle. His warmth gave you security and comfort and although the road to this moment has been quite bumpy and rocky, you're glad you've finally arrived at this point. 

Pure friendship. 

It's the right thing to do, you tell yourself. This friendship is more important than anything else in this world. I'll be damned if I'm going to destroy the only good thing I have.

You lock your feelings deep inside you, bury them under many and thick layers of friendly affection so that no daylight can reach them. What remains inside you is silence, a pleasant, comforting silence. 

You don't have to worry about what his pet names mean to you. You don't have to worry about eventualities that will certainly not become reality anyway. You can be there for Charles, as a friend - as someone who is there for him. 

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand up. There are some fresh clothes for you on a small chest of drawers - a turquoise shirt and short gray Puma sports shorts - which you quickly slip into. As you open the door to your room, the smell of batter fills your nose. 

"Bonjour," Charles smiles at you as you enter the spacious, modern kitchen and sit down opposite him at the kitchen counter. Unlike last night, this time he's wearing a shirt and gray sweatpants, which hang low on his hips but still let you feel a little sigh of relief. With spatula in hand, he scrapes the pancake out of the pan to put it on a plate and slide it over to you. "How did you sleep?"

"Very well," you answer him and reach for the Nutella that is already in front of you. "And you?"

"Likewise." He turns off the stove and sits down next to you with another plate of pancakes. His knee nudges yours, but neither of you pulls your leg away. "The recipe is from my teammate. He says they're the best pancakes ever and I thought we could try them together."

As you spread the Nutella evenly on your pancake, you hand him the jar. His fingertips gently brush your hand. "So if they don't taste good, it's not your fault?" you grin and use your knife and fork to cut off a small piece before popping it into your mouth. 

Charles watches your every move. "That's right. So? Did he lie?"

You shake your head. The pancake in your mouth is warm and soft and fluffy, vanilla is definitely one of the ingredients and as you swallow the piece, a little of the delicious taste remains. "It's really delicious," you reply and spear another piece with your fork. "But I think it's also down to how the pancakes are made. The batter can be as good as it wants to be, but if it's made incorrectly - nope. Then it can't be saved."

Your Monegasque friend pours a little orange juice into the empty glass in front of you. "Was that a compliment to the chef?" A grin spreads across his face and he waggles his eyebrows. 

You playfully punch him in the shoulder with your fist. He pretends to almost fall off his chair. "My statement is to be considered purely objective."

Something flashes in Charles' green eyes, but before you can pinpoint it, he turns his gaze back to the breakfast. "I've heard you say that before," he mumbles before taking a bite. "But it really tastes great. I'll have to tell him when I see him again soon."

"What does your nutritionist say about you smearing so much Nutella on your pancake?" When he puts his index finger to his mouth, you have to smile. "Do you have to go back? To Italy?" The thought of Charles leaving you alone here in this big apartment makes you swallow hard. You only really talked to each other a few hours ago, does he really have to -

"No," he unintentionally interrupts your train of thought. "I don't think they want to see me there again so soon after I left yesterday. But that's just the way it is." He shrugs his shoulders. "More time for us." Before you can ponder the meaning of that sentence, he continues. "I know we've already talked this morning about what to do next, but I think we should discuss it again."

You raise an eyebrow in confusion. "What do you mean?"

The brunette purses his lips. "You said that you still want to be friends with me despite my job - and I think that's great - but you should really be sure."

"I am sure," you reply without hesitation.

"But you have to know what all this would mean for you if you take this," he points first to you and then to himself, "on. Dealing with all this is more difficult than you can imagine."

"All right," you reply, shoving the last piece of pancake into your mouth before washing it down with orange juice. "Go on then, Mr. Charles Leclerc."

He looks at you with a look that can't mean anything other than "Really?" before clearing his throat. "I've been in the public eye since I was little. It used to be karting, now it's Formula One. I'm used to people recognizing me, approaching me on the street and wanting to take photos. It's normal everyday life for me."

"Sounds a bit conceited," you joke, but Charles' expression suggests he's not in the mood for fun. "Okay. Je suis désolé."

"As soon as I leave the house, people talk about it. What I'm doing. Where I'm going. Who I'm spending time with. And my friends are set on the fact that when we're out and about, we can never be fully undisturbed." He chews on his lower lip for a moment. "With my female friends, things are a little more complicated."

"Meaning?"

He takes a deep breath. "As a Formula One driver, it's quite difficult to maintain friendships with the opposite sex. As soon as you do something together without anyone else around, it's portrayed as a date in the press or on social media. According to TikTok, I've had four new girlfriends since Annika and I split up. But nobody cares that they are the wives and girlfriends of my best friends. People see what they want to see. Even if it doesn't reflect the truth at all."

Without hesitation, you reach for his hand and stroke the back of it with your thumb. His skin is soft. "I'm terribly sorry about that. It must be awful."

Charles turns his hand a little so you can intertwine your fingers. "It's nothing new for me. It's more difficult for my friends. They are insulted, called names, judged. And all because they want to spend time with me, because that's what friends do. It's not fair. Not for anyone."

Now you understand why it's so important to Charles that you know this. His friendship has a price. And from what he tells you, it's not exactly cheap.

"The pressure on you would be huge. People will have opinions about you that you won't like. And no matter what you do, no matter how good you are - you won't be able to change them. And at some point, you'll be approached on the street without me, just because we're friends. The first time Joris was asked for a photo, he was completely taken aback."

You can see how much this is taking its toll on him and you don't even want to know how many friendships his name has already cost him. It's understandable that not everyone wants to take this risk, this life.

You squeeze his hand twice to attract his attention. When he looks at you, you smile. "Doesn't sound so bad," you try to cheer him up. The attempt fails miserably.

"I don't think you understand me." He shakes his head slightly and removes his hand from yours. "That's no small sacrifice. And there's no turning back once you do. You'll have no privacy once you leave this apartment. You'll be the talk of the town. About what you do, what you say and what clothes you wear. And all because we're friends."

You raise an eyebrow. "And what's in it for me then?"

He lowers his eyes again. His voice is quiet. "Just - me."

Your heart breaks for him. 

How can he not know how wonderful he is? Ever since you've known each other, Charles has always given you the chance to get out of things. He's let you have the bed, driven your rickety Renault to protect you from the public, pushed you away - disgustingly, but still. And all so that you could have a choice. 

You'd like to take him in your arms and hug him tightly, hoping you can patch up his shattered parts. And so you do. You get up from the chair and wrap your arms around him so tightly that he gasps in surprise. He slides off his chair into a firm stance so that your hands slide a little lower down his back. A moment later, when you feel one of his hands on your spine and the other in your hair, you press your cheek against his hard chest.

"I wish you could see yourself the way I do," you murmur against the soft fabric of his shirt, whereupon he presses you a little closer to him. 

"How do you see me?" he whispers against the top of your head. You feel his lips on your scalp. "Like a crazy, jealous guy who shows up at your place in the middle of the night and starts a fight with your ex?"

"You're an idiot." You lift your face from his chest and tilt your head back so you can look at him. He looks down at you. "You're such a wonderful person, Charles. And I would be honored if you wanted me as a friend."

"Are you really sure?" His warm breath brushes over your face. "There's so much you -"

"I'm sure," you interrupt him. 

"There's a series on Netflix you can watch so you can get a better understanding of -"

"I'm sure."

"Y/N, please -"

"Don't you want to be my friend?" You want to take a step backwards so you can really look at him, but he's so comfortably warm and his gaze is so heartbreaking that you don't want to let him go under any circumstances. 

"I want nothing more than that. Really." The hand that was in your hair a moment ago rests against your cheek and your thumb strokes it gently. "But there's so much you have to give up. And just for me."

You nestle your face against his warm skin. "You're all I have. And that's all I need."

His gaze softens and he gently kisses your forehead before holding you close one last time and then letting go. "The Netflix series isn't that good anyway. It doesn't reflect what really happens on race weekends." He sits back down at the counter and grabs another pancake. 

You join him. "I'm not surprised. Netflix will do anything to make money and twisting reality to make it more marketable is nothing new." You copy him with the pancake.

