#rock n toll

[squiddcakes]

The chucklefucks <3

I haven’t drawn these two in a while and wanted to see how different they look since then. They look relatively the same, my art style’s just improved lol

For those unaware these two were made for a “fake game” zine that got cancelled— but I got so attached to them and the concept that I kept them around. The premise is that an anxiety-ridden college student gets haunted by the demonic spirit of a dead rockstar and the two work together to win Vee concert tickets to her favorite artist, “Von Bomba”, while also figuring out the mysterious circumstances around Andi’s death.

At some point in time I’ll get to covering their story, but for now you get one off illustrations and concept art !!! 💥

[glynjohnsfurcoat]

[pathologicalreid]

the space between us | S.R.

previously

The adjustment between never being home and always being home seems to take a toll on you.

who? spencer reid x fem!retired!reader category: flangst content warnings: the events of stuck between a rock and a hard place apply, briefly mentions a baby, reader trying to cope with a 180-turn in life, anxiety word count: 2.16k a/n: i meant for this to be fluff and it's definitely a tad angsty. good thing i'm obsessed with spencer and retired!reader. they'll be back.

Slowly but surely, you convinced yourself that the dark green walls of the apartment were closing in on you. Sitting up in bed, you looked at the time on your phone before quickly scrolling through the notifications, half expecting a text from Andi Swann asking you to come in.

She wouldn’t do that though, because she’s not your Unit Chief anymore, and you no longer work for the FBI.

The only text message you saw that piqued your interest was from your husband, letting you know that he was flying home.

Tossing your blanket off of your legs, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Hissing at the feeling of the cold hardwood floors beneath your bare feet, you wrapped your arms around yourself and made way for the kitchen. Creeping slowly on your way, you made sure to keep your footsteps light.

Gingerly, you flipped the light on, wincing as the fluorescence flooded your vision. As your eyes adjusted, you reached up to the cabinet, grabbed a cup, and set it on the counter.

“You’re sneaking around again,” a voice said from behind you.

Jumping, you put a hand over your chest and spun around, “You scared the shit out of me.” You frowned at Spencer, “I thought you were flying home. I just got your text.”

He nodded, walking into the warm light of the kitchen, “I texted you four hours ago that I was flying home from Connecticut.” His hair was messy, and he had already taken his contacts out, telling you that he had been in the bathroom – he had passed by you while you were sleeping.

Your lips tightened to form a small “o”. Leaning back against the counter, you crossed your arms in front of your chest, “How was Hartford?”

Intently, you watched Spencer as he pushed his glasses up on his nose. “It was fine, the UnSub’s in custody, we’ll build the rest of the case from Quantico.” His tone was strictly no-nonsense when he repeated himself, “You’re sneaking around again.”

Letting your arms fall to your sides, you shrugged helplessly. “I don’t do it consciously, you know?” You told him, reaching behind your back to hoist yourself up so you’re sat on the kitchen counter, legs dangling in the air.

“I know,” he said gently, stepping forward so that he was standing directly in front of you. You parted your knees so that he could stand flush with the counter, allowing for minimal space between the two of you. “The fact that you’re doing it subconsciously makes me wonder if there’s a part of you that feels like you need to be quiet in the apartment,” he murmured, reaching up and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You pursed your lips for a moment, thinking about an answer before you responded, “It’s late, I don’t want to bother anyone by walking too loudly.”

Based on the look in his eyes, you can tell that he doesn’t believe you, “It’s an old building, the floors are thick and well insulated. Also, the apartment below us is vacant, and you know that.” His words are borderline accusatory, and rightfully so. “Do you feel safe here?”

Surprised, your eyes flittered up to meet his, “Yes,” you answered almost instantaneously.

“Do you not feel at home here?” He asked, further pressing his agenda.

When you and Spencer decided to move in together, you were living in a studio apartment, so his place just felt like the obvious choice. At the time, you weren’t home long enough to make it home, and now it seemed like you were past the point of no return. “Can we go to bed?” You asked softly.

Spencer tenderly placed his hands on either side of your waist, “You’re deflecting. What’s so wrong that you don’t feel like you can talk to me, baby?” You should’ve known better than to answer a question with a question.

Averting your eyes, you looked up at the ceiling in hopes that the action would quell the tears that were filling your waterline. “I just feel so out of place,” you answered, emotion closing your throat.

“In the apartment?” He whispered softly.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, you shook your head. Giving up on your dreams of stopping your tears, you bowed your head and let them fall. “In my life,” you clarified. “I thought it would be easy to just go from being an undercover agent to being at home. Maybe that was a lost cause, but I didn’t think it’d be so hard.”

Never wavering, Spencer stayed resilient with you as the dam broke, letting you lean your head on his shoulder and rubbing soothing circles on your back as you cried. “You’re going through one hell of an adjustment period right now.”

Nodding tearfully, you pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, “I feel like I haven’t been a real person in almost ten years. I don’t know who I am without that fucking job and it’s mauling me.” Briefly, Spencer stepped away from you, filling the cup that you had gotten out with water and handing it to you. “God, I’m a disaster. I’m so sorry,” you muttered, looking down at the glass of water you’d clasped in both hands.

“You are not a disaster,” he insisted. “You’re going through an unfathomable experience and you’re not giving yourself enough leeway,” he stressed, hooking a finger beneath your chin, and lifting your head.

Everything about him seemed soft, and you felt like pieces of broken glass – flying around and damaging everything in sight. You lifted the glass in your shaky hands, bringing the lip of the cup to your own and downing half of its contents.

Spencer studied your facial expression before he spoke again, “I know exactly who you are. You are the single most selfless person I have ever met,” he told you earnestly. “You spent nine years of your life rescuing tens of thousands of people, giving up holidays and birthdays and time with loved ones for the benefit of total strangers.”

Sniffling, you shook your head, “Spence,”

“No, this is true, and I need you to listen to me,” he urged. “One time, you had gotten back from five weeks undercover and, before catching up on sleep, you went to Henry’s birthday party. Solely because you had missed it the year before.” Hesitating for a moment, he resumed singing your praises, “You’re brilliant and funny and beautiful, but I need you to stop being so magnanimous.”

You pulled back, furrowing your brows in innate confusion, “What?”

He nodded, affirming his point. “I need you to be selfish. Operate with your self-interest in mind. Use that to discover yourself. If you keep throwing pieces of yourself away in order to make the people around you happy, then you’ll never really identify your adult self.”

“I don’t know where to start,” you confessed. You were always working; the FBI was your life. “Everyone is telling me to do different things,” you murmured. Spencer wanted you to be selfish, your mother wanted you to have a baby, and every single one of your friends had offered their stress relief methods – most of them unsolicited.

The understanding in his expression made your chest ache, “I think you should talk to someone. Not me, not Garcia, definitely not your mom, but a professional. You should talk your experiences out with someone who can help you work through it, not just like you do with me. I know you hold back details when it’s with me.”

Uncertain, you tried to wrap your arms around yourself again, but Spencer didn’t let you close yourself off. “Okay,” you ventured, “I’ll look into it.”

Putting his hands up, he smiled softly at you, “That’s all I ask.” He stepped back, allowing you to get off of the counter and stand. Spencer gently ushered you into the living room, sitting down next to you on the couch.

Instinctively, you leaned into his warmth as he draped an arm over your shoulders. “I need a hobby. Something to do other than sit at home all day,” you thought aloud.

“We can look for ideas in the morning,” Spencer offered. “Maybe we can go to the store this weekend for supplies.”

Turning your head to face him, you pressed your lips into a thin white line, “Hey, Spence?”

He hummed, “Yes, love?”

“We could get a house,” you proposed. “It could be a good new start for the both of us, and we have the money,” the more you spoke about it, the more you liked the idea. A new start for the new you. Technically, the two of you were still newlyweds, it felt like something you were supposed to do. “We wouldn’t have to keep your books on the floor anymore,” you murmured, absentmindedly drawing shapes on his t-shirt with your index finger.

Your eyes flickered up to see him smiling. “We absolutely can get a house, and you won’t have to tip-toe,” he said pointedly, “it’ll be our space.”

Mirroring his smile, you adjusted slightly on the couch, “Our house.”

As you tucked your feet underneath yourself, you felt his eyes on you, “Are you sleeping alright?”

Groaning, you wiped a hand down your face, “You worry too much. We were doing so well.”

“Did you know that your coping mechanism is avoidance?” He remarked, a hint of teasing in his voice.

You rolled your eyes, “I sleep fine,” you answered simply. It was true, once you were asleep, you slept perfectly fine until the morning. It was falling asleep that you had a hard time with, lying awake and wondering if when you finally fell asleep you would be greeted by nightmares. Nightmares that you had been waiting weeks for but had yet to come. “Let’s uh… let’s call it a problem for the professional,” you faltered.

He nodded understandingly, “You just let me know if there’s anything you need, okay? Anything at all.”

Allowing your body to meld into his, you hummed, “How are you doing with all of this?”

“I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, just to make sure you’re still breathing,” he confessed. Adjusting his glasses, he pulled you a little closer to him. “I’ve seen you more in the past six weeks than I had the previous year, and, selfishly, I’m glad that we get more time together.”

With one hand, you reached up and cupped his cheek with your palm, “I am too, love. It’s new, even though we’ve been together for years, I think we’re lucky to have something that feels new.”

He turned his head to press a kiss to the center of your palm before taking your hand in his, “I think I’m lucky to have you.”

“Sweet talker,” you teased lightly.

You nudged him gently when he went quiet. “I love having you be at home when I get home,” he whispered as if it was a secret. “I suppose I never really thought much of it because it always seemed like an unattainable fantasy.”

But now you were home when he came home. He took time off to spend with you right after you had gotten out of the hospital, but for the past six weeks, every time he walked in the door, you were around. It was almost like the two of you had entered your honeymoon phase. Although, you supposed you had, “Did anyone ask you about the party?”

Spencer chuckled, “Of course they did.”

Part of you supposed it was your penance for getting married in secret – mostly secret, everyone always seemed to forget that Rossi was there – that the BAU was insistent on giving the two of you a wedding. “I never knew profilers had such great memories,” you pondered. “No one else asks me about it.”

“They just want to make sure you’re alright before turning it into a celebration,” he explained. “For the BAU, taking a step back is a big deal,” he leaned his head to the side so that his chin was resting on the top of your head, “you know that, though.”

Nodding softly, you shut your eyes, “I don’t suppose they’d be willing to do a combo housewarming and wedding celebration.”

“Not a chance,” Spencer answered almost a bit too quickly.

You sighed in mock defeat, “We’ll just have to have a party a weekend until Garcia runs out of ideas.”

Slowly, you felt yourself falling asleep again, “Do you want to go to bed?” Spencer murmured.

There was just a moment before you hummed, “In a minute.” You pulled on the sleeves of your sweatshirt so they would cover your hands, “Hey, Spence?”

“Hm?” He said, drowsiness growing in his voice.

You tipped your head back and looked up at him, “I love being home when you get home, too.”

please remember to like, comment, and/or reblog if you enjoyed!

[tender-rosiey]

hinting — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: thank @callmemirro for the bby fever idea but the video of the baby is what fueled the fire even more

you have a feeling that something has been plaguing your husband’s mind. it’s not a bad thing—like that way too expensive pea-sized handbag he wanted to get just to clown it.

it’s actually good and adorable especially with the way it gets him all smiley and bubbly.

you also started to notice when exactly he gets into these moods or rather regarding what.

for example, you were browsing the store once for new clothes. you and satoru agreed to split to search on a wider scale for discounts.

so when he came back, all smiley and excited, you expected a 50% sale or something. instead, you got surprised with possibly the cutest baby pajama ever.

“what do you think, babe? it’s so cute especially the little smiling duck in the middle!”

you take it from him, examining it up close. truthfully, the material is pretty good and it is soft on the skin. there is only one problem though.

you look up to your husband with a smile, “but, honey, we don’t have a baby.”

satoru deflates for a single second before standing up straight, proud, “hey, now! we can always get it for future plans,” he ogles you, but you quickly pinch his nose.

“haha, very funny.” you start pushing the cart towards that one outfit you liked with satoru following close by.

“y/n, I am serious!” he whines as his hand finds home on your waist.

“and I am a dinosaur in disguise.”

he gasps, “really?!”

“no.”

and that happened more than once.

another thing is that satoru has been obsessed with baby videos.

you remember that one time you were chilling on your beloved couch when he came stumbling into the room, clutching his phone and almost dying of laughter, “y/n! y/n! look at this baby!”

satoru is wheezing as he replays the video over and over again. his uncontrollable laughter is music to your ears, but you feel that you’re going to have to take him to a therapist or a mental hospital.

he laughs loudly for sure, but he has been like this for 4 hours, showing you a baby video every minute or so.

you look at him with sympathy as he cackles, “it was so ready to square up too—huh, what’re you doing?”

you pull him into your embrace and he immediately melts, arms wrapping around you in an instant.

you gently rub his back and press a kiss to the top of his head, “my poor baby,” you coo and gojo lights up: have you finally understood what he has been hinting at?

you cup his face and kiss his cheeks, “work must’ve taken quite a toll on you; we can go to the hosp—“

“hey! that’s just mean!”

he huffs moving away and giving you his back, but then he looks back at you, “but the baby was cute, right?”

you laugh, resting your chin on his shoulder, “yeah, in a way, it reminded me of megumi.”

“you’re so right! even as a first-grader, he was so ready to fight anyone.”

another memorable incident happened when you were in a park, taking a walk with your darling husband.

it was peaceful, accompanied by the squeals of children, the coolness of the ice cream, and the comfort of your husband’s presence. speaking of which, where’s that guy?

you look around, searching for a very prominent walking paintbrush. you blink once, twice, and he is finally in front of you with a huge grin, “y/n, look at this cutie pie I just met!”

you soften at the sight of the giggling baby in his arms. the little baby girl reaches out for you and you cradle her in your arms.

cooing at her, you rock gently while making silly faces and it makes her laugh a laugh from her belly. it also makes a certain someone sport the most lovesick smile known to existence.

smiling, you look at your husband, “where did you find her? was she lost?”

your husband sweatdrops and looks to the side, glasses showing off his bright blue eyes, “about that—“

“there he is, officer! he took my baby!”

so yeah, something is up with your husband, and you have had enough with him hiding it from you. god is on your side today as you’re finally able to back him into a corner and finally interrogate him.

“satoru, is there something you want to tell me?” you ask the man, breathless after running around the school for a couple of hours.

silence occupies the room before your husband finally gives in.

he takes a deep breath and hugs you, resting his head on your shoulder, “I want…” he mumbles, “I want a baby, please?”

you are silent for a moment then you make him look you in the eyes, “really?”

“really,” he says, voice unwavering, “I know that it might be scary, but we have experience with tsumiki and megumi, and they turned out just fine!” he starts rambling, “except for megumi, he can be bratty sometimes, but point is!” he holds your hands in his, “I want to start a family with you, but if you don’t want—“

“okay.”

“—to I completely understand and…wait—did you just say okay?”

“yeah,” you beam, “let’s have a baby. you could’ve said that right away, silly.”

he stares at you for a bit, “do you have any idea how LONG I HAVE BEEN—“

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[librababe99]

Moments Between Time: Part One

CW: angst, hurt, dystopian, Mutant!Reader, mental anguish, existential despair, suggestive emotional and physical intimacy

Word Count: 2436

A/N: Hey loves! So I' m back with the first part of this new series featuring DOFP! Logan---Definitely one of my favorite x-men films that I went to see in theaters a few years back. I really hope y'all enjoy it--As always comments and feedback are highly appreciated! - Libra * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

(Part Two)

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨

The world had become a graveyard of memories, littered with the remnants of a civilization that once thrived. The skies, once a brilliant blue, were now a perpetually overcast gray, the sun a distant and pale shadow of its former self. Buildings stood as crumbling sentinels, their facades scorched and broken by years of unrelenting warfare. The air was thick with ash and the scent of burning, a constant reminder of the lives that had been lost and the battles yet to be fought.

The war had waged for years, perhaps decades—time had lost its meaning in the endless cycle of violence and survival. The Sentinels, monstrous machines designed to hunt and exterminate mutants, had decimated the population. Humanity, too, had been nearly eradicated in the crossfire, caught between the relentless advance of the Sentinels and the desperate resistance of the mutants. Those who remained were either in hiding or dead. The world was a barren wasteland, devoid of hope and teetering on the edge of oblivion.

You stood on the precipice of what was once a thriving city, now reduced to ruins. The wind howled through the skeletal remains of skyscrapers, carrying with it the echoes of a world that no longer existed. Your heart was heavy with the weight of all you had seen, all you had lost. But you were still standing, still fighting. You had no other choice.

Your powers had been both a blessing and a curse in this war. The ability to manipulate time was a formidable weapon, allowing you to slow it, speed it up, or even rewind it in brief bursts. But every use took a toll, draining your energy, leaving you weaker with each passing day. It was a power that came with a price—a price you had paid over and over again, watching friends and allies fall only to rewind their deaths, knowing that it would only delay the inevitable.

And yet, despite everything, you had survived. You were one of the last remaining members of the X-Men, a shadow of the team that had once stood as a beacon of hope in a world that feared and hated them. But hope was a luxury none of you could afford anymore. Survival was all that mattered, and even that seemed like a losing battle.

Beside you, Logan Howlett—Wolverine—surveyed the desolate landscape with a grim expression. His once fierce eyes were hardened by the years of combat, yet there was a depth of sorrow in them that matched your own. His presence was a constant, a rock in the storm that raged around you both. You had fought together through countless battles, each one more desperate than the last, and had watched the world crumble piece by piece.

Logan’s wounds healed quickly, his regenerative abilities keeping him alive when others would have perished. But even he was not immune to the emotional toll of this endless war. The loss of friends, of family, of a future worth fighting for—it all weighed heavily on him, carving deep lines into his face, turning his hair to gray.

For years, you and Logan had been comrades in arms, partners on the battlefield. But there was more between you than just the bond forged in blood and fire. There was something unspoken, a connection that ran deeper than either of you dared to acknowledge. It was a thread that had woven itself through the fabric of your shared experiences, pulling you closer even as the world around you fell apart.

The quiet moments between skirmishes had become precious, stolen time where the chaos of the world seemed to fade, if only for a brief while. It was in those moments that you would catch Logan’s gaze, his eyes searching yours as if seeking solace in the only place it could be found. There were times when your hands would brush, a fleeting touch that sent a spark through your entire being, a reminder that you were still alive, still capable of feeling something other than pain and despair.

But there was no room for love in a world like this. No room for the vulnerability that came with it. To love was to risk losing everything, and neither of you could afford that. So, you kept your feelings buried deep, hidden beneath layers of resolve and determination. There were more pressing matters at hand—survival, resistance, the slim chance of victory.

As the days passed and the future grew increasingly bleak, a plan began to take shape among the remaining X-Men. It was a desperate, last-ditch effort to change the course of history, to prevent the events that had led to this catastrophic timeline. The idea was to send someone back in time, to a point before the Sentinels were created, before the war had begun. It was a long shot, but it was the only chance you had left.

The choice of who to send was obvious. Logan was the only one who could survive the journey. His healing factor would protect him from the physical strain, and his mind was strong enough to endure the temporal displacement. But even with his abilities, the mission was fraught with danger. If it failed, if something went wrong, there would be no coming back.

Your role in the plan was just as crucial. Your powers would be used to anchor Logan’s consciousness in the past, to guide him and keep him connected to the present. It was a task that required immense concentration and would drain you of almost all your energy. You knew the risks, knew that there was a very real possibility that you wouldn’t survive the attempt. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was giving Logan a chance to succeed, to change the future, to save the world.

The night before the mission, you found yourself unable to sleep. The weight of what was to come pressed down on you, a heavy burden that you carried alone. You had always been strong, resilient, but the thought of what lay ahead filled you with a sense of dread that you couldn’t shake.

You sat alone in the darkness, the cold air seeping into your bones, your thoughts a tangled mess of fear and determination. The reality of the situation was sinking in—this could be the last night you ever spent in this world. The last night you would see Logan, hear his voice, feel his presence beside you.

The sound of footsteps drew you from your thoughts, and you looked up to see Logan approaching. His face was set in a somber expression, the lines of worry etched deep into his features. He said nothing as he sat down beside you, the silence between you heavy with the weight of all that was left unsaid.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. There was nothing that needed to be said, no words that could capture the magnitude of what was about to happen. But the silence wasn’t empty—it was filled with the unspoken emotions that had been building between you for years. The tension that had simmered beneath the surface, always there but never acknowledged, was now impossible to ignore.

Finally, it was Logan who broke the silence. His voice was rough, low, like gravel underfoot. “Tomorrow’s gonna be hell,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the first light of dawn was just beginning to break.

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “Yeah. It is.”

He turned to look at you then, his gaze intense, searching. “You ready for this?”

You met his eyes, seeing the concern there, the fear that he was trying so hard to hide. You managed a small, sad smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Logan’s hand reached out, hesitating for just a moment before he rested it on yours. The warmth of his touch was a stark contrast to the cold that surrounded you, a lifeline in the darkness. You looked down at your joined hands, your heart pounding in your chest.

“This could be it,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If things go wrong… I just… I don’t want you to—”

You shook your head, cutting him off before he could finish. “Don’t,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “Don’t say it. We can’t afford to think like that.”

But even as you said the words, you knew it was too late. The reality of the situation hung between you like a shadow, impossible to ignore. Logan squeezed your hand, the pressure grounding you, pulling you back from the edge of despair.

“You’re strong,” he said, his voice steady, reassuring. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. You’ll get through this. You have to.”

The intensity of his gaze, the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered, took your breath away. For a moment, you felt like the world had stopped, that there was nothing but the two of you in that cold, desolate night.

Without thinking, you reached up and cupped his face in your hand, your thumb brushing lightly over the rough stubble on his cheek. “And you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You have to come back. You have to make it right.”

Logan’s eyes softened, the hardness in them giving way to something deeper, more vulnerable. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he vowed, his voice fierce, filled with a determination that sent a shiver down your spine. “I swear, I’ll make it right.”

The moment hung between you, heavy and charged, the tension that had been building for years finally coming to a head. It was as if all the barriers you had both put up, all the walls you had built around your hearts, were crumbling in the face of what was to come.

Before you could second-guess yourself, before the fear could take hold, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was fierce, desperate, a collision of pent-up emotions that neither of you could contain any longer. Logan responded immediately, his hand coming up to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer as if he could merge your bodies, your souls, into one.

There was no room for hesitation, no time for doubt. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more intense, as if you were both trying to pour everything you felt into this one moment. It was a kiss born of desperation, of the fear that this might be your last chance to feel something real, something good, before the darkness swallowed you whole.

Logan’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you into his lap as he kissed you with a fervor that left you breathless. You could feel the raw power in him, the barely-contained rage and pain that he carried with him every day, and in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to take it all away, to make him feel something other than the constant ache of loss and regret.

The world around you seemed to fade into nothingness, leaving only the two of you, wrapped up in each other, clinging to this one moment of passion and vulnerability. It was as if time itself had stopped, holding you in a suspended reality where nothing else mattered.

But time, as always, was cruel. The kiss slowed, the intensity gradually ebbing away, leaving behind a bittersweet longing that settled deep in your chest. You pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, your breaths mingling in the cold air.

“Logan,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of all the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

He opened his eyes, and the raw emotion you saw there nearly brought you to your knees. There was so much in his gaze—love, fear, desperation, hope. It was almost too much to bear.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” you said, your voice barely audible, “I need you to know… I—”

But before you could finish, Logan captured your lips again, silencing you with a kiss that was somehow even more tender, more meaningful than the last. It was a kiss that spoke of promises unmade, of words left unsaid, of a future that might never come.

When he finally pulled back, his hand still cradling your face, his expression was one of fierce determination. “You don’t have to say it,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “I know. I’ve always known.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, nodding as you leaned into his touch, savoring the warmth of his hand on your skin. The dawn was fast approaching, the light slowly creeping over the horizon, casting long shadows over the ruined city.

