#she will be the beard of the century

[blushweddinggowns]

But then she woke up the next day and nothing was better. She had slept till noon and by the time she came downstairs her mom let her know that she had two messages from Steve already. 

Those were definitely getting ignored. At least for today. 

She didn’t even know what to say to him. If her feelings for him weren't obvious to him before then they probably were now. Or he thought that she was a total homophobe which made her want to cry for a whole new reason. 

You’re the first person I’ve ever actually told this too, because it just feels like I can trust you. 

Nancy groaned at the memory. God, she had blocked that part out. He probably thought she hated him by now, but she didn’t. She couldn’t even be mad at him, not really.  He didn’t do anything wrong. She was the one who didn’t want to see what was right in front of her. She didn’t know what to do. And when she didn’t know what to do she called Barb, but that wasn’t an option for this.

…was it?

No. It wasn’t. She shouldn’t tell her. She wouldn’t tell her. But then again…if she guessed on her own what had happened that didn’t really count right? And if there was anyone Nancy could trust it was her. She’d never say anything. She just wasn’t the type of person who would endanger someone’s life for petty gossip.

Plus Nancy needed to apologize anyway and it was time she took the verbal tongue whipping that she deserved for leaving her there last night. She called her, sighing when it went to voicemail. She knew she was awake by now and she was definitely home. God, she was even more pissed at her then she thought. 

She spent the weekend sulking, while successfully avoiding Steve and leaving multiple I’m Sorry messages on Barb’s machine. But she wouldn’t be able to avoid her on Monday, she’d find her then.

But then her mom called her, crying. Barb had been missing since Friday. Which didn’t make any sense. Nancy was at their door within the hour, but they had nothing to tell her except that her car was gone and the police had been called. She even went back to Steve’s to look for her, her intense embarrassment suddenly felt like nothing in comparison to not knowing where he best fucking friend was. 

But lucky enough for her he wasn’t there. And Barb’s car wasn’t there either. And Nancy could have sworn it had been when she started walking home. Hadn’t it? What had happened to her after she left? 

Nancy was aware that breaking into Steve’s house to investigate was probably a bad idea. But it was his own fault for showing her where the hide-a-key was. It’s not that she thought that Eddie or Steve would do anything to Barb, but if she was crashing at his house she needed to know about it. But she didn’t find anything. She checked every room, she checked out back, but nothing. There weren’t even signs of a struggle. No blood, nothing that could indicate anything happened here.

But still…if Steve and Eddie were the last people to see her, she couldn’t just pretend that it didn’t matter. Against her better judgment she kept digging around, looking for anything that could help her figure out where she was. She was a little frazzled to say the least. Her best friend was missing and she was trespassing in her ex-crush’s house looking for. 

She was lucky she even heard the front door open while she was rifling through Steve’s desk, immediately followed by his and Eddie’s voices. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

She could hear them coming up the stairs. Of course they were coming up the stairs, his room was upstairs and Nancy….really didn’t want to get caught doing whatever the fuck this was. Could she be blamed for hiding in the closet? God, what kind of hellish weekend was this?

Nancy held her breath as the two of them walked in. She couldn’t see much through the slants in the closet, but she could hear everything. 

“Are you sure you left it here?” Eddie asked, “It might just still be at school.”

“I’m sure,” Steve answered while he shuffled around the room, “I had just finished it and put it back in the book before you came. Give me five minutes and I’ll find it. Just need to retrace my steps. Okay, Friday, I was studying before they came over. And then you happened and…”

She could hear him shuffle around the room before exclaiming, “Ha! Told you it was in here!”

“Why is it under the bed?”

Steve snorted, “Babe, ask yourself that question.”

“Okay whatever. You got me there. Nancy would be proud to know you were this dedicated to turning in homework.”

Steve sighed, “Please don’t say her name right now. I’m sad enough as it is. God, what if she already told Barb and they both hate us? I didn’t even get to say goodbye before they both left.”

“Oh Stevie…” Nancy could hear Eddie move to him, and then an unmistakable, wet kissing sound before he said, “I know this sucks, but it will be okay. You said it yourself right? Nancy’s not that kind of person to hate you over this. And if she is then we do what we always do, lie and move on.”

Steve sighed, “You make it sound so easy.”

“Because it is that easy. Besides, you still got me don’t you?”

Another wet sound before Steve giggled, “Yeah. I do. Now let’s go home, this room is making me depressed.”

Nancy could almost cry from how relieved she was when she heard the door close, even if all of that was hard to hear. Though having to hear them kiss wasn’t exactly pleasant. And she…she didn’t want Steve to think she hated him. But she also couldn’t focus on that for right now. Because now she had proof that whatever happened to Barb had nothing to do with Steve and Eddie, thank god. She would still have to ask them about her, get all her bases covered, but she felt pretty damn confident that they had nothing to do with her going missing. Which meant if she told anyone about this stupid party the cops would waste all of their time questioning them while Barb was still gone. Hawkins police had been functionally useless for finding Will Beyers, what were they going to do with Barb? Less than nothing?

Well Nancy wasn’t going to let that stand. She was going to find her herself. 

She just didn’t think she’d end up doing it with Johnathan Beyers of all people. Or that monsters turned out to be fucking real. Or that her little brother was involved. Or any of the insane shit that happened to her in the span of one week. 

Honestly, in comparison to all of that Steve coming out to her really wasn’t that big a deal. 

But him and Eddie showing up to the Beyer’s place to deliver condolence cookies sure fucking was. Though she had to admit, watching Eddie stab the monster in the back with the knife he kept in his shoe kinda made her more understanding on why Steve was so into him. 

She hadn’t even thanked him, either of them for their help. She was too busy rushing to the hospital with Johnathan. Because if they found Will, then that meant that they found Barb, right?

And they had. Just not all of her. Joyce was the one who ended up telling her. And the one who held her while she sobbed. 

Suffice to say, it was a pretty bad fucking week. It had been a few days since then and Nancy had spent most of it crying about Barb. She couldn’t even tell her parents because of the stupid NDA. Mike and Johnathan were too busy celebrating the fact that Will was alive to deal with her.  She had never felt more alone in her life. She couldn’t tell anyone. She couldn’t talk to anyone- 

Well…actually…she couldn’t talk to anyone who hadn’t been there. And even though they didn’t really know what was going on, Eddie and Steve had been there. If they haven't been forced to sign a shady NDA yet then they would be, and it had said nothing about discussing it with the people who already knew. 

But Jesus, now she had to think about Steve. Steve, who didn’t care that she had been ignoring him. Steve and Eddie who still jumped into help save their asses, despite being completely in the dark. How was she even going to face them? 

After everything that had happened, the whole gay thing felt so small. She could get over it, couldn’t she? And maybe her feelings for Steve hadn’t died completely yet, but they would if she tried right? Plus…as sad as it was, Steve was probably the closest living person to her at this point, even if they had only started getting close the past few months. She…missed him. Hell, she even missed Eddie.  

She hadn’t talked to either of them since that day. But she wanted to. She just wasn’t sure if they would want to talk to her. It’s not like she had anything to give them to make up for getting them almost killed. Or for running away. And she did want to make it up to them. She just didn’t know how. 

Unless…maybe there was something she could do after all. 

I’m not some kind of casanova. I haven’t even had sex with a girl before. All of those dates never got past first, if that. But we needed a way to not be obvious so that’s how that happened.

Steve’s words rang in her head. Maybe it wasn’t a good call to offer up being a fake girlfriend to the guy she still technically liked, but it was something. And it would benefit Eddie too. Plus, she could probably save a few girls from some heartbreak while she was at it. 

Okay, that was something. A plan was forming and plans always helped Nancy to feel like she was back in control. Now she just needed to go over there and apologize, explain everything that happened without crying, and offer up being a fake girlfriend as penance. That wasn’t so hard right? Plus it had the added benefit of getting her to move for the first time in two days. 

She rode her bike over to the Harrington’s place, completely unsurprised when there were no cars. Steve had said it himself, this wasn’t where home was. Luckily she knew where the trailer park was. She didn’t know which one was Eddie’s but she did recognize Steve’s car parked out in front of it. 