"Exactly. And if you want to know anything, you can ask me. Your friend - the Formula One driver," he grins, shoving a bite between his two jaws. 

"You said yesterday that this season has been a throwaway. What do you mean?" you ask him, emptying the bottle of orange juice into your glasses. 

Charles shrugs his shoulders. "The car and the strategies didn't work as they should have. The Scuderia made more cock-ups than you can stand."

You have to suppress a grin. "Then wouldn't it be smarter to call it the Screwderia?"

His gaze is emotionless as you look at him. "That's the worst joke I've ever heard." He smirks. "But you're right about that."

It's obvious that your friend feels a lot more comfortable now that he's told you the truth. The passion with which he talks about the sport is infectious, and you listen to him as attentively as you can. There's a sparkle in his eyes, his smile almost reaches your ears as he talks about his victories and podiums. 

How could you not want to be friends with him?

When you're done with breakfast, Charles sends you to explore the apartment while he does the dishes. After brushing your teeth and getting a bit more ready - you keep your clothes on, they're comfortable and Charles' after all - you wander through the rooms. 

The living room is kept simple, with white furniture and a comfortable-looking couch where you can watch the second part of Cars. Next to it on a shelf are several trophies and even helmets, which you take a quick look at.

There's even a white piano. A red rose arrangement with the word Love is placed on it. As you run your fingers over the wood of the instrument, you hear Charles enter the room. 

"The roses are from Annika. They're not real, so they can stay longer." He steps from one foot to the other. 

"Why haven't you thrown them away yet?" you ask him as you turn to face him. 

He shrugs his shoulders. "I haven't gotten around to it yet. And Annika was still living here until yesterday. So..."

You nod weakly and change the subject. "Have you been practicing here?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, I don't have much time to play because of Formula One. It was good to play in the bookshop. Even if it was completely improvised."

You remember every single note. The passion he poured into the keys to create an incredibly beautiful piece of music. The passion he felt. How beautiful he looked in the warm light. "It was beautiful. It really was."

"It's your song." He smiles lovingly. "It's as beautiful as you are."

Like magnets, you move towards each other. As he holds out his hand, you place yours in it so that he can gently turn you in a circle before pulling you close. Your hands rest on your chest and you feel his strong heartbeat under your fingertips as you smooth down his shirt. His hands are on your lower back, pressing you against him so that you arch towards him. 

"Charles."

"Mm-hmm." His gaze flickers back and forth between your eyes and your lips, making your heart beat faster. 

You hypocrite, you hear your conscience say as your one hand slides to the nape of his neck and plays with the fine hair there. Charles closes his eyes and something you can only categorize as a moan escapes his throat. 

"Please don't stop," he whispers and leans his forehead against yours. The tips of your noses nudge against each other. 

"With what?" you ask softly, even though you know exactly what he means. 

"Touching me." His voice sounds almost like a deep groan. "Tu me fais tellement de bien.“ you feel so good.

You would never stop. It seems like an invisible boundary was torn down last night and you haven't been able to stop touching each other since. His knee against yours at breakfast. Your embrace. Your half-naked bodies pressed together a few hours ago when you were talking. 

Even if you wanted to, you couldn't stop touching him. 

Hypocrite, repeats the annoying voice in your head. 

Without thinking about it, you arch towards him another inch and Charles draws in a sharp breath. 

"Charles?" A woman's voice sounds from the hallway and the Monegasque opens his eyes. „Chéri, tu es à la maison?“ darling, are you home?

Your eyes search his as he suddenly breaks away from you and takes a step back. Panic is practically written all over his face. 

"Who's that?" you ask silently, but get no answer.

The footsteps from the hallway come closer and when you turn around, a woman is standing in front of you, looking first at you and then at Charles before her gaze lingers on you. "'Qui avons-nous là?“ who do we have here? she asks, walking towards you before grabbing your hands and giving you a kiss on the left cheek, then the right. 

"Maman, que fais-tu ici?" mom, what are you doing here? Charles asks hesitantly, taking a step towards you both. 

Maman?

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[boundinparchment]

Be My Lacrimarium

After a wedding and reception in the Dreamscape, Sunday enjoys the first waking moments with his new wife. Sunday/Female Reader. Established relationship. Loving smut. Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI.

On AO3 here.

As beautiful as the Dreamscape and all of its Moments were, nothing beat the way your heart swelled when you woke up and stared at the ceiling, your hand clasped in another.  The sedative tried to hold you fast but Sunday’s fingers in yours grounded you, the gentlest squeezing giving you another anchor for your will.

Your dress was soaked, as expected, the layers clinging to your legs and irritating your skin.  When you looked over at Sunday, he was already awake and attentive; he was adept at navigating the borderlands between reality and dreams, even after years away, and therefore more familiar with the initial haze.

The tips of his wings were still wet, feathers shimmering in the dim light coming through the nearby window.  You’d woken up next to him countless times already but you couldn’t help but grin and give a little laugh as you took in the sight of him next to you. 

“Good morning,” you whispered.

You caught Sunday’s signature smile before he leaned over and kissed you, soft lips molding to yours, warm and steady.

“Good morning,” he replied, mouth barely leaving yours.  “Good evening, actually.”

The realization that, although your wedding had been within the Dreamscape, the man before you and the promises made were real danced in your head as you captured his mouth again.  The sedative made your limbs slow and clumsy but you reached for him all the same, resting your hand on his cheek and reaching to brush your fingers along his wing joint, feeling him flutter beneath your touch.

No longer just a long-term lover, a partner, and a friend.  Husband felt like such a fitting title to attach to all of those.

Sunlight did not stream through the windows of the bedroom, its long fingers no longer touching corners of the room you noticed the morning you first stepped into the dream pool.  Time worked differently in the dream but the day was absolutely packed; you hardly noticed that the equivalent of an entire weekend passed by in a single day.

You’d have gotten married anywhere, you emphasized to Sunday, over and over again.  He could have given you a ring made out of the stray threads he plucked after reattaching shirt buttons.  The ceremony could have been in some administrative office.  It didn’t matter to you, all of the pomp and glitz and glamor.

Especially if it spared him running himself ragged.  Sunday was more than practiced in event planning and coordination but he spent enough of his life doing for others.  There was nothing wrong with simple.

“I want to share my homeworld with you,” was all he said.  “It would mean a great deal to me.”

And now, staring at the man in front of you and having experienced dreams as reality, you understood why Sunday had been so insistent.  The Eventide was elegance beyond known words and reciting your vows amid the Sea of Dreams was more than one ever hoped for in a single lifetime.  Perhaps even ten lifetimes.

“We should get out, my love,” Sunday murmured.  “Lest you slip back into the dream, darling wife.”

“Reality’s enough for me right now,” you said, smiling into another deep kiss.

Sunday broke the kiss and brought you to your feet.  The sedative, although it felt similar to water within the tub, was quick to dry.  In fact, your dress hardly looked any different than it had when it came back from the tailor, neatly pressed and pristine.  With another kiss, you felt yourself being scooped up and out of the pool, Sunday cradling you a moment longer before putting your feet back on solid ground.

“Not quite the same as a threshold,” he said.  “But it’ll do for now.”

You couldn’t seem to keep your hands anywhere that wasn’t near Sunday and rested your palms against his chest, fingers tracing the fine embroidery of his wedding suit.  Even now, with your feet sinking into plush carpeting and feeling his heart beneath your touch, it didn’t feel quite real.

Married.

The rest of your life with the man you considered to be your best friend, a companion you never expected to find.  

He seemed to be just as struck as you, if not more so.  His eyes lingered on your face, seemingly tracing every inch of you, lips parted and wings shifting softly with minds of their own.  He removed his gloves and tucked them away before running the pads of his fingers along your upper arm, feeling your skin properly for the first time in what felt like days.

You felt the tickle of Sunday’s empathy at the back of your head, his subtle way of approaching you and igniting a need that went deeper than mere carnality.  Your own exuberance was doubled, heart seeming to swell, for the smallest moment before arms wrapped around you.