The reality of what was to come settled over you both like a dark cloud, but in this moment, with Logan’s arms around you, you felt a sense of peace that had eluded you for so long. You knew that this could be the last time you ever saw him, the last time you felt his touch, his kiss. But you also knew that if anyone could change the future, it was Logan.

As the first rays of sunlight pierced the gloom, you pulled back, reluctantly breaking the embrace. Logan’s eyes searched yours, and you could see the same mixture of hope and fear reflected in them.

“It’s time,” you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart.

Logan nodded, his expression hardening as he prepared himself for what lay ahead. But before he could step away, you reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Promise me,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of the words. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

Logan’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the hardness in his expression melted away, replaced by something tender, something achingly vulnerable. He squeezed your hand in return, his grip strong and reassuring.

“I promise,” he said, his voice filled with a quiet intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “I’ll come back. I’ll find you.”

With one last lingering look, Logan turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the shadows as he prepared to embark on the most dangerous mission of his life.

And as you watched him go, your heart heavy with a mixture of fear and hope, you whispered a silent prayer to whatever gods might still be listening, begging them to bring him back to you.

Because in this world of darkness and despair, Logan was your only light, your only hope.

And you weren’t ready to let that go.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨

Taglist: @hughverine @itzyahgirllkita1 @nonamevenus

(If you'd like to be added to the tag list for this series moving forward just comment below <3 )

[romugh]

SHE'S ON THE FLOOR ROLLING HER EYES AT ME- SJ

ROMUGH’S KINKTOBER

october 25th — stress relief, free use, friends with benefits

DAY SIXTEEN || kinktober masterlist || 2024.

pairing- scarlett johansson x fem!reader

cw- 18+!!; top!reader, bottom!scarly,

wc- 10 276 words

a/n- wrote this as i kept refreshing ticketswap in the hopes of scoring some last minute CAS tickets, and edited this for the past four days... i'm still not happy with it, but this is what you get! anyhow, got chase atlantic tickets for in april so i'm happy :ppp (recognise the title = smooch!)

synopsis- scarly + needy + strappy? = baby?? if only lol

taglist?- @lost-mortemanghel ♥︎, @idkwhatever580, @elliecoochieeater, @left-and-right-up-and-down, @deadlesbianwitches, @lizziewitchy ❀, @simpforlizzie, @riyaexee - comment or dm to be added :)

DISCLAIMER- i don’t believe any of what i write about real celebrities is or would be real, neither do i ever want to shove it down said celebrities faces. in fact, i'd rather they never see these kind of fics.

these fics ARE AU original pieces of fiction using actors as a general basis/face claim, so no need to spam my dm's saying 'writing rpf is wrong' :)

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the bedroom as you lay there, awake, with Scarlett nestled against you. Her body was draped over yours, one hand possessively holding your breast while the other gripped your shoulder tightly, as if she could anchor herself to you even in sleep. The gentle weight of her head resting on your chest brought a sense of tranquillity that contrasted with the restless nights she’d had lately, filled with endless to-do lists and the persistent hum of stress. Now, though, she seemed at peace—almost.

You felt the subtle movements of her body, the way her hips shifted and rocked in slow, rhythmic circles against your pelvis and abdomen. Even in sleep, Scarlett sought comfort, pressing her heat into you as if trying to chase away the tension that had become a constant companion. Soft breaths escaped her parted lips, each exhale slightly ragged as it caught on a moan, the sound barely audible but unmistakably there. Her brows drew together faintly, and her fingers tightened against your skin, clutching as though seeking reassurance, her subconscious yearning for the comfort only you could give.

You didn’t dare to wake her. She had been so tired, her exhaustion carved into the hollows beneath her eyes and etched across the lines of her face. It wasn’t just physical fatigue; it was something deeper, more draining—a kind of weariness that came from giving too much of herself to the demands of work and the expectations of others. She was juggling too many roles, always on the go, always striving to meet impossibly high standards. You had seen her push through days where every smile was a mask, her energy stretched thin, yet she still found ways to keep moving forward, never quite allowing herself the luxury of simply stopping.

Watching her now, you saw hints of the toll it had taken. The slight tremor in her exhale, the restless way her body sought friction, and the quiet whimper that escaped her throat—it all spoke of needs that had been left unattended, desires she had pushed aside because there simply wasn’t enough time or space for them. But here, in the stillness of your shared bed, her defences were down, and her body’s quiet pleading told you what she couldn’t say aloud: she needed release, a moment of surrender to let go of everything that had built up inside her.

As her hips continued their slow, unconscious grind against you, a sense of protectiveness welled up in your chest. You wanted to give her what she needed, to be the balm that soothed her stress away. There had been moments over the past week when her frustration seeped through in small, uncharacteristic snaps—brief flashes of irritability that hinted at just how much she was holding in. The way her voice would rise slightly when she answered the phone, or the way her replies grew shorter and more clipped as the day wore on.

You thought back to last night, when she had come home late again, her shoulders slumped and her gaze distant. When you had greeted her with a warm hug, she had melted into you, but her embrace had been tight, almost desperate, as though she was trying to ground herself in the solidity of your presence. There had been a tension there, an unspoken plea that came out in the way she clung to you a little longer than usual before letting go. Her laugh, when you managed to draw one out of her, had been tinged with a weariness that spoke of more than just a long day—it was the kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could cure.

Now, as she shifted restlessly against you, you could see all the signs, her stress manifesting in the unconscious roll of her hips and the quiet moans that slipped past her lips. She was craving not only the release of tension but the comfort of surrendering control, of letting someone else take the reins so she could simply be. 

With gentle fingers, you brushed a few strands of hair away from her face, watching the faint crease between her brows smooth out at your touch. The small sigh that followed seemed to echo through the quiet room, a sound that stirred something deep within you—something protective and possessive. You wanted to take care of her, to give her a space where she could let go completely. And perhaps that was what had driven your decision to surprise her later, to bring not only her favourite lunch but something extra, something that could offer the kind of comfort and release she so clearly needed.

You knew that later today, when you showed up at her office with the surprise lunch in hand, there would be a moment of recognition in her eyes—a quiet understanding of what you were offering her, not just a meal but an escape. And if she needed more than just a break from her day, if she needed to be taken to that place where she could let go completely, then you would be ready to give it to her. For now, though, you would let her sleep, cradled in your arms, her breath hot against your skin as her body continued to move in that slow, seeking rhythm.

Slowly, you reached for your phone on the nightstand, careful not to disturb her as she slept. A quick glance at the time told you it was nearly seven. Scarlett would need to get up soon, another busy day at the Outset office awaiting her. You considered waking her gently, but as her fingers tightened on your breast, you decided to let her rest just a little longer. She needed every bit of sleep she could get.

The day moved quickly after that. Scarlett had woken with a groggy smile, briefly leaning up to kiss you good morning before hurrying off to get ready. There was a hint of frustration in her movements as she pulled on a dress and hurriedly applied her infamous “three-step routine” in the bathroom mirror. It was subtle, but you could tell—she was rushing to keep up with the day before it had even begun.

When you made your way to the kitchen to prepare her coffee, you heard her phone buzzing incessantly on the countertop. It seemed as though even before she stepped into the office, work was pulling her away. She grumbled under her breath when she picked up the phone, irritation flashing in her eyes as she scanned through the endless messages and emails. You didn’t comment on it, only offering a reassuring squeeze of her hand as she passed by, but you felt the weight of her stress growing heavier by the minute.

Later that morning, as you packed the Thai dishes you’d just made—Scarlett’s favourites, the comforting aromas already filling the kitchen—you glanced at the clock. Time was running out, but the idea of surprising her made you move with purpose. 

You slipped them into a small cooler bag, and you couldn’t help but picture the look of pleasant surprise on Scarlett’s face when you walked into her office. She’d appreciate the gesture, you were sure of it. But you knew there was something else she needed, something she wouldn’t say out loud, and you wanted to be prepared for that, too.

With that thought, you made your way over to your shared wardrobe. Sliding open the wooden door, you rummaged through the lower shelf, past neatly folded stacks of Scarlett's favourite Black Widow pillowcase and spare blankets, until your hand found the strap stored in its leather case. You unzipped the case and pulled out the deep black silicone toy, its length heavy and textured with faint ridges. It wasn’t built for delicate moments like teasing or taking in one’s mouth; it was for pushing boundaries, for reaching places that nothing else could. Its girth was substantial—wide enough to fill completely without room for doubt, designed to stretch with every thrust.

You ran your fingers along the smooth, cool surface before setting it aside to grab the harness. The straps of the harness were made of black leather, worn soft over time from use and care, with an O-ring securely fitted in the centre to hold the base of the strap in place. It took a few moments to adjust the straps around your hips and thighs, tightening each buckle to ensure the harness fit snugly. Once you were satisfied with the fit, you slipped the strap into place, its weight settling low between your legs as you clicked it firmly into the O-ring.

Before pulling your pants back on to leave, you reached for one of Scarlett’s belts—a black leather strip with a gleaming buckle in the shape of a heart, adorned with the red emblem of a black widow spider nestled in the middle. The buckle’s metal was darkened slightly from wear, the edges smooth to the touch. Looping the belt through the harness straps, you cinched it tight around your waist to keep the strap hidden firmly in place.

You took a moment to adjust the angle of the strap and the harness, pulling your trousers over everything until the toy was concealed against your body, its outline invisible beneath the fabric unless one knew exactly where to look. If Scarlett didn’t want anything more than a warm embrace, you could keep the strap hidden. But if she did—if she gave you that look, the one that said she needed you to take charge—then you’d be ready. Either way, you were prepared to give her what she needed, whether that was a moment of emotional comfort or the kind of release only you could provide.

You took one last glance at yourself in the mirror before grabbing the cooler bag and heading out the door.

You stepped outside, bag in hand, as the crisp late-morning air greeted you. The cool breeze brushed against your cheeks, a contrast to the warmth of the sun breaking through the clouds above. With a sense of determination, you slid into the driver’s seat of your car, the leather interior cool against your back. You placed the bag carefully in the passenger seat and buckled up, a flutter of anticipation running through you as you started the engine.

The drive to the Outset office wasn’t a long one, but the anticipation made it feel like the minutes stretched on. The city was alive with its usual buzz—cars whizzing by, pedestrians rushing to their destinations, the distant hum of conversation in the streets. As you navigated the familiar route, your mind wandered back to Scarlett, imagining her sitting at her desk, probably typing furiously on her laptop or going over product launch strategies. You knew her well enough to guess that she was immersed in a whirlwind of tasks, the weight of responsibilities bearing down on her.

With each stoplight you passed, you could feel a rising excitement in your chest—a mix of eagerness to see her and the hope that you could lighten her burden, even just for a little while. You tightened your grip on the steering wheel as you thought of her reaction when she realised that you hadn't actually forgotten to pack her lunch. The idea of catching her off-guard, of seeing that flicker of relief in her eyes, was almost as satisfying as the thought of finally getting your arms back around her.

Turning onto the street that led to the Outset office, the sleek, modern building came into view. Its glass façade reflected the blue sky, towering high above the bustling city below. You pulled into the underground parking garage, your car’s tires humming softly on the polished concrete. Finding a space close to the elevator, you parked and grabbed the cooler bag from the passenger seat, taking a moment to steady your breath. The coolness of the bag’s handle against your palm anchored you as you stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for Scarlett’s floor.

As the elevator ascended, a faint hum reverberated beneath your feet, and you glanced at your reflection in the polished metal doors. The smooth surface captured the outline of your figure—a blend of strength and softness. Your broad shoulders filled the frame, the muscles sculpted from years of dedication and routine, yet there was a distinct femininity in the curve of your waist and the subtle swell of your hips. The light fabric of your shirt stretched slightly across your chest, hinting at the toned definition beneath while still showcasing your natural shape.

The faint glint of the heart-shaped buckle peeked through, just barely visible under the hem of your shirt. The black widow emblem in the centre was a playful nod to Scarlett's iconic role, a small but powerful symbol of your connection, one that spoke of shared secrets and mutual interests. The way the belt cinched at your waist, securing the strap snugly against you, made you feel empowered, ready for whatever the moment would bring.

You allowed yourself a small, satisfied smile, the reflection staring back at you with a quiet confidence that came not just from physical strength but from the knowledge of what awaited on the other side of the elevator doors. As the chime announced your arrival on Scarlett’s floor, you took a deep breath and straightened your posture, the movement of your muscles rippling subtly beneath your shirt.

Stepping out into the office, you let the brisk, cool air of the space brush over you. The Outset headquarters was its usual bustle of productivity, a place where sleek modernity met the frantic energy of constant motion. It was an environment Scarlett thrived in, even when the pressure was relentless. Her office came into view, the glass walls giving a clear sightline to her slender figure moving restlessly inside, one hand pressing a phone to her ear while the other gestured animatedly.

You walked with purpose, your frame cutting a path through the hallway as you approached her office. The slight click of your shoes on the floor echoed softly in the open space. The moment you reached her door, you paused, catching sight of Scarlett’s tense figure through the glass. She was pacing, her brows knit together in that familiar way she did when she was overwhelmed, the muscles in her jaw flexing as she spoke into the phone.

You noticed the fatigue etched into Scarlett’s face as soon as you walked through the door. Her eyes were slightly red from exhaustion, and the lines of tension around her mouth made it clear that she was on edge. The moment she spotted you, a flicker of relief flashed across her features, quickly replaced by a kind of resignation as she let out a deep breath.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, her voice strained and weary. “It’s been one thing after another all morning. Deadlines keep getting pushed up, and I’ve got interns running around like headless chickens. Nobody seems to know what they’re doing, and—” Her voice trembled as it rose in frustration. “I just…I don’t have the time or the patience to keep dealing with every little crisis. I swear, it’s like no one can make a decision without asking me first.”

Her words came out in a rush, each one clipped and hurried as if she could barely keep up with her own thoughts. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her forehead, and you could see the strain in the way her shoulders hunched slightly, the weight of all the things she was juggling pressing down on her.

You stepped closer, catching her eye as you listened without interrupting, letting her vent. She continued, her frustration spilling over into a few harsher words about some pressing deadlines and missed calls from her acting manager. The mounting stress was evident in her quick, shallow breaths, her gaze darting restlessly between you and the paperwork scattered across her desk.

“It’s just been…too much,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t had a second to breathe.”

You moved with quiet purpose, closing the gap between you and Scarlett. Your hands found her waist gently, your touch firm but reassuring. “I know,” you said softly. “You’re doing everything you can.”

She flinched slightly at the contact, a reflexive reaction to the stress rather than anything else, but then her body seemed to recognize the comfort you offered. You guided her back toward her chair, steering her with gentle pressure from your hands, easing her away from the tense stance she’d held moments before. Scarlett's protests died down as you led her to the chair and then took a seat yourself, pulling her down onto your lap.

Scarlett's body sank into yours with a quiet exhale, her initial rigidity slowly giving way as she leaned into your chest. She brought her knees up onto the chair on either side of you, settling into the embrace as if finally allowing herself a few seconds of rest. You wrapped your arms around her waist, holding her close, the warmth of your body providing a buffer against the coldness of her stress.

“Just take a moment,” you murmured against her temple, your voice steady and calm. “You’ve been carrying so much.”

Scarlett rested her head on your shoulder, her breath coming out in a shuddering sigh. “Feels like there’s never enough time,” she admitted, her voice sounding small and fragile in a way that twisted something inside you. Her fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, as though clinging to the security of having you there.

You ran a hand through her hair, letting your fingers glide soothingly over her scalp, down to the nape of her neck, where you massaged in slow, steady circles. “There’s always time to take a break,” you assured her. “Even if it’s just for a few minutes.”

Her shoulders sank further, and you could feel the weight begin to lift ever so slightly. The quiet, intimate space you’d carved out in the chaos of her day wasn’t just about distraction or indulgence; it was about giving her permission to let go, to feel cared for in a way that went beyond the demands of her hectic world.

You brushed your fingers through Scarlett's hair, gently separating the strands as she curled closer against you. Her breathing had steadied, the tension in her muscles melting away little by little. The familiar comfort of her weight on your lap felt grounding as you began to braid her hair. Each twist and fold of the strands was a rhythmic motion, a quiet act of care that seemed to ease the lingering anxiety from her frame. Scarlett nestled into your chest, her head tucked beneath your chin, the warmth of her body melding with yours.

She was still exhausted, too worn out to notice anything beyond the calming sensation of your hands weaving through her hair. The strap beneath your clothes remained hidden, out of her mind and out of sight. You worked slowly, not wanting to rush the moment, letting Scarlett sink into the quiet reprieve, her fingers resting lightly on your biceps as you braided with steady precision.

The sound of the office door swinging open shattered the stillness. Jasmine, one of the newer interns, stood hesitantly in the doorway, a stack of folders clutched in her hands. “Um, Ms. Johansson, I just need you to—”

Scarlett's head snapped up, a frustrated sigh slipping out before she could hold it back. “Jasmine, this isn’t the time,” she cut in sharply, her voice carrying a bite that was usually softened by her usual patience. “I’ve told you a hundred times, if it’s not urgent, then leave it on the desk downstairs. I don’t have the bandwidth to handle everything right now. And please, call me Scarlett, I’ve told you already.”

The young intern stiffened at the reprimand, mumbling a hasty apology before backing out of the room. As the door clicked shut behind her, Scarlett slumped against you again, letting out a weary breath. “These interns are morons,” she mumbled, her tone softening with a reluctant fondness. “But I still love them.”

A chuckle rumbled in your chest at her words, the familiar warmth of your amusement bringing a slight smile to Scarlett’s lips. You could feel her body relax a little more, giving in to the comforting weight of your arms around her.

“Do you feel like eating?” you asked gently, stroking a hand down her back in soothing circles. Before Scarlett could answer, her stomach gave a loud, unmistakable growl that filled the quiet of the room. Scarlett let out a small, tired laugh, her head tilting back against your shoulder. “You didn’t pack my lunch or snacks or even make breakfast,” she mumbled in a small, almost whiny voice, her cheeks flushing with the faintest hint of embarrassment. “But I still love you… I’m just… hungry.”

You couldn’t help but coo softly, tightening your arms around her as you cradled her closer, allowing her to sink deeper into the embrace. You gently brushed a thumb across her cheek, taking in the weary lines beneath her eyes and the slight tremble in her voice. It wasn’t just hunger. It was a need that ran deeper, a desire for someone to take over for a little while, to let her stop carrying the weight of everything around her. Scarlett wasn’t asking for anything physical; she was reaching for reassurance, for the kind of care that allowed her to let go without the burden of being in control.

As you held her, you could feel her need to be taken care of, not in a sexual way, but in a way that reminded her she didn’t always have to be the strong one. There were times when she could lean on you completely and let you guide her through the chaos. You recognized that this was one of those times, and you wanted to show her that she could let go and be vulnerable without fear of judgement.

Before you could continue coaxing Scarlett into taking a break, the door creaked open again, this time revealing Kate. She took one look at the two of you, immediately picking up on the subtle shift in Scarlett’s posture and the protective way you held her. “Hey, I just wanted to check in—”

Scarlett didn’t respond, her eyes fluttering shut as she nestled back into the crook of your neck, ignoring the intrusion completely. Without a word, you lifted a hand, signing to Kate to give you both a little time. She gave a knowing smile, the kind that carried sympathy and understanding in equal measure, mouthing, ‘take care of her.’

You nodded appreciatively, watching as Kate quietly exited the office, pulling the door shut behind her. With a reassuring smile, you reached over and pressed the button that made the walls go from transparent to an opaque blackish tint, effectively sealing the room from prying eyes and granting Scarlett the privacy she so desperately needed.

Now cocooned in the peaceful dimness of the room, Scarlett seemed to relax even further, her breathing evening out as she sank completely into you. The weight of her exhaustion was palpable, and as you held her, you felt the silent gratitude in the way she clung to you, allowing herself, just for a moment, to be taken care of.

As began to feed Scarlett, it became increasingly clear just how much she was depending on you to guide her through every motion. She didn’t even lift her hand to help, allowing you to bring each bite to her lips and waiting passively for the next, her eyelids fluttering lazily shut between each mouthful. Her body moulded against yours, completely relaxed as if she’d given up any pretence of staying in control. You held her securely, making sure each bite was small and manageable, soothing her with your touch as you rubbed slow, steady circles against her thigh.

Scarlett’s breathing grew deeper and steadier as lunch went on, her tension melting away with every gentle caress and each soft word of encouragement you whispered. It was as though she were slowly being untangled, one knot at a time, her exhaustion finally seeping through and sapping what little energy she had left. The last few bites came and went, and when the food was finished, Scarlett rested her head against your shoulder, her arms draped loosely around you.

You set the chopsticks aside and adjusted her in your lap, wrapping her up in your embrace. Scarlett nestled deeper into you, her cheek pressed against your clothed collarbone, and you felt the weight of her beginning to sag. Her breathing became slow and even, and before long, her head lolled slightly as she slipped into a light sleep. You stroked her hair gently, the rhythmic motion comforting for both of you. As you watched her drift off, you couldn't help but notice the signs that had been appearing over the last few days—little hints that Scarlett was edging toward a kind of subspace, almost involuntarily.

It wasn’t the typical kind of subspace brought on by intimacy or desire; this was different, driven by sheer exhaustion and the need to relinquish the burden of control. The signs had been building, subtle at first—a slightly glazed look in her eyes when you’d run your fingers through her hair after a long day, the way her body would lean into you whenever you touched her, how her breathing would hitch when you whispered reassurances that she didn’t have to worry about anything for a while.

Flashbacks surfaced as you continued to soothe her, recalling the moments from the past few days that had hinted at her state. There had been an evening where she’d come home unusually late, her voice thin and frayed as she’d told you about all the missed deadlines and last-minute changes at work. You’d taken her coat off for her, helped her undress, and she’d stood there, motionless, as if she couldn’t muster the will to do anything but let you handle it. She’d sighed so deeply when you’d wrapped a blanket around her, her shoulders finally slumping with relief.

And then there was the morning she’d snapped at you about the coffee grounds being spilled on the counter before having rushed out the door. Frustration had flashed across her features before her expression had crumpled into a look of apology. She’d slumped against you right after, her forehead pressed against your chest as she whispered a string of soft “I’m sorry”s, letting you comfort her without any resistance. It was as if her need to be taken care of had become so great that she couldn't help but fall into it, the strain of trying to keep everything together becoming too much for her to bear alone.

Now, as Scarlett lay slumped in your lap, her breathing deep and even, you recognized the same look on her face—the softness around her eyes, the slight parting of her lips as she gave in to the comfort of your embrace. She was surrendering completely, leaning into the safety you provided and allowing herself to rest. It wasn’t a conscious choice; it was simply what she needed—someone to take over, to give her the space to let go of everything that had been weighing on her.

You continued to stroke her now braided hair, your fingers moving with a slow, reassuring rhythm, as you watched over her.

As Scarlett nestled further into your lap, her body began to shift again, the familiar rhythm of her movements returning. Her hips rolled slowly against you, just as they had that morning, with a gradual, seeking motion that brushed against your pelvis. Your hands moved to stroke her back, your touch soft and comforting, as if you were simply soothing her back into sleep. But as the moments passed, her breath began to catch, the quiet exhalations becoming small, needy whines that told you everything she couldn’t articulate. They were faint, almost imperceptible, yet heavy with meaning, spilling out with every unconscious shift of her hips.

She ground down in one particular motion, her breath catching sharply as if that angle had jolted her back to consciousness. Her eyes flew open, wide and glazed, but not quite seeing—her gaze locked on you, pupils blown, lips parted in a silent plea. You smiled gently, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, one that had slipped loose from the braid you’d woven half an hour earlier. Your hand lingered against her cheek, the tender touch grounding her as she trembled in your arms.

You didn’t move beyond that, didn’t try to push her one way or the other. You simply watched her, letting her find her own pace. Her grinding became more insistent, her hips rocking down harder, and her eyes searched yours with a quiet desperation. Her breath hitched again, the whine that escaped her lips now unmistakably filled with need. It was as though she was asking without words, leaning into you with all the yearning and exhaustion she had kept bottled up.