It took more than a few knocks for someone to answer the door, but she didn’t bike all around town for nothing. Though…it became pretty obvious pretty quickly that she had um, interrupted something when she came over. If the insane amount of hickies on both of their necks was anything to go by. But the conversation went well enough, of course it did. Both of them were understanding, maybe even understanding to a fault. And they had managed to make her laugh for the first time since she’d known Barb was missing. And both of them jumped right onto the fake dating idea. Eddie seemed especially relieved, he even promised to make her muffins for every other fake date they went on.

And just like that she had them back in her life. Thank fucking god. Nancy wasn’t the type of person who always needed to be surrounded by others to be okay. She liked being alone, honestly preferred it more than half the time, but she couldn't get through all of the shit they’d been through alone. She just couldn’t. And she didn’t have to, because Eddie and Steve were there for her every step of the way. Especially Steve. 

It’s not that he took Barb’s place, no one could. But he quickly became the person she’d go to for…well. Everything. Talking about Barb, on the days she could without crying about it, complaining about her Dad and brother, or even dumb things like who she went to first when she heard a song she really liked. She didn’t think that everything would feel so easy with him after what had happened. But it did.

And while she was a lot closer to Steve, having Eddie around wasn’t too bad of a feeling either. He had a gift for lighting up any room he was in. Steve and Nancy actually shared a lot of the same interests and didn’t have many differing opinions, which just made it so much more fun when Eddie went against almost everything they said. He always kept things interesting, that was for sure. 

But Steve just…understood her in a different way. A way that she needed. And if she could just forget about the whole My best friend fucking died for no reason thing for a second then she’d be doing pretty good right now. And also the small issue of I might still be in love with Steve thing.

That one was harder to ignore when she saw him nearly every day. And it made her feel sick. She didn’t want to feel like this. She didn’t want her heart to speed up every time he hugged her. She didn’t want to imagine a world where him holding her hand actually meant something. She didn’t want any of it, and she didn’t know what to do about it. There was nothing she could do. It was a lose-lose scenario. 

For one thing, it was never going to happen. That became painfully clear after Eddie and Steve got the go-ahead that she was a safe person to be themselves around. They were…ugh. Disgustingly in love. And the more she learned about the truth in their relationship the more nails  were hammered into the closed door of Steve and Nancy ever being together. Plus, she didn’t even want to be with him. Even if Steve magically fell in love with her tomorrow it would ruin Eddie. She couldn’t even fantasize about it because it just made her too damn sad. She wasn’t even sure Steve could be Steve without Eddie at his side. 

Besides, if anything she likes seeing them in love, as weird as that was. But the two of them beat her parents out of the park as an example for what love could be. And she wanted that with someone who wanted her. And Steve was never going to be that person. So why hadn’t the feelings gone away?

They were worse when she was having a bad day. And today was an especially bad day. It had been a few months since Barb died.  It was a Friday night and Nancy’s parents were gone for the weekend, Mike was at Will’s, and Steve and Eddie always did their own thing on Fridays. 

No one had remembered what day it was. Or if they did, they didn’t care. March 26th. Barb’s birthday. Nancy didn’t tell anyone and she didn’t do anything besides sending flowers to her parents..  No one else in school knew. She didn’t even go, she allowed herself the small liencay of skipping, even if she was regretting it now. 

Because she had had a strategy for dealing with Barb being gone. And that was keeping herself busy to the maximum extent possible. If she wasn’t studying her ass off she was doing an extracurricular, and if she wasn’t doing that then she was hanging out with Steve. And if she wasn’t doing that then she was busy trying to read everything Tolstov ever wrote. The busier she was, the less time she had to think. And the less time she had to think meant that her mind wouldn’t wonder to Barb, or how she died, or how alone she probably felt or how scared-

And her strategy was not working. At least not for today. Now she was back to where she was last year, crying alone in her room. Steve had called after school to check up on her and he seemed to believe the lie she put out about her period being particularly bad. It was good for no follow up questions at least. She would have the next 60 or so hours to be alone and miserable.

So why was there someone pounding on her door? Nancy groaned as she forced herself out of bed, yelling down the stairs, “Jesus, I’m coming!”

It had to be Dustin looking for Mike. It’s not like anyone wanted to see her. She didn’t even bother opening the door, she just yelled through it, “Mike is at Will’s house!”

Steve laughed nervously on the other side, “Well that’s good, because I’m pretty sure that kid hates my guts.” 

Nancy’s eyes widened at the sound of his voice. She opened the door and there he was, sheepishly waving at her on her front stoop, "Hi? Can I um, come in?"

Nancy stepped aside to let him, quickly wiping at her face to hide any stray tears. She was pretty sure she looked like shit, but too little too late for that one. 

She shut the door and turned to face him, suddenly feeling very awkward, “I thought tonight was date night?”

Steve shrugged, “Every night is date night if you try hard enough. Do you want to sit down or…?”

Nancy shook her head. What she wanted to do was get back to sulking, but she needed to figure out why he was even here before she could do that, “Steve, what are you doing here?”

Steve fidgeted in place and Nancy hated how adorable she thought it was, “Well you sounded weird over the phone and I was just worried I guess. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Or at least she would be fine after she was left alone to rot, like she deserved, “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, “Nancy look, I know you can take care of yourself. But I just thought since it’s…well y’know.”

How would he…he couldn’t know. Could he? Nancy narrowed her eyes at him, “What are you talking about?”

Steve frowned, suddenly looking a bit more unsure of  himself, “It’s Barb’s Birthday today right?”

Nancy stared at him, eyes wide, “H-How do you know that?”

Steve shrugged, “We um, talked about it once.”

“And you remembered?”

Steve cocked his head at her, “Of course I remember. We were having this whole debate about cars and then I asked what she’d want when she turned sixteen and she mention- Nancy? Are you okay?”

Nancy was not okay. She could feel the tears already welling up in her eyes. She thought…she didn’t think anyone remembered. Or cared but…Steve did. He hadn’t even known her that well. Which was fucking horrible because Barb would have loved him. She did love him, begrudgingly back when they barely knew each other. And Steve would have loved her. Because Barb was smart and funny and sweet like Steve and…and Nancy was crying. Like crying, crying. She was sobbing so hard it felt like an out of body experience. 

She could feel herself sinking to the floor, hands covering her face as she wept. She hated crying in front of other people. She hated looking so weak and pathetic. She hated feeling like this. She was supposed to be better than this. Why did she even have to cry about? She wasn’t the one who was dead. 

God, was this what a mental breakdown felt like?

She could barely hear the sound of Steve kneeling next to her over her own sobs, but she did feel it when he wrapped his arms around her, “Hey, hey, you’re okay. Everything’s gonna be okay. You’re not alone.”

That just made her cry harder. Because she should have been alone. She deserved to be alone. 

“No, you don’t Nancy. Don’t say shit like that.”

She hadn’t even realized she’d been talking out loud. Yep, this was definitely what a mental breakdown felt like. But Steve holding her was helping. He was even rocking her a little, murmuring reassurances in her ear the whole time. 

It took awhile for her to calm down. She couldn’t even tell you how long it had been. But somehow Steve had gotten them off the floor and to the couch, an arm still around her shoulders as she sniffled.

She wiped at her face, a sea of emotions flowing through her. Grief, shame, longing, and all of it was fucking awful. 

She couldn’t even look at Steve, “I’m sorry. I…I don’t know what came over me.”

“Nance, don’t apologize. You think I’ve never had a good cry session on the floor before? It’s normal.”

But it wasn’t normal for her, “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“Why not? Nancy, your best friend died. What else are you going to cry over if not this?”

Even months later, hearing someone else say she died felt like a knife to her heart. Her eyes were already welling up again. Fuck it, she had already embarrassed herself to hell and back in front of him, why not a little more?

“I miss her. So much. Every day. And I can’t stop thinking, why her? What did she ever do to deserve this? And I can’t stop thinking if I hadn’t taken her to your house that night, would she still be alive? Is it my fault she’s dead? O-or am I just making her dying about me? And it makes me feel like I’m going crazy,”  She was babbling, and she’d be shocked if Steve could even understand half of what she was saying through her shaking voice. 