As a human, it was next to impossible to convey the depth of what, exactly, you were expressing gratitude for without rambling.  He was steadfast in his dedication to both you and what he wanted to give you.  Sunday endured being recognized by average dreamers who only knew the sensationalized broadcasts and the Family members were not without their own grievances.  You only hoped that his Halovian abilities allowed him to recognize that you understood what it meant to have these moments together.

Sunday didn’t speak, and instead burrowed in the crook of your exposed neck and pulled in his wings a little, relaxing against you.  Every part of you sang as you felt heat radiate from him, his tall form pressed against you, curled around you.

“I want to savor this moment.  Savor you,” he admitted, his tone gentle as he pressed his lips to the curve of your neck.

Buried between his words, you heard the sentiments unspoken that rang through you, ones that words failed to encompass.  Undeserving of you and yet every willingness and desire to cherish you, to know you as well as he knew himself, a warmth like a fire on a frigid day.  He would lay himself at your feet without you ever asking and if he tried, you would pull him up and hold him until he believed he needn’t do so.

You held him close, carding your fingers through his hair, mindful of his halo as you kept your other hand over his heart.

“We have the rest of our lives, Sunday.  There’s no rush.” 

He melted a little more, eased by your willingness to be patient, and continued to trail kisses up your neck and along your jaw.  One breath against a sensitive spot left you shivering and his hold on you tightened as he did it again, this time kissing the spot for good measure.

By the time his lips met yours again, your very essence seemed to tremble deep inside.  You poured little bits of yourself into every brush of your tongue, every movement of your lips, cup after cup, because otherwise you threatened to run over.  It was not just a need for the man before you but a desire to convey what felt too much for language itself to encompass.

You’d tried, after all.  Your vows were promises, tangible and otherwise, but when you wove the words together, it all felt so weak .  Tears burned the backs of your eyes as you felt a wave of warmth rush over you that started at your head and ran down to cradle your heart.

All the while, you stroked the base of his neck, skimming Sunday’s exposed skin beneath his collar, hot to the touch.  Searing, even.  You couldn’t stop kissing him, less an addiction and more like your souls were already too tangled to do so, and your head spun as both of you traced the familiar planes of each other.  A wandering hand skimmed over your collarbone and the swell of your breasts, edging the line of your dress before cupping you, thumb finding your nipple despite the silken fabric.  You swallowed, panting slightly into the next kiss, excitement sitting at the base of your spine when Sunday reached behind you and began the pain-staking process of undoing each button.

He was a patient man, your Sunday, and so meticulous that it made every second worthwhile when his fingers finally found your bare back.  The dress stayed only due to the swags of fabric on your arms but you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you at the sensation of his touch.

You made it to the bed with halted, fractured movements, never wanting the other to be far from reach.  Your dress rustled as you crawled backwards, making room for Sunday as you went.  It was easy for you to kick off your heels, the shoe dangling from your toes before you flung the thing to the far side of the room.  Before you could do the same on the other foot, Sunday caught your leg and plucked the shoe from your toe, setting it down safely and seeing to his own attire.

It caused him distress to rush when he did not want to mark up his shoes and take them off incorrectly or ruin his appearance, even in front of you.  Many nights were initially fumbled from such moments and recovered with soft grace that left you so dazed, you wondered if the man you loved was even real. 

“We can pause,” you whispered, pushing yourself up onto your elbows.

But when he stood again tonight, fingers gliding over your foot and bare ankle as he raised your leg, it was impossible to miss that he was overwhelmed with a need for you to the point that he would swallow his anxiety over the creases his suit would bear.

“No,” he replied, looking at you through his lashes with every hot kiss to your ankle and calf.  “I want this moment with you.”

His wings grazed the insides of your calves and your thighs as he worked his way up.  You hiked up your skirts to watch him, his expression flitting between serenely loving and ravenous, as though you might disappear if he looked away for too long.  The cooler air grazed over you, making you all the more aware of how wet you already were.  You felt a jolt run through your swollen core.

Talented fingers found the garter on your left leg, a frilly fun thing you’d blushed at when the shopkeeper presented it to you.  Normally, it would have been removed at the reception but Sunday balked at the idea of sharing such an intimate moment among a crowd of friends and acquaintances.  

You didn’t blame him.  Not when you couldn’t keep your skin from heating every time he was between your legs.

Sunday brushed his nose against the soft flesh of your thigh as he ran his finger along your skin beneath the elastic.  He slid it down, guiding the silken band past your knee and off you entirely; you were going to try and toss the garter in the same direction as your stray shoe but Sunday took it, running it between his fingers before tucking it into his pocket.

Whatever quip you had at the tip of your tongue died as he returned to kiss your legs, angling his head so the long feathers of his wings tickled and teased your sensitive skin.  Sunday had no intention of stopping this time, hands trailing further up to brush over the soaked lace between your legs.  He sighed audibly as he rubbed a finger along the edge of the fabric and then slipped it aside, finding you eager and more than ready.  The sound of your slick heat echoed throughout the room, obscene and yet divine.

You lifted your hips as Sunday reached for the thin material and pulled it down, revealing yourself to him.  His tongue, so used to offering tempered thoughts and graces, found your slit and slowly trailed upwards, ending in a flick at your clit.  You gave a choking gasp at the sensation and when Sunday repeated the action, all you could do was reach down and tangle your fingers in his face, pressing his face to your heat.  His tongue worked alongside his fingers, stroking you and teasing you, but never allowing you release.

When he finally raised his head, face glistening with your essence and eyes alight with a devotion you had no name for, you could only bring yourself to say, “Please.”

You shifted, both of you freeing each other of the layers between you; your dress became a heap somewhere off the bed, and Sunday’s consideration for his own clothing was, in truth, made his bare form all the more enticing to you.  He was beyond beautiful, especially with hooded eyes and swollen lips, his member already dripping.

He returned to you with a swift, smooth motion, meeting your lips instantly as he pressed his length against you, nestling himself for a moment.  His tip brushed your clit as he bucked, shallow and preparatory; your hands didn’t know where to rest, every touch seemingly never enough.  He gave a stilted moan that curled into nothing more than an exhale as he met your entrance, closing his eyes and bowing his head, wings flexing to cover his pink cheeks and eyes.

You were already on the brink, as was he, if the twitching tickle in your head was anything to go by, his arousal intensified by his emotions.  His Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed, breaths coming in slow calculated waves as he slid into you, inch by inch.  Your body parted to accommodate him, molding around him as if you were made for one another.

When he was finally buried as deep as he could go, his forehead pressed against yours, he sighed but remained unmoving.  

“Sunday,” you reached up, stroking his wings softly before you slipped your hand beneath one, cupping his cheek.  “Look at me, darling husband.”

When he did, adjusting himself on his elbows as he twitched inside you, all you could do was marvel for a moment.  Earnestness made a home in the depths of his violet-and-molten-gold eyes, the smile on his lips like none you’d ever seen before.

This act between you was nothing new but that didn’t make it any less sacred or important.  The universe did not shift nor did time stop; it meant as much to you then as it did now, being one with him, experiencing an expression of emotion that was as necessary as breathing and as nourishing as rains after a drought.

Sunday set a slow, deep pace, paying special attention to the way you gasped with every stroke when he brushed past a particular spot.  Your arms wrapped around him beneath his and you clung to his shoulders when he angled your hips, his movements fluid yet steady.  Neither of you was going to last long but it didn’t need to.   You pressed your forehead to his again and locked your ankles together around his waist, tension coiling in your belly and sinking downwards.

“I never thought I’d have this chance, not after…” he whispered.  “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Fingers dug into your thigh, snaked upwards to hold your waist, cup your breast, and brush your cheek, as if seeking purchase in a storm. 

 Sunday settled on reaching underneath you, holding your behind to keep you close while brushing away the beginnings of tears when the sensations became too much and the tension deep inside replaced your vision with nothing but a sea of stars.  Your cries unfurled into moans, the sensations deep inside intensified both by the shuddering groan of your name with Sunday’s own release and the fuzzy feeling in your head that you could only attribute to his empathy trying to make emotional sense of the moment.  Warmth spread all over, his essence filling you, lips on your with every intention of giving you his very soul.