You ran your thumb along her cheek, brushing over the warmth of her flushed skin as you whispered softly, “You have to be quiet, Scarlett. We’re still in your office.” Your voice was steady, calm, as though coaxing her back to the reality of the room around you.

But Scarlett shook her head, her hair falling loose from the braid, the motion sending a shiver through her frame. She looked up at you with glassy eyes, her voice barely above a murmur, slurred with fatigue and longing, “Please just– make me feel good. Please, need it, need you.” The vulnerable pleas spilled from her lips, her tone so small and fragile, laden with all the need she’d been holding back.

You nodded slowly, your voice a calming murmur as you traced the curve of Scarlett's spine with your fingertips. "Okay, sweetheart," you whispered, “but only if you keep working. I’ll be right here with you…I’m not going anywhere.” Your reassurance seemed to steady her, a small spark of relief lighting up her eyes. She looked back at you, her lips trembling with need, before nodding faintly, as if agreeing to the terms in the only way she could.

Her hands moved to your waist, fumbling as she pushed your shirt and sweater up and struggled to free the strap from beneath the belt. Her fingers were clumsy with anticipation, each tug growing more frantic as she wrestled with the buckle. The blush that crept across her cheeks deepened into a rosy hue when she realised it was her favourite belt—the heart-shaped buckle with the Black Widow symbol a familiar sight. She hesitated for a breath, her eyes widening when it dawned on her just what you’d brought along.

Scarlett’s breath stuttered as the realisation sank in further, her skin flushing all the way down her neck. It was her favourite strap, the one she’d always gravitated toward when she wanted to feel utterly full and stretched to her limit. It wasn’t exactly discreet—meant for deep, satisfying penetration rather than anything subtle. Yet, here you were, prepared to have her on your lap while she tried to continue with her work, the mere thought making her heart pound in her chest.

She shifted on your lap, her dress sliding up as she positioned herself just right. The hem bunched up around her waist, enough to hide most of the intimate act from any wandering eyes. Her breath hitched sharply as she eased herself down, feeling the initial resistance before the strap slid deeper inside her, stretching her with a slow and deliberate pressure. Her moan came out as a half-stifled whine, the needy sound echoing in the small space of the office as she sank all the way down onto your lap. The fullness made her tremble, her thighs pressing into yours as she tried to get used to the sensation.

You shrugged off your sweater, knowing that technically, anyone could just walk in the room. The office was surprisingly cold, and you didn’t want to risk her becoming uncomfortable, so as an extra measure, you reached over Scarlett’s head and pulled the oversized hoodie down over her frame, adjusting it until it covered her almost completely, draping over her like a protective shield. Now, if anyone did happen to walk in, they’d see nothing but a cosy moment—Scarlett resting in your lap, wrapped in an oversized hoodie, looking every bit like she was simply leaning on you for comfort as she typed away on her laptop.

Her hands settled against the desk to steady herself, and you continued to caress her back over the fabric of her dress, letting her adjust at her own pace. There was a softness to your touch, a reassurance in the slow, steady movements that told her she didn’t need to rush.

As Scarlett nestled deeper into your lap, you could feel her surrendering to the moment, inching closer and closer to that delicate line of subspace where she felt safe, cherished, and utterly at peace. The way her breath began to deepen, slow and steady, was like music to your ears. It was a sure sign that she was slipping further into that blissful state of submission, her fingers moving sluggishly over her keyboard as if every keystroke required more effort than usual.

The trust she placed in you was palpable, and it made your heart swell. You watched as she leaned back against you, her body curving against yours, her entire demeanour softening with every gentle caress. It was almost intoxicating to see her give in so completely, the tension of the past weeks melting away as she became pliable in your arms.

To draw her even deeper into that trance, you began to tease her with soft commands and subtle touches, each action deliberately crafted to heighten her anticipation. “Keep working for me, babe,” you murmured, your voice low and soothing. Your fingers trailed along her back, sending shivers through her as you coaxed her further into the depths of her submission.

With every slow stroke, you could feel a different kind of tension building within her. Scarlett's breaths became shaky, little whimpers escaping her lips as her body reacted to your ministrations. You kept her on that precipice, refusing to let her find that release she craved. Hours slipped by, and with each passing moment, you noticed how her arousal grew. She was already so wet, the evidence of her need staining the fabric beneath her as she almost unnoticeably rolled her hips in a rhythmic, unconscious dance, seeking friction against you.

By the time the clock struck 6 pm, it became clear to you just how far she had fallen into that deep mindset. Her expression was one of pure need, eyes glazed over as she looked at you over her shoulder with an almost dazed desperation. The way her lips parted, the soft gasps spilling forth from her throat, and the subtle way her walls pulsed around your strap told you everything you needed to know.

“Please…” she murmured, her voice soft yet filled with urgency. “Make me forget.”

Those words sent a thrill through you, igniting a fire in your belly as you realised just how close she was to losing herself completely. The constant fullness had become a torment for her, a tantalising tease that simply wasn’t enough anymore.

With a firm grip on Scarlett’s waist, you lift her from your lap slowly, savouring every reaction as the thick length of the strap brushes over each nerve, dragging against her sensitive walls. Each inch you pull her away is torturously slow, every movement controlled, intentional, and you watch as her breath hitches, her eyes fluttering shut. Scarlett clings to your shoulders, lips parting with a soft gasp as her body shudders, helpless to the way each nerve is ignited with need. Finally, the strap slips free, leaving an obscenely wet sound in its wake, accompanied by a slick warmth dripping down her inner thighs.

 For a moment, you catch a glimpse of your mark left within her, her entrance still slightly gaping, pulsing, a visible reminder of her submission.

As you guide her to her feet, her legs are shaky, nearly giving out beneath her, but she’s obedient, unwavering in her focus, her mouth slightly parted, breaths coming in shallow waves.

“Good girl,” you murmured as Scarlett sank to her knees in front of you, her legs trembling from the effort. Every inch of her body speaks of surrender, from the lingering imprint of the strap to the way her thighs tremble as she kneels, waiting. You’re captivated, and that familiar thrill rises in your chest, igniting as she stares up at you, ready, trusting, and open to whatever you decide comes next. There was something undeniably captivating about the sight of her like this—kneeling obediently before you, her body still pulsing from the fullness that had just been taken away.

Another gush of wetness dripped down her inner thighs as she stayed on the floor, the evidence of her arousal glistening in the dim lighting of the office. You could see the way her skin flushed as she breathed heavily, eyes locked onto yours with a mix of exhaustion and submission.

“Stay right there,” you commanded, your voice soft yet firm as you reached for Scarlett’s laptop. “I’ll finish your work.”

Scarlett’s lips parted in a quiet sigh as she rested her hands on her thighs, her posture completely surrendered. She looked up at you with a gaze that was filled with trust and need, her body still trembling in the aftermath of the pleasure you had denied her for so long. It was clear she was still deep in her submissive headspace, her mind willing to follow your every word.

You placed the laptop in front of you on the desk, positioning it so that you could type while still maintaining a steady gaze on her. Scarlett remained still, eyes heavy-lidded as she watched your every movement, her breath hitching each time you shifted your attention back to her.

You felt Scarlett’s head grow heavier against your thigh as she began to drift, exhaustion wrapping around her like a shroud. You stroked her hair gently, pity filling your chest as you looked down at her. She was clearly on the brink of falling asleep, her breath deep and steady, her body lax and surrendered. But that wasn’t what you wanted for her—not yet. She needed to stay awake, even if just for a little while longer.

“What would help you, sweetheart?” you asked, your tone laced with gentle authority as your hand continued to comb through her loose hair. The question stirred her from the edges of sleep, her eyelashes fluttering as she blinked up at you with a dazed expression. You already knew the answer, your chest tightening in anticipation as you watched her cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink.

Scarlett’s eyes dropped to the strap that glistened between the two of you, wet and thick from being inside her just moments ago. The blush on her cheeks spread down her neck as she glanced back up at you, meeting your expectant gaze. Her lips parted, a small, needy sound escaping her as she reached up, her fingers curling around the base of the strap, but you tutted softly and shook your head.

“My princess knows to ask before taking,” you reminded her, your voice a mixture of softness and firmness. Scarlett’s eyes widened at the reprimand, a lone tear slipping down her flushed cheek as she let out a frustrated whine. She immediately lowered her gaze, her face nuzzling against your thigh to shield herself from the weight of your steady, commanding stare.

She rubbed her cheek against the fabric of your pants, her breath warm against your skin as she tried to gather the courage to speak. The struggle was evident in the way her body tensed and then relaxed again, like she was teetering on the edge of giving in to her desire and retreating into herself. You waited patiently, your fingers idly tracing patterns on her scalp as you felt the heat of her blush spread even further.

“Please…” she whispered, her voice shaky and filled with longing as she turned her head slightly to peek up at you, “Can I…?”

Your hand moved to cup her chin, tilting her face up to meet your gaze fully. “Use your words, Scarlett,” you instructed gently, thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “Tell me exactly what you need, or want.”

Scarlett's blush deepened as she pressed her lips together, her breath coming in short, uneven puffs. Her gaze flickered up to yours, and for a moment, it seemed like the words were stuck in her throat. But she finally found her voice, though it was timid and soft, barely above a whisper.

“Can I… suck your cock?” Her tone was a mix of hesitation and desperate need, her eyes searching yours for any sign of approval.

Your brow arched, the faintest hint of amusement curling at the corners of your lips. “And why do you want to do that, sweetheart?” you asked, voice low and calm, your thumb still resting against her chin.

Scarlett hesitated again, her blush spreading to the tips of her ears as she swallowed hard. “B-Because… it helps me,” she stammered, her voice faltering under the weight of her own admission. “It helps me… ground myself.”

Your eyebrow arched a bit higher, and Scarlett's cheeks burned even hotter. Another tear rolled down her flushed face, and she shifted uncomfortably on her knees, the movement betraying just how vulnerable she felt. The sight of her so deep into her own embarrassment tugged at something tender within you, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you traced your fingers along her cheek, your touch as gentle as your voice was firm.

“You know this isn’t a strap for sucking, don’t you, Scarlett?” you replied, your tone taking on an almost childlike quality as you tilted your head slightly. “It’s too big, sweetheart. I doubt you could even get half of it into that pretty mouth of yours.”

The humiliation was evident in the way Scarlett’s breath hitched and her eyes squeezed shut for a moment, as though trying to shut out the reality of your words. She hadn’t thought about it—not in the way you were explaining it now—and the realisation only made her blush harder. But then, her gaze found yours again, and the fire of determination burned behind the haze of submission. She shook her head, the movement small and insistent, as though a child refusing to admit defeat.

“I… I can do it,” she whispered, her voice trembling yet resolute. “I’m… I’m a big girl. A good girl.” There was a pleading in her eyes now, a desperation to prove herself, even as she quivered under your touch.

Scarlett's lips wrapped around your length, her breaths coming in soft, needy whimpers as she took you deeper with each bob of her head, her tear-streaked cheeks flushed and glistening. The room was silent except for the obscene, wet sounds filling the air, each desperate suck drawing her further into a space where her only focus was you, and pleasing you.

Her hands instinctively gripped your thighs for support, but your fingers threaded through her hair, tugging her back just enough to make her gasp. "Only please me with that pretty mouth of yours, princess. Hands behind your back," you murmured, your voice gentle yet unyielding.

A soft whine slipped from her lips as she obeyed, her hands slowly moving to clasp together behind her. The moment she relinquished that bit of control, the trust in her gaze only deepened, her vulnerability on full display as she gave herself over to you completely.

Scarlett’s determination shone in her glassy eyes, each tear staining her flushed cheeks and smearing her mascara. Her jaw worked tirelessly, her lips stretching around you as she pushed herself further, cheeks hollowing as she tried to take more of you, to meet your silent approval. She was so close, and the thought of making you proud fueled her every motion. Her breathing hitched when she reached her limit, her throat fluttering around you, but she pressed on, determined to make you proud, the weight of your gaze driving her to keep going.

Tears streamed freely as she strained, her whimpers muffled against you, her resolve unwavering. She was yours—utterly and unquestionably—and that trust wrapped around every hitch of her breath, every soft sob as she looked up at you, wordlessly asking for your approval.

Without a single word, you slipped your hand from her hair to cup her jaw, guiding her gently but firmly, pushing her down further onto the thick strap. Scarlett’s eyes fluttered, her throat contracting as she gagged, and the wet sounds grew louder. She tried to maintain her rhythm, even as tears mixed with her gentle make-up and streaked her flushed cheeks, but she never once pulled back or looked away. Her gaze stayed locked onto yours, wide and glossy, the vivid green of her irises nearly lost in the depth of her pupils.

You brushed your thumb across her cheek, a silent approval, watching the way she responded, eager and desperate to please. Her breaths came in choked gasps between each plunge, drool slipping from the corners of her mouth and trailing down her chin, mixing with her wet remnants already coating your strap. She was a vision of need and devotion, every part of her vulnerable and open, as though she’d surrendered not just her body but her very soul to you.

With every inch she took, she sank deeper, her whole being focused on this moment, this act of submission. The look in her eyes said it all: you were her entire world right now, the centre of her universe. And in that gaze, through her tear-streaked face and soft, muffled sounds of effort and adoration, you saw everything—her trust, her willingness, her absolute need to be yours.

Your fingers slip beneath Scarlett's chin, pausing her as she eagerly works over the strap, her lips glistening, cheeks flushed. You gently tug her back by her hair, watching as her gaze lifts to meet yours, her eyes heavy with a mixture of need and reverence. A quiet whimper slips from her, the loss of contact a sudden ache, but she doesn’t question it—she simply obeys, letting you guide her upwards.

As you guide Scarlett up from her knees, her breaths are still heavy, cheeks flushed a deep red that only adds to the haze of submission in her eyes. Your hands rest firmly in her hair, both grounding and possessive, as she rises, her hands slipping from your thighs to brace herself. The heat of her skin against you, the way she follows your lead without resistance, only deepens the thrill settling in your chest.

When she’s fully standing, you keep that hold on her, savouring the haze in her eyes, the way she’s waiting, hanging on your next move. Her breaths come shallowly, still tinted with the intensity of submission, her lips parted as if they’re still moulding themselves around your strap. You slide a hand to her waist, guiding her step-by-step back until her thighs brush the edge of her desk, a slight shiver running through her at the contact. Your hand releases her hair, trailing softly down her cheek as you turn, carefully moving her laptop to the side and making room for exactly where you want her next.

The moment you step back, Scarlett moves with unrestrained need, perching herself on the edge of her desk. Her hands move purposefully across the surface, sweeping documents and pens to the floor behind her without hesitation, clearing everything that separates her from you. Pages scatter around her feet like fallen leaves, forgotten in the moment as she leans back slightly, resting her hands on the desk for balance. Her parted thighs cradle the space between you, inviting you closer, and her chest rises and falls with each breath, anticipation radiating from her as she watches you.

When you step forward, her hands instinctively find your shoulders, holding onto you like an anchor, her fingers digging in ever so slightly. There’s a look in her eyes—one of complete trust and surrender, mixed with the rawest need. She is wholly yours in this moment, and you know she’d follow wherever you lead, without question. 

With a familiar but sturdy grip on her hips, you pull her close, her warm thighs parting to cradle you as she sits obediently on the edge of her desk, waiting with that unshakable trust and raw need in her eyes. Her hands immediately find your shoulders, clutching onto you as if you’re the only thing grounding her in this moment. Without a moment’s pause, you sink into her, filling her completely. The sheer stretch and fullness has her gasping, back arching as she lets out a guttural moan that echoes through the office.

You don’t hold back, finding a relentless pace that has Scarlett's fingers digging into your shoulders. Every thrust drives deeper, pushing her closer to that raw, untamed place where everything—stress, worry, tension—melts away, leaving only you and her together, bound by the intensity of this moment. Her head falls back, and you can’t help but lean in, pressing a hand gently around her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath your palm as you apply just enough pressure to keep her present, grounded, and so thoroughly yours.

Her breaths become shallow, eyes widening in rapture as you slide three fingers into her mouth. She accepts them eagerly, lips wrapping around them as her eyes flutter shut, sinking further into the rhythm you've set. The way she works her mouth around your fingers, desperate for that grounding sensation, shows just how deeply she’s fallen into her need. She gags slightly as you push in a little further, and you watch, captivated, as her cheeks turn pink once more with the effort, saliva beginning to trail from the corners of her lips.

The framed photo of you two, once sitting so carefully on her desk, topples to the floor with a muffled clatter, but Scarlett doesn’t even notice. Her world is so completely consumed by the feel of you, by the way you’re giving her exactly what she needs, that everything else has faded away. She clings to you even harder, nails pressing into your skin, her whines turning louder, more desperate as your pace grows even more intense, leaving no space for anything but this moment.

Her legs shake as she pulls you even closer, whimpering your name between gasping breaths around your fingers, her body surrendering completely to the rhythm, to you. Her trust, her submission—it’s all yours, and in this pure, raw exchange, you feel her stress, her tension, everything melt away, leaving only the beautiful, messy vulnerability she offers up so willingly.

You hold Scarlett so close that there’s no space left between you, and as your hand slides from her throat to cup her cheek, you murmur soft, grounding words against her lips. “I’ve got you, Scarlett,” you tell her, voice low and steady. “You’re safe. Just let go, baby—I’m right here.” The reassurance, the comfort—each word is like an anchor pulling her back to you as she spirals, her breaths catching in little, desperate gasps. She leans into every touch, every gentle kiss, letting you guide her, fully immersing herself in the trust and safety you've built together.

You feel her need, her trust in you heightening with each stroke, each whispered word, and you can’t help but tighten your hold on her, supporting her through every wave of sensation as she hurtles toward a release so powerful it could only come from the pure connection between you. 

It’s not just sex or making love, not just her body unravelling at your touch—it’s the way she feels seen, cherished, understood. It’s the way you’ve made it clear that nothing matters more than her well-being, her peace. You’d already planned the calls you’ll make, to Kate, to her agency, to give her this week she desperately needs, time to just rest, to be taken care of, with you.

You pick up the pace, pushing her further toward that shattering edge, watching her expression shift, eyes growing glassy, mouth falling open with the sheer intensity of it all. Her body tenses, thighs quivering around you, and you know she’s close, so close. You don’t hold back, murmuring her name, reminding her just how cherished she really is. “Let go for me, Scarlett. I’m here. Just let go, beautiful.”

And when it hits her—a release so overwhelming that it leaves her crying out, voice trembling and raw, her arms are ready to give out, her arched back ready to hit the surface of the desk with a small thud. Her whole body shudders, and you can see her pulse around you as the intensity rips through her, wave after wave, until she’s almost limp in your grip, barely able to keep herself upright. It’s a release that’s more than just physical. You know this moment is everything—safety, trust, the overwhelming knowledge that you love and worship her, flaws and all. One of Scarlett’s hands moves up to cling to your shoulders, nails pressing into your skin as if holding onto you will keep her grounded in this beautiful, freeing sensation.

And maybe, just maybe, you know there’s a part of her—a small, mischievous part that’s always secretly dreamed of this exact moment: of you absolutely wrecking her in her office. But that’s a story for another day.

A surge of need floods through you, and for a moment, you can’t hold back. The way Scarlett looks in front of you, her body open and ready, her trust so complete, ignites something deep inside. You gently push her back to finally hit the desk and slide her knees up, pressing them to her chest, taking in the flushed, glistening sight of her—all red, and achingly sore from how much you’ve already given her. Yet there she is, waiting, craving more.

You start moving again, each thrust deep and deliberate, eyes fixed on where your strap meets her. She’s pulsing around you, slick and needy, her wetness coating the base, leaving a faint, creamy ring with each pull out that only drives you further. Her pussy clenches around you as you thrust, the delicate flesh red and puffy, the way her body is moulding itself around your strap telling you everything you need to know—how much she needed this, how much you’re giving her right now. The red marks around her neck, the remnants of your grip, make your heart race with the raw intimacy, with how deeply she’s let you in, trusting you to push her limits but always knowing you’ll catch her when she falls.

Her face is a masterpiece of pleasure, mascara streaked down her cheeks, her eyelids heavy, lashes clumped from the tears she’s shed in complete surrender to you. Her beautiful lips part in that perfect “O” shape, soft little moans escaping with each movement. You watch her eyes roll back, her brows furrowing as she loses herself completely, letting those helpless “hmm, mmhh” sounds spill past her lips in pure ecstasy. The little gasps she makes, the way she trembles under you—it’s everything. Every reaction pulls you deeper, grounding you in this shared rhythm that’s both raw and profoundly tender, each of you finding something you didn’t even know you actually needed.

You feel her building up again, her body tensing, the pull of her muscles around you signalling that she’s close, so close, and you don’t hold back. You thrust with everything, moving in perfect sync with her, giving her exactly what she needs. And as you watch her, the trust, the love, the way her body is opening for you, you know you’ll stay right here as long as she needs you—filling her, grounding her, cherishing her, in every single way.

You see her tightening around you, each tremor intensifying, her body teetering on that precarious edge, and you know exactly what's coming. Her brows knit together, lips trembling, and with one last, deep thrust, she breaks. You watch as the first wave of her release hits, her walls pulsing around your strap, and then, just as you sink even deeper, you feel it—a sudden, hot rush of wetness spilling over, coating the strap, soaking down through the fabric to your thighs.

The base of your strap is slick and creamy, each pulse of her release making it even messier, her wetness spreading as she rides out the crest of her climax. You know you’ve pushed her somewhere she rarely goes. Her muscles contract so tightly, a light, glistening spray that soaks your clothes and the desk beneath, her body surrendering every ounce of pleasure you’ve built up in her. The sight has you captivated, watching the way her release catches the light, a rare and precious surrender that she only ever reaches when she’s completely given over to you.

This is only the third time she’s ever done it, each time burned into your memory like a treasured secret: once after you’d completely ruined her, left her no choice but to let go, and once after you’d edged her past the point of no return. That day, your phone—with which you had been filming—had been left drenched in the aftermath, proof of just how deeply you could unravel her. But right now, watching her face soften, her body convulse with those final aftershocks, you feel like this might be the most intense and beautiful one yet.

Her chest heaves, cheeks flushed, and she’s dazed, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, yet still locking onto yours with that unmistakable look of devotion.

You keep her close, feeling the tremors slowly fade from her body, gently running your hands over her skin, grounding her with each soft touch. Her breaths are still shallow and shuddering, so you murmur gentle praise, each word a steady reminder that she’s safe and cared for, and that you’re here to guide her back. “You did so well, my love,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’m so proud of you… I’ve got you.”

Carefully, you help her sit up, supporting her as her body relaxes into you. Her gaze is still hazy, her pupils blown wide, and you brush a few stray locks of hair back from her forehead, your fingertips warm against her flushed skin. She leans into your hand, eyes fluttering shut as if your touch alone is helping her find her way back. You take your time, reaching for tissues to clean her (and yourself) up, your movements gentle and patient, each pass of the tissue over her skin a silent affirmation of your devotion.

When she’s settled again, you take her hands in yours, kissing each knuckle softly. “This week is yours,” you say softly, looking her in the eyes as she begins to focus on you, fully present again. “No work, no stress. Just you and me.”

You feel her squeeze your hand in response, a subtle but sure sign that she’s starting to ground herself. She takes a deep, slow breath, the look in her eyes shifting, becoming clearer with each passing second. You stay like that, just the two of you in the quiet of her office, letting her absorb everything, taking the time she needs to process.

And when she finally leans into you, resting her head on your shoulder with a small sigh, you know she’s back.

You hold her close, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breath against you. She wraps her arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck, her vulnerability raw and open. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice soft and sincere. “For everything.” There’s a slight tremor in her words, and when you pull back to look into her eyes, you can see the depth of emotion there—a mix of gratitude, trust, and a kind of love that defies words. You bring a hand to her cheek, wiping a stray tear away with your thumb.