But Steve was listening to every word, patiently waiting as she got everything out before speaking, “Nancy, it’s not your fault she’s gone. And you’re not bad for thinking about what happened. I…I know there’s nothing I can say to fix this. But you're not a bad person because of what happened to her. And there was no reason. It was just fucked up and wrong and no one’s fault but the people in that lab.”

Nancy knew that he was right, even if it didn’t feel right. It still felt like her fault. And even if it wasn’t it didn’t take away the fact that she was gone. But…at least she wasn’t alone. She hadn’t even told him to come, but here he was anyway, all because he remembered her best friend’s birthday.

Because that was the kind of person Steve was. And she loved him for it. And he was handsome and kind and Nancy’s sense of self-preservation was at an all time low. 

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, “I think I’m in love with you.”

She regretted saying it the second it was out there. She could feel Steve freeze up next to her. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Why had she said that? This. This right here was why she didn’t do vulnerable, because you say the dumbest shit imaginable. Shit that ruined friendships. What was Eddie going to think of her when he found out? He’d probably never talk to her again and now she put Steve in this horrible position and…God, why did she suck so much?

She looked up at him, near cringing at the shocked expression on his face, “Im so sorry Steve, that’s a terrible thing to say. Please don’t tell Eddie. I don't even know where that came from-”

Steve shook his head, shaking himself out of his surprised stupor. He smiled at her, aiming to comfort, “Hey, hey calm down, I’m not mad.”

But he should have been. Or at least Nancy thought he should, “Steve, I would never try to get in between you guys. You know that right? I’m just all fucked up and-”

“Stop apologizing. It’s okay. I get it Nancy. I do. But uh, I’m not sure you do.”

Nancy stopped, her third apology dying on the tip of her tongue, “What?” 

Steve sighed, “Nance, I love you but I think you’re looking at me through some rose-colored glasses here, alright? We work because you have the friend version of me. I think a week with romantic Steve would have you running up a wall.”

That’s what he was focusing on?

“Huh?”

Steve bit his lip, struggling for the words before saying, “It’s just-and stop me if I’m totally wrong here, but I think that it’s not everyday a boy and a girl get as close as we did without the romance part. So it’s easy to get confused. I know you love me. But…I don’t think you’re in love with me. I think you think it would be easier if you were, but Nancy, I swear to you it wouldn’t be.”

This conversation had taken a weird turn. And it didn’t make any sense to her, “What are you talking about? Anyone would be happy to be with you Steve. Look at you!”

“Exactly!” Steve groaned, circling a hand around his face, “Look at me! Do you know the shit I put Eddie through on a daily basis?”

“What do you mean?” Nancy asked.

“I mean I’m a nightmare! First of all, he’s not even allowed to sleep at night without me. And I’ll like, koala cling to him. All night long. And it doesn’t stop in bed. If we’re alone, his lap is my home away from home.”

Nancy stared at him, gnawing on her lower lip as he talked, "You're exaggerating."

Steve shrugged, "You're right. Half the time he’s on mine. But it gets worse. Do you remember when I was gone for that tournament a few weeks back? It was maybe two days?”

She nodded.

“I called him eight times. And he picked up every single one of them. Because if he hadn’t, I would have obsessively called him until he had.”

Jesus Christ, that could not be healthy, “Are…are you serious?”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, equal parts embarrassed and determined, “Dead. And that’s not even top five in the clingy shit I do. Did you know there was a weekend I literally didn’t let him out of bed for like twelve hours? Or the fact that I’m responsible for like every class we’ve ever skipped because I drag him into some dark room to makeout?”

Steve may have been right about the rose-colored glasses. If he ever tried any of that with her she’d strangle him, “You guys do that?”

“We do worse. But I’m not trying to add to your trauma here. But think about it. You’re…you. You’re independent, you love having alone time, you like the quiet, you want people to ask before they hug you. And I love all of that, I do! I love that you’re so straight-foward. I love that you're all no nonsense, but…well…I’m all nonsense. God I don’t know what other way to say this but I’m a brat and believe me, you’d dump me in a few months, a year tops.”

She hated how true that was. But Steve was right, she knew he was right. She would never be able to handle someone being that clingy. She stopped sleeping with her stuffed animals when she was ten because they made her too hot, but a whole person, attached to her side every night and day? She’d die. And maybe…maybe that explanation cleared up all the confusion. Because she still didn’t actually want him before she knew all of that, out of guilt. But now…it was a little more than just that. 

“But…” Steve trailed off for a second, before giving Nancy’s hand a light squeeze, “If I was straight, I’d love nothing more than to get my heart broken by you.”

Now Nancy was tearing up for a whole other reason. Maybe in love had been the wrong phrasing, but she really did love this guy. This strange, sweet, freak of a man. 

She squeezed his hand back, “Promise me this won’t change anything?”

Steve shrugged, “I can’t promise that. I think it will change things, but for the better alright? No more secrets between us, yeah?”

Nancy nodded, with one small caveat, “But you still won’t tell Eddie right?”

Steve grinned before pulling her into another hug, “That you thought you were in love with me for five seconds? Never.”

Nancy pulled away first, wiping at her eyes again. They were actually sore from all the crying she’d done in the last couple of hours, “I feel like I should send him flowers for dealing with you now or something.”

“Well…if you wanted you could tell him that yourself. How about you come back to the trailer with me? You can be alone with us.”

Nancy laughed at that, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

"It kind of does though."

It really didn’t but Nancy didn’t care. She smiled at him, relaxed in a way she hadn’t felt in months,“Yeah, that sounds good.”

While she was happy she’d get to spend more time with Steve, she was more than a little nervous to see Eddie, especially since she was interrupting their night. Even though Steve insisted over and over again that it was more than fine. Best case he’d be begrudgingly accepting, and worst he’d be obviously annoyed. Nancy wasn’t sure which she preferred. 

What she hadn’t expected was for Eddie to hug her right after she got in the door. Or better yet, ask before he did it. 

“You get full movie picking privileges,” he announced right after. He looked her up and down, frowning to himself a little, “"Have you had dinner yet?"

"Um no but I’m okay-"

“But nothing. I could throw you like a football. You’re eating something.”

Steve snorted behind her, “Did you just get possessed by an Italian grandmother? He makes spaghetti one time-”

“And you loved it!”

Nancy smiled to herself as she watched them bicker. But there was no longing to go with it this time, she just felt…happy to be around them. And she did eat, just to shut Eddie up, the nag. 

But she got him back. She was never going to let him live down the fact that he cried during Harold and Maude. She had them sit through all of her favorite movies, and by the third act of Valley Girl, they were both fast asleep. 

Steve was leaning against her shoulder while Eddie was half draped over the armrest, snoring in what looked like one of the most uncomfortable positions possible. She leaned back into the couch with a sigh as the movie played, her eyes slipping closed on their own. And for the first time in a long time, Nancy knew that she was going to be okay. 

~

Part 1 Part 1.5 Part 2

The end! At least for the Nancy POV. Everything from this little series was from this fic, and I might post more snippets if it can be relatively short for tumblr styling. This honestly isn't that short but I didn't want to split it in two so here we are!

@northa @dustcommander @attic-cat-blog @dinosareawesome2137 @obsessivlyme @fuckign-uh-hi

@a-little-unsteddie @ghost--enthusiast @jestyzesty @missarte-beltane

[silusvesuius]

i legit love when a character's gender is so integral to their personality (and perception obviously.) like so concrete that if genderbent their whole shtick would just be absolute dookie. anyways i'm just writing this text so i can talk in the tags (My beautiful safe haven)

this 14 minute song is soooooooooooo FYRE

[ravenkings]

honestly, the more i learn about ancient history and the origins of things that we take for granted, the more i realize that we actually know nothing about why the world is the way it is bc like 90% of the evidence has been ~lost to history~

[sufficientlylargen]

It always gets me that the name "Gandalf" literally just means "Wand-Elf" or "Stick-Elf". I'm imagining old Gondorians just being like:

Librarian: I saw that weird guy at the library again today.

Guard 1: What weird guy?

Librarian: The old guy with the beard? Kinda elfy-looking, apart from the beard?

Guard 1: Oh, with the big-ass stick?

Librarian: Yeah, looked like he was carrying an entire tree branch.