You couldn’t bring yourself to untangle from him, not yet.  Your walls squeezed his member as he twitched inside you, filling you up further.  Holding you tight, Sunday managed to roll you both onto your sides, bodies still connected.

You pushed stray locks of hair away from his forehead before giving him a gentle kiss.  Neither of you were tired, no doubt a byproduct of the sedative’s effect on your sleep cycle and your own desire for one another.

It was not moonlight that passed through the room but the reflection of light from the Reverie Hotel bouncing off the dusty sky of the Alderson disc you were residing on.  Regardless, you stared at Sunday, painted in light that almost made him glow beside you.  The thought was bittersweet and you nestled into him, wriggling your hips a little to accommodate him inside you better.

Even if the people of the Planet of Festivities cared little for him, he would have a home in your arms, and in your heart.

[mara-and-its-the-same]

let’s understand that this is Mara immediately post breakup so this means i get to have it as wild as i want it to be...but anyway, all i’ve been thinking about is rebounding with Danny, duh. Beyond suggestive, it's directly implied, 2k words and a big thank you to @frnchgirls, rose is a most gracious help. Enjoy 🥰

“What about like this?”

If anyone asked Danny the series of events that led him here, there would be no sane answer. Friday night he meets you at the Vandals’ bar, Saturday night he learns that you live in Chicago but were dating another Vandal in a different chapter and just suffered a messy break up, and by Sunday afternoon he’s got you posing on his bed with the brand new knowledge that before you got into that relationship you were a lingerie model until that guy made you quit. 

“Danny?” You ask him again, leaning on your elbows and one knee slightly bent to the side over the other.

He shakes himself out of his daydreaming to realize that reality is ten times better and hopes you don’t notice his dazed off gaze from your side of the camera. “Yeah?”

“Is this a good pose?” 

Kathy told you that you should get back into modeling, then offered Danny to help you practice, maybe get new photos to show some agents.  Neither of you were busy this weekend, so now here you are in a brand new soft blue babydoll negligee that she made you buy the minute she heard about the split, on Danny’s bed. 

God, how he washed those sheets and cleaned all over his apartment as soon as you asked if you could do it at his place. It hasn’t been so neat since he toured the place. But now there you are wanting him to tell you if you look good in your lingerie on his bed. But photography is his job, he’s a professional, he can do this.

He could do this, if his tongue wasn’t suddenly tied until he swallowed thickly. “Yeah, maybe you just lean back a little more?”

“Like this?”

“Perfect.” He captures the picture and tries some more from a few different angles. “What about laying down?”

“Mhm,” you move a bit further down the bed and let your hair fall around you as best it could on its own. “Here?”

“Yeah, can I move your hair?”

“Yeah,” he rearranges your strands so they frame your face perfectly and look as effortless as possible.

“Gorgeous.” The shudder clicks right as he said it, so fast that he hits it a second time just to catch your smile when he says it.

“Really?” He catches the moment your face changes from eyes closed and sultry, to open and joyous.

“Beautiful.”

“Me? Or just your pictures? 

“You, and the pictures of you.”

“Thank you,” you roll over again and he gets one from another angle. 

It was never anything crazy, the sets you modeled. Just some odd jobs for more local boutiques, never anything obscene or ridiculously lavish. Danny refuses to believe that though. You make plastic rhinestones shine like diamonds. Machine spun cotton lace looks like hand threaded silk from Paris the second it touches your skin. 

“Do you think we got enough of this one?” you ask.

“I think so. I can get these developed and have them ready in a few days,” he starts packing his camera away. “What size did you say you wanted?”

“Oh I don’t know, but— Well actually I brought one more thing to try on. Unless you want to be done?”

He’s not sure how much more of this he can really take. How much longer can he be in the same room as you before he busts just from looking at you. 

“Yeah, sure- I’ll be in the kitchen.”

He tries not to stare as you slide of the bed and start looking through the bag you brought on his way out the door. 

3 minutes later your head is poked out of the door and into the kitchen, “Danny, you can come in now.”

Oh what a sight you are. The black nightgown reaches down all the way to your ankles, the silky fabric falls over your hips so perfectly, and the only thing between the air and your chest is a thin layer of the finest lace he’s ever seen. “I haven’t worn this in years.”

“That’s a shame.” He can’t believe he’s said that, especially in the tone he did, like he couldn’t believe you wouldn’t even wear it just by yourself. You must know how you look in it, how it looks tailored to your body in every square inch. 

“I know. But he didn’t like it. It’s vintage Chantelle, all silk. Didn’t know how to appreciate it properly.” You sit back on the bed again and just then he notices the slit up one side that just about nears the top of your thigh. 

You’re about to take a new pose when he asks you a most peculiar question. 

“I’m sorry?” You ask.

“Do you mind if I move you?” He says with more confidence this time and what a gift that he did.

“Sure.”

He sets the camera down on his dresser and comes towards you. With his hands on your shoulders— your nearly bare shoulders, his thumbs fitting perfectly just into the dips of your clavicles —he leads you to lay down against the pillows and rearranges your hair. He takes one of your hands and places it beside your head, the other he moves across your torso with your hand cusping your hip bone. He steps back a bit to consider your legs, with respect to the slit. After slowly, so slowly coasting down the length of your leg, he softly pulls one ankle down straight, and pushes the other slitted one up so that it is slightly bent at the knee and tilts it towards the other. 

He takes a second to look at you, really look at you, and he can’t believe anyone would ever try to keep you from this. 

Maybe he’s just getting to know your form, for the sake of the composition, you think. But only for a moment before you see him suck his bottom lip between his teeth, just for a second but you notice. 

Finally, finally, he takes the first picture of you like this. With the click of the shutter you’ve made your mind up, you decide to press your luck. “What if I like…” you bring the hand that was on your hip up to your mouth and bite the top knuckle of your index finger.

“Yes.”

“What’s the look you’re thinking though?”

“They’re your pictures. I’m thinking whatever you want me to think.”

“But you’re the photographer, the artist.”

“You’re the art.”

“Would you kiss me?”

He nearly drops the camera. “What?”

“They like when pictures tell stories, the story would be that I’m messy and ravished and the clothes are serving their intended purpose. If you’re alright with that?”

He so absolutely, most certainly, positively is more than just alright with that. “Yeah, ok.”

You push yourself back up on the bed while he positions himself at the edge. “So how do you wa—“ he’s cut off by your pull to his collar and the press of your lips. Surpassing his initial surprise he brings a hand up around you to hold your waist, and the other up to your jaw. Messy, you want it messy. And salacious, lascivious even. Beyond suggestive, obvious is what you need. He can tell from the way you continue to pull him into you even as his chest is flush against yours. 

You pull away panting for no more than a second to order “Get the camera off the bed.” How sweet of you to be concerned, he nearly leaps over you to put it on the nightstand and he’d like to say ‘if it were any less expensive’ he would have just thrown it, but he knows that the price of it wasn’t what stopped him, it was the fear of damaging even a single one of those pictures of you. 

As he’s leaning over you, you slide down a little further on the bed so he can reach you easier. Or maybe to muss your hair up a little more if it’s against the pillows, or any other excuse you could make to make it seem like this is all for the picture and not your own desires. 

From there it is licks, bites, tugs, sucks of lips. And you’re trying, you’re both trying to keep your hands out of it, but how could you when his hair is so soft and the back of his neck is the perfect shape for you to hold. And how could he when your skin is so perfect and your bare leg is right there.

“I want a hickey.”

“Huh?”

“Kiss my neck.” He kisses you twice more on his way to your throat and you can’t help the sound you make when he reaches the perfect spot. Already he has you gasping for air. “Oh god.” His hand slithers up the slit, sliding even higher in search of your hip bone or waist to hold. 

“Wait,” He lifts himself to be eye level with you, “wait—“

“Hm?”

“Sorry, just…You’re—This is real now, right?”

“Yes, yes, very real.” You rush to pull him back down to your lips and nearly crash noses with the way he rushes down to meet you. 