“You don’t have to thank me, Scarlett,” you murmur, brushing your lips softly against her forehead. “I’d do this for you a thousand times over. I want you to know that I’m here… always.”

She smiles, the edges of her mouth quirking up even as a blush spreads across her cheeks. For a moment, she just looks at you, as though memorising every detail, every feeling. Then, as if a switch has flipped, her eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief. “Well then…,’” she says, biting her lip, “we might just have to do it again sometime.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Exhibitionist,” you tease, and she laughs, that light, infectious sound filling the room.

“Only for you,” she replies, resting her head back on your shoulder, the weight of her words and the warmth of her embrace settling over you both like a promise.

“Thanks for the food, by the way. I’m expecting dessert for the rest of the week.”

a/n- i don't know how to feel about this one :') hope yuo guys like it x (sorry for the late post! stayed up and wtched AAA (kill me rn, agathario fics coming up.) and fell asleep! second-to-last kt fic tonight!)

[the-travelling-witch]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐇𝐒

summary: it’s said that, on the shortcut of a common trading route, there lives a fearsome kraken and all those who want to cross have to part with some of their valuables. so, take a gulp and take a breath, then go ahead and pay the toll….

pairing: kraken! azul x gn! reader

warnings: fluff; mentions of drowning, allusion to death, tentacles (it is a kraken after all), softie azul (someone’s in loveee)

a/n: a small idea i had that i thought would be perfect for halloween; i thought it was a fun premise and works as a neat cross between azul’s unique magic, ursula’s “you got to pay the toll” and the superstition of neptune’s toll; happy halloween ♡

twisted wonderland masterlist

The salty breeze bit at your skin and your hair whipped against your cheeks. Absentmindedly you pushed the loose strands from your eyes in repetitive motions, useless as they were. However, your focus was elsewhere entirely. On the horizon, landmasses contrasted with the vast ocean surrounding you, the steep cliffs on one side and the wide- stretched cluster of islands on the other leaving only a narrow gap for your ship to navigate through.

It was beautiful against the deep red of the sinking sun.

“Nasty sight yer pushin’ on us, cartographer.” A gruff voice joined you at the railing, grating as it always was. You couldn’t say you liked the captain of the Triton Trading Company much, a man withered by decades of seafare and about as stubborn as the cliffs coming up ahead. “But cuttin’ days worth of journey with that might be worth listenin’ to a guppy like ya.”

“I assure you, Captain, I’ve made this trip safely on numerous occasions,” you sighed, trying to suppress the urge for a pettier response. “As long as you remember what I’ve told you before our departure, the price for—“

“Yeah yeah, I heard ya perfectly fine the first time,” the burly man grunted, waving you off like a bothersome fly. “Still, yer so green behind the ears, I first thought ya were growin’ algae there. Makes it hard to believe ya, ya know.”

“And if you don’t it’ll cost us all greatly,” you hissed back, fixing your eyes on the horizon again. “In any case, I suggest you think this through carefully, it’s almost time to make your decision.”

“Hah, as if I needed advice from ya,” the captain scoffed before stomping down the deck again. You exhaled more forcefully than necessary.

Either way, you could soon part ways with him again, pockets lined with a hefty sum of gold for charting a course that shortened trading routes significantly. You’d also see your beloved again. Those thoughts comforted you and kept you from decking one or the other member of the crew. Sea spray reached all the way over the railing to sprinkle your face with thousand kisses from the ocean and you smiled fondly.

By the time the cliffs loomed high over the ship, the only natural light source illuminating the deck was the pale moonlight, intersected by the shadows of clouds travelling with you. The few lanterns people were holding floated like wisps in the fog. Since daylight, the temperature had dropped steeply, a chill creeping from the sea onto deck, wafts of mist licking and coiling around your ankles. 

“It’s time to pay the toll, Captain,” you announced, voice strong even among the uneasy shifting of the crew. “Let me see what you chose.”

Arms like tree trunks crossed over a wrinkled uniform, the skin around his elbows grey and dry from years of being exposed to salty air. His bushy eyebrows were knit tightly together in what could only be a foreboding omen of trouble. “Now tell me why I wouldn’t throw ya overboard for even suggestin’ something so ludicrous. Reckon ya’d be enough to pay yer nonsense toll?”

“While you’re right that me and my skills are worth quite a lot of gold, you need me to navigate your way through the waters up ahead.” You mirrored his stance, determined not to budge either. “Though if you want to crash against a wall of rocks and sink your ship, be my guest. Well, if something else doesn’t sink it first.”

“Pah, as if I’d throw valuable treasure overboard because of some little fairy tale you’ve spun, guppy.” The captain’s voice was a mixture of amusement and a scoff as he made the biggest mistake of his life. “I won’t part with a single coin to appease your little—“

A cry cut him off, the head of a crew member slamming against the grimey wood before his nails scratched along the deck as he was dragged backwards and overboard by his ankle. It happened again. And again. And again.

All around you, crew members were pulled into the endless abyss of the sea, screams of terror and dread following them into the depths. The captain’s eyes wavering with regret as his gaze trailed along the shadows eclipsing the moon, reaching higher than the ship’s mast, curling and uncurling languidly as if savouring the moment before crashing down on the deck.

“Kraken! It’s the Kraken!”

The crew’s shrieks broke whatever daze their disbelief had them in and panic broke over them like a wave against a cliffside. Not that any of their running and crying could save them now. Wood splintered under the assault of tentacles that stretched longer than the ship by far and more men were caught in coils of inky black. The ship started to dip where the bow had been crushed mercilessly, water now pouring in.

You watched on in apathy, a hand on the railing where you could feel the sea spray against your skin. The scene did not come as a surprise to you. Honestly, you had expected it when the captain first hired you.  In all fairness, you had warned them, had made it abundantly clear that the condition for passing through this shortcut was that the Kraken’s toll had to be paid if you wanted to sail on unharmed.

It didn’t take long until it was only the captain and you left tumbling along the wreck of the former deck. His face was contorted in an expression that could only be described as pathetic and it robbed you of every urge to gloat. You couldn’t hear his stammering over the crashing of the waves, and you didn’t care for it either, as eight winding appendages ensnared the ship whole and pulled it underwater for good.

Closing your eyes, you embraced the familiar caress of the ocean as you held your breath.

You awoke in the soft blue glow of a rocky lagoon, the bioluminescence of flowers growing in the dim light reflected in the vast pool of water murmuring gently just a few steps away from you. Sitting up somewhat groggily, you checked for any injuries, certain as you were that you had none, and only found pulsing marks littered across your skin, some the size of dinner plates. You reached your hand into the water, speaking fondly.

“A little eager, were we, darling?” 

Water rushed down in streams from the figure emerging from the depths of the sea, pearling on his lilac and onyx skin and making him glitter like a million jewels. Shells and corals adorned his body in elegant clusters and perfectly framed the golden sundial shell dangling around his neck. However, nothing compared to the gorgeous pair of sea-blue eyes shining down at you.

“My apologies, beloved.” His voice echoed around the cave, melodic and more beautiful than any song, as he swam closer to you, submerging himself back into the water up until his neck, so he could be at least somewhat on eye-level with you. “But it has been so long since I last saw you and I missed you dearly.”

“Well, I can’t blame you,” you mused, stretching out your arm so he could lean his face against the palm of your hand. It hardly covered his cheek at all, yet you still stroked along the smooth skin adoringly. “Azul, I love you.”

“And I love you more, my pearl.” The giant octopus merman gently returned your affection by coiling a tentacle around the length of your leg, the width of which thicker than your own thigh. Its tip slipped under the hem of your shirt, mirroring your soft caress against the dip of your lower back. “Even if that foolish captain had thrown three chests of gold overboard, I might have sunk the ship anyway just for the way he spoke to you.”

“You heard that, huh?” Smiling you let yourself be pulled closer to the water by the alluring tug of the tentacle massaging the flesh of your thigh. “Though it wouldn’t exactly help our business model if you also drowned the people actually giving you their valuables.”

“Dead men tell no tales,” Azul simply said, shrugging his beautifully sculpted shoulders as he closed his eyes in faux sympathy. “You could have just said they did not listen and paid the price.”

“Mhm, and it wouldn’t be suspicious at all if I am always the only one to miraculously survive these attacks of the scary, merciless Kraken,” you teased, sliding your hand up to push some of his silvery strands out of his eyes so you could admire more of his beautiful face. “Besides, people would start avoiding this area again if nobody made it out alive anymore.”

“Must you always be right about these things, my dear?” His sigh was one of deep sorrow, a melancholic air to the way he slowly rose and sank in the lagoon’s pool. Another tentacle slowly curled around your middle as two strong, human arms encircled you, clasping together behind your back, so your lover could lean further onto land. “Is it so wrong of me to wish that you would never have to part from me again? That I could appreciate and hold your lovely form whenever I wish to?”

“But you said it yourself, didn’t you? That I came up with a very efficient way of generating wealth,” you reminded him, playful lilt to your voice as your hands wandered over his slick lilac skin. “And it has been pretty effective, hasn’t it? Word of the Kraken’s toll has spread far and wide from what I’ve heard.”

“It’s true, most ships passing through here have thrown some of their prized possessions overboard,” Azul admitted. Something flickered in his gaze and the appendage around your middle tightened its hold on you, though careful not to hurt you. One of its smaller suckers latched onto the exposed skin of your collarbones to leave a possessive mark, soothing your partner even if he was the only one who knew of its existence. “Don’t you think your work is done now? You’ve successfully planted the scheme in people’s heads, there’s no need for you to sail with them now. Stay by my side, don’t return to the ports.”

The rippling of the water was comforting to your ears, moving with your lover’s languid movements, inky tentacles unfurling and curling around you. Never had you believed that you would survive your first meeting, let alone come to love Azul. Now, however, his presence was soothing and safe, knowing full well he would never hurt you, nor let you come to any harm.

“Are you sure?” Your hand slid down his shoulder, then stroked along the smooth black limb still holding you close. “You know I hate to be away from you just as much, but I also want to help you wring the most profit out of this.”

“I’d rather lose out on some of that gold, it’s pocket change in the grand scheme of things anyway. But I don’t want to see you leave again, waiting for you while not knowing if you’re safe, whether some sleaze is trying to steal you away,” he gravely confessed, sliding closer to you than he already had been. Soft lips placed a kiss on the crown of your head, light as sea spray, though it covered far more than just that. “You’re the one treasure I can never part with.”

Something heavy draped around your neck, droplets of water hitting your face as you angled it to look at the octopus arm hovering over your head. When you glanced the other direction, a pearl necklace gleamed up at you, soaking your shirt. You felt more tentacles wrap around your wrist, your waist, your ankle and even sliding gently over your ear, slowly and intimately leaving gleaming golden accessories in their wake, tickling the pads of your fingers in parting.

“You’re so beautiful,” Azul whispered meaningfully, oceanic eyes drinking you up with the reverence people usually reserved for deities. “I’d lay the world down at your feet and pluck the stars from the sky if you asked me to. If you say the word, whatever you long for shall be yours. As long as you stay with me, I’ll gladly grant every one of your wishes. Just don’t leave me again.”

The jewellery clinked as you moved, equal parts gift and claim staked on you. Standing on your tiptoes you started trailing kisses over his shoulders, avoiding shells and corals, his skin slick and cool under your lips. With equal rapture as he bestowed upon you, you charted a course from his collarbones, over his throat and up to his jaw, a path you had mapped out multiple times before. A soft sigh grazed your ear as your kisses reached the corner of his lips, the beauty mark you adored so much receiving special attention. 

With the utmost care, your affection was returned, the pads of human fingers brushing over the curve of your back and down the slope of your arms, making Azul hum as the various valuables adorning you clinked pleasantly under his ministrations. The lagoon’s blue luminescence reflected off the pieces and bathed your skin in a soft azure glow, reinforcing his supposition that you had never belonged with those humans, but that it had been preordained for you to be a part of the ocean; a part of him. “What’s your answer, my pearl?”

“Well, when you ask me like that…” You trailed off playfully, leaning against the comfortable pressure of the hands holding you, knowing he’d never let you fall. Languidly, you ghosted your fingertips along the sable appendages embracing you, then lifted your gaze to meet his, a smile coiling around your lips. “It’s a deal.”

It was always a welcome sight to see his bright eyes go wide in surprise before a smug smile illuminated his face. Clearing his throat, which did nothing to dispel the flush of colour dusting his cheeks, the merman swiftly swept you up into the palm of his hand to bring you to his eye-level. Azul hadn’t always been so comfortable with touching you or being touched himself, so the fact that you could now lean in and flutter kisses against his eyelids, and he let you without any complaints, warmed you from the heart out.

“You know what that means, right? The contract is binding now.” His eyes were positively sparkling now, more dazzling than ever as he slowly reclined backwards, slowly drifting towards the open sea with you. However, instead of drinking in the splendid grandeur of the sun rising over the waves, the two of you were completely enchanted by the other. “I never break my contracts, as you are aware. And I can only hope that you are much the same, my love.”

Grinning fondly down at him, you were certain you could put all his worries to rest. Meeting Azul had been a mercy granted on your poor soul, so until the song of your heart ended and the sun set on the two of you, you were more than happy to bind yourself to him. It was a deal you would honour for the rest of your life.

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[espinosaurusrexex]

Remember Me

WinterSoldier!BuckyBarnes x Female!Reader

summary: After a fight against the most notorious Hydra agent of all, Steve and you discover that your assumed diseased friend Bucky is still alive. Old wounds resurface as you are confronted with the grappling reality that you have lived vastly different lives for the past 70 years. Will he remember your shared history? And most importantly: does he still feel the same?

word count: 3.1k

a/n: Just a short piece that I managed to finish. I know it's not a lot, but I hope you enjoy anyway 💕

warnings: a bunch of fluff and angst, mentions of war, mentions of sexism, swearing, Bucky is really broken in this one, happy ending (:

･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ

“Proceed with caution, unidentified shooter on bridge. I repeat: unidentified shooter. It is not clear what the motive is. Take cover and shoot on sight.”

“Dispatch, this is Captain America - we’ll take it from here.”

“With all due respect, Cap, I will keep my men on site to keep your cover.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Least I can do for you, sir.”

“Stop chatting it up with the police and do your job, Rogers.”

“Alright, alright.”

You chuckled and turned to Tony. “How long are we out?”

“Three minutes, 46 seconds.” 

“You gonna survive that long, Stevie?”

“That guy’s got a good aim on him, gotta give him that.”

Muffled noises pushed through your earpiece before you stepped into the back of the Quinjet to gear up. 

“Can’t let him do anything. It’s one guy they’re fighting... one.”

“Yeah, one Hydra-trained assassin who’s apparently immortal and got more deaths on his record than Romanoff.”

You huffed as the meeting recollected in your mind. The Winter Soldier had been the newest pain in the Avenger’s asses ever since you discovered that Hydra was still operating in the shadows of S.H.I.E.L.D. 

“They’re just making a show out of everything, huh?” 

You strapped your gloves over your wrists and watched as Tony chuckled in the pilot seat. You and him had become good friends over the past few years. Ever since you and Steve had been discovered in the frozen airship of what you had thought to be your last mission about 70 years ago, you and Captain America had woken up in a vastly different world. One through which Howard’s son, Tony, gladly guided you. 

Both you and Steve were overwhelmed by the amount of changes the world had endured while you had soundly served your time as human popsicles, though Captain America seemed to struggle a little more with 21st-century technology and norms. 

It was fine, Steve had always been a little old-fashioned, even back in the day. You for one were delighted to learn about all the opportunities the world had to offer for women and other people who couldn’t have dreamed of any in the 40s. Because while Steve was celebrated for being the face of hope for the American people, you were still dodging snide comments doubting your place in the Army. And while you tried not to let anyone see the toll it took on you, it was the reason for enough nights you spent with Peggy sharing stories over a bottle of wine. 

You both decided the important men in your life should never find out. Though, of course, your not-so-secret didn’t stay hidden from Bucky for long. Which was one of the reasons you had jumped on that plane with Steve. Even when Bucky was already dead. Even when Steve was still oblivious. You constantly needed to prove yourself. But this one time, it had actually changed something – well, time had. 

You shook your head free of that thought and walked towards the cargo hatch. Tony had landed the Quinjet – it was go time. 

“Ready?”

“That guy won’t know what happened to him when we’re done with him.”

“Let’s rock his world, then,” Tony winked before his helmet closed and he flew out of the jet. You were close behind him, running the short distance from the ramp to the bridge from which you swung yourself off with a grappling hook. 

“What’s the status?”

“I’ve been shot.”

“I’ve got it, Bearcat check on Steve. He looks ridiculously helpless.”

“Roger that,” you sprinted towards the two fighting men on the street, as the Winter soldier threw Steve to the ground, his shield nowhere to be seen. 

“Okay, my turn.” You stepped in front of him, analyzing his movements, and dodging punches, trying to get some in yourself. 

“Oh come on, that’s not fair.” You huffed when he took a knife out of your leg holster and almost acrobatically threw it over your head just to graze your cheek with the blade. 

He had knocked off your guns at this point, leaving you with choking wire and some smaller daggers in your jacket. When he turned the right angle, you jumped his shoulders and locked your thighs around his neck, kicking the knife out of his hand and watching as he ripped your choking wire in half. Damn.

“Now, that’s not nice.” You threw the torn metal to the side as The winter soldier struggled to get you off him. A look to Steve told you he had a new plan, and with a short nod, you signaled your understanding to him. 

“But if you wanna be like that...” Steve threw you his shield and in a swift motion you managed to drag it over the soldier's head. He pushed his metal arm forward just in time, though your hit had already knocked the mask off his face. 

When the shield came down, you heard Steve’s footsteps halt next to you, the world going quiet. 

Your stomach churned when you watched blue eyes twitch between the dark smudges. Familiar and oh-so strange at the same time. 

“Bucky?” Steve stammered, and at the sound of his name, goosebumps rippled over your skin. 

The Winter Soldier’s look darkened before he reached for a gun. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

From then on, the day seemed like a blur. You remembered Sam knocking Bucky down and the lot of you flying back to the compound on standby. Steve was functioning a lot better than you were, considering the man you thought to be dead for over 70 years was currently handcuffed to a handrail on your jet. 

James “Bucky” fucking Barnes. Captain America’s best friend, founding member of the howling commandos, infamous war hero apparently turned assassin, and the man who stole your heart somewhere along the way. 

You dared a glance at the chained-up, unconscious brunette in the corner as Steve sat down next to you, a calming hand squeezing your shoulder. 

“Can I get you anything?”

You ignored him. “How are you not freaking out?” You whispered through glassy eyes instead. 

Steve’s expression softened when he pulled you into his chest, his other hand pressing your head further into him. His heart was hammering beneath his ribcage, his fingers cold to the touch. 

“I am. Just trying to be a captain.” His voice was strained when he mumbled into your hair. 

You just nodded in understanding, finding comfort in the fact you weren’t the only one feeling this way. 

❁ ❁ ❁

You watched him through the glass of the interrogation room with your arms crossed before your chest. Buck was sitting at the table, his head hung low, his dark hair falling in wet stands into his face. He didn’t move a muscle. For half an eternity, he stared at the table his wrists were chained to, almost statue-like. But when he finally looked up, you could see the confusion and nervousness in his ocean-blue eyes. 

They had given him time to recover, to shower, and feel like a human again. They forced him into normal clothes and offered him a bed to sleep. But it wasn’t enough. The man you were looking at was terrified and lost - exhausted and overwhelmed. 

Bucky visibly tensed when the door opened and Steve stepped into his sight. They spent the next hour reconstructing his past. Steve told him how he had ended up in the 21st century and by the end of their conversations, the tension was a lot less static.

“She’s alive,” Bucky stated and tore his eyes away from Steve to look at the one-way glass.

“She’s a tough one. Survived the crash without super soldier serum and came out of the ice just as unharmed as I did.” 

“What are the odds?” Bucky chuckled bitterly. “What are the fucking odds we all end up together again?” 

Steve only gifted his friend a sympathetic smile along with a squeeze to his shoulder. “Take it as a chance.”

“Feels like a punishment.” 

They were locking eyes and even though you were watching the interaction from the outside, you could feel the atmosphere turn somber. The men were staring at each other in silence for a while, though you knew there was an entire discussion happening in their eyes.

“Does she... does she want to see me?” Bucky’s voice was hesitant and broken. And you couldn’t help but somehow imagine a different question nestled in his words. 

You almost had to stop yourself from touching the glass with your hands, wanting to tell him that you were already seeing him - really seeing him. 

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Steve stood and with a last smile to Bucky, he exited the room. 

This was it. The door was open. The love of your life sitting only a few feet from it. Though it seemed like he was trapped inside another’s body. 

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Steve murmured as he stood in the doorway looking at you by the window. And you just nodded, trying to suppress your pulse rushing in your ears. 

“Thanks.” It was only a whisper. You weren’t used to your voice being this small. And Steve didn’t seem so either. He was looking at you with sad eyes, fists clenched by his sides. There was nothing he could do to make you feel better. Not this time. And he seemed to know so. With one last tight smile, he sent a short nod your way and then left. 

❁ ❁ ❁

Bucky didn’t look at you when you finally built up the courage to step inside his room. He was much bigger than you remembered. Thick muscles adorned his arms and shoulders. Shaggy, longer hair fell from his head and over his scrunched brows. His left arm was entirely of metal, a red star reminding him who had taken claim to him several decades ago. 

If you hadn’t known, the man before you had almost no resemblance to the soldier you loved in 1941. He had been lean and full of life. He was broken now. And you were terrified someone had taken the very thing from him that would keep him from becoming himself again. 

Without a word you approached Bucky, cupped his hands with yours, and undid the restraints that tied him to the table. And this was the first time he looked at you. Really looked at you. Bucky’s piercing blue stare was full of awe and sorrow, a deep pain etched beneath the grey flecks within the vibrant color. 

You sat down beside him. 

“Hey.” Your voice was shaky, dragging a long silence in its wake that only made your heart beat faster. 

“Hello,” Bucky finally whispered, breaking the spell. His voice was a raw timbre, like a long-forgotten melody. And so much more tangible now that you weren’t listening to it through a speaker. 

But that was it. Neither of you spoke afterward. 

There was so much that could have been said, so much that could have been exchanged, known, explored about the other. And yet it didn’t feel like any of the words known to you were enough to break the static tension in the room. You were just looking at Bucky, scanning every part of his body like it was a flash card for the most important test of your life. 

So, here you were: With the opportunity of a lifetime right at your fingertips and the confidence of a kicked puppy settled deep in your wounded soul. The person you had known for the longest looked so timid as if he were looking at a stranger. Not that he had ever been shy about strangers back in the day. But this was different. This was strange and beautiful, and scary, and exciting. No book in the world held the answers as to what to do in this situation. 

And the solution was so easy: you just had to say something. So why didn’t your damn mouth open?

The speaker above your heads crackled and then Tony’s voice rang through the room. And for the first time in what felt like hours, a tiny bit of the weight on your shoulders lifted with it. “Bearcat, If you don’t open your mouth and put the guy out of his misery in 5 seconds, I’ll personally mediate this incredibly static confrontation.”

You rolled your eyes and then glared at the mirror, knowing full well Tony was watching you despite your asking him to leave. You mouthed a ‘shut it’ towards the glass and then turned in shock when a familiar voice rose from the silence.”

“Bearcat?”

You stared at Bucky with soft eyes. There was an innocence in the way he slowly guided this conversation - almost like he’d always had. It was an easy question, a nice entry to the heavier stuff that was bound to be discussed. 

And just as you began to explain, it dawned on you how much you had missed about each other. How differently your life could have been if it weren’t for the cruel turn of fate.