Guard 2: Yeah, that's the Stick Elf.

Guard 1: Hell yeah, I fuckin' love the Stick Elf.

Librarian: The "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: He comes by every few years, usually after some weird book or other.

Librarian: Oh. Yeah, he wanted a treatise on goblin breeding habits.

Guard 2: Like, how they have sex? We have books on that?

Librarian: Yeah, turns out we do. I was as surprised as you are.

Guard 1: What'd the Stick Elf need a fuckin' goblin-fuckin' book for?

Librarian: I didn't ask. So you just call him "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: I mean, he looks kinda elfy and he always has that stick, so, like, yeah.

Guard 1: Dude also has some fuckin' dope pipeweed.

Guard 2: Oh yeah, his pipeweed is awesome.

Librarian: How long has he been coming here?

Guard 2: Oh, for decades. He's, like, super old.

Guard 1: More like fuckin' centuries. Dude's old as balls.

Guard 2: Wait, really?

Guard 1: Yeah, my gran-gran used to talk about him. She loved his pipeweed too.

Librarian: So he's… an immortal pipeweed dealer?

Guard 2: I think he's just, like, a connoisseur. He doesn't sell it or anything. He just always has some really top-notch pipeweed on him.

Archivist: Oh, are we talking about Stick Elf?

Guard 1: Hell yeah we are!

Librarian: You know about the Stick Elf, too?

Archivist: Oh, totally. Stick-Elf's a super chill dude. Gave me some awesome pipeweed when I was maybe 12, and tee-bee-aitch I think I'm still a little buzzed from it.

Guard 1: What'd I tell ya, fuckin' dope pipeweed!

Archivist: Also he's really old.

Guard 1: Old as balls.

Librarian: Yeah, so Éodan and Jenniforomir were telling me.

Archivist: My grandpa used to tell me stories - he said one time he saw Stick Elf enter a smoke-ring contest.

Guard 1: Ooh, I'll bet he kicked fuckin' ass.

Archivist: Apparently the guy made an entire warship out of smoke and it flew around shooting down the other rings.

Librarian: And how much of this "fuckin' dope" pipeweed had your grandfather had by this point?

Guard 1: No no, that's totally plausible. Dude's got weird elf powers and shit for sure.

Archivist: He brought fireworks for the king's birthday one year, too.

Guard 1: Oh fuck, I forgot about those! Fuckin' incredible fireworks! Dragons and knights and glowy trees and shit! I was fuckin' 6 years old or something, they totally blew my mind. Hey Éodan, did you see that shit?

Guard 2: No, I think that's before I lived in Gondor.

Guard 1: Wait, you're not from here?

Guard 2: Oh, no, I grew up in Rohan. We moved here when I was, like, thirteen because my uncle Éojeff said he could get my dad a sweet job. And also that there were houses that didn't smell like horseshit.

Guard 1: Oh shit, are you related to Éojeff and Éosteve who run that æbleskiver stand on Norndîl St?

Guard 2: Yeah, they're my uncles!

Guard 1: Shit, they cook a fuckin' great æbleskiver!

Librarian: Ok, hold up a sec, "Stick Elf" can't possibly be his real name.

Guard 1: Why not?

Librarian: What? You think his parents named him in the hopes that he would carry around a fucking tree when he got older?

Guard 2: Maybe they gave him the tree when he was born!

Archivist: I don't think a baby could carry that stick.

Guard 1: You ever seen a baby hanging onto something? They're hella strong.

Archivist: It's not a strength thing, their hands are tiny. That staff is enormous!

Guard 1: My halberd's bigger 'n I am, I can hold it just fine.

Archivist: You're not a baby.

Librarian: Also why would elf parents name their kid "stick ELF"?! Presumably they know that their kid's going to be an elf!

Archivist: Is he actually an elf? I didn't think they grew beards.

Guard 1: How'd he get old as balls if he's not an elf?

Guard 2: His ears aren't that pointy. Maybe he's just a really old guy? Like, a Numémoriam or something?

Guard 1: Did you just say "Numémoriam"?

Guard 2: Nûnenorman? Munimõrbitan? Y'know, those guys like the king that can get super old.

Guard 1: You mean the fuckin' Númenóreans?

Guard 2: Yeah, the Númenóreums.

Archivist: Even the Númenóreans don't live THAT long.

Guard 1: Plus he carries that fuckin' stick around.

Guard 2: Wait, what does the stick have to do with it?

Guard 1: That's an elf thing. Y'know, trees and shit? Very elfy.

Librarian: Ok, look, but his parents naming him "Stick Elf" would be weird whether or not he's an elf. In fact, it's even weirder if he's not - what human names their kid "elf"?

Archivist: Huh. Yeah, you're right, he probably does have another name.

Guard 2: Yeah, I guess so.

Librarian: He's been coming here for decades and nobody's ever asked his real name?

Archivist: I dunno what to tell you, he's Stick Elf. Even his library card just says 'Stick Elf'.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah, the Stick Elf!

Guard 2: Maybe we could, like, ask him his name sometime?

Guard 1: Hey, look, Elrond's over there. He's old as balls too, maybe he knows?

Guard 2: Oh, we shouldn't interru-

Guard 1: HEY ELROND, YOU'RE OLD AS BALLS, RIGHT? WHAT'S THAT OLD ELF WITH THE STICK'S NAME?

Elrond (coming over): Do you mean an old man cloaked all in grey and blue, leaning on a rough-cut staff, who came to the great library this day?

Guard 1: Yeah, the Stick-Elf!

Guard 2: (Sorry to bother you, sir...)

Librarian: He's got to have a real name besides 'the Stick Elf', right?

Elrond: Indeed, for no elf is he. You speak of the wizard Olórin, wisest of the Maiar, older even than Eä itself. Many are his names in many countries: Tharkûn among the Dwarves; Incánus to the south; Mithrandir he is called among my people, the Grey Pilgrim.

Librarian: Oh.

Elrond: And here in the North he is called Stick-Elf.

Librarian: Oh.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah!

[oceantornadoo]

“captain john price. surely you’ve heard of him?” the secretary blinks at you, faking a smile. “oh, that john! and who are you?” you want to rip her lashes off one by one. “his wife.”

that gets her to stop blinking, to actually look at your ID. “your last name isn’t price.” the gall. “it’s the twenty first century, sweetheart. now check the list and let me through.” she diligently checks the list, nodding at the match. seemingly gone mute, she gestures at you to follow her as she walks down the base hallway, passing countless doors and plaques. she stops outside of his door, doe eyes locked on the name plaque. one knock, then two. “sir, there’s someone here for you. your wife.” a pause and then. “send ‘er in.”

she opens the door and gestures you in. you can’t help the smile that grows on your face as you take in the sight of your surly man, a cigar in hand as he overlooks paperwork. he looks up at the click clack of your heels with a smirk matching your own. dropping your bag on the nearby couch, you round the very large wooden desk to stand in between his legs, john already having turned to welcome you in. there’s just one thing missing. “you can go now.” you turn your head owl-like to meet the secretary’s eyes, noting the shock on her face. she closes her gaping mouth abruptly, then shuts the door with no further ceremony.

“wasn’t aware we got married.” you turn your attention back to john, whose hands are already trailing down your calves to take off your heels as you stand on his comfy office rug. you hum as he removes them one at a time, callused hands brushing the frail bone of your ankle, the arch of your foot. once that’s done, your hands slide into his beard on instinct, settling yourself in his wide lap and thanking the ikea gods he has a humongous chair. “your secretary is pushy.” he snorts, leaning a weathered cheek into your touch. “she’s new.” you cut him off with a kiss, lips brushing his like you’ve been wanting to for days. missing the feel of his skin, the scent of cedar and cigars, lonely and pining for him in bed.

“you haven’t been home in three days, johnathon.” the full name comes out when you’re mad or playing at it, a sly trick to make sure he doesn’t know which is which. unfortunately he can read you too well and ignores your schemes anyways. “mission’s movin’ fast, lovie. been only sleepin’ a couple hours here and there.” you steady yourself on his lap, pushing closer and closer until your pelvises meet. “where?” his eyes flick to the office couch and you hum.