“Mmph,” he groans at the scratch of your nails across his scalp and just the sound makes your back arch. Moving down again, he passes soft kisses down the valley of your chest. You’re positive he can feel the beat of your heart through every inch of your skin. How you’ve missed this, being wanted, being adored. And how he’s missed crossing beyond the other side of the lens, the feel of sculpting another body just by the skill of his touch. 

As he’s pushing the side of your skirt up and away a sudden fear strikes you, “Wait!”

“What is it?” He immediately sits back and takes his hands away, looking into your eyes for any cause for concern.

“I’m so sorry, but I really don’t want to rip it.”

“Oh,” you see him immediately relax, “So…”

You make no answer, though you do sit up to your knees and move the skirt out from underneath you. With a gesture to the strap that has fallen off your shoulder, he finally gets the message. However, in the spirit of fairness, his own shirt is the first thing to go and before you have time to remember your original intent you both rise on your knees just to kiss again. You feel before you look while your hands roam his torso. 

And slowly, so slowly, through wandering presses, pulls, and squeezes, he reaches the sides of your thighs and takes your nightgown by the seams to lift it over your head. He takes it by the straps to hang by the corner of the headboard rather than tossing it to the floor. 

You guide him forwards as you move to your back again, his knee moves between your legs while his fingertips smooth along your jaw. His eyes dance around your face, and as embarrassed as he may be to admit it, he takes a fleeting glance down the space between your bodies. An idea flashes before him, a bold one, but at this point in the afternoon he’s not sure there’s much left that could happen between you two that’d be too bold. He reaches for the camera slowly enough that you knew exactly what he wants. You resist the instinct to shy away when you still see his soft gaze over the camera. The shudder clicks and he drops it back on the nightstand, “That one’s not making it into the book,” Danny smirks at his own teasing before leaning back into you to finish what he started with a smile still on his lips. 

[thoughtsfromlayla]

Chapter One - Meretricious

Summary: Newly married and yet you already feel the loss of a spouse. The fight night as Queen was not how you expected it to be.

Notes: ~5.4k words. I feel like I write a lot of angst but does that mean I'm good at it? Probably not. Not edited

Warnings: implied cheating, subtle mentions of panic attacks, dubcon with no follow through

Tag list is open, just let me know!

☾ ✴ ๋࣭ ⭑․⋆⋮. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆⋮⋆․ ․⋆⋮. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆⋮⋆․ ․⋆⋮. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆⋮⋆․

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Prologue ⇆ Next

Meretricious (adj.) - attractive on the surface but having, in reality, no value or substance

‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

By the time the ceremony was over and you were sitting at the lover’s table at the head of the banquet hall did you snap out of your phase. More specifically the food snapped you out of your phase. You have no idea how the cooks knew to serve you your favorite dish but they managed to get their hands on that information. 

The steaming food is served fresh and hot and placed delicately in front of you. Your stomach lurches as it realizes it hasn't eaten anything today. Your finger twitches as it reaches for the fork but stops short when you see that King Morpheus hadn’t moved to begin eating. You use all of your willpower to stop yourself, instead fiddling with the one of the many ribbons that decorated your body. 

Unknown to you, Morpheus sees your dilemma and even if he didn’t particularly find himself hungry, he moves to take a bite. He notices the way you perk up at the action and begins to eat yourself, thoroughly enjoying the meal. He stops himself when he realizes that he was smiling at your actions.

From your seat, you see your mom’s eyes boring into you with a slight frown. Your mother nods her head in the direction of the king, eyes slightly bugging out of her eyes as her lips turn downward. She nods again when you tilt your head in confusion at her odd messaging. 

“Talk,” She mouths at you before huffing and returning to conversation at her table. Her hand rests easily on your father’s back when she looks back at you one more time with another obvious nod. 

You clear your throat in preparation.

“So,” You start. 

“My lady,” He begins as well. 

The both of you stop talking as the other interrupts. After a pregnant pause, King Morpheus clears his throat and urges you to continue. 

“Please, I insist,” He comments with an open palm, gesturing towards you. 

As if by magic, all typical conversation starters seem to fizzle out of your head, even in muscle memory of the countless hours with your governess could not have saved you in this moment. What do you even say to the King? 

“How do you find the evening, Your Majesty?” You ask and immediately wish to hide under the many layers of your lavish dress at the question. You take a quiet deep breath to reset yourself at how increasingly awkward you had made the night. If not for him, then certainly for yourself. 

You did not forget the way he dropped your hands as soon as the vows stopped, nor the way that he all but ignored you the most that he could. Only talking to you now as you are forced into proximity with him. 

“Morpheus will be fine between us as we are married,” He comments slowly and takes a sip of his wine. 

“Very well… Morpheus,” You test the name on your tongue. It felt barren without his title attached to it, but it was just something you would have to get used to. 

“I find the evening well,” He replies without waiting a beat and takes another bite of his food. 

The tension was thick in the air, something that you couldn’t even cut with a sharp knife. The guests were talking amongst themselves, the food and wine good, but there was a clear and defined wedge between you and Morpheus. You’re determined to remove it as quickly as possible, Gods know you would prefer an amicable relationship even if forced into it. Yet, all words die from your mouth. The conversation has run dry before it even barely started. You only reply with a hum in acknowledgement before returning to your own dish as well. 

The silence is short lived as Three approaches the lover’s table. They walked in unison and in a line, their faces passive as they came closer. Morpheus was quick to notice them as well, and stood as they came closer. Uncertainty washes over you at his action and you decide best to follow suit. 

You stand, hand placed delicately over your lower stomach, but your foot crosses over your heel to ground yourself a bit. 

“Morpheus!” The youngest greets with a smile. 

“Ladies,” He returns the greeting. His eyes don’t leave theirs but he bows nonetheless. 

You’re quick to follow and give a curtsy as deep as the table could let you. You are way over your head. Never in your seemingly smaller life have you witnessed someone, some three, who warranted a bow from the king. 

The middle aged woman comes close to you when you stand up again, reaching over the short table to cup at your cheeks. 

“Oh, you are a peach, you are!” She gushes with a toothy smile. Small wrinkles crease along her eyes and mouth as she does. Her hands are soft but calloused all the same. “You are a perfect match for our dear Moprheus, I can feel it.” She whispers, mostly to herself. 

If Morpheus heard it, it certainly ignored it. Instead he redirects the conversation skillfully. The eldest ignores it, finding herself in front of you again and cups your cheeks just like the one before. Her hands are smooth and boney as they hold onto your face. Her face is less kind, gazing at you down her nose as she scrutinizes you. Her eyes seemingly cross over your mortal vessel into your very soul. She sees its timid nature, yet a hardened fire that just needed some hardship to see. 

“We come bringing gifts for the joyous occasion!” The youngest interrupts her older self, who walks back in line with the other two. 

“How kind of the Lady Fates.” Comes Morpheus’ perfect answer, he bows again and you follow. 

The youngest walks up first, and places an ornate wooden box onto the table. It’s framed in gold and silver with swirling designs and flowers. Her delicate fingers open the box and face it towards the two of you. Within, surrounded by red silk were two carved figurines that didn’t vaguely represent anyone you’ve ever met. They were stocky in shape, but detailed through a masterful paint job and varnish. 

“From the Maiden, I give Your Majesties a friend in a dire situation,” She announces and then closes the box with a soft click. She walks back in line as the next one walks forward. 

She doesn’t say anything, instead she only holds out both of her hands. After an awkward pregnant pause, she sighs and moves her fingers, indicating to hold her hand. You place your left hand in hers to which she smiles with a small nod of her hand towards you. Morpheus places his right hand on hers after yours but she drops it quickly with a scowl and a tick from her tongue. 

“The other hand, child,” She sighs again.

Morpheus switches his arm quickly and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from giggling in front of him. His body faces closer to you as to easier place his hand on the Mother. The smell of his cologne invades your senses, filling in your mind with the smell of sand and something sweet you couldn’t place your finger on. 

“From the Mother, I give Your Majesties an unyielding connection,” She proclaims and holds your hands harder. 

Your mind swirls with thoughts. What does she mean by an unyielding connection? You look at Morpheus from under your eyelashes only to see that he’s already looking at you. If you were going to be completely honest, you did not want to consummate the marriage tonight. You would be lying, again, if you were to say you weren’t physically attracted to him, but the issue lies with one thing: you don’t know him.