“When Steve and I were discovered, S.H.I.E.L.D. was our home for a long time. They tried to put us in apartments, even set us up with chaperones to guide us through the new century.” Bucky looked intrigued, even leaning forth as he listened intently. You wondered if he ever realized how much time had passed when he was the winter soldier... if anyone ever cared to tell him. “But it wasn’t until I met Natasha that I felt like I had arrived. She showed me so many things and trained with me until I became an agent here. Howard’s son came up with the nickname. He reminds me of him.” You smiled and shook your head “He’s a pain in my ass but a genius that can be genuinely helpful even though I don’t want to admit it at times. I haven’t grasped the explanation fully, but apparently, my fast learning and efficiency when it came to fighting reminded him of one of those small powerful fighter jets that were finished just after the war.” You chuckled at the memory before your eyes found Becky’s again only to see pain all over his face. 

A silent tear rolled down his cheek and hit the floor before you could see it stain his skin. “I'm so sorry.” His voice was shaking, his body trying to make itself smaller but failing miserably with all the muscle surrounding it. He took up the room and your heart right along with it.

“Hey you have nothing to apologize for, you hear me.” You cradled his face and his hands instantly covered yours, only for his metal one to retract just as fast again. He was sorrowful and it made your heart ache. 

“You’ve been navigating through so much alone and this is yet another thing you had to do without me.” He confessed through his tears and squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn’t changed within - always caring for everyone around him and never putting himself first.

“I’m fine. Was then and am now.” You ensured him. “If you want to worry about someone, take Steve. He’s a lot more overwhelmed than I am.” Bucky chuckled through his tears, a deep seriousness settling in his eyes. “If anything, I’m sorry we didn’t save you sooner.”

He shook his head. “You couldn’t have known.” And there it was: a glimpse of the loving, caring, charming man you’d known so many years ago. A small smile snuck onto your face at the revelation and a spark of hope shot through your body. 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” you confessed, "We never had the time to actually be just us. To live all the dreams we shared back then.” 

Bucky's eyes were full of sorrow before he closed them and pressed his forehead to yours. “I wish I could say I missed you,” he whispered and slung his arm around you, “But I didn’t remember.”

“And that’s not your fault, you hear me.” Your hand stroked over his damp hair, pulling it back and making Bucky look at you again. “None of this is your fault. Don’t you ever doubt yourself. What happened to you is horrible. And I vow to kill every single person responsible for keeping us apart for this long. But not once will anyone ever consider this your fault.”

Bucky averted his eyes and turned his head but you were quick to catch his face with your hand. “Promise me you won’t beat yourself up. Please. That’s all I ask of you. Let Steve and me handle the rest and focus on becoming comfortable in your skin again. I can’t wait to meet the man you can become.”

“You don’t want to know me, doll. Not anymore. Even if it wasn’t my fault, it changed me. I’m not the man you-“ he stopped talking as you watched regret flash over his features. “I don’t think I can give you what you deserve.”

“I don’t care what I deserve, Bucky. I want you. I always have and that won’t change because some bullies tried to brainwash you. The very fact that we are here talking like this shows how much stronger you are than them. How the good in you never wavered.”

“But I can’t even trust myself. How can I expect you to do so of me?”

You cradled his head harsher as you felt your own tears roll down your cheek. “All I need is for you to try and trust me. We’ll figure this out... like we always do.”

Bucky’s flesh hand had fallen to your thigh, a soft thumb stroking over your leg and he watched the movement in awe. You didn’t know how long it had been since he had last felt comfort but you were determined to make up for all the lost time. With the wild beating of your heart, you took his metal hand and laved your fingers with his, watching as Bucky’s eyes glued to your smaller hand in his. There was no fear of what could happen, no aversion towards the alien element attached to his body. And then, finally, he encased your hand with his silver fingers. 

Your other hand still stroked his cheek and you waited until he caught your gaze again. And once he did, you did not hesitate to slowly push your lips to his. 

Just a short, sweet kiss. One that held more words than you could ever say. And then you waited. What for? Maybe a rejection, the shake of his head, or the sheer confidence with which he used to kiss you decades back. 

Bucky’s breaths were shaky, his hands still touching you and sending softly timid comfort through your body. He held your gaze for a second... and then, he finally kissed you back. 

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 12: Aphrodite, Goddess Of Love] [Series Finale]

A/N: Surprise!!! A new chapter from Maggie?? On a Thursday?? I was just too excited to wait! Please enjoy the final installment of 1968 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6k

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The sun is rising, and all the guests have dissipated like morning stars. You and Aegon are sitting across from each other at the table in the kitchenette of your suite, cool grey morning light slanting into the silence, confetti on the floor, broken glass, crumbs from the catered appetizers—gyros, hummus, pita, mini spanakopitas, baklava—stomped into the carpet, spots that are soggy with spilled champagne. The Plaza might have to replace it. Outside, rain falls in a mist. Your makeup is smudged; your hair is falling out of its clips and pins. Aemond is waiting, standing with his back to the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, blonde hair slicked back, blue suit, prosthetic eye filling the void in his skull. You know what happens next, but you can’t bring yourself to rise, to speak, to set it into motion. You stare down at the lines in the palm of your uninjured hand and think of the ropes of a sailboat, the invisible strings of gravity that enchain the universe.

Aegon swipes at his eyes: bloodshot, vacant, continuously streaming tears. “I’m gonna go back to Yuma.” 

You look up at him, startled. “Right now?”

“Right now,” Aemond agrees from the wall.

Aegon begs you in a hoarse whisper, eyes dark and glistening like the Atlantic at night: “Come with me.”

Your hands shaking, your voice splintering. “I can’t, Aegon. I can’t.”

He drums his knuckles on the table, gets up from his chair, rushes to you before Aemond can stop him. He’s holding you, his lips to your forehead, the salt of his tears on your cheeks and your lips, like the ocean is bleeding out of him, like he’ll drown you. “I’m sorry,” he says, breath catching in his throat, his pores hemorrhaging smoke, horror, rum, ruin. 

Once you pushed Aegon away, hated him, stained him with your husband’s blood. Now your fingernails hook like claws into his army jacket and cling there, frantic and childlike. “Not yet, please, Aegon, don’t go, please don’t go.”

“I have to, I’m sorry.”

“Aegon, no–”

“I’m so fucking sorry.” He’s sobbing, he’s trembling, he’s gone. The doorway is empty like an unfinished sentence, like a myth no one remembers. The silence floods back into the rain-grey November air. The room is cold like a mausoleum. You touch your own face: tears Aegon left there, muscles and nerves dead beneath your skin, disbelief you sink through like the sea, waiting to hit the floor deep with the silt of rocks and wreckage and bones.

He’s gone? He’s really gone?