“i’ve missed you.” it rushes out like a wave, too intimate to take back. you shouldn’t be showing your cards so soon but he smiles anyways, blue eyes gleaming. “that why you’re terrorizing the office staff?” you nod against him, too choked up for a proper answer. can’t describe how cold and desolate you are without him to warm you up, inside and out. “i’ve missed y’ too, sweetheart. your feelings aren’t too big f’ me, don’t worry.” he always gets you, unfortunately. you lay your head down on his heartbeat, purring as his hands caress your ass and thighs. “i’ve missed my big strong man taking me to bed.” you emphasize it with a hip roll, grinning at his groan.

“ yeah, baby? missed daddy treating you righ’?” you groan at his embarrassing words. “johnnn, you can’t just say shit like that.” he laughs again, beard brushing the top of your head. “can if it’s true.” you sigh, planting a kiss on his collarbone. “hav’ to get used to that talk if you want the wife excuse to be real one day.” you freeze at his words. surely not. but…maybe? you have to check. “your wife?” the hands that have been exploring pinch your ass, sending you further into his arms. “tha’ alright?” you contemplate it. mrs. price. nice ring to it. “yeah,” you nod, and that’s that.

—

slight misogynistic undertones at the bitchy secretary but it’s fiction oops

[tarisbackyard]

Here's how to write an authentic Grimm style fairytale, brought to you by a Certified German TM:

Forget everything Disney movies taught you, besides maybe Snowwhite, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty. But even those are on thin fucking ice. Also ignore modern fantasy literature conventions, especially Dungeons & Dragons type stuff.

Ideally only the protagonist or none of the characters ought to have names. And the names should either be really fucking ordinary, or some kind of epithet. Like, either that's a Franz or a Bramblesock, cause when Bramblesock was a child he lost a sock in a shrub of brambles. Everyone else is either the king, the grandma, or the carpenter.

The common types of protagonist: Regular working class guy who cons his way into a life of riches, poor downtrodden peasant who through hardworking kindness is granted salvation (usually via gaining riches), too pure too good for this world princess who can't catch a fucking break, too nasty too bratty for this world princess who gets taught a lesson in humility.

The characters are generally very one note and the only kind of character growth they can experience boils down to "maybe I shouldn't have been a dick, huh?"

The location is either as vague as possible or super fucking specific for no reason; either the story takes place literally nowhere or in the town of Buxtehude.

Animals and inanimate objects that can talk for no apparent reason and no one bats an eye at are always a great addition.

If you want to add any fantasy races, use giants (large, dumb brutes), dwarves (angry little guys who live in the wilderness and get really angry if you touch their beards), or gnomes (mischievous house spirits who might be helpful but watch out!), but never more than one of these. Fairies are rare and usually the "tall beautiful wise woman" type, not the small annoying pixie type. Dragons are very pointedly no-where to be found, those distinctly belong in sagas, which are their own distinct type of literature.

Weird moral of the story that either boils down to "be smarter than all the other fuckers", "good things happen to good people, bad things happen to bad people", or "don't upset the supernatural".

Random tidbits of gore that no one bats an eye at.

Witches eat children, if a mother gets more than single line dedicated to her she's evil, fathers are spineless and/or assholes who either die or come around in the end.

Ugly means evil, pretty means good. Except when it doesn't.

Optional: Repeated rhyming phrases and numbers. Seventh son of a seventh son kinda stuff. The numbers 3, 7, 12, and 13 in particular.

Ideally a 19th century scholar should be able to read some clumsy Germanic pagan wishful thinking into the story, no matter how big and obvious the Christian overtones are.

Optional: Start the story with "Once upon a time" and end it with "And if they didn't die, then they are still alive today."

[hogwartsfirebolt]

the game’s the game

“What was going through your mind when you spotted the Snitch?”

Two camera shutters go off like lighting, but Draco doesn’t blink. It’s almost the end of the season, and he’s done a press conference every week. He’s used to them.

“Fucking finally,” he answers, and the journalists all laugh. They think he’s joking, and he can already imagine the articles they’ll publish tomorrow pronouncing him cheeky and funny, but he means it wholeheartedly. Six hours in the sky, drenched all the way through his pants in rainwater, and facing the very best player in the league? He had half a mind to jump off his broom if only to have the game end somehow.

“This is the second time you face PU and well, Harry Potter, this season,” says another reporter, a young, pretty woman with her hair pinned up and a reverent tone when she speaks Potter’s name. Like everyone. “Are you expecting to encounter him at this year’s Cup? And if so, how does that make you feel?”

Draco breathes out hard through his nose. Across the room from him, sitting at his own table against the wall opposite, Potter’s doing his own press conference. He’s wearing a hat backwards, the light blue of his team hoodie contrasting with his golden-warm skin tone. He has a hand to his chin, rubbing his short beard in thought at some question he’s being asked. Probably about just how sweet it had been to snatch that Snitch right from under Draco’s nose. He’s earnest and so gorgeous Draco can’t stand the sight of him.

“The game is the game,” Harry’s voice carries, clear and chesty, deeply masculine as he says his favorite little quote that means absolutely nothing and that fans have been yelling and tattooing on their bodies the whole season. “We don’t take any victory for granted. Coach has been running us to the ground, she won’t stop until we have that trophy in Puddlemere, and we’re doing our best to make her proud.”

“Oh, I’m certain we’ll face them at the Cup,” is what Draco answers at last. “Honestly? I think no other team comes even close. We’ll face them, and then we’ll bring the Cup home to Appleby. As Potter himself likes to say, the game is the game.”

All the cameras around him go off, the sound of Quick-Quills scrabbling and the reporters’ scandalized gasps at his use of Potter’s quote. He grins, puts his olive green Arrows cap on and stands to leave. He needs a fucking shower.

Later on, he’s sprawled on his hotel room couch, drying his hair with a towel and watching a replay of the game on the enormous television, making mental notes about his own flying, his mistakes, the times he dove too soon or hovered too low. When the screen follows the blue jersey with POTTER 7 emblazoned across the back, he looks closely, trying to spot mistakes but knowing he won’t find any. Potter’s probably the best flier of the century, and Draco loves Quidditch too much to lie to himself about that.

He’s admiring one of Potter’s physics-defying feints when there’s a knock on his door. Immediately, his heart takes up a gallop, and he has to press a hand to the center of his chest with a frown.

“Calm the fuck down, Malfoy,” he mutters. It’s a disproportionate reaction and he’s irritated with himself for it. It’s not as though it’s the first time. Or the tenth.

He pauses the game with a flick of his wand and makes his way to the door, through the archway that separates the TV room from the kitchenette. A quick look at the archway across the suite to make sure the bedroom is as he left it, and he’s at the door, taking a deep breath.

Potter’s grin is huge when Draco opens. He’s foregone all his team outwear, and is now in a familiar, worn leather jacket and a black sweater. His hair is wet, as though he rushed after his shower so he could get here quicker. Draco opens his mouth to say something, but before he figures out what, Harry pushes inside, turns around and presses him against the door, big hands gentle on Draco’s waist. Draco’s heart hasn’t gotten the “this isn’t the first or tenth time this happens,” memo, and is still running a marathon inside his chest, so he says nothing.

There’s a plastic bag in Potter’s hands. Dinner, probably, he usually brings dinner when they meet after a game. His wide smile reveals white teeth, a crooked canine that Draco knows is a baby tooth that never loosened. Round, stylish glasses cover the most intoxicating green eyes Draco has ever seen, and they’re shining with tonight’s victory. And Draco might be — definitely is — the world’s sorest loser, but he’s also the world’s biggest slut for Quidditch excellence, and he has it right here, holding him against his hotel room door.

“The game is the game?” Harry asks, amused, already leaning in, the hand on Draco’s waist moving to wrap the whole way around him and pull him close.

“Just some stupid phrase I’ve heard from a dickhead,” Draco answers, but the words hold the shape of a smile and are uttered right into a kiss there at the end.