Morpheus seethes quietly at the Mother’s gift. He didn’t choose to love you and yet here he was, about to be forever connected to you even more. He hates how innocent you look at him through your eyelashes, how he can see each detail of your eyes, and the softness of your lips. He hates how he can’t stop himself from traveling his eyes lower to swipe across your protruding collarbones or how your bosom rises and falls with your breath, only more obvious due to your corset. 

The two of you stare down each other, both with reasons unknown to the other as the Mother finishes her wish. Both of you not noticing the way the wedding bands glow in gold with new engravings swirling into the metal. When the Mother steps away, both of you pull your hands away at the same time, and go back to standing side to side instead of facing each other, content with ignoring each other. 

“One more gift, then back to awkward silence,” You think to yourself. Though you don’t prefer it, you much prefer to make good conversation, but anything is better than this. 

As the Mother returns in line, the last, the eldest comes forth on legs that have walked centuries before you were born. She, like her sister-self before her, holds out her hands, palms facing upwards as a string of light crawls out of the center of her palm. With her other hand, she plucks it with a sharp tug and holds the glowing string between her fingers. 

“From the Crone, I give Your Majesties a string of hope,” She explains. She fingers tug again and separate the strings.

When they let go, they are autonomous and float on their own, binding themselves around your right wrist. A hiss escapes you as an acute hot flash encircles your skin where the string comes in contact with. When the glowing resides, a woven bracelet of red and a single entanglement of black rests easy on your skin. The string has no beginning nor end and wears snuggly on your wrist. It is rigid, despite looking as if made from soft cotton, and you’re sure that even if you cut off your wrist, it would not yield. You peak over at Morpheus again, taking note of his matching set of woven black and a single entanglement of red. It is the same as yours, down to the material, design, and pattern but only reverse in color. 

“Thank you, my fair Ladies,” You express with a small smile, placing your hands back into position in front of you. Your stomach growled again, though very faint, and wished to go back to eating. However, the Lady Fates have yet to leave from their position. Morpheus was standing as still as ever, but from your position, you could tell even he was starting to get antsy from how his middle twitched against his pant leg. 

“Of course, my dear!” The Maiden spoke. 

“Each of our gifts will come to fruition in due time.” The Mother continues. 

“Now, we ask you to share a dance for our enjoyment.” The Crone finishes. 

“A dance, what a wonderful idea!” The Maiden agrees quickly. She grabs her sisterselves and stand off to the side. 

Your heart jumps in your chest with happy flutters and tapping feet but you soothe it quickly. Judging by Morpheus’ character, it would more likely be true that he doesn’t enjoy something like dancing. That isn’t to say he can’t dance, a man of his standing surely would know how. 

“We do not-” Your words die in  your mouth as he bows to you with an extended hand. 

“Shall we take to the floor, my lady?” He invites. 

His eyes don’t meet yours and you’re skeptical but with the Lady Fates staring intensely at the two of you, you feel obliged to take his hand even if you didn’t want to force him to do something he didn’t want to do. 

Hand in hand, he leads you to the center of the empty dance floor, the marble floor recently polished for the special occasion. The falls into a hush as the two of you bow to each other one more time before coming together in an embrace. His cologne embraces you again and this time you’re able to pick out the smell of licorice past the smell of earth and sand. A bitter sweetness. 

The music swells in a classic waltz and Morpheus leads you easily. Your feet dance as it always had, feeling the pressure on the balls of your feet as the two of you glide across the floor. But, there was something lacking in the dance between you and your new husband. The dance was stiff, even if he did lead effectively. There was nothing between the two of you, no passion, no soul.

It wouldn’t be a lie if you said you wished there was something more between the two of you. You’re no stranger to arranged marriages, your mother and father being a prime example of such and even they eventually grew to love one another, in their own ways. The way his hand grasped yours gently and how perfectly he took control over the dance were qualities that you liked and perhaps, in time, you would find more things to love about him. For now, these small things could be enough. 

“Who were those Ladies that we spoke to earlier?” You ask, hoping to fill in the awkward silence. The conversation is hush and barely audible above the draw of string across the instrument. If nothing, the audience will think the two of you were sharing a lover’s conversation. 

“The Lady Fates, sisters,” Morpheus explains curtly and his fingers grip yours tighter unconsciously. “Do not make them cross, they are wiser beyond their years and believe me when I say that they are older than they look.”

“Even the youngest?” You ask, the warning barely scraping over your head. 

“Yes.” 

Another swell of the music from the orchestra and from the corner of your mind you see your mother and father taking to the dance floor as well, but the observation is easily lost as Morpheus spins you around, abruptly. He grabs you again as you come back to him, gently repositioning his hand on your waist and yours on his shoulder as the dance continues. The spin was completely impromptu, you know only because of how often you’ve practiced this dance. You couldn’t help the first real smile of the night from appearing on your face as you felt the wind between your faces and how the fabric of your dress swept across your ankles. 

“Do you like to dance?” He breaks to silence this time. 

“Yes,” You practically beam into him, the single spin able to loosen you. “It is one of my favorite activities. And what of you, my lord?” 

“I am indifferent to it,” He answers lightly as he spins you again. 

“I see.” You say back, your voice dipped lightly in disappointment. “Did you only dance because the Lady Fates asked you to?” You ask, even though you’re sure to know the answer. 

“Yes.” Morpheus takes a moment to answer, his mind seemingly elsewhere as his eyes look over your head. 

More and more couples join the two of you as the waltz continues but as the dance continues, the more distracted Morpheus seems to be, on one occasion stepping on your toes, marking the white shoes in a partial black footprint. 

“My apologies, I am… distracted,” He says, but his eyes are still looking over your head. 

You turn your head around to try and figure out what exactly he was occupying his occasion but with the several new bodies that accompanied the two of you on the dance floor, it was hard to make out what specifics he was looking at. 

The dance ends soon after with a final bow to the other. He excuses himself and leaves you on the dance floor, alone, breath unsteady from the dance or something else you’re not entirely sure. You hold your breath for a few seconds, willing yourself to breathe easier. A new dance started and you’re quick to make yourself sparse as couples start swirling around you. Your vision blurs the color of multiple ballgowns as you’re desperate to find some fresh air, and hopefully also somewhere away from prying eyes. 

You find salvation at the corner of an open balcony, only accompanied by potted flowers. The chatter of the party is all but background noise now, separated by paned doors and the light from the ballroom gave you enough to know where you were stepping. The cooler breeze for the night was refreshing against your flushed skin as you leaned against the stone railing. You breathe in deep and smell the distant sea, calming yourself down further. 

There were other couples on the wrap around balcony and they, much to your relief, left you alone. Rather they were more entranced by their own conversations to notice your slowly growing dismay. A strong gust of wind makes you take a few steps back to lean against the corner wall, resting your head against the rough stone and away from the incoming gale. 

“Calliope, please,” A familiar voice brings you out of your thoughts. It doesn’t take long for you to figure it to be Morpheus. 

“No, Morpheus. You need to listen to me.” Comes a voice you don’t recognize, a feminine voice. 

Your thoughts race yet again, is this why Morpheus was so distracted during the dance? Is it also the reason why he abandoned you on that dance floor? 

“Please,” He begs again. Begs. “You must know I didn’t choose her. I don’t love her, I love you, please.” He gasps desperately, his voice on the edge of a whisper. 

A long silence follows as the other woman simply sighs. The silence was too long, it felt more like a rope wrapping itself around your neck, taking away your breath and your ability to think clearly. How ironic it is that you come out here to seek some fresh air, yet instead you find yourself stumbling back into the ballroom on the brink of tears. 

Once again, everyone else was enjoying their time to pay too much attention to you. Slowly, you creep back into your seat at the lover’s table as you alternate between trying to calm your breath and forgetting to breathe in general. The corset around your ribs could not feel anymore tighter. 

The food at the table has long since gone cold, your appetite leaving with it. Your eyes haven’t left the door you came from, the night air wisping through the thin curtains. With shaking hands you reach for the red wine and take several large drinks from it. The sweet taste goes smoothly down your throat, but it’s bitter aftertaste feels like acid and vomit on your tongue. 