Aemond stalks over to the table, smirking, radiant, his hands in the pockets of his suit; he takes his time, he savors it. He’s never been higher. He was right all along. He can’t be killed, he is destined to be the president. It is God’s will. “Get ready,” Aemond says. “I have a victory speech to make.”

~~~~~~~~~~

He heads west on Route 70, billboards and drive-thrus, toll booths and reflective green mile markers, the kids fighting over who gets to pick the radio station from the back of the Dodge A-100 that Otto had hastily procured, handing over the keys as Aegon rolled his suitcase out of the Plaza Hotel. That first night they stop in Wheeling, Ohio, and the kids have startlingly little resistance to this upheaval. They can’t find much to complain about. A road trip with Dad and only Dad, no journalists badgering them for photos or quotes, no orders barked from Otto or Aemond, no exacting campaign itinerary, no scripted propriety, Mountain Dew spills on the carpet, Pizza Hut boxes on cheap springy motel mattresses.

“What do you think about all this?” Aegon asks Orion when the younger ones have dozed off: Cosmo and Thaddeus on one bed, Violeta in another, Spiro lounging across the threadbare sofa with a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring resting open on his chest.

Orion shrugs, that adolescent aversion to vulnerability, like the whole world is out to shake you down for evidence of the defections you’re so convinced define you. “It’s cool, I guess. It’s like an adventure. And we’ll get to see you a lot more.”

“Yeah you will,” Aegon promises. He feels sick: no booze, no pills, the grease of pepperoni churning in his belly. “And I’m never gonna be the way I was before.”

The bathroom is tiny and spartan, white porcelain, black specks of mildew. When he’s done showering, Aegon wipes the fog off the mirror with his fist. In Ancient Greece, a shaved head was the mark of a slave; it was meant to strip the man of his past, to make him brand new. He remembers Aemond saying this one afternoon as they were all out sailing at Asteria, Aegon sprawled on his back and drinking rum from the bottle as beams of sunlight refracted through the glass, Aemond leafing through one of his history books, Helaena throwing bits of pita to the seagulls, Daeron peering through his telescope for glimpses of dolphins, sharks, bobbing treasure from shipwrecks, imagined enemy vessels. Aegon thinks as he studies his reflection under the harsh fluorescent lights—crinkles by his eyes, skin ravaged by years of careless sunburn—that he wouldn’t mind not having a past. He opens his shaving kit and takes out the straight razor he never uses, shears off his tangled, windswept locks of blonde hair, smiles when the kids laugh and call him Yul Brynner the next morning over breakfast at the diner beside the motel, blueberry pancakes and toast wet with egg yolks. He’s not brand new; it’s impossible to be. But he’s getting closer.

The Fort Yuma Indian Reservation has grown during the Kennedy and Johnson years. The tribe now enjoys a steady income from numerous projects, including the leasing of farmland, a convenience store, a casino and resort, and an RV park. The school has been rebuilt—bigger, more modern, air conditioning, hallelujah—since Aegon was first exiled here twenty years ago, but several of the employees have familiar faces, and the current principal was once an English teacher assigned to be his mentor, a different lifetime, an ancient myth.

“You look good,” Artie says as he descends the concrete front steps on an afternoon in mid-November, 75 degrees, bright cerulean sky, no clouds. He takes Aegon’s outstretched hand and shakes it. “Kind of fat, but good. You still play guitar?”

“I do, yeah. I have one in the back of my van right now.”

Artie glances at the giggling, waving children behind the glass windows. “Jesus Pleasus, how many kids you got?”

Aegon chuckles. “Five, I think.”

“Five! Well, they’re welcome to attend here, if you want them to be where you are.”

“That’s a very generous offer. They’ve never gone to a real school before. They had private tutors in New Jersey.”

“What a great way to raise jackasses, if you ask me.” Artie gives him a stern look over, wrinkled brow, narrowed brown eyes. “You sober?”

“No pills, no drinking, occasional weed.”

“Goddamn, that’s a lot better than I expected.”

“Hey Artie?”

“Uh huh.”

“Would you happen to need a math teacher?”

Artie studies him thoughtfully. “I mean, we’re always looking for qualified math and science people. They leave the quickest, those aerospace and electronics companies over in California pay too much. Why? You know someone?”

“I used to,” Aegon says, then motions for his kids to get out of the van. Artie lets them eat ice cream in the cafeteria while Aegon signs his contract.

He’s in Yuma for three weeks before he meets a girl. Her name is Rachel, and she’s a dream that walked out of the Summer Of Love: hair down to her waist, boots to her knees, handknit vests, chipped nail polish and teasing smiles, a taste for sun and smoking. At night they sit under the stars behind Aegon’s bungalow out in the desert, roasting marshmallows and hotdogs with the kids, Aegon strumming his guitar, Rachel playing her harmonica, a few homely adopted mutts loping around instead of purebred Alopekis. She likes him, this boyish sunbeam of a man who always seems just a little lost, a little sad. She might even love him.

And yet there are ghosts, beasts, threads the fates have not yet severed. One night in January after the kids have gone to sleep, Aegon is flipping through television channels as Rachel returns to the couch with a bowl full of Jiffy Pop, plops down onto the cushions, curls up against him. Aegon stumbles upon CBS Evening News, a clip from the inauguration, and his words vanish mid-sentence, his eyes—an opaque, stormy, melancholic sort of blue—growing wide. He doesn’t change the channel. He doesn’t move at all.

“What?” Rachel asks. On the screen is a clip of President Targaryen being sworn in, his wife at his side and cradling the Bible in her hands. She’s wearing Oscar de la Renta—a powder blue wool coat that matches her husband’s tie—and a stately new hairstyle that is very distinctly inspired by Jackie Kennedy. Her smile is serene and dignified, if perhaps a bit remote. She could be a marble statue in a garden or a museum. It must be a lot of pressure for her, Rachel thinks. To live up to being the partner of a man that remarkable. “Aegon? Baby, are you okay?”

After a long time Aegon says, very softly, like it’s only to himself: “He made her cut her hair.”

Rachel stares mystified at the television and then turns back to Aegon. “What happened with her?” Something must have. He looks staggered, he looks haunted, he looks like someone Medusa turned to stone. Rachel knows about who Aegon is, of course, everyone does; but he never wants to talk about it. When people mention his family, Aegon smiles politely and then changes the subject. When they ask about his sister-in-law, he says he needs a cigarette and walks out of the room. She sent him a beautiful, shimmering gold acoustic Gibson guitar for Christmas; the first lady’s name was on the return address. To Rachel’s knowledge, Aegon never thanked her.

Aegon shakes his head, and Rachel can’t tell if that means the story is too long or too short, unrealized potential, loose kaleidoscopic strands of stardust, infinitesimal moments that wouldn’t have meaning to anyone else. “Nothing.” Then he resumes switching channels: I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, the Newlywed Game.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your parents fly north for the inauguration, so proud, so effusive, interviewed by every major news network. Business is booming at the Spongeorama Sponge Factory back in Tarpon Springs. They are seated between Alicent and Ludwika’s mother Elzbieta, newly arrived from Poland. LBJ and Lady Bird are cordial but uncharacteristically understated, retreating back to their home state of Texas like kicked dogs. All the defeated adversaries of the campaign trail attend to show their support, to wordlessly plead for a long-awaited national reconciliation. George Wallace won’t meet your eyes. Richard Nixon whispers through your hair as he clasps your scarred hand: “Aemond could never have done this without you.”

Jackie Kennedy’s chosen cause as first lady was the restoration of the White House, Lady Bird’s was environmental protection. You want to visit schools and help teach math to little kids, but Aemond decides it would be more politically expedient for you to be seen tending to wounded veterans of Vietnam; so you spend many of your days in hospitals, inhaling charred flesh and Lysol and dying flowers and blood. The Japanese ambassador bows lower to you than he does to Aemond. The prime minister of France tries (unsuccessfully) to flirt with you. Athenagoras I of Constantinople, the Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church, brings you a komboskini he has blessed. Reprieves come in slivers like a disappearing moon: lunches with Fosco–carpaccio, caprese, bolognese, polenta–and drinks with Ludwika, always something with rum, something that tastes like Aegon. You dream of incubators and arterial spray, stitches and scars and crimson bandages, the flash of blades, the thunder of bullets; but the would-be assassins go to prison and no one else ever tries. You are Persephone in the Underworld. You are Io in the wilderness.

You are just beginning to panic about what you’ll do when your tiny pink birth control pills run out when Fosco shows up to one of your lunches with a paper bag full of familiar circular packets. “I have been informed that I am to be your dealer,” he says, grinning. “I will be back with more in six months. I told the doctor they were for my mistress. I don’t even have a mistress! Isn’t this exciting? I am like a secret agent. I am the Italian James Bond. The name’s Viviani, Fosco Viviani.”

“Aegon asked you to do this?”

“Well, he did not ask, exactly. I do not think I was allowed to say no.”

You hide the paper bag in the Louis Vuitton purse Ludwika bought you, so thankful you don’t have words for it, missing Aegon like Orpheus missed Eurydice, searching through the shade-haunted grey haze of the Underworld for her.

“It was odd,” Fosco says quietly, delicately. “He did not want to know anything about you. He asked if you needed anything else that I was aware of, I said no, and then he hung up when I started to tell him about Christmas dinner.”

You remember Aegon’s words, ghosts from where Long Beach Island meets the Atlantic Ocean: Mimi wasn’t as strong as you. Maybe what Aegon didn’t say is that he isn’t either. You imagine the fates snipping threads, the memoryless oblivion offered by the River Lethe, moons becoming greater and lesser. He has to try to forget you. You have to let him.

On Valentine’s Day weekend, Daeron comes home. He and John McCain are the last two men freed from the prisoner of war camp known as the Hanoi Hilton. When he steps off the plane, Daeron is carrying with him, of all things, a single white rat in a wire cage. The first question he asks, after being engulfed in embraces from Alicent, Criston, and Fosco, is: “Where’s Aegon?” And he knows from the stilted, piecemeal explanations he receives that something has happened. You take Daeron to breakfast the next morning, and you don’t tell him everything, but you tell him enough. He spends a month recuperating at Asteria, then follows Zephyr, the god of the west wind, across the country to Arizona.

Aegon didn’t send you anything for Christmas, and he didn’t respond to the guitar you gifted him with Ludwika’s assistance. But on July 13th, a green envelope arrives in your mail basket with no return address. You open it to find a greeting card with an exuberant cow on the front. Inside, the original message—You’re mooooooving on up in the world! Happy retirement!—has been crossed out with black ink. You laugh, your first real laugh in weeks, and then read what Aegon has written in his chaotic, scribbling penmanship:

I thought this was blank :)

Hope you’re doing okay. You look great on tv.

Then there is an expanse of open white space, like a weighty hesitation. There’s no signature, but there is one final note like a postscript.

Thank you for the guitar, but please don’t send anything else. It fucks me up, you know?

Yes, you do know. Aegon never calls you, but Cosmo does. Once or twice a week he dials your private line at the White House–Aegon must have asked Fosco for it–and tells you all about his new life in Yuma, his school, his friends, the dogs, the desert. Aegon’s met someone named Rachel; Cosmo mentions her intermittently yet with unmistakable fondness: “Rachel makes the best s’mores,” “Rachel told me about seeing Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock,” “Rachel took us to pick pumpkins for Halloween.” You’re glad Cosmo calls, and you’re glad he’s happy; but afterwards you always feel so indescribably, irredeemably sad.

You sneak your pills and avoid Aemond as much as you can, something that becomes easier as he spends long hours reviewing briefs in the Oval Office, preparing speeches, meeting foreign dignitaries, strategizing with his cabinet, and scheming against his conservative foes across the nation, a faction soon led by California governor Ronald Reagan. You stand perfectly still as designers alter Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy to fit you like woolen armor. You strike up a chaste, harmless flirtation with a Secret Service agent from Atlanta named Nathaniel, not because he reminds you of Aegon—Nate is 6’4, 250 pounds, and a former Navy SEAL—but because he listens, because he is kind. He gives you riveting summaries of films and books that are considered too scandalous for you to be seen enjoying. He makes fun of your matronly skirt suits. He takes you to get lemon-lime Mr. Mistys at Dairy Queen. He massages your scarred hand with rose oil.

In May of 1969, Aemond voices support for university students across the nation protesting in favor of increased Black faculty and Africana Studies courses. In July, the Apollo 11 mission lands the first men on the moon, effectively ending the Space Race with an American victory. In September, Lieutenant William Calley receives a sentence of life in prison for his role in the My Lai Massacre the previous year. In November, the Rolling Stones release a new album entitled Let It Bleed. Ludwika gives you the record for Christmas along with an array of perfumes and lipsticks, all extravagantly packaged in a pink Gucci gift box. Your favorite song is Gimme Shelter. You listen to it at dusk in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, your chair facing west, taking slow drags off Lucky Strike cigarettes that Nate buys for you, embers glowing as the sun disappears.

“What’s out there?” Nate asks you one night with a slinky half-grin, and then when you don’t immediately answer: “You’re always looking that way. What are you looking for?”

You don’t know what to tell him. Nothing. Everything. Something that almost happened. And slowly, under a lavender twilight peppered with the remote glimmers of constellations—stars that cannot be changed, disasters predestined since before you were born—Nate’s smile dies, and he never asks again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three time zones away, Aegon’s hair grows out and he gets his ears re-pierced, tiny gold hoops that make him think of wedding rings. Rachel pretends she doesn’t want to get married. Aegon doesn’t offer. Once in a while after the kids have gone to bed, he climbs into the hammock in the backyard and smokes a joint, staring absently into the east as the new Rolling Stones album spins on the record player. Aegon’s favorite song is You Can’t Always Get What You Want. Rachel stands at the telescope they set up for the kids—Cosmo’s idea—and stargazes, making her way down a checklist of visible celestial objects.

One night Aegon asks as she’s squinting through the eyepiece: “Where’s Jupiter?”

Rachel glances over at him, then points up at the indigo sky. “It’s that one, the really bright spot near Perseus. Why?”

Aegon shrugs, exhaling smoke. “No reason,” he says; but he’s still looking at Jupiter, wounded, stoned wonder floating on the surface of his watery eyes.

Daeron settles down in Yuma and buys a ranch. He does some work at the VA Hospital a few hours away in Tucson, some white water rafting on the Colorado River, some hiking in the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, a whole lot of roughhousing with his niece and nephews. John McCain, now a war hero and national celebrity, is always calling to see if Daeron has decided to run for office yet. A few times a year, they receive visitors from the East Coast: Alicent, Criston, Ludwika, Helaena, Fosco, and their three children. The president and first lady are not mentioned unless by accident. The kids adore their grandmother, and she loves them back, although Alicent never learns to appreciate Tessarion the rat and refuses to hold her. In 1970, Helaena and Fosco have one last baby, a daughter they name Marina after Mimi. Life goes on, but the ghosts remain.

On a chilly evening in January of 1972, Aegon is flipping through television channels when he lands on an NBC segment about First Lady Targaryen touring the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. “That’s so fucked up,” Aegon murmurs as she calmly soothes the suffering of mutilated men, and his voice is dark with scorching, clandestine fury. He gestures to the screen with the remote control. “She hates hospitals. He makes her do things that hurt her. He does it just to prove he can.”

Rachel says as she stands in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, a question she has finally worked up the courage to ask: “No one is ever going to be able to compare to her, right?”

Aegon opens his mouth to protest, and then closes it again. And something washes over him like waves of the ocean, sun on sand, poison in the blood and the lungs, myths that carve themselves into your bones so deep you can see the red of the marrow underneath. He replies truthfully, his eyes still on the screen: “Right.”

Rachel packs her bags. Aegon gets up to help her. He feels it’s the least he can do.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you and Aemond return to Asteria for summer vacations, the seaside Targaryen compound is full of ghosts. You catch glimpses of Mimi stumbling up staircases, Cosmo trotting after you as you turn corners, Aegon smoking a joint under the statue of Zeus in Helaena’s garden. You open cabinets and bottles of his pills fall out. You see Sunfyre bobbing abandoned in the boathouse. The basement is just as Aegon left it. Sometimes you go down there and stand on the green shag carpet in the hushed, cool, damp emptiness, not knowing what you’re waiting for, staring at the wall until someone comes to look for you.

“What’s in these?” Nate asks one afternoon, snatching a notebook off the shelf. “Oh wow, look!” He shows you messy sketches in black ink, cartoon versions of the stories of Greek gods and goddesses, myths reimagined. “Who do you think drew them?”

“Maybe Daeron,” you reply, but it wasn’t him. You’d know Aegon’s handwriting anywhere. Nate leafs through a bunch of the notebooks, booming laughter—he especially enjoys that Poseidon has been characterized as a sexually insatiable dolphin—and reading his favorite parts out loud to you. One notebook is only half-full; the last few pages are covered with drawings of tiny cows, telephones with long spiral cords, the moon in all its phases. You tear these out to keep.

On each July 13th, there is a card with no return address waiting in your mail basket at the White House, always featuring a jovial cow, always making you smile. You entrust Nate with the task of hiding the notebook pages and greeting cards away somewhere safe, an arrangement he honors like an oath.

Every so often, when you feel lethal bitterness kindling, you are struck by the inspiration to find Aemond’s Ouija board. It must be here in the White House someplace, but you can’t figure out where. You search the bedrooms, rummage through closets, climb into the oak cabinets beneath bathroom sinks; you scrabble around like a rodent under the cover of darkness while Aemond is away on state visits and campaign rallies for fellow Democrats. Maybe he makes secret stops in Tacoma or Seattle. If he does, you don’t care. You’d rather Aemond be there than here.

In the spring of 1972, you find the Ouija board in a drawer of the Resolute desk, where Aemond conducts official business in the Oval Office. “Oh, that is insane,” you say to yourself as you slide it out. You mean to burn it in your bedroom fireplace, then think again. On the back of the board, the inscription has faded, as if traced by Aemond’s fingertips again and again.

If I destroy this, what will he do to Aegon and his children? What will he do to me?

You place the Ouija board back where you found it, slide the drawer shut, and crawl into bed, besieged by dreams of smoke and rum and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch.

Aemond’s national approval rating hovers between 55-70%—far about the historical average, although he never stops pining for an heir and proper first family to maximize his allure—until May of 1972, when the tide begins to turn. The treaty formally ending U.S. involvement in the war was signed back in early 1969, but the hasty troop withdrawal left capitalist South Vietnam vulnerable, and now it is being invaded by the communists backed by China and Russia. The Fall of Saigon is immortalized in the evening news, printed on the covers of newspapers; people who once collaborated with the Americans are shot dead in the streets. Refugees flee west to Laos and Cambodia and Thailand, east on makeshift rafts into the ocean. The few that Aemond manages to hurriedly admit into the U.S. inspire racism and xenophobia from suburbanites. Many of the hippies have grown up, had children, gotten jobs, settled down with credit cards and mortgages. Protestors march with signs out on Pennsylvania Avenue: America abandons her allies! Our global reputation is in peril! Will the communists invade here next? What did my son die for?

“They wanted me to end it,” Aemond marvels as he gazes out the White House windows. “They begged for me to end it, and now look at them. Ungrateful imbecile bastards.”

And you give him a rare piece of advice that he listens to: “You should call LBJ.”

On his ranch fifty miles outside of Austin, Texas, Lyndon Baines Johnson is dying of heart failure. Still, he smokes more or less constantly, and refuses to adhere to the diet Lady Bird fretfully lectures their chefs about. He has grown his grey hair long and sits for as many interviews as he can, desperate to salvage his legacy and remind people of the things he did right: civil rights legislation, the War On Poverty, rising from a poor farming family to the Oval Office. He knows exactly what it feels like to be hated for having no good options. He says gruffly through the phone: “The Vietnam War needed to end, Aemond. It had to happen. But someone has to pay for it, too. That’s your job now. Take the fall, and the country survives. Plenty of people still love you. And I’m proud of you, son. I know it ain’t easy, believe me. But I’m real proud.”

Still, Aemond fights. He can’t help it. It’s all he’s ever known.

He campaigns at a murderous pace, and you have to follow him across the nation. Perhaps intentionally, there are no campaign stops in Arizona. Aemond does very well, but Ronald Reagan does better; he’s quick and he’s cutting, but he’s also funny, and grandfatherly, and warm, and God knows the American people could use some of that after the past decade. He characterizes Aemond’s policy regarding Vietnam as “peace without honor.” He calls Aemond short-sighted about a dozen times, a jab his supporters guffaw at. He says the United States has surrendered its rightful place as the leader of the free world. His wife Nancy—his second wife—is vehemently opposed to recreational drugs and other supposed moral crimes including abortion and premarital sex. You hate her, and she hates you right back, though in a perfectly pleasant, ever-smiling, mid-century housewife sort of way. Reagan’s disciples call you a whore. Aemond gets the newspapers still loyal to him to publish scathing denials. You aren’t exactly sure why he does this; no comment at all would almost certainly be wiser politically, as Otto advises. But Aemond does it anyway, with deep trenches of violent determination knit into his scarred brow.

The 1972 presidential election is held on Tuesday, November 7th. It is not until the early hours of the morning on Wednesday the 8th that Aemond learns he has narrowly lost. It couldn’t possibly be construed as your fault; he wins Florida by a greater margin than he had in 1968. As the sun rises in a bright, cloudless sky, Aemond’s entourage clears out of the Lincoln Sitting Room, leaving the two of you alone with the droning television. Aemond is sipping an Old Fashioned on one end of the couch. You light yourself a Lucky Strike cigarette on the other. For once, Aemond doesn’t seem to mind.

“You know,” Aemond muses after a while. “Ronald Reagan is divorced.”

Your heart is racing; you aren’t sure what he’s offering. You’re petrified to say the wrong thing and change his mind. “Yeah, he is.”

Aemond nods, twirling his Old Fashioned so the ice cubes clink against the misty glass, not looking at you. “I think I’ll marry Alys and adopt the boy.”

And that’s how you learn that what Aegon said in the doorway of a hospital room four and half years ago was true, no impassioned declarations, no gratitude, only grudges that have grown quiet and cold and dormant. At last, Aemond is done with you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Otto, glowering spitefully, getaway car procurement extraordinaire, hands you the keys to a green Chevy Nova. On the front steps of the White House, you say goodbye to a palpably heartbroken Nate. He gives you the notebook pages and greetings cards. You give him a kiss on the cheek, a parting stain of red lipstick. But instead of blood, the color makes you think of cherry-flavored Mr. Mistys, the Lucky Strike logo, roses, sunburn, firelight, the rust-hued earth of the desert. You duck into the Nova and start driving.

The East Coast unfolds into the Midwest and then turns jagged as you hit the Rocky Mountains. At a gas station in Albuquerque, New Mexico, you toss your remaining birth control pills—still squirreled away in a box of hollowed-out tampons—into a trash bin. At a McDonald’s in Asher, Arizona, just forty minutes outside of Yuma, you stop to get a large Coca-Cola and touch up your makeup in the bathroom mirror: black eyeliner, gold shadow, both as heavy as you want them to be. You stroll back to your Nova under a radiant November sky that feels like summer, smiling to yourself. The hem of your roomy, floral skirt billows around your brown leather boots in the desert wind. Your earrings are small, glinting gold hoops. Your white tank top is simple and hand-crocheted, found at a yard sale in Amarillo, Texas; but your sunglasses are Bugatti, a gift from Ludwika.

You park outside the only school on the Fort Yuma Indian Reservation and go inside to the front office. The secretary says distractedly: “Can I help you, ma’am?” Then she does a double take. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, do I…do I know you from somewhere…?”

“You might,” you say, pushing your sunglasses up into your hair. It’s only shoulder-length now, but growing, and wild from the wind. “I was hoping to find Mr. Targaryen, does he still work here?”

“He sure does, but he doesn’t like anyone calling him that.”

Of course he wouldn’t. “Just Aegon then. Which classroom is…?”

But before you can finish your question, and before she can answer, you hear echoing through the labyrinthian hallways the start of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Bad Moon Rising, not just an acoustic guitar but bass and drums too.

“I see the bad moon a-risin’

I see trouble on the way

I see earthquakes and lightnin’

I see bad times today

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

The secretary laughs, keeping rhythm with taps of her pencil on her desk. “I guess you can find him on your own, can’t ya?”

Yes, you can. You follow the music through long empty corridors, wondering where all the students are. You drag your fingertips—black polish, chipped around the edges—along grooves in the cinder block walls that have been painted over with vibrant murals. The song is getting louder, and now you hear other noises too, an ocean of energetic voices and squealing chairs.

“I hear hurricanes a-blowin’

I know the end is comin’ soon

I fear rivers over flowin’

I hear the voice of rage and ruin

Don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise, alright!”

You step into the cafeteria, raucous with students swapping pudding cups and bags of chips. Many of them are watching the stage, clapping along, playing their own imaginary guitars. Aegon is there strumming the sparkling gold guitar you sent him for Christmas back in 1968. He hasn’t seen you yet; he’s grinning at the kids up on the stage with him—his fellow bandmates, his fledgling rockstars—and leaning back from the mic to give them pointers. But Cosmo has. He flies out of his seat and crashes into you, now nearly ten years old, long blonde hair, a Rolling Stones t-shirt.

“You’re back!” he bellows over the music as you hug him. Teachers chatting amongst themselves by the wall give you curious glances.

“Yeah, kiddo. I am.”

“For a visit?”

“Maybe for a little longer than that.”

“Yay!” he shouts, jumping up and down.

You look back to Aegon, and now his eyes catch on yours: instantaneous recognition, disbelief, amazement. He’s just like you remember him; he’s just like he is in your dreams. You raise an eyebrow and wave tentatively. His own words surface in your skull like swimming up through cool, sunlit water: What are we gonna do about it? And Aegon smiles, the god of light, music, healing, truth.

Now his tiny bandmates are yelling at him, irate. He’s still plucking at his guitar on autopilot, but he’s missed his cue to sing the last verse. He shakes off his astonishment and continues, beaming, watching you.

“Hope you got your things together

Hope you are quite prepared to die

Looks like we’re in for nasty weather

One eye is taken for an eye

Well don’t go around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Cosmo sprints back to his lunch to stop a friend from seizing his unguarded Ding Dongs.

“Don’t come around tonight

Well it’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise.”

Aegon gives his guitar a final few strums as the cafeteria erupts into cheers and applause. His bandmates bow to their audience as Aegon takes off his guitar, leaps down from the stage, runs to you as children twist in their seats to stare. He’s wearing khaki shorts, tan moccasins, a half-unbuttoned white shirt that actually fits him, dog tags with Daeron’s name on them. He’s so afraid to ask the question; he’s terrified you won’t say the right answer. “Io…what the hell are you doing here?”

You shrug, casual, teasing. “Didn’t like where I was. Thought I’d try someplace new.”

He touches your face to make sure you’re real, marveling at you, his voice going hushed. “We’ve lost so much time.”

“Don’t worry. Your life’s only half over.”

Aegon laughs, eyes shining. “I’m really, really looking forward to the rest of it.”

You can feel the smile on his lips as he kisses you; you can hear a quiet, kind melody that fills the universe, the sound of all the chains of gravity breaking and moons drifting free from their planets.

[milkbobatyun]

goodnight, my love

pairing: arlecchino x gn!reader

genre: angstober, events

summary: the battle has been fought and won, it's time to go celebrate with her loved ones. yet, they've all fallen into eternal sleep

word count: 962

a/n: if you can't tell by this, oml arlecchino has me in a choke hold. so sad i didn't get her when i was trying to pull for her :< n e ways, i've literally been wanting to write for her for ages, hope yall enjoy !

the world around you was a choking mixture of debris and ash, smoke rising from where the house of the hearth stood. from where you lay, you could see flashes of red, and the deadly song of metal screeching against each other in a fight to death echoed through the hallways.

the mournful wind groaned through the hallways, brushing the wounds on your back with their frigid fingers.

the sun was beginning to set, its warm rays gliding down your body, as the cool night air crept in. the stars were visible from a gaping hole in the roof where you lay, looking down on you in pity.

a fiery beam shot up from the ground, the grumble and creak of the house collapsing rang out far and wide, a mournful final groan before its fall. peruere had won.

that thought alone brought a smile to your face. she was going to be a great king.

the coldness of the night seeped under your clothing, the blood coating your clothes made you shiver. clervie couldn’t stand beside peruere and watch her succeed, but you were more selfish. you wanted to stand beside her, comfort her in times of need, when she felt weak. but now, you could only pray to the archons that you could see her one last time.

from afar, you heard the familiar sound of heels, clacking along. a sound you had long since memorised. it was her. gripping a nearby rock, you tapped a much-used code against the hard floor. flashes of memories were brought back.

huddling together under the blankets, clervie cheekily warming her cold feet on you, as peruere gently scolding the two of you, love evident in her tone. listening to peruere read the two of you stories from the books in the library, your sanction in a cutthroat house. sliding your desserts to clervie, knowing her love of all things sweet.

the rhythmic steps came closer, rapid and in time with your heartbeat, running towards you. 

peruere burst around the corner, holding her breath, hoping it was you. panting and with sweat beading on her forehead, she dropped to her knees in front of your form, sprawled on the cold stone floor.

“[name],” she breathed, relief evident in her voice. “you’re alive.”

she cradled you in her arms, as though you were a treasured, porcelain doll, easily broken by a careless bump. a faint smile was on her face. she was glad, you were still alive.

you reached up, fingers brushing against the cuts on her cheek and forehead.

“you’re injured.” you point out, a sad pout on your face. “i’m feeling a little tired, but once i take a quick nap, we’ll go find clervie. she’ll help patch you up.”

peruere’s smile dropped, confusion creasing her features.

“love…” peruere’s voice was a sad whisper. “clervie… she didn’t make it.”

your mind felt foggy, your breaths becoming fast and shallow. perhaps the battle took its toll on you.

“no,” you insisted, shaking your head. “she’s right there, watching us.”

peruere turns to where your finger points, but no one is there.

“this isn’t funny anymore, [name].” peruere scolds, fear saturating her tone. it reflected in her unique pupils. she’s scared. “it isn’t the time for jokes.”

you blink owlishly up at her, looking like a lost puppy. the cold of the night is creeping into your bones and you start shivering, teeth chattering.