It’s always a race at the start. They're both high from the game, still in that mindset, and it’s a competition to see who can undress quicker, who can make the other harder, who can earn the first moan and coax the first orgasm of the night. But after that first one, after Draco’s jaw aches dully and Potter is softening between his legs, everything slows down a little. Potter helps him up and they share the tacos Potter brought, watching the last minutes of the game they played earlier with Draco’s legs up on Potter’s lap, where he’s massaging his knees, his quads, making sure he’s not achy from kneeling for him.

“I really fucked that one up,” Potter comments. His tiny self on the screen just pulled out of an impossible dive at what looks like a 90 degree angle. He sounds earnest, which is the only reason Draco isn’t kicking him right in his beautiful face.

“I hate you so much. Only you would call that a fuck up.”

Potter hums, his massaging hands moving from Draco’s calf to his heel, his thumb pressing into his sole. On the screen, tiny Draco swerves a Bludger aimed to his head, and his teammate Owen is flying to him to make sure he’s alright.

“That guy is so into you,” Potter points out.

“I know. We fucked all through rookie year.”

Potter turns to look at him so fast it must hurt his neck. Draco raises an eyebrow, confused at the strong reaction.

“What?”

“I — I don’t know,” Potter says, suddenly sheepish. His hands haven’t stopped moving over Draco’s foot. Potter’s skin is dark, but Draco can still make out the blush spreading across his cheekbones. “Isn’t it weird? He’s a teammate.”

There’s something he’s not saying. It’s evident in the way he bites his bottom lip, in the way he obviously wants to look away but is too ridiculously brave to actually do it. Draco’s heart thumps inside his chest, so hard he’s sure it must be audible to Harry too.

They’ve never named this thing between them. The first time they did it, after the quarter finals one year before, with Potter’s ill advised kiss that ended with them fucking in the showers of the stadium after Potter had wiped the damn dust with Draco on the pitch, they agreed to keep it quiet, and that was the last they discussed of it. It’s going on fourteen months since then, and they’ve done it at least once a month, when the league brings them to nearby towns, and sometimes when it doesn’t and they take a quick midnight Portkey to each other to blow off some steam.

Draco had never in his life been as well-fucked as he’s been this past year, and he definitely doesn’t want to lose it. Potter’s always been honest and open with him, vocal in bed about how much he wants him, filthy in his occasional text messages when they’re apart, but he’s never given any indication that he wants anything other than exactly what they have.

“It’s not weird,” Draco says slowly, unsure of what to think of this exchange. “We stopped a while ago. I was clear that I didn’t want — that I’d rather we stayed friends and teammates, without any complications.”

“Right,” Potter says. He sounds relieved, and Draco feels like he’s three steps behind the conversation they’re having. He’s about to ask, but Potter’s fingers on his calf smooth over an old knot and he groans instead, letting his head fall back onto the couch cushion.

“That feels great,” he says, and Potter repeats the motion.

“Yeah. I think you pulled it when you made that X turn.”

The turn he made to try to beat him to the Snitch, he doesn’t say. How he had enough awareness to know Draco attempted it while diving for the Snitch himself is beyond comprehension, but Draco has long accepted that Potter is simply insane about the game. He notices everything, considers everything, takes every risk. If he weren’t a player himself, Draco knows he would be following Puddlemere and Harry wherever they played for the entire season, wearing a pale blue jersey with the number 7 on it.

“Probably,” Draco says, closing his eyes and groaning again when Harry keeps pressing the same point. After a moment, he feels something softer brushing his calf, and opens his eyes to find Harry bent over his leg, kissing a path up towards his knee. He can’t help the embarrassing little sound he makes, and Harry’s laugh is a puff against his skin as he keeps moving up, breath warm on the wet trail of his kisses up Draco’s thigh. In the background, the presenters are going crazy over a feint Harry pulled, the sound of the audience carrying all through the stadium and out of the TV speakers.

Harry has made his way high up and is kissing Draco’s birthmark, a brown, apple-sized beauty mark an inch below his groin when he lifts his head to ask, “Why didn’t you want to?”

Draco can’t believe he’s using his mouth to speak at that moment. He licks his lips, trying to make sense of the question.

“What? What are you even — ?” He tries to sit up a little, but Harry moves over him instead so they’re eye-level without Draco having to move at all.

“With Caddell. Why didn’t you want to keep seeing him?”

“Owen? Why the fuck are we talking about —,” Draco lets his head drop down onto the cushions again, a sigh punched out of him. Harry takes pity and leans forward to kiss him, lips soft over Draco’s, knowing exactly how to coax his kisses out of him the way he likes best.

“I just want to know,” Harry whispers against his lips. He’s breathless just from touching Draco, from rubbing his legs, from kissing him. Fuck, this is insane.

“I like him, but it wasn’t very exciting.” Draco says. He closes his eyes as Harry begins to kiss down his neck, and tries to really think about it, because he’s not even sure himself. “I wasn’t willing to risk our teamwork when what we had wasn’t even that … electric. I don’t know. This sounds insane.”

Harry shakes his head, his beard rubbing against Draco’s collarbone. “It doesn’t. I get it.” He bites on the delicate skin connecting neck and shoulder, licks a path down his chest. “I get electric.”

“Fuck yes you do,” Draco says, nonsensical, but he feels he can’t be blamed when Harry is brushing his lips over his nipples, broad hands moving around Draco’s body to secure a grip over his ass.

“Is this?” Harry asks, mouth nearing the V of Draco’s hips, the edge of the trail of hair leading to his crotch. “Electric?”

Draco swears, fingers running through Harry’s hair and finding a grip, hard. “If you don’t put your mouth on me right now I swear I — yes.”

He spreads his thighs to accommodate Harry between them, one hand gripping Harry’s hair and the other curled around the cushion over his head. It is electric, the way Harry knows exactly which buttons to push, sliding a finger inside him while keeping him on his tongue. He’s a prodigy in this too, the star player who knows every move in the playbook that is Draco’s body.

It feels like no time at all, no effort at all before Harry is pulling back, dragging Draco closer by the waist and working himself inside. The feel of it, the sound of them together, the look into Harry’s open gaze, his sweat dripping onto Draco’s chest and his hands underneath Draco’s back, holding him, pulling him onto him, have Draco nearing release almost too fast for his liking, but the night is young and it’s been so long that he lets himself go, a cord snapping in his core, eyes open as he watches Harry watch him come apart.

“Come on,” he says once he’s come down, lifting his hips, shifting his weight onto his shoulders. “Show me what you got, Potter.”

Harry groans and leans forward, kisses Draco’s jaw and his neck, and drives his hips faster. Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s back, moves with him as much as he can in the tight embrace, and remains close as Harry meets his own peak and tumbles down the edge.

They lie together for a couple minutes afterwards, panting into each other’s skins, basking in the afterglow.

“Some pro-athletes. We have the stamina of two eighteen year old virgins,” Draco mutters into Harry’s hair after a while, and feels Harry’s chest rumble with his laughter. The room is cast in the warm glow of the foot-lamp that stands beside the sofa they just fucked in, exactly like two eighteen year old virgins having the chance to touch for the first time in their lives.

Harry always goes boneless and slow after a good lay, so Draco eases him off his body with tenderness, a gentle hand to Harry’s chest, followed by a kiss.

“Let's go to bed, yeah?” He whispers.

Harry groans. “I don’t want to move.”

“That’s too bad, because I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed. Some idiot drove me to the ground on the pitch today.”

He stands up and shakes out his legs, testing the soreness of his muscles. There’ll be an ache tomorrow, but nothing he can’t handle.

Despite his complaint, Harry is already standing up too, coming up behind Draco, a hand finding its way to the flat of his belly, his forehead on Draco’s shoulder as though he can’t bear not to touch him for even a second.

“Bed it is,” he declares against the skin of Draco’s shoulder, sounding halfway asleep already. Draco huffs a laugh and pulls him towards the bedroom, pausing at the kitchenette to grab two glasses of water that he watches Harry drink in three gulps, a couple drops sliding down the sides of his mouth, into his beard and down his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“What?” He asks when he catches Draco watching him, and Draco shakes his head and pulls him to bed. He’s so handsome it’s genuinely upsetting sometimes. Draco thinks he’d throw a tantrum about it daily if it weren’t for the fact that he gets to touch him.

They try their best, but they don’t manage a second round before their eyes fall shut, tucked into each other like two hands cupped under a stream of water, tumbling into a satisfied, exhausted sleep.