Slowly, the guests meander out the large doors of the venue. Still, you sit alone as you watch them go, their high spirits still intact as they continue their conversations outside. A flash of black is followed by soft pink and gold from the paned doors you have been so adamantly staring at. One, you noticed immediately by the way his cold mercury eyes find yours easily. Your fingers roll the thin neck of the wine glass slowly as he comes ever closer to his seat. 

The owner of soft pink and gold walks the other direction and joins the crowd of awaiting guests outside. You catch a glimpse of her brown hair and brown eyes as she looks at you over her shoulder. Her eyes seem to soften when they realize that you were already looking at her, but otherwise she does nothing. A footman dressed in the kingdom’s midnight blue and silver color hands her a small basket of shimmering stardust before she fully disappears with similar guests. 

When Morpheus arrives at the table, most of the guests are now waiting outside. He doesn’t sit, instead stands by his chair and goes to grab at his wine as well. Unlike you, he takes his time sipping it. A frown sits heavy on his face as he ponders. It doesn’t last long. 

“Let us depart,” He says as he places the wine down on the clothed table. It wasn't an invitation nor a question, simply a statement that he expects to be followed. It takes a moment for you to recognize what he was asking of you.

You only nod as it catches up with you. You drink the final bits of your wine, knowing it won’t be enough to make you forget the events of tonight. But you hope anyway.

Morpheus extends an arm and you grab on with hesitancy. It was just the two of you now, walking across the venue in the aftermath of what was supposed to be a romantic dream. The candles still glowed and draped everything in a soft glow, plates and glasses were empty with crumbs left in its place, messy napkins and a few stolen centerpieces. Everything to state that the wedding was a success.

You should feel proud, excited, anything positive in this moment! You should be brimming over the top with happiness, it is your wedding day, after all. Instead, all that is left is the nauseating feeling of betrayal that you didn’t feel like you had the right to experience. 

When the doors open and you step out into the night air, cheer erupts and the sound of glittering stardust falls from the hands of friends, family, and the court. The particles stick to every surface of your body, making your hair, skin, and clothes shimmer with every movement. Fireworks soon join in on the celebration and the cheers grow louder. Easily impressed, a smile breaks out on your face once again that evening as you watch the flashing of colorful lights above you. If you cannot find happiness, then you shall borrow it from the people around you until you can. Tonight, you shall bask in the moonlight of the abundant joy around you, the sound of applause and fireworks too loud for you to remember why you were so melancholy in the first place. 

Even with the uneasy conversation Morpheus shared earlier with Calliope, his breath was taken away as he looked at you entering the carriage. You looked like the very night sky, like a star or angel fallen from heaven itself. You looked like the Goddess Venus reborn. When you smile at him from the seat above, even he can’t deny your beauty. 

But. 

He stops himself again. Right, this isn’t him thinking that you’re beautiful and perfect. It’s because the Gods created you for him specifically. He didn’t get a choice in choosing you. He doesn’t love you. His sentiments drop quickly and he joins you in the carriage quietly. He watches carefully as you lean out of the carriage window as your mother comes up to you. She whispers something into your ear, your smile faltering slightly as you sit back down. 

The rest of the carriage ride was stewed in yet another awkward silence. The booming sound of fireworks slowly faded as the two of you rode further from the wedding venue. Now only the sound of horse hooves accompanied you in the confining box. You peek again at Morpheus, but he seemed content with looking out the window. The moonlight that sneaks in through the window curtain helps highlight his high cheekbones and sharp jawline. He looked as eternal as he presented himself. It drives a further wedge between the two of you, his status seemingly too far for you to reach. 

The ride to the palace was shorter than you expected and the carriage soon came to a halt. Morpheus leaves first then helps you down with a steady hand. Your attention is completely immersed in the grandeur of the palace. Large, lifelike statues decorate every wall, surrounded by balconies of ivory and stone. Its dome-like structure covered in glass and bronze made your jaw slack in shock. You’ve seen the castle from a distance all the time from your own estate, but seeing it as you walk up the staircase was a different experience altogether. 

A dragon perches right before the door moves and glares at you with a small roar making you jump in your skin. Morpheus places a small hand on the small of your back, ushering you into the castle without much of a blink of his eyes. 

“Don’t mind her, she simply likes to mess with the people that come through,” He comments. 

You don’t bother with a response as you continue to look at the dragon. Walking further up the stairs, the doors open on their own and you’re greeted with grand chandeliers and a large red carpet that runs all the way down the hall before splitting into two separate wings. Arches accompany the high ceilings and walls and made for easy and pleasurable viewing. But the viewing was cut short as almost immediately maids in matching uniforms curtsied in front of you. 

You didn’t get a word out before they started ushering you away into the east wing. Similarly, Morpheus was rushed into the west wing, though he didn’t seem to make much of a fuss either. It was eerily quiet, not even footsteps were heard over the plush carpet. It doesn’t take long for you to arrive at what you presumed to be your room. The idea only solidified with the grand review of a large bedroom, and your previously packed items already put away. 

“Your Majesty, I am your Lady’s Maid. Please, we are already running behind.” A woman of your age says with a curtsy.

Her outfit fit the similar midnight blue and silver of the royal court, but certainly held more detail in the fabrics. She also held herself with a higher esteem than that of the other lesser maids that escorted you here. You’re ushered to a vanity as women flutter around you once again. They don’t falter even when you try to show your displeasement as they stripped you of your wedding gown and under garments. 

You Lady’s Maid watches from a distance, delegating tasks to her subordinates as they prep you for the night. They have you step into a simple silk dress. It’s thin and doesn’t leave anything to the imagination. When you go to open your mouth again at the choice, your Lady’s Maid simply raises her hand with a shake of her head. The words quickly die in your throat. Lastly, your hair is pulled from it’s formal updo and left as it naturally is, a few stray pieces of stardust falling to the ground as they do so. 

“No, keep the stardust on her skin. It matches her complexion well.” The Lady’s Maid says before another could wipe it away with a wet cloth. Like that, you were ready to be presented to the king once more. The rest of the maids leave the room quickly, all commotion taken with them. 

Your Lady’s Maid is the last to leave, giving you one last look over before heading out. Before she does, you stop with a simple question. “What is your name?”

“Agnes, Your Grace,” She answers truthfully. 

“Thank you, Agnes.”

She nods, gives a final curtsy, and leaves. 

You stay in the silent room for a few more minutes, enjoying the moment to yourself. When you were ready, you peek your head out the door and relief floods over you as no one was in sight. With another look to the other side of the hallway, you leave the comforts of your room. Down the grand stairs once again and up the stairs to the west wing.

You were right to assume that the west wing mimicked the east and found a door similar in decoration to your room. No one was around this hallway either, so it wouldn’t hurt if you found yourself in the wrong room anyways. Well, except maybe your own pride. 

You knock twice, and with shaky hands open the door. There was barely any light coming from the room, and before you committed to it, you peaked in with your head. It certainly looked like Morpheus’s chamber, the only issue is that the person who owned it was not in there. With one last look outside, you walk into the darkness of the room. 

Timidly, you stand by the door, ready to leave at a moment’s notice. A door opens from within the room, and Morpheus emerges from a connected suite. He pauses for a moment when he sees you standing there, but regains formality soon after. Without words, he takes his jacket off, tossing it to the side on a nearby chair that sat in front of a fireplace. 

A blush creeps up your cheeks as he walks closer to you still, and the blush continues to grow down your neck as his hands caress over your face. His touch was gentle but it didn’t stop the way your heart jumped around erratically in your chest. Your mother’s words echo in your mind as he turns away and sits down on his bed. 

“Make him happy,” It said. 

With a deep breath to squash the last of your nerves, you sit next to him. Your uneasiness is still within you, enough to keep you from looking at him outright. 

“Lay down,” He says with a sigh and you do. 

The pillows are softer than the ones you had on your old bed, but the actions that you are about to perform seem to make it futile. As if the pillow was holding your hand gently as he crawls over your shaking body. 