peruere reaches up to remove her coat, but her eyes are drawn to her hands. they’re dyed red, a deep, scarlet red. a crimson she’s familiar with. blood. you’re bleeding. it had been pooling underneath you, turning into a large puddle, painting the floor into a macabre canvas.

the world was spinning, darkness creeping across your vision like ivy. your eyelids were weighed down by lead, your panting harsh and fast.

you rest your icy hand on peruere’s soft cheek, its warmth seeping into your skin. with all your remaining strength, you flash her a cheery smile.

peruere’s breath hitched. she had seen that smile countless times.

when her and clervie surprised you on your birthday. when you woke up during your fever and saw peruere’s face hovering over you, peering down in concern. when she had praised your drawings. you beamed as though she had promised to give you the world.

her lips quivered, she couldn’t return your smile. crystalline tears pooled in her eyes, glistening under the moonshine.

with a trembling hand, you wiped at the droplets that escaped, your touch ghosting against her skin.

“don’t cry, peruere.” you comforted her, sadness clouding your eyes, water misting your vision. “it’ll make me sad, i won’t be there to wipe your tears anymore.”

“i’m just going to take a quick nap.” you promised, snuggling deep into peruere’s warmth. “i’ll wait for you in celestia.”

peruere watched you as you closed your eyes, a serene smile on your face. you looked as though you were deep in peaceful sleep.

your hand slid down her face, though she clutched it close, longing to feel your touch once more. turning your hand over, peruere placed a final, lingering kiss in the palm of your hand. 

maybe if she prayed hard enough to celestia, you would wake up again, call her name so sweetly, laugh together with her.

unshed tears clung to her lashes, hanging onto them as desperately as she cradled you in her embrace, hands sticky with your blood. she refused to let you go, even as the world around her burned.

celestia was too cruel, taking away clervie, her best friend and you, the one she loved, her whole world, whom she would burn the world for, all in one night. 

that night, arlecchino had lost her home and her family.

taglist (open): @yeonjunsfox

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobayun 2024 / づ ♡

[catnipaddictt]

hi! i was wondering if you could write something like where sam and reader have been best friends since forever, and the reader’s parents decide to go on a family roadtrip with sam and reader. the reader’s parents didn’t know they were dating but find out cause sam and reader fell asleep while cuddling/hand-in-hand

it’s totally ok if you don’t want to write it and sorry if this looked weird but i REALLY like your posts 💓

sam monroe x gn!reader

wc: 0.6k

cw: none this is just fluff!

comment: I LOVE LOVE LOVE THIS REQUEST SO THANK YOU ANON!!!

The early morning sun cast its rays across the nearly empty street. It would be deserted if it wasn’t for your family. Every year for as long as you could remember, your parents had done an annual road trip down the coast, stopping at small towns along the way. You look forward to it every year, counting down the days till summer break arrives. 

However, this year was going to be different to most. Your parents had agreed, no offered, to take your best friend, Sam, with you guys this time. What your parents didn’t know was that you and Sam had been dating for the better half of the year now, and you were both looking forward to spending this time together. 

You had known Sam since you had started school together all those years ago, and you had become attached at the hip ever since. Your parents like to recount the days when the two of you were 4 ft tall and a lot less trouble than you were now. As Sam got older, he took on a more alternative look, something you admire about him. He was just so…cool. You didn’t know how else to describe it. His black hair (which you dye for him) and selection of piercings suited him and his personality perfectly. And when he asked you to show him how to do eyeliner when you both turned 14 you happily obliged. 

You throw your bag into the back seat before climbing in and buckingly up your seatbelt. Your parents were going to drive the 3 minutes to Sam’s house to pick him up before beginning your road trip. The sound of the car’s engine excites you, and when you pull into Sam’s driveway a few minutes later you are ecstatic. You hop out of your seat, and walk swiftly to the door before knocking twice.

Sam’s hair appears before you see the rest of him and he grumbles out “It's too early for this sort of carry on, your parents are crazy.” You laugh at him. He was never very good at early starts. “You can sleep in the car, come on!” 

You pull Sam and his bag to the car and you both climb in, settling down for the long trip ahead. Your parents greet Sam and make some small talk before turning on the radio. The sound of rock ‘n’ roll fills your ears and you nod your head along in time to the beat. Sam just looks at you like you are insane. 

Sam lies his head back on the car seat headrest, looking up at the car roof. He is tired and you can tell. You sneak your hand into his, covered by the bags in between you. If your parents noticed, they certainly didn’t say anything. He glances at you, gently squeezing your hand in his ring-clad one. 

As your parents drive down the coast, your hands stay intertwined, even as you both slowly begin to nod off, waking up at the crack of dawn taking its toll. By late morning you are both passed out, Sam’s head resting on your shoulder.

Eventually your parents pull into a small town for a bathroom break and to stretch their legs. Turning around to shake you both awake, your mother shakes her head at the sight of the two of you. Somewhere along the winding roads, the bags concealing your interlocked fingers had fallen to your feet, revealing your hands. 

She laughs to herself, smiling before turning to your dad; “I knew something was up with them.” she whisper-yells, happy that it's Sam and not some other douchebag guy. You dad grins, “should we wake them up?” 

“No, let's let them enjoy their moment.”

When you and Sam wake up, you are both met with two smiling faces and a lot of explaining to do.

Apologies for any writing mistakes, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!!

Taglist: @heartsforanakin @qvnthesia @ysrjune @anisscarletstarlet

[dilatorywriting]

Pity Party

Gender Neutral Reader x Malleus Draconia Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: 'I'm going to do it,' you thought triumphantly. 'I'm going to invite Malleus Draconia to the next Unbirthday Party as my date.' And naturally, the Universe in all its infinite omnipotence, went 'lol bet.'

A/N: A very fun commission for the lovely @toast-tales

“Heartslaybul is having another one of their Unbirthday Parties this Friday,” you said, a bit stilted but enthusiastic nevertheless. “And I was thinking—well, it was just a thought! But! Maybe it’d be nice if we, y’know, went together?” You finished, looking up from beneath your lashes at the looming figure before you.

The Gargoyle, naturally, did not respond. A sound rejection if ever there was one.

But! That attempt had sounded really good, hadn’t it? Totally natural and everything! Not a single stutter, fainting episode, or bought of nervous vomiting to be seen!

“Okay,” you muttered, pacing back and forth as you diligently fought the urge to ring your hands. “Okay, okay, okay. I can do this. It’s just, like, two sentences—Three? Was that three?—Doesn’t matter! Focus! It’s not that hard!”

You circled and circled around the alcove. It was a familiar little corner, for all that you’d only ever seen it in the dark of the evening. This was where you’d meet up with Malleus for your nighttime rendezvous. Normally you didn’t bother popping by for at least another hour, but you needed all the practice you could get. And while, yes, the stone carvings overhead were hardly the best conversational partners, it was easier to practice your totally smooth pickup skills on their emotionless faces than, like, Grim. Or God forbid, Ace and Deuce. 

It was only Malleus, you reassured yourself yet again—your kindly, awkward, fey friend with the social awareness of a two-centuries-old potato. It was one thing to know, or at least assume, that he’d be sweet enough to take your offer in stride. It was another entirely to imagine the Briar Prince’s blank ass face saying something genuinely well-intentioned but harsh like ‘that doesn’t sound like a particularly riveting way to spend my afternoon,’ and immediately crushing your soul into itty bitty bite-sized pieces. It was an all too easy scene to picture, as you’d done at least a hundred times since your heart had set itself on its intentions.

You just—maybe just a bit more time. Yes. One more round of practice (perhaps two), and then you’d be ready. Like the Overblots, or whatever. Those hardly phased you at all anymore! It only took repetitive, mind rending, exposure therapy. That would do it. You just needed the teeniest bit more time to—

“Ah—Child of Man. I wasn’t expecting to see you here so earl—”

You jolted back with a truly heinous squawk and wheeled gracelessly into the stone pillar at your rear. You weren’t exactly a force of nature or anything, but the column hadn’t looked all that stable to begin with. So your frantic flailing took its toll, and the great, rock, beam creaked and fell. The Gargoyle perched atop it (the very one you’d been propositioning for the past half hour or so) crashed to the ground with an echoing BOOM and a cloud of debris fit to choke an elephant.

The poor thing lay in the dirt in pieces, its regal countenance split right down the middle. And Malleus Draconia, noted aficionado of all things carved from stone, looked two steps away from having an actual aneurism. So you hurriedly buried your invitation back in the depths of your brain and quickly went about carrying out the inanimate-object-equivalent of CPR.

“I think I have some super glue back in Ramshackle,” you offered. Even though you knew well enough that he could probably wave his hand and undo the entire thing. But it was the thought that counted, right?

“Supered Glue?” Malleus parroted, his neon eyes darting back and forth between you and the shattered gargoyle like you’d just offered him some mystical panacea. You nodded along and scuttled off in the direction of your dilapidated dorm.

‘Tomorrow,’ you promised yourself, as you rifled through your miscellaneous utilities drawer, tossing around rolls of tape and wads of too-thin elastic bands. ‘Tomorrow I’ll ask him.’

.

.

The next morning, you sat in Potion’s Class with the tacky remnants of last night’s nonsense dried along your fingertips. You sneezed and something ground unpleasantly behind your ear. You reached up to pluck a stray bit of gravel from your hair and flicked it aside.

Normally you tried to give Crewel’s lectures the entirety of your focus, primarily because you respected the man and wanted him to like you. And also, y’know, from the very rational standpoint of not wanting to lose your eyebrows or dignity when an incorrectly brewed potion exploded in your face. But today you were stuck in the clouds, replaying scenario after scenario and wondering what your next step in the whole ‘Ask The Crowned Prince of An Entire Nation Out to Lunch’ situation should be.

Your neck was itching again, and you scrubbed around mindlessly before pulling out another bit of gargoyle debris and tossing it. It bounced harmlessly off Jack’s shoulder.

“Did you get all that?” Your beastman friend asked, beginning the tedious process of organizing your group workstation for the day.

“Oh? Yes. Of course,” you nodded, not having heard a single word of what was going on. You grabbed your little instructions pamphlet for the day and made your way towards your own stool.

Jack turned and narrowed his yellow eyes at you in a way that clearly let you know that that superhuman schnoz of his had sniffed out your bullshit a mile away, but you generally had a better track record than the rest of the first years, so thankfully he let it slide.

Without further ado, you went about heating, and mixing, and tempering. And by the end, the pair of you had a lovely, silver, concoction that popped and fizzled like cola. Professor Crewel paused in his rounds of the rows to stare into your cauldron with an impassive sort of look that could have meant anything from ‘Content’ to ‘Outright Murder.’ Your eyes hastily flickered around the room, but everyone else’s potions looked liked Mercury Sprite too, so you couldn’t have been in too much trouble. You dipped the testing spoon into one of the bubbliest bits and brought it to your mouth to take a teeny sip. It tasted alright, and you smacked your lips as you tried to identify the flavor.

“Well?” The professor droned, crossing his arms over his chest in a fashion that looked entirely unimpressed. “How is it?”

You opened your mouth to reply and nothing came out but static. Literal static. Like you were some overloaded, old, plug—spitting sparks and whiny, high-pitched, nonsense that was most definitely an indication of some sort of fire risk.

Crewel hummed in that self-satisfied sort of way of his—the sort that was only mastered by those who were in the habit of being proven right during every, single, catastrophe.

“The Tickled Tongue recipe is fairly straightforward, you see,” he explained, stepping closer with a languid swishswish of his large overcoat. “It’s difficult to alter without any remarkable change or err. However,” he droned, “it is incredibly similar to the Stone Tongued Elixir. Do you know what the one, unique, ingredient in that brew is in comparison to our assigned project today, Prefect?”

You sighed fuzz.

“Stone,” he said, reaching out to pluck another bit of gravel from your hair.

Crewel brushed his hands against his vest and you debated if it’d be worth it to try jumping out of the window and escape while you still had at least some face.

“I’ve been kind enough to look the other way when you break curfew so that you may continue your… nightly excursions with a certain upperclassman,” he droned, and that open window was looking even more tempting. “But please at least give me the courtesy of cleaning up the evidence before attending my class in the mornings, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” you tried to say, but it just sounded like a busted landline.

.

.

“Hello, Child of Man,” Malleus beamed, his lips curling pleasantly at the corners. His usual trio were flanking his hind, all watching with varying degrees of interest that ranged from sharp curiosity (Lilia) to outright hostility (Sebek).  “Would you care to accompany me for lunch?”

You opened your mouth and all that came out was the fucking AOL dial tone.

Lilia doubled over laughing and Malleus tilted his head at you like a dog listening to a whistle tone.

“Pardon?” He blinked.

“BZZZZZZ,” you said, miserable, and Lilia just laughed harder.

.

.

‘Two days left,’ you reminded yourself miserably. You had just under forty-eight wretched hours to not only complete your initial Date Objective, but also somehow do that whole thing while making up for the ego-crushing failures of your first two failures.  

There was a Spelldrive match after classes today—another attempt for Leona to try and get one up on Malleus’s ‘Hall of Fame Worthy’ record before the pair of them aged out of the competition. And maybe that would be perfect! That was always sort of a Thing in teen movies, right? The big, heart wrenching, confession delivered on the field of whatever sport was in season. The fated couple lit all prettily beneath the glaring overhead lights and artfully drenched in a very timely shower of rain. This whole situation was practically writing itself.

So you tucked yourself into a warm, cozy, sweater fit for the breezy day and inevitable aesthetic downpour, and went to sit out in the stands. Which was your first mistake, because the match was being held on Savanaclaw’s practice field. So immediately you could feel sweat pooling along your lower back and along your brow as the magical, overhead, sunshine did its best to seer the flesh right off your bones. Malleus moved to step out onto the field and you went to wave at him enthusiastically, only to catch sight of the giant pit stains steeped into your stupid sweater. The dark spots opened up like the gaping maw on a beast, determined to derive its entire sustenance from your embarrassment alone. You clamped your arms back down to your sides and immediately began questioning the universe at large. Were you a murderer in a past life? Someone who scammed old ladies out of their pensions? What other reason could there be for the entire fucking cosmos to just perpetually go ‘hey, how about we make things worse.’

The game was probably going well or something, but you were swimming in so much swampy body heat at this point that you were starting to get dizzy.

With a sigh, you pulled the cute, wool, deathtrap over your head and tossed it aside—ruffling your sweat sticky hair for good measure to try and get some airflow going. It wasn’t the most dignified look or whatever, sitting there in only the thin cotton undershirt of your uniform and half drowned in your own secretions, but at least you weren’t in imminent danger of dying of heat stroke anymore. You leaned back on your elbows with another much more contented sigh and gave yourself a moment to let the last of that hot nausea settle.

“Oi! You horned bastard! Watch where you’re—”

There was a swirl of spitting green sparks and you looked back out onto the field just in time to get absolutely decimated by a Spelldrive disc to the face.

.

.

“He really didn’t mean it,” Lilia said, but he was laughing so hard into his fist that it was hard to make out anything beyond merry gurgling. “In fact, he’s really very upset about the whole thing.”

You stared blankly at the off-white walls of the infirmary, wondering how it was possible for one person’s luck to be this bad.

“Where is he?” you asked. Your tongue felt thick and sluggish.

“I don’t think he would appreciate me saying that he was off hiding—pouting, even,” the fey tutted, floating up to sit cross-legged at your eyelevel. “But I don’t believe there’s a much more accurate way of putting it.”

“Why would he be hiding?” you trudged forward again, mouth still entirely uncooperative. “I wanted to ask him something,” you admitted, chronically dejected and acutely brain damaged.

“Did you now?” Lilia grinned, something mischievous and far too knowing lighting his wine-red eyes.

You nodded. You could feel the tug of the bandages around your forehead.

“Well, I’ll ask that you be patient with him,” he sighed fondly, reaching out to pat your cheek. “For all his years, our Prince is still a bit stunted.”

“Oh, please! He’s six and a half feet tall!” you complained.

Lilia laughed again, doubling over in the air and doing a full roll about—like a pill bug.

“Oh, dear,” he snickered, wiping a tear from his eye as he straightened back out to lounge upside down by one of the rafters. “You do deserve each other.”

.

.

This was it. The final countdown. Friday.

The Unbirthday Party was this afternoon, and with God and the Heavens as your witness, you would be dragging Malleus Draconia there with you if it was the last thing you did.

‘The hardest part is supposed to be the rejection,’ you thought bitterly. ‘Not that crap leading up to it. This is bullshit. I want a refund.’

But no, if the Universe was going to be so cruel to you, then you were just going to have to be needlessly paranoid and prepared in advance. You set aside two spare sets of clothing and an umbrella. You packed an entire feast’s worth of provisions in case a fucking hole decided to open up in the ground or something and trap you in a cave for a week. You scribbled a little ‘Would you please go with me to the Unbirthday Party today’ on not one, or two, but three separate notes. Each in a different pocket. And laminated. And, perhaps most daring of all, you walked up to Ace and Deuce that morning with a stiff upper lip and an even stiffer spine.

“I’m going to ask Tsunotarou to come to the Unbirthday Party today,” you told them, fighting the urge to twist your hands into your jacket sleeves.

“What?” Ace choked, just as Deuce stepped in to clobber him over the back of the head and tell you very sweetly that he was sure that the House Warden would appreciate that very much.

“You must like him a lot,” your blue haired friend said, polite but clearly also at least a little unnerved.

“Yeah,” you sighed miserably, thinking of each and every horrible failure as the world at large fought your stupid affections at every turn. “I guess I do.”

So you went about your day like a soldier trudging through a warzone—always at the ready for something unknowable to fuck you over yet again. You looked twice around every corner, always let someone else walk through a doorway first, immediately spritzed Azul in the face with a spray bottle when he tried to start a conversation. It wasn’t paranoia when you knew the universe was out to get you.

The school day was coming to an end and so far you’d managed to avoid any catastrophes. When you caught sight Malleus off in the distance, you had to fight down the sudden swell of dueling panic and hope that blocked off your throat. You made eye contact with the fey prince from across the near empty corridor and he seemed to straighten. You took a deep breath and took one step forward, then another.

“Tsunotarou!” you called cheerfully. “I was wondering if you—”

“FIRE!” Crowley wailed, careening around the corner with all the urgency of someone who very much genuinely cared about the safety of their school and all its inhabitants. Which was outright ridiculous. His glowing, golden, eyes locked on you like you’d been the target of this caterwauling all along, and you wanted to scream. “Ah! My most darling and favorite of Prefects! You have to help! There’s a fire in—”

“No,” you snarled, like some great monster of old. And you watched the Headmaster pale beneath his bird mask. You reached out to pat his shoulder with a pleasantly threatening thump. thump. thump. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to sort it out on your own, sir. Have a lovely afternoon!”

And before you could chicken out, or something else could happen—like a tornado ripping the entire school up at its base and flinging you into Oz—you rushed forward and latched onto Malleus’s sleeve with a wide, panicked, sort of look in your eyes. Hisown eyes went round and wide, but he didn’t pull away, so step one complete.

“Please come to Heartslaybul’s Unbirthday Party with me!” You entreated. “As my date! With me! Together!” you word vomited, clutching at his sleeve even tighter.

“Oh,” Malleus breathed—those sharp, reptilian, pupils of his jumping into something soft and huge that swallowed the green of his irises in a sea of black. A pale, rose, pink crept along the tips of his pointed ears and you could feel your own cheeks blazing like a bonfire.

“Yup,” you nodded lamely, realizing you were still clutching his hand like a starving leper.

“Lilia had mentioned that you might…” he trailed off, gaze sliding to your fingers tangled beside his. “I hadn’t thought that—well…” He cleared his throat and stood to his full height with a puff that almost looked prideful. “Nevertheless,” he grinned, almost shy, and offered you his arm. “Shall we?”

You were going to die. Keel over. That would be the cosmos’s final strike against you. But though your heart beat like a rapid drum in your chest, you didn’t actually collapse in cardiac arrest. Your blood felt warm, but not with fever. It was… You’d actually done it!

You fought the urge to squeal and instead ducked excitedly against Malleus’s side with a secret little fist bump. His arm wound snuggly through yours and you were still too high on the thrill of victory to even consider being embarrassed about it.

“It may surprise you to know,” he said as you walked together towards the Queen of Heart’s Dormitory. “That I actually was attempting to ask something similar of you for this past week as well.”

“Really?” you gaped.

He nodded. “But it seemed as though fate itself was conspiring against me. The first evening went poorly, and then the next day you’d been cursed into silence. And you even ended up injured during one of my attempts.”

“The Spelldrive disc?” you blinked.

“Unfortunately,” Malleus sighed, leading you towards the familiar rose gardens. Which were lovely as always, and perfectly well painted for the afternoon’s festivities, and—

And… also on fire.

“Well what do you know…” you mumbled as you watched a furious Riddle chase a screeching Ace through the flaming fields. Trey had his head in his hands. Cater was filming the whole thing with an artful smear of ash drawn across his cheek.

Malleus made a low rumble of discontentment and you immediately swung the pair of you around to start heading back towards the Mirror Chamber.

“Not to worry!” you beamed, pointedly jostling the full picnic lunch in your bag. Sure, it hadn’t ended up being a gaping hole that had dragged you straight into the bowels of the abyss, but hey. Hellfire was hellfire. “I came prepared.”

“So did I,” Malleus smirked, the points of his canines peaking out of his lower lip. He twisted his fingers and the pair of you were surrounded in puffs of floating, sparkling, green lights.

And despite the Universe technically, yet again, having come out on top and flipped you and your date the proverbial middle finger, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be too upset at all.

.

.

[mx-pastelwriting]

GOW HC - Having a baby with them

God of War x GN! Reader

Summary: Having a baby with them.

Warnings: Fluff, Established Relationship, Pregnancy, Tears. Lost of them.

Characters: Kratos, Thor, Freyr, Heimdall

A/N: All canon kids exist.

Kratos

- Being some years after Atreus leaves, finding love again with you. It didn’t take long until you fell pregnant, as his pull-out game is a little weak, especially after such a long time since he’s participated in the ritual.

- A bit shocked to learn the news after days of taking care of you while feeling helpless waiting for Freya to come back to Midgard. Though after the news and Freya's leaving, he’s all smiles and laughs—none that you've ever seen or heard before—filled with happiness at the chance to start a family once again and for Atreus to have a sibling. Sending him a message a day after the news while you took a nap.

- Very lovey-dovey during the pregnancy, coming more out of his hard spartan shell as you started to show more. Always placing a hand on your stomach, not caring if there wasn't anything to show yet. Insists on doing everything, not with words, of course—doing the cooking, cleaning, even making the bed—he does it all. Resting one evening with a hand on your belly, feeling them kick, jumping at the feeling at first, only realizing the little one was fighting against his heavy hand.

- Rubbing your belly every minute of every day while speaking to them in his Greek tongue, wanting them to hear his voice clearly, not knowing Norse very well. Sometimes his talking catches your attention, thinking it was for you, but as soon as he kneels, you know who they were for.

- Keeping Freya on standby as the time got closer, going hunting less, but bringing back more food every time, knowing he’d have to stay with you after the birth. When going into labor, he stays calm, holding you, kissing your skin softly as encouragement and comfort through the pain. Taking every painful squeeze of the hand, wiping away every drop of sweat that came from your forehead.

- Finally hearing the screams of your new baby coming into the world, he cries silently, holding the little bundle in his arms. With you calming down from the pain, he dared not take his amber eyes off of them. Days passed, waking from naps to hear him softly talking to the baby, watching as he around the clock cared for them, not caring about the toll it had on him. 

Waking only minutes ago, seeing Kartos’s tired state after having fed and rocked the baby for their nap, finally putting down the bundle of joy. Calling for your husband to get his slow attention, reaching out a hand, he takes it, letting you pull him into the bed. 

Taking the hulking god into your arms, letting him rest on your pillow, watching as sleep swiftly takes him. Only seconds after the uncomfortable whines of the baby started making him shoot out of sleep, quickly pushing him down promising to take care of them, did he rest after three days of no sleep.

-

Thor

- It wouldn’t have taken long at all, as the man's drive is high, but if you were careful, it would take a year or two. The pull-out game isn’t that strong, but if you don’t say anything during the act or before, he won’t pull out.

- All laughs when finding out it was only a matter of time; also thankful that you weren’t sick, just pregnant. Tells everyone when you’re okay with it, shows you off proudly as he’s going to become a father again.

- Clingy, so clingy since finding out. Staying in bed longer to cuddle, rubbing your belly, not caring if nothing was showing yet. Would stop drinking during the pregnancy; though hard, he would do it for you, keeping away from Odin as much as he could. Even asking Baldur to take some of his jobs. Feeling them kick for the first time, he would only smile, commenting on their strength or their trying to reach for Mjölnir, causing you both to laugh.

- Laying next to your stomach at night, talking to them endlessly, only stopping as he fell asleep from you playing with his long hair. Would allow you to use him like a body pillow, any position needed at night, he makes it happen. 

- When going off to a job, he has one of his oldest to watch you, mostly Magni, but Modi tags along if you want to go out to walk around the lands of Asgard. Though Heimdall is rarely asked, when Thor knows the job will be a long one, he asks. Surprisingly, Heimdall is more talkative about the new child of Thor than their siblings. 

- As you got bigger, his fights with Odin would ramp up, wanting to stay closer in case you go into labor, not even bothering to leave your shared chamber, keeping close with you as you'd been put on bed rest as growing a half-god, half-giant wasn't easy. Finally, as the time came, it went by quickly as a flash, with every medic in Asgard being there to help while Thor held your hand with tears streaming down his face.

- The first few days would be filled with tears and naps—you having the naps, of course. Thor, knowing what to do already, growing a routine with the little one as you healed from the birth. When healed, he insists on showing the little one around Asgard, knowing it was an excuse to show them off to everyone, but you agree. Seeing how he dressed them up cutely before showing them off to the family. 

Watching as the sleeping baby's feet bounced fitted with the cutest booties, Thor walked with the little one cradled against his chest with a soft cloth. Entering the front room, everyone's eyes watching as they started to gush over the little bundle.

Some were too afraid to get too close to Thor, and the other gods that cooed watched from behind the small crowd, looking around the room meeting a familiar pair of purple eyes. Quickly, they looked away, acting as if he was never interested in the new addition, knowing he'd be around later when Thor was away to meet the little one.

-

Freyr

- Three words. God of Fertility. This man has no pull-out game. Though if you were cautious enough, you would be spared for some time, but the man has a high drive, so good luck if you were planning on not having one right away.

- Thinks it's a joke at first since you both always poke funny at each other lightly, once in passing about him being the god of fertility. When it hits him, tears start. After many years of chasing people that he had feelings for over and over, the dream of having a family of his own finally came true, thanks to you.

- Though he loved the realms, the love he has for you is greater, meaning traveling to them would stop wanting to take care of you. However, you both go one last time to Alfheim, taking it slow in your early stages of pregnancy, going to the temple, bringing together both dark and light elves asking for their blessing on your growing child.

- As you get bigger, so does Freyr get even softer, lying next to you at the end of the day, at first noticing how antsy he is since going cold turkey on traveling. Until you give him the idea of reliving the travels through stories, happily doing so to the audience of you and the little one. Cuddling atop your belly as the little one kicked against his cheek, causing Freyr to shoot up, slow to figure out what the feeling was. Then, realizing with big eyes, it all ending in him playfully scolding the child, only getting a rebellious kick in return.

- Would start to get a hair-pulling amount of stress as you struggled in the late stages of pregnancy, Freyr having to do most things around the house just to keep you from getting up out of bed. Having Freya, of course, to help in the birth, though months before he had asked where you wished for it to happen in any river or realm, he would be happy to fulfill the dream as you did with his.

- Surprised at how tiring parenting is, barely getting to see his nephew grow up, the man is clueless about all of it. Fortunately, thanks to Freya, you both wouldn't be totally in the dark. Still, Freyr made the experience of parenthood even more memorable. From putting the baby's diaper on wrong to overfeeding for the reason of them being so cute,.

Waking to the noise of a familiar voice cooing, looking over to Freyr's side, not seeing his head on the pillow but glancing down, seeing him cuddled against your stomach. Kissing away at your stretched skin, loving as the baby kicks back at his papa's kind words and kisses. 

Noticing your awoken eyes on him, looking up meeting his pretty brown eyes, hoping they'd share them—if not this one, then next—knowing he'd say yes to that request.

-

Heimdall

- Heimdall has a good amount of self-control, so his pull-out game is nothing to laugh at. Meaning you would have to beg for a baby, but even then, he wouldn't want one not understanding them or the want for them.

- Quiet at first with the realization that it was all becoming real; the thought of a child and caring for one being only nine months away scared him. A change in him happens when hearing the news, growing a new sense of protection for the both of you, no longer seeking out fights to fill his ego. Slowly leaving Odin's side trading it for yours. For once, doubt crept up about his abilities—not in combat, but in him being a father.

- Every day watching you grow panic built within him bad enough to where it was visible, having to question his wellness a few times before finally breaking down letting all of his doubts spill, leaving you to put everything back together. Reassuring you'd get through it together, mistakes were inevitable, but learning to fix them is what matters.

- Isn't going to be very cuddling or a show-off in public, choosing to keep close instead, whether around the corner or from afar on the wall. When he's at home, it's all cuddles, cradling your bump, reading aloud to the both of you. Doesn't talk much to them, only states things as if teaching them through your stomach wall. Relaxing on nights, a hand to your stomach, getting the urge to move his hand away, only realizing why as the feeling of a kick caused him to gasp aloud.