Harry wakes him with a kiss before daybreak, the last of the night chilling the room and puckering Draco’s skin.

“Do you have to go already?” Draco asks, one eye still closed and a hand curled possessively around Harry’s bicep, not entirely on purpose.

Harry shakes his head, kisses him again with a gentleness that is meant to go nowhere but extend this kiss, warm and sweet.

“I thought we could talk.”

Draco is nodding before fully grasping the meaning, but even once he does he’s not tempted to back away. Must be the night, still cocooning them, must be Harry’s arms around him that are making him brave, but he’s not nervous anymore, not now that he’s remembered what they’re like, together.

“It is electric,” he says, suspecting that’s what Harry wants to talk about. “It’s always electric with you.”

The smile blooms slowly, lighting up Harry’s face from within, his beautiful eyes, unhidden this early in the morning, his glasses still on the bedside table. Harry sits up a little, clears his throat. It seems like he’s been gearing up for this, he’s squaring his shoulders the way he does before trying a dangerous feint, before performing a play that will have Draco biting dust. This insane, wonder of an athlete. Draco forces himself to shake the last of the sleep away, to focus on him, on what he wants to say.

“I know that … so many of us want you,” Harry starts. “On your team, on mine, the whole league, actually. But I —”

He looks like he’s stating an absolute truth, like he has irrefutable proof, and Draco is taken aback. He knows some of the guys find him attractive, but that’s not the same as being wanted. He shakes his head. “What? Where did you get that?”

“I’ve talked about it with the guys, but that’s not the point,” he adds hurriedly when he sees his eyes widen. Draco hasn’t said a word to anyone, not out of shame, but out of sureness that they were sneaking around, that they were making it a point to hide. Apparently, he was wrong. Harry continues, “What I want to say is … I know we’ve not agreed on anything, that you’re free to want others, be with whoever you want to be with. I thought that you knew where I stood, that if you weren’t saying anything it was because you didn’t want the same thing I did, but it’s been brought to my attention that if I’ve not made an honest offer, I can’t assume you’re saying no.”

Draco’s heart is hammering inside his chest, inside his throat. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but if he’s right, it seems Harry is saying …

“I don’t want this to be a once a month thing. I want to bring you home, I want you to meet my family, and I want the guys to know that I’m saying no to all the people they set me up with because I’m taken and completely uninterested in anyone else. Are you … is that something you want, too? I know you might have better offers, but I – ”

The covers crinkle under Draco’s knees as he sits up, throws a leg over Harry’s body so he can fully sit on his lap and brings him forward by the neck.

“You beautiful idiot. What could be a better offer? Why would I care about any other offers when I have the best one right here?”

They’re kissing, and Harry’s gasping, and Draco’s frenzied heart pounds against his sternum. He nods into the kiss, feels dizzy with how much he wants what’s being offered. Fuck. There’s nothing he wants more.

Harry pulls back a little, whispers: “Does this mean we’re — ?”

“Yes, fuck. It’s — The game’s the game.”

“What — That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Shut up. It’s your quote.”

Then they’re laughing into a new kiss, and it’s not the first, or even the tenth time they’re together like this, but Draco’s heart still goes crazy for this man, for his unlimited talent, his openness, his electric company. Quarter finals are coming up, then semis, then they might meet again on the pitch and Draco might lose and throw a strop and want to tear the hair out of his head over the beautiful Quidditch Harry plays, and then they’ll get to go home and celebrate a victory. No matter who takes the trophy. That’ll be the game.

Read On Ao3

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

I have all the time in the world. How about you?

There is a theme to Aylin's threats and vows of vengeance that I've noticed and that I want to share.

Do what you will. I cannot prevent you. But you know as well as I, I will come for you. One day.

That one, for example, is for Balthazar, while she is imprisoned.

I cannot prevent you. But I can advise you. Be careful to whom you yoke your fate. One day, when he is severed from me, Ketheric will die. I will not. And when I am freed, I will remember whose recompense to claim.

Did you expect me to beg? To cry? To plead? For what. I accept my fate - for now. But the life of a divine is longer than you can fathom, Sharran. And this cold chapter will close, one day.

And those are for you, when you've yet to harm her, when she's still only warning you off. But then, if you choose to try to kill her, like so many before you:

Was it everything you hoped for? Was it sweet, Sharran, to murder a paladin of Selûne - her daughter - her sword? Congratulations - your mistress Shar will write your name on her hand. And I? I will come for you. When the time is right.

The next bit depends on your character's gender:

When your sons are grown and your beard is long and wiry; when you cannot hold your nightly water and your nose grows as long as your weary, weary days… When your daughters are grown and your chin sprouts whiskers dark - when your teeth are yellow as corn and your sleep grows short and your days are long and weary, so weary… When your children are grown and your eyes are weak; when your nose grows as long as your weary, weary days…

Ultimately, your fate will be the same:

That is when this immortal will visit you, Sharran. That is when I will show you what it is to be afraid.

All these long-term promises of one day, coupled with inevitability.

I find it so striking that most of Aylin's threats include her flaunting and flexing her immortality (as well as her flawless, long memory) over whoever has wronged her.

Present your weapon, soldier. Plunge it into the Nightsong. I cannot stop you. But know this: I never forget a face. HAH! Are you afraid, Sharran? Do you rattle and jump at the realisation that an immortal has your face emblazoned in her mind forevermore?

Everything is but a passing inconvenience to her, she claims, even a century of imprisonment and torment. Outlasting, outliving - that is simply what she does and what she chooses to intimidate with. Promising to wait until you are old and decrepit, until after you've experienced all the vagaries of age that she never will, leaving her sword hanging over your head throughout the entire miserable lifespan that she has permitted you to have.

Then, if you wrong her in a very heinous way, there's the extreme one of outliving not only you, but killing and extinguishing your entire bloodline in order to obliterate every trace of you from existence:

WHEN I AM FREE, I WILL DESTROY YOU! I WILL MURDER YOU, AND YOUR CHILDREN, AND THEIR CHILDREN BESIDE! I will rip this world apart, plank and beam, until every iota of your being is scalded by my light. This is my promise. This is my vow.

Over and over, Aylin builds her oaths of vengeance on the foundations of an utter, even proud, certainty that she will see her foe end, one way or another, due to her nature and the simple fact of her own endlessness. This is the well she keeps coming back to.

And I find all of this, this consistent insistence on it, so striking and ironic, because one of her other main emotional threads is being thoroughly enraptured by and devoted to and just so completely in love with a mortal. One who will age and die and pass into memory just like all the targets of her rage - if I think of Isobel when I re-read all of that dialogue up there, it seems to cut both ways so deeply. But then there's the extra element that every single one of these is spoken when she either knows or is (incorrectly) convinced that Isobel is dead. Isobel, who didn't get to grow old, and who is both an anchor to humanity and a very painful reminder of the truth of Aylin's situation being twofold.

Aylin will outlast what she hates, yes, but she will outlast what she loves as well.

[randomwriting]

Love Letters I Won’t Send

Pairing: James Potter x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.1K

Summary: In the midst of summertime heat and breakdowns, you find yourself falling in love with all the people around you. (some, more than others.)

A/N 💌: I intend to make this a series, haven’t decided if I should make it fully Poly!Marauders x Reader or not yet, so let me know what you think!

Also this is my first fic ever so kindness & reblogs are sincerely appreciated 💕

Beneath the annoyance permeating the halls of Hogwarts, and infesting every common room but the ones conveniently hidden under wonderfully cool lakes, (an amenity you were not jealous of at all), there was an amazingly rare heat wave sweeping over the entirety of scotland. You had to admit, the timing could not have been worse.

The unrelenting heat was the worst in the Gryffindor dorms, where some of the residents had begun looking an awful lot like one of their house colors. This unexpected side effect meant that dorms were essentially uninhabitable, and swarms of students had taken to the courtyard, the common room, or the halls, in refuge. And since hiding from your lingering feelings in your dorm was no longer a viable option, Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas had been forced to drag you out into an open space where you were far too susceptible to seeing the three boys you had been avoiding like the plague.