When he comes face to face with you, your eyes look into his eyes for a moment, but the coldness you find in there chases you away. You turn your face. 

Gods, please let this be over quickly. You prayed silently in your head. 

A cold hand cups your cheek and you flinch from the touch. Your fingers dig into the satin sheets below so that you could ground yourself in something else. Your heart is beating loud enough you could feel the pulses in your head and the ravaging drumming in your ears. 

“Make him happy,” You hear your mothers words in your head again and a lone tear escapes you. 

Morpheus notices, the moonlight highlighting the liquid as it slides down your cheek and he pulls away. He would have consummated this marriage as it was his duty. But seeing you now, trembling like a scared animal beneath him, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

“Do you wish to be touched?” He asks. He pulls his hands away and sits back up, unstraddling your legs as he returns to where he was before the two of you laid down. 

Your eyes snap open at his question. It was simply something you didn’t expect him to ask. Slowly, you too sit up and see him looking at you with near teary eyes. You stay quiet as you battle yourself for answering his question. Your mother’s presence is strong, even when she miles away. 

“Answer truthfully,” He says again and he faces you head on as he says so. A finger of his twitches on his leg as he rests them there, but he restrains from touching you. 

In the company of moonlight and the bare witness of the King, you do as you’re told and answer him truthfully. 

“No,” You whisper plainly. You’re playing with the edges of your nightgown, rolling the fabric in on itself as you speak. 

Morpheus’ eyes soften at your answer. Content even as you found the will to speak to him without the fear of being reprimanded by your King. It is just as he always wanted since you first spoke with him during the reception. 

“Very well, then we shall not consummate tonight.” He stands and your eyes follow him as he walks away from the bed. 

“Is it not our responsibility to do so?” You ask timidly. You feel the pain of something lodged in your throat as more tears threaten to spill. You were already a disappointment and the day wasn’t even over yet. 

“I will not take you, or anyone, against their will. I am no monster.”

His outright truth snaps your head towards his, only his outline visible in the low-light atmosphere of his room. 

“And,” He continues. “I will not take you until you are ready to do so. Have a good night, my lady.” A curt bow of his head and he leaves the same way you entered.

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Prologue ⇆ Next

Sorry I've been gone for so long you guys! Final season is upon us and I feel that gap where there is no inspiration to write anything also taking over me... Oh well, it's not the end of the world :)

In the meantime, I'm going to be rearranging my main masterlist so it's easier to navigate

Thank you, as always, for your amazing support!

Until the next time my loves

♡ Yours, Layla

[igotanidea]

Walk down memory lane : AK!Jason Todd x fem!reader

Warnings: mention of self harm and suicidal thoughts.

You can find other AK!stories on point 4 here: Jason Todd masterlist

***

She was just so tired.

Tired of fighting, of keeping up that fucking hope, of carrying the excessive weight on her shoulders.

She just couldn’t anymore .

Maybe it was time to finally accept that Jason didn’t care about her. That he would never care again. Not in the same way he used to before all this shit hit them. Before Joker, Harley, Arkham…

But she still needed, wanted, craved his love.

But how long can a girl be strong and live in a delusion?

And for the first time in a year she started crying.

What Harley could not achieve, happened because of a boy. No amount of torture and mind games and tricks she was subject to in Arkham, not once broke her. But the indifference and cold treatment from her former boyfriend, the one who she still loved got her on her knees, sobbing and shaking on the bed in her little, cold Asylum cell.

He was right. She was completely alone, no one was coming to help her, safe her from that void that finally found a way straight to her heart. Nothing more than a playtoy, unlovable, weak, pathetic, developing a heavy case of Stockholm syndrome.

Poor girl hugged herself in a foul attempt to calm down, but it was for nothing. Tears were falling freely down her cheeks, turning her into a puddle of emotions she couldn’t hold back. It was like the old wound and the feeling of being used opened and uncovered all the layers she cut off before.

Some people call it trauma, but she couldn’t care less about the terminology.

Maybe it would be better to just end her own life right now just so she wouldn’t have to suffer through another day of such lousy existence. It was Arkham, she was pretty sure she would find something to help her execute her plan.

On shaking legs she stood up from the bed, moving towards the bathroom. The mirror that Jason broke violently after their last encounter was still not fixed and the sharp pieces of glass poked on every side.

Perfect.

Gathering all the strength she had left, she reached towards the splinter and pointed it towards her wrist, assessing the “best” place to cut……

***

She woke up feeling sore and in tremendous amount of pain like never before. Both of her wrists were patched up with the clean bandages and she wasn’t even in her own sweatbox. Honestly, she couldn’t for the love of God recognise the place where she was, until the familiar, slightly muffled voice threw her off her confused state and brought back to reality.

“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?!” Jason hissed with unconcealed anger and she shivered. “WHAT WERE YOU TRYING TO DO!?” in a blink of an eye he was right next to her, grabbing her chin and forcing her eyes up.  

She was just completely silent, the tight grip of his fingers on her puffy, hurting cheeks causing a few more tears to flow down her eyes.

“I’m sorry…..” she whispered, slightly panicking. He was never supposed to find her, let alone to save her. And why did he? Was it only because he needed her for release in the future? “I’m sorry…..” her whole body shook violently.

“Y/N…….” her name in his mouth sounded almost sweet and the touch got far more gentle, sudden change in behaviour making her freeze. What was going on?

“I……” her mouth fell agape and it was impossible to say a word.

“Did you forget what I told you last time? You’re mine. You can’t just go and decide to hurt yourself this way. I cannot allow it.”

“Why?” she sobbed “it’s not like you care. I am just a reminder of the past, of all those lies you were fed by Batman and your family. Of someone you once were and could never be again.”

“Stop it!”

“Please, please, just let me go. Just let me finish it, please.” Her desperation and panic attack coming out in waves in the form of the aggressive tugging on the dressing, trying to reopen the stitched wounds and cuts. “I’ll do it myself. You won’t even have to lift a finger.”

“Stop it!’

“You can even watch it, I know you’ll enjoy the show. You wanted a show, didn’t you?”

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE STOP IT!” finally he managed to get a hold of her hands, pinning them down to her sides, precluding her from moving, even though she still struggled against his hold.  “Is that what you think of me? That I will enjoy that?”  she nodded shakily “fuck!”

“I’m sorry…..” she whimpered again. She was still here and he was now mad which could only equal to another punishment. And this time it was not going to be intimate. He could really hurt her at any time.

“Baby…..” he whispered, almost without thinking, closing his eyes “princess.”

“Wha….. what did you say?” her eyes grew wide. Did he really use those words or was it just an imagination?

Jason was completely inside his head now, memories flooding his brain like a fucking Niagara. He remembered the past. The moment, when while still being Robin, someone came after her, attacking her and almost eliminating her from the equation. He recalled the hours spend in the medical bay, watching her pale face and the heart rate monitor, praying to whatever entity was up there to bring her back to him. All those little heart attacks caused each time she took a sharp exhale. Falling asleep next to her bed, holding and caressing her cold hand, whispering pleas and promises to keep her safe in the future if she just woke up. Brushing up on how he felt when she finally opened her e/c eyes, looking at him with so much love and concern, asking if he was all right.

He remembered how she cared about him…..  And how he cared about her.

“Ja…. Jace?” she swallowed the lump in her throat, taking the risk to use his nickname, ready for another anger fit, but instead she met his honest gaze, so different from the one she was used to in his Arkham Knight version.

“Don’t ever do this again.” He gasped, brushing her cheek, putting a strand of hair behind her ear “you hear me?  Ever.”

“Jason?” he bottom lip trembled because of that sudden display of emotion from his part.

“Ever.” He emphasised.  “I don’t want to see you in pain.”

“Ok……”

“Anyone who hurt you deserve a punishment and that applies to you hurting yourself. Is that clear?”

“Anyone, but you?” she blurt without thinking and immediately covered her mouth in fear of the words that came out her mouth.

Jason tensed a bit, his muscles flexing but he didn’t move.

“Get some rest. Need you recovered soon. Big plans for you.” He just said and with one final look into her eyes left the room, leaving her completely speechless.

…..