- Grows eager to leave his watches early as you progress into the late stages, wanting to be there if anything were to happen. Finding his heart always racing when looking at your belly in silence, it bothered him still, being the only thing he couldn't predict. If your mobility was stunted from the pregnancy, he would go so far as to ask Baldur to take day watches, with Heimdall taking nights.

- Going into labor, Heimdall would be soft yet snappy, making sure no one was to make any mistakes. Taking every one of your screams and painful hand squeezes, soothing you with words of encouragement and promises for the future. Finally, hearing a different cry fill the room, tears run down his face, trying but failing to hide them. 

- Becomes such a cautious dad, not allowing his other family to see them until a month goes by, not wanting them to get sick. Wears a baby sling around the house while cooking, cleaning, reading to them as you heal from the birth. Showing Odin what a good father is, but when having to go back to patrols, his heart breaks, crying as he gives you the little one in the mornings before going off.

Tears threaten to spill from Heimdall's eyes while handing over your child, no longer allowed to spend days and nights with the baby. Now having to go back to his work for Asgard even with your reassurance, his pride was no longer with Asgard but with you and the new addition to your family.

Giving them a final shower of kisses before giving one to you, stepping back, taking in the sight before going off to his first day back. Sighing as the door finally closes, taking the baby only a few steps away before the door bursts open with a crying Heimdall wanting his baby back. (The man would definitely have the baby in the sling while patrolling the wall.)

-

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is any grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

𝙏𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩: @fullmoonwolfer1 @loki-love

♥ mx-pastelwriting does not consent to their work being copied, translated, or reposted on any other platform without permission.

[nyrandrea]

No because he is as well, I adore the way he was written!! I was the same gigglin n kickin my feet each n everytime 😭

But can I ask for a request then, so say reader n Astarion ( plus two others ) are in an fight and reader just gets badly injured n knocked out and he just loses it killing anyone in his path to get to reader caring about them agshdudisowowi

Thanks so much for the request! I had quite a bit of fun writing this prompt.

Few warnings for canon-typical violence, blood, injury and animal death. Yyyyeah it is quite the doozy.

Word Count - 1.9k

Hope you enjoy!

xxx

The moon hung low in the starlit sky, its pale light casting ghostly shadows upon a narrow, winding mountain path. You and your party had been travelling all day as you wanted to cover more considerable ground to make up for time lost due to camping. However, the physical toll it was taking on everyone was starting to show as you all moved cautiously through the rugged terrain. 

Lae’zel was understandably the most resilient of the group, her tough demeanor betrayed only by the beads of sweat that trailed down her knitted eyebrows as she focused on conquering the path ahead. Shadowheart seemed to be driven purely by spite just to keep up with the githyanki; you almost had to fight her a few times just to get her to stop and catch her breath before she keeled over.  

You were feeling pretty run down yourself, every step felt heavier as time dragged on and your muscles were screaming at you to stop, but if you made it to that rock, to that tree, just over the hill, across the river, only then could you rest. 

You said that about ten rocks and five rivers ago. 

“That’s it!” A familiar voice shouted out from behind you, and you instinctively rolled your eyes. “I can’t take this anymore.” 

Turning around, you were greeted with the sorry sight of Astarion collapsing onto his knees and huffing for breath, and it seemed as if he wasn’t going to get back up anytime soon.  

“Astarion-” 

“Don’t you ‘Astarion’ me with that... little disappointed pout of yours,” the vampire said. “I am literally on my knees begging here, darling. We need to stop for the night.” 

“As sad as your little theatrics are,” Shadowheart walked over to the two of you and smirked down at him before turning to you. “He does have a point. We’ve been walking all day; I think I lost all feeling in my feet about half an hour ago.”  

“And you say he is the dramatic one?” Lae’zel cut in, sneering down at you from a higher ledge. “Look at you all, complaining like children. This is nothing compared to-” 

“Yes, yes, you have endured a horrendous array of training throughout your arduous upbringing on the Astral Plane that has transformed you into the fearsome warrior you are today; we get it,” Astarion said sarcastically, earning a snort of laughter from Shadowheart and a scowl from yourself. “But I for one am not made of pure titanium and would like to rest.” 

“Fine,” Lae’zel growled. “But if the ghaik tadpole decides to turn your insides out because of your time wasting, then I shall be all too happy to end your life.” 

“It’s a deal, darling.” 

With everyone in agreement, you relieved yourself of your heavy backpack and quickly got to work on setting up a makeshift camp. Dinner was a small, cooked rabbit to share, while Astarion waited patiently for you to finish until you let him drink his fill. You didn’t miss the concerned glance shared between Shadowheart and Lae’zel but said nothing. 

As the darkness deepened and the others retired for the evening, you decided you didn’t quite want to go to sleep quite yet— a decision you were probably going to regret come morning. Regardless, the stars were out tonight, and you weren’t certain when you might next get to enjoy them during this treacherous journey, if ever. 

The tadpole behind your eye wriggled slightly, and you were worried it was going to waste your night with a migraine and unwanted whispers, but instead it settled down. You huff a sigh of relief; you were spared, for tonight anyway. 

Despite the sky above being a sight to behold, your eyes couldn’t help but keep wandering down. Astarion was sitting across from you, his eyes creased and lips in a tight line as he concentrated on the ghastly book spread across his lap. The Necromancy of Thay had been his focus of attention for these past few nights, and you were honestly starting to worry a little for him. Sure, it was you who had given it to him in the first place (after he practically begged you for it), but the way he hyper focused on it at times was... concerning, to say the least. 

You clear your throat, hoping to catch his attention. 

It doesn’t work; you try again. 

“Oh, do shut up...!” 

His sharp tone makes you recoil slightly, and the vampire mirrors you, glancing between you and the book with widened eyes. 

“O-Oh no, I didn’t mean you, my dear. It’s this blasted book,” Astarion says, frowning down at it like a disappointed parent. “I can’t make heads or tails of the damn thing.” 

“Do you... need some help?” You meekly offer, even though you didn’t know the first thing about necromancy; some things were just best left untouched in your opinion. 

“You’re a sweetheart,” he breathes out a little chuckle. “But no.” He allows the book to close with a heavy thump before his eyes trail back up, lingering on you for a moment. “But I could do with a... little distraction.” 

As the fire crackles and pops, your cheeks flare up as Astarion slowly crawls his way around, not stopping until he is only inches away from you. Not quite knowing what to do or where to look, your body goes stiff as he slowly leans in towards you.  

“What do you think, hm?” he purrs, his knuckle softly caressing your cheekbone as he brushes away a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Shall we have a little fun?” 

You nod shyly and allow him to draw you in as he cups your face and brushes his lips against yours, only to suddenly stiffen and pull away. A surge of panic jabs up from under your ribs as you’re worried that, somehow, you’ve done something to hurt him or put him off. 

“I-I’m sorry!” You blurt out. “Are you okay?” 

He eases your fretting by smoothing down your arms with an almost amused expression. “No, it’s not you, never you, I can’t stress that enough but there’s... something-,” he frowns and sniffs the air.  

Oh Gods, did you stink? You knew it had been a while since you last washed but… 

No, his attention was away from you as he quickly got to his feet and focused on what appeared to be a large boulder of sorts, about ten feet away from where you lay. 

Astarion’s eyes widen, and for the first time in a long time, he looks terrified. 

“Shit, he’s found me again. We’ve got to leave, now!” 

Suddenly, like vipers striking from the shadows, a group of monster hunters descended upon you, the night erupting into chaos as they sprang into action with ruthless efficiency. Swords and daggers glinted ominously in the dim firelight as you and the others desperately tried to defend yourselves. 

Fear and confusion gripped the group as you fought back against your assailants, but the element of surprise was with the ambushers. They moved with a deadly grace; their tactics honed through countless skirmishes. The clash of steel and cries of anguish pierced the night air.  

Desperation fueled your resistance, but they outnumbered you five to one, and that was without including their attack dogs, who had taken to separating you from the rest of the group as their personal prey. You jab your sword at their snapping maws, shout and try to make yourself look big to fend them off or, at the very least, make them think twice about attacking you.  

However, none of it seems to work as one takes a lunge at you and sinks their jaws into your arm. The jolt of shock quickly wore off to the searing heat of pain as the dog tugged and shook you like a rag doll, the beast spurred on by the snarls and barks of the others before they joined in on the mauling. 

You tried to scream but it hurt to even breathe, reducing you to mere gasping as your limbs throbbed and your head pounded. You thought you heard screaming, but the chaos of the battle muffled your senses as if you were being held underwater. You fall flat on your back as you’re pinned down to the ground, your eyes fluttering as something hot, wet and slimy drips onto your cheeks. Your eyes are met with a row of fangs; you shut them quickly, unwilling to look your death in the face. 

In that moment, an anguished cry cuts through the noise, and your eyes snap open. 

The next few moments are a blurry, bloody mess; primal and violent as you can just make out different voices—the hunter’s voices— crying out in pain along with the sound of wet tearing, of fangs ripping into flesh and blood splattering across the ground. You can only stare ahead, eyes wide with fear and body numb as the heavy weight on your chest is suddenly lifted. There’s a pitiful whine and a crunching snap, and the carnage finally stops. 

After a few moments of unbearable silence, your jumbled thoughts immediately go to your teammates, and you try to push yourself up to go help them. They were probably hurt, or worse, dead. You had to get up. Just... get up! 

‘Get up!’ 

“Get up goddamn you!” 

Your blurred vision slowly cleared as you blinked away your tears, and a familiar, blood-splattered face came into view. Gods but Astarion looked so afraid; his red eyes were wet, and his bottom lip quivered ever so slightly as he gently slid his hands under your broken body to help you sit up. 

“Oh, thank the Gods,” he whispered. “He... he will not take you away from me. I won’t let him.” He looks over his shoulder and shouts, “Cleric, get over here now!” 

His lips curled into a snarl as Shadowheart dropped to her knees beside you, as if he was frustrated that she wasn’t healing you quick enough. As if to confirm, he snaps at her to hurry up. 

“Shouting at me isn’t going to make the process go any quicker, I need to concentrate,” Shadowheart bit back, before her gaze softened upon you as a golden light washed out from her hands and over your body. “Just hold on a little longer, okay?” 

“She is right, you must calm yourself,” Lae’zel softly ordered Astarion as she knelt by your other side. “You have already taken your rage out on the enemy, do not let it overtake you.” 

Astarion said nothing as he focused solely on you, whispering hushed promises and honeyed words that got jumbled through your dazed state, but you appreciated them all the same. You tried to show him this by curling your stiff fingers around his, the coolness of his skin bringing a brief respite to your burning hot hands. He breathes out a sad, broken chuckle and reciprocates your gesture with a soft kiss to your fingers. 

The moon bore witness to the tragedy, casting its cold, indifferent light upon the scene, but you thought it shone beautifully, all the same. 

xxx

[dreaminginpastels]

Wow you’re writing is great! If you’re not busy, would you do a Druig request where he’s in love with his fellow Eternal who’s generally neutral in family fights but one Druig manages to bother her enough that he feels guilty and asks for forgiveness because he can handle everyone else being mad at him but not her? Thank you in advance!

wounding me softly

pairing: druig x fem!eternal!reader

summary: in which druig is increasingly distracted in battle and reader has had enough.

warnings: reader says some slightly not very nice things to druig, sliiiightest angst, brief intimacy

reader pronouns: she/her (by request)

word count: 2.1k

*✧ eternals masterlist | main masterlist | ask ✧*

Druig was getting on your last nerve. Literally. 

Arishem had gifted you the ability to heal others, but what you hadn’t told the rest of the Eternals was that this “ability” came with a catch - each time, you had to absorb the injury in order to heal it. Early on in your inception, you’d decided it was some punishment, for what you had no clue, but as you became an integral part of the Eternals and learned from each of them, you’d come to see it as your own private gift - a way to develop untapped empathy and care for others. It made you the beautiful person you were. 

Right now, however, Druig was testing your patience. The two of you had spent much time together during the early part of your stay in Babylon, and had grown close enough that Druig had started showboating in battles, leading the two of you to keep a tally of Deviants slain and owing each other various snacks after battle depending on who won. You were happy for the first time in a long, long time. You had even let yourself wonder if there might be more on the horizon between you. Over the last week, however, something had changed. Druig was quieter, withdrawn. You’d find him lost in his thoughts, and, most troublesome was the fact that he seemed to have lost his focus in battle. It was taking its toll. 

It had started with slight delays, Druig got where he needed to be but always just a tad too late. At first, you were concerned, checking in on him even though he’d just brush you off. But then you’d begun to get frustrated with the brooding eternal. The battles were becoming more frequent, and as the demand on your abilities grew, so too it seemed did Druig’s wandering mind. 

…

Drained and exhausted, you slumped against a wall as Ikaris blasted a Deviant ahead of you on your route to a wounded Kingo. 

“Kingo, again?” you sighed as your hands pressed on his abdomen. You felt the deep gash slowly and agonisingly transferring to your own side. 

He winced, “It’s not my fault, y/n, I swear-”

“They’re just targeting the weakest link.” Ikaris stated, matter-of-factly. 

Kingo scoffed. “Okay, rude.” 

Ikaris smirked before responding to Sersi’s summon. 

Kingo turned to you, “But seriously, y/n, if Druig showed up every once and a while, maybe these damn Deviants would go down easier.”

You groaned in frustration at the same moment that Kingo sighed in relief. The injury had finished absorbing, but you were severely lightheaded and could barely move. Druig was going to get more than an earful when you got back. 

“You’re an angel, y/n.” Kingo announced as he brushed your hair out of your face. “Seriously, I appreciate you so much.”

You grimaced, trying to hide the immense pain you were in. “T-thanks Kingo. Be careful out there, okay?”

He nodded before saluting you. “I won’t let you down, boss.”

…

“Rock, paper, scissors for the last twinkie?”

Druig brushed up against your shoulder playfully in the common space of the Domo, earning him a glare from you, and a chuckle out of Kingo. 

“Woah,” Druig began, gesturing to your glare with his twinkie in hand, “Careful with that thing, you could seriously hurt someone!”

You scoffed and walked away, feeling Druig’s confused gaze following your every step. As you walked into your room, you could hear his voice echoing through the walls of the Domo. “Was it something I said?”

“You, my friend, are royally screwed.” Kingo replied, stifling a chuckle.

…

A week had passed since Kingo’s major injury, and you hadn’t spoken a single word to Druig. You knew that the silent treatment was probably a bit immature for an eternal being, but frankly, you couldn’t care less. Being unfocused in battle was one thing, but vanishing when your family needs you the most? That you couldn’t condone.

You knew he’d have an excuse, and part of you was desperate to hear it. You missed him. Of course you did. Your love for him only made your resentment more torturous. 

Carefully positioning your still-recovering body against the wall in the meeting room, you watched as the other Eternals filed in with bated breath, wondering how much longer you could keep your secret. 

…

Druig’s heart rate spiked as Ajak concluded their meeting, the blood coursing through his veins as he prepared for what he was about to do. He hated confrontation as much as the next person, although the next person was Ikaris... 

“Alright, if no one has anything further they wish to present, you’re all dismissed.”

“Actually, Ajak,” Druig began, taking in the eye-rolls from his fellow Eternals as his voice filled the room. “I have something I’d like to discuss.”

Ajak’s patient, loving eyes wandered his face like a warning. “Yes, Druig?”

“Y/n’s been giving me the silent treatment lately, and I’d like to get to the bottom of it.”

“Oh here we go…” muttered Kingo as his eyes met Sprite’s, drawn to the impending drama like a car crash he couldn't tear his eyes from.

“It pains me to bring it up," Druig continued, glaring briefly at Kingo, "but seeing as the Deviants are getting more frequent, I figure we need to gel as a unit, and I don’t feel that we’re doing that.”

“HA,” A voice stirred from the shadowed corner of the meeting room. “You can talk.”

As you emerged from the shadows into the light of the meeting space, Druig took in your appearance - your heavy breathing, the dark bags under your bloodshot eyes, how pale you were. He instinctively moved towards you, resting a featherlight hand on your shoulder. His heart shattered as you winced and pulled away from his usually welcome touch. 

“Y/n, you look like crap! What the hell happened?” Then, softly in your ear, “Are you okay?”

Druig felt you tremble the second before you shoved him away from you. “Of course I do! While you’ve been off doing Arishem knows what, we’ve been protecting the humans, and each other, from Deviants. Who, as you so kindly reminded us, are getting more dangerous and more frequent. This is the time that we can’t afford slip-ups, and you’re off with the fairies!”

Druig’s head fell in shame. You hated conflict, least of all with him, and he had driven you to this. He knew it was entirely his fault - he had been distracted lately, and you deserved to know why. “Y/n, I-”

“You’re careless! And you don’t think about anyone but yourself. We can’t afford that, Druig. We’re a team. A family. Act like it.”

He shrunk into himself, every trace of his usual swagger and confidence shattered like the fragile heart he held within. You were right. He had done this to you, left you exhausted and pained - a shell of yourself. The one person he swore he’d never hurt. He mustered the only words he could, hoping they were at least a bandage over your weak frame. At least enough until he could hold you again. “I’m sorry.”

With a deep sigh, he watched as you limped out of the room - step by pained step. Druig looked at the faces of the other Eternals, taking in their disappointment with panicked eyes before rushing out of the room to follow you. 

…

“Y/n, wait!”

You groaned as he approached. Every noise you made splintered Druig’s heart a little more. He needed to make this right. Now. 

“What, you couldn’t even let me have a badass exit? You’re unbelievable.” You mustered a chuckle to lighten the mood, but Druig saw how it pained you. How you shuddered with each breath. 

“Oh my darlin’, you’re not okay.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Obviously, Druig. But great to know you weren’t even listening to my speech-”

“No, I can see it - something’s really wrong.” He lifted an arm above yours and studied your eyes carefully for permission before gently lifting your arm over his shoulder. “Let’s get you to lay down, we can talk when you’re comfortable.”

You winced as Druig lifted your arm, but hummed gratefully at his concern, lifting his hopes ever so slightly that things might just be okay. That he might win his best friend back, if he could muster the courage to be sincere enough.

Druig guided you to your room, and lay you gently on your bed, relishing in the comfortable sigh that emerged from your lips. You looked up at him, guarded but gentle. “Thank you, Druig.”

“You’re  welcome, my darlin’.” He softened as he took you in. Then, he eyed your bed. “Mind if I lay with you?”

You hesitated for a moment before nodding your permission. 

The silence that followed was full of unspoken emotions. Of feelings too large for the room, but deep enough to create a chasm between you. Until your voice echoed through the dark. 

“What’s been going on with you lately? You’re a formidable warrior, unrelenting in battle. What could possibly have you distracted enough that you’d ignore Kingo’s calls for aid?”

Druig sighed. “Look, y/n. It seems we’ve both been keeping secrets. I’ll tell you mine if you promise to tell me yours?”

You eyed his outstretched pinky. “I cannot believe you’re making me pinky swear like our inception was yesterday.”

He laughed gently, “You know you love it.”

Rolling your eyes, you took his pinky in yours. “Fine, pinky swear.”

While your pinkies were still entwined, Druig quickly added, “but you go first!” before letting go. 

“You are an actual child, Druig.”

“And you have a secret to tell me…” he replied in a sing-song voice. 

The mood was instantly quashed by your serious tone. “I…”

Carefully, Druig took your hand in his. “You know you can tell me anything, my darlin’, I’m not going anywhere.”

You took a deep breath as you looked up at him, meeting his concerned irises. 

“My abilities come with a cost. A condition. I can’t heal anyone without taking on their pain first.” Druig searched your eyes, horrified by your words and connecting the dots as you continued, “So, each time I’ve healed the others in battle recently…”

“...you’ve had to take on their injuries yourself and heal from them.” He finished for you. 

You nodded sombrely. “Each, and every one. Individually.”

“Oh, my beautiful, beautiful, y/n. Why didn’t you tell us?” Druig looked down sheepishly at your entwined hands before quietly adding, “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Your voice was smaller than Druig had ever heard it as you replied, laced with the worries and insecurities you had held inside for an eternity. “I…I didn’t want to burden anyone, to let anyone down, and…I didn’t want you to look down on me for being the only Eternal whose powers are conditional. I was ashamed for a really long time.”

“I could never look down on you, y/n.” Druig began, turning to face you as he gently cupped your cheek and stared into your eyes. “I…I love you.”

Your eyes widened, “You…you do?”

He chuckled sadly, “Of course I do, you beautiful, oblivious fool. I’ve loved you forever.” Druig looked down bashfully before muttering under his breath. “That’s uh, that’s actually why I’ve been so distracted lately.”

“Wait, WHAT?”

“I know, I know, it’s so dumb. I just, I’ve been wanting to ask you if you would ever consider seeing me as more than just the brooding Eternal that boasts in battle for snacks because he’s too shy to ask the girl he loves to be his. I never thought you would ever see me as more and I…I would daydream about us in battle, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About us. Then, last week I saw these flowers - daisies, I- I know they’re your favourite - when this Deviant shoved me to the ground deep in the forest and I thought they would be perfect for some grand romantic gesture and then I heard about Kingo and- I’m so sorry y/n, I ruined everything, I hurt you, and-”

Druig’s panicked rambling faded into nothingness the second he felt your lips graze his. Gentle, shy at first, and then more deeply, with a passion that he felt at his core. He moaned against your lips, “Y-y/n, I-”

“That is somehow equally the sweetest and dumbest thing I’ve ever heard come out of that beautiful-” kiss, “-beautiful-” kiss, “-mouth.”

With a lovestruck gaze, and an empty mind, Druig’s eyes moved from your lips to your eyes as he took in the sight before him. “Y-you forgive me?”

You smiled then, cupping his face gently before placing another tentative kiss on his waiting lips. “I’ll do you one better. I love you, you sweet, idiotic Eternal. I’d be honoured to be yours.”

The two of you lay there in contented silence, falling asleep entwined in each other's embrace, knowing that everything would be okay. Knowing that you had each other.  ...

a/n: hi lovely, i’m so very sorry for how long it’s taken me to get around to this request. it was my last druig request for AGES and I was just so nervous that if I wrote my last druig request I wouldn't get any more, so I held onto this baby like my life depended on it. that being said, I tweaked the request a little bit and I ADORED writing this. I hope that it’s everything that you wanted it to be, and please please feel free to request for baby boy again because I love writing for him SO MUCH 🤍 

i’m so excited to get back into writing again, i finally finished my honours degree and I have so much creativity it’s not even funny - hoping to really smash out a bunch of your requests and create a writing schedule so i can keep it up because i miss and love writing for you all! thank you so much for your patience and support, you mean the world to me and i’m thankful for you every day 

[d0youc0py]

Even when he wasn’t working his mask seem to haunt him. He wanted to be here with you- but every time he looked in the mirror he was pulled away. Red bumps littered his jaw and some even around his hairline. He had always struggled with acne, having the acne scars to prove it, but it seemed to be getting worse. He’d been in a hotter climate this last mission, the sweat and not being able to air out his face was taking its toll.

He felt so unattractive. He quickly figured out when you feel ugly- you act ugly.

“Sweetheart, open up.” Simon sighed, his hand knocking at the door to emphasize. You two had just gone out on your first date since he’s been back and he snipped at you the whole time.

“Fuck off!”

Ouch.

“Sweetheart.” He started again. The bedroom door finally swung open. His body tensed at your teary face.

“I don’t know what happened to you while you were out there, and god knows you won’t tell me, but you have no right to take it out on me. I’ve been waiting for you to come home for the past three weeks and what am I greeted with? Hostility. It’s like I can’t do anything right.” You sputtered, glaring up at him. His hand instinctively went up to wipe the tears away from your face. He had never been the best at comforting people, but he would do anything to get your tears to stop.

“You’re right.” He admitted. The glare left your face. He was usually much more stubborn- unless he knew he in the was wrong. You softened. “It has nothin to do with work, at least not in the way you think.” His hand went up to rub his jaw but he quickly stopped himself. “I just haven’t been feeling”- He paused. He brought his hand up and motioned to his jaw, turning his head to the side.

“Si.” You murmured. You had noticed a little flare in his skin, but you didn’t really process it. He was always so handsome in your eyes. Your fingers reached up and traced along his cheekbone. “I understand.”

“Shouldn’t take it out on you though, yeah?” He affirmed.

“No you shouldn’t, but I understand now.” You smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his chin. “You’re so handsome, you know.” You mumbled down his neck. He flushed, clearing his throat. “Do you want some help with it?” You offered.

His metabolism wasn’t what it use to be. Luckily the physical activity of his job kept away any unwanted pounds. That was until he was forced to go on medical leave and spend three months ‘taking it easy.’

He would be completely lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed it though. Being home with you had been heaven- but a bit of hell on his waistline. He noticed it a bit, but he honestly didn’t think anyone else would. He was rudely awoken when he arrived back at base only to have Soap and Gaz poke fun at him. He knew it was all in good fun, but his first thoughts were about you. Had you noticed? If you did, how did you feel about it? He hushed his own thoughts figuring he would loose the weight out on the field. That was his second rude awakening. He had shed a few pounds, but a few stubborn ones remained poking out over his belt.

“How does Y/N feel about their new pillow?” Soap hummed, plopping down next to him. It had been like this for the past month.

“Sleeps like a rock.” Price grumbled.

“Didn’t know you knew what that was Cap.”

“Soap fuck off.” Ghost growled from across the aisle. “Fucking hell.”

The plane was quiet for a while after that.

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was never one to be insecure, but this was striking a cord. He remembers being younger and overhearing his mother gossiping in the kitchen about the neighbors.

“Alice has gained so much weight. She’s just gotten married too! Couldn’t imagine already letting myself go like that.”

Letting himself go.

That’s what it was. He didn’t want you- or anyone to think that he had ‘let himself go.’ That it was no longer important to him if you had found him attractive. That the two of you had been married for a little over a year so he could just give up. He shook himself out of his thoughts again.

•••••••••

He couldn’t even get through the door by the time you were on him.

“Welcome Home.” You smiled, pressing kisses to anywhere you could reach. He chuckled, leaning into you. He placed one arm under your bottom lifting you up to him. He dropped his duffle bag at the door kicking the door closed behind him.

“I missed you.” He murmured kissing you back just as desperate. He plopped down on the couch, settling you tightly in his lap. All was right in the world till your hands started to wander.

“You get hurt again?” You questioned after he flinched. Your hands went to pull up his shirt to inspect the damage. He stopped you. “John?” You questioned softly. He tangled his hands with yours.

“You know I have a tendency to be a bit old fashioned.” He started. You pressed your brows together.

“John I’ve seen you naked before.”

“No, love.” He chuckled. “I’ve gained a bit of weight and back in my day that was more scandalous than adultery”-

“You know I don’t care about that.” You interjected.

“I know, that’s what makes this whole thing ridiculous. It’s just something I’ve found out about myself, something that I need to work through.” He sighed, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

“Does this mean I can’t touch you?” You mumbled, fiddling with his shirt collar. He quickly shook his head.

“Course not.” He whispered.

“Johnny, you’re being too loud.”

That sentence had been replaying in his head like a broken record. You didn’t mean anything by it. You were just keeping him in check. Yet he could feel your embarrassment. The heat rising to your cheeks. The panic in your voice. The way you gave total strangers an apologetic smile when they turned your way. He had always been a naturally loud talker. Growing up with five siblings in a small two bedroom apartment was to thank for that. The fact that he had been around explosives for the past eight years didn’t help either.

“Johnny?” You tapped his arm. His eyes fled from the small paper bowl of ice cream to you. “You okay? You’ve been so quiet since we’ve left the restaurant.”

He couldn’t stop a dry chuckle. He grabbed the small bowl, shoving a spoonful in his mouth.

“ ‘m fine.” He mumbled. You sighed leaning across the table gripping his hand with yours.

“Jo.” You pressed again, flashing him your undeniable puppy eyes. He gave your hand a small squeeze.

“Sorry for the way I was at the restaurant.” He grumbled.

“What?” You asked, leaning forward again.

“I said, I’m sorry for the way I was at the restaurant.” He repeated. Your brows furrowed. Suddenly it hit you. Your hand left his and clamped over your mouth.

“No, no, no, Johnny.” You said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. Well I did- but”- You cut yourself off. You rubbed your forehead. Your hands reached out again tangling yours and his together. “I’m sorry I made you feel bad. That wasn’t my intention. I just know you sometimes forget your own volume.”

He gave you a small smile, pressing a kiss to your knuckle.

“I know Bonnie. I just don’t like embarrassing you.”

“We’re just so different in that way Jo. My parents were so strict about how loud I was- especially in public. It’s just a stupid habit I have, but I should never expect you to follow it.” You smiled softly. He smiled back at you, the sparkle returning to his blue eyes.

“I should still work on it though. Don’t want to blow your eardrums out, then we’ll both be shouty.” He chuckled.

“You hate it when I do this don’t you?” You hummed.

“I’m still not use to it.” He sighed, using his thumb to run small circles against your hip. He shivered as your fingers traced over another long stretch mark on his back. He mumbled something and pulled you closer, your body almost completely buried underneath his.

It was no secret Konig was tall. Along with that height came stretch marks. Mostly on his lower back and calves, some even under his arms. Some had faded, a small ridge in his skin to show they were still there. Others were a deeper pink- more noticeable.

“Everybody has them Konnie.” You mumbled, pressing a kiss under his jaw.

“I know.” He purred out as you massaged a small kink out of his back. Truth be told he didn’t really care about them either- until the locker room. That’s when he noticed how excessive his seemed. He had carried that feeling for a while, it wasn’t until he met you did he become more comfortable with it. You had showed him your stretch marks and he saw how pretty they looked on you. He slowly began to figure out that if he thought they looked nice on you, then you probably felt the same way about his. He still tenses when you touch them, his eyes darting to yours for any sign of insincerity. He’s always met with love and want. Just the thought of it causes a flutter in his stomach.