“You are going to bloody fucking kill yourself if you do not get out of that room.” Marlene practically shouted at you, after yet another failed attempt to free you from the boiling temperatures of your bedroom. Her exasperation with you, general fury with the world, and hatred of the weather was a dangerous combination. One you couldn't entirely fault her for.

“I'd sooner die than have to face those men, marls.” you heard her grumble something along the lines of “Merlins fucking beard” at your response.

“Look, I know this whole thing is complicated and whatnot, but you are driving yourself mad, holed up in a ridiculously hot room, overthinking about James, Sirius and Remus, when you should be swimming, or living, or fucking someone else to get over them!”

“I agree. You are too pretty and smart and funny and frankly too fucking hot to be sitting here moping.” Lily chimes in, smiling at you, unrelenting in her beliefs, you take a second, in the midst of the chaos, to admire her smile. The ridiculously engaging quality of her shiny teeth, the perfection of her skin and the red hair that floats around her in the sun, too much like a halo for you not to take note. It is so easy to love her. All of them, really. You only wish, quietly, that it was so easy for you to be loved. The way everyone knows Mary loves Lily, the palpable way you all can feel how Marlene loves Dorcas. It radiates under the surface of the whole group and flows further out into the school, they radiate love, and you feel it, in that brief and wondrous moment before you have to face the world, you ask yourself how on earth you got so lucky, that they might tolerate you enough to allow you this close to the masterpiece of their friendships and lives.

“Okay.” You relent, soft yet reluctant, as you come back to the present, a feeling of inadequacy settling heavily on your shoulders and in your lungs, “I'll leave the room but I'm bringing a book, and I insist on snacks and enormous amounts of lemonade if I'm being forced out into the wild.” You allow them to pull you up and out of the sweltering room, only because you’re not entirely convinced you won’t be able to simply meander away into some obscure hallway, cooled by the touch of the century old stone in refuge, the moment Dorcas and Marlene begin to notice just how little clothing there is between the two of them due to the immense heat. You stare ahead as you walk down through the common room, shoulders tense with something indescribable. Lily notices it, she also noticed the soft, odd look on your face earlier, and just like Lily Evans does, she files it away in a neat folder in her mind with your name written on it, one new thing to figure out about you, where exactly it is you go when your eyes get foggy and you drift off.

“Why are you avoiding the boys?” Dorcas asks suddenly, and you feel marlene and lily stop, to turn and look at her the same way you do.

“It’s just easier, if I don’t see them.” You tell her this half truth slowly, as you all continue to walk down the stairs, you don’t miss the dry look you get from Marlene.

“Easier? You were miserable earlier and I can’t imagine they’re thrilled at the prospect of one of their best friends disappearing without explanation.” She somehow manages to be blunt and soft and so uniquely wise.

“I have to move on, because we are just friends. That’s easier to do when I’m not constantly overwhelmed by Remus reading to me, and Sirius’ relentless flirting, and James calling me-”

“Angel! There you are.” A sweaty James Potter practically yells from across the courtyard as he sees you. Your heart stops, the sun is on his face and bouncing off of his glasses, his hair has never looked this good, ever. It’s damp and sideswept and you just know Sirius has been somewhere near it, because it looks particularly soft. You aren’t sure he isn’t actually an angel of some kind as he jogs over to you and the girls in his white tank top and shorts, positively beaming.

“Nice to see you too, potter.” Marlene snarks with a grin as James enters your personal space.

“Oh come on Marls, you know I’m always positively thrilled to see you.” His smile unwavering as he looks over at her, you take that moment of freedom from his gaze to wipe the sweat that formed away from your brow, and to start a silent conversation with lily, which really only pertains you mouthing “help” and her grinning at you happily, thrilled with the confrontation. She hated when you hid from things, from yourself.

“Did you put on sunblock? Sirius has plenty, if you haven't.” James asks you softly as he leads the small group to the tree where he had come running from, you can just make out Sirius and Remus under it, Sirius sprawled out on the grass, head in remus’ lap, who’s back is against the tree as he reads. You’re struck with fondness yet again as you look at them, finding it all too easy to fall back into that habit of loving them from afar.

“I did. Lily made me.”

You answer, with a playful glare at your favorite redhead. James’ smile grows somehow larger at the playfulness. You watch Lily sling her arm over Dorcas, you laugh as Marlene shoves it off, grumbling playfully about how she should go find Mary if she wanted to get all lovey dovey. Despite the tension you can feel, always present it seems, since you fell for James, there is an easiness. Perhaps because of the warmth and the abundance that comes with this time of year, or maybe just because you have found yourself living here, with people who you feel if you didn't already have magic coursing through your veins, would make you believe in its existence. They were just that wonderful.

[little-diable]

Bound in Eternity - Halbrand/Sauron (smut)

This obsession isn't fading, but I ain't sorry, y'all will have to endure this. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated. Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Once wed, once forced apart by Adar's betrayal, and now their paths cross again - all while he is fighting side by side with an elf that looks at him as if they are soulbound.

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, public, jealousy, choking, possessiveness, some degrading

Pairing: Halbrand/Sauron x fem!reader (2.3k words)

At first it felt as if she was dreaming. A restless dream that would haunt her for centuries to come. A darkening dream that would force her to doubt everything she had clung to ever since their paths had been forced to part. Centuries that have turned into a cloud of confusing smoke, too thick for her to see through it.

But the tip of the sword felt too cold, too sharp to be a mere imagination of her racing mind. This wasn’t a dream, this was all but a dream, reality had caught up with her, drawing her towards the battle where she could feel him close.

Him. The one she had been bound to ever since she could remember. Him. The one who had always held her heart in his hands, careful not to crush it even as darkness had begun to poison every vein, every inch of his frame. Him. The one she had longed to feel close again ever since Adar’s betrayal.

Hope was flickering in her eyes, she had changed her frame just like he had, finding a new body to house her soul for the time being. A frame he seemed to find himself confused by, not reacting to the way her soul tried to reach for his, desperate to let their powers intertwine once again. But something seemed to hold him back, something that left a bitter aftertaste on (y/n)’s tongue while studying the unreadable expression tugging on his new handsome features.

“Who is she to you?” His eyes flickered from hers to Adar’s, the one she didn’t dare to look at, knowing that she’d fight against every sword for the mere chance to kill him. She’d burn Middle Earth to the ground for a chance to pierce her sword through his skin, robbing him of his life just like he had tried to rob the life of her lover.

“I don’t know her.” She couldn’t stop a huff from leaving her, forcing her lover’s eyes back to her. (Y/n) was close to murmuring his name, but the presence of the elf held her back, the golden haired warrior who looked at her lover with something making (y/n)’s insides churn in disgust and jealousy. The elf spoke something to him, but she couldn’t listen, not when she tried to make herself familiar with his new appearance, the slightly unruly look that seemed to perfectly fit him.

His eyes found hers again as he sheathed his sword before reaching for her arm to pull her to her feet. A fire spread through her the second he touched her, something he must have felt too judging by the momentary recognition flushing through his eyes. They kept holding eye contact as the elf reached for Adar, binding his arms to drag him with her. A soft smile managed to break out on (y/n)’s lips, she fought against the need to reach for his bearded cheek, to let her skin meet his again like it had last done on that forsaken morning before he had been ripped from her side.

For a second, a darkening grin widened on his lips, a grin that made her breath hitch in her chest. He tightened his grip on her while moving towards his horse, wordlessly helping her into the saddle before placing himself behind her. His arm found its way around her waist, pushing her back against his armoured chest before dipping his head down to let his breath fan over (y/n)’s neck, “I feared you may have forgotten about me, sweetling, but I should have known that our bond will survive even the furthest distances.”

Goosebumps rose on her skin, perfectly matching the heat spreading through her body. She couldn’t reply, not when the elf looked back at them for a moment before leading them down the forest path, but the way she squeezed his hand seemed to be enough for him for now.

…

“Halbrand, what a strange name to choose.”

Her voice had a teasing touch to it, drawing him closer as they stood near the shed the elf had dragged Adar into seconds ago. His eyes burned holes into her skin, leaving a fiery trail as he cupped her cheek, letting his calloused thumb stroke her skin.

“And what should I call you now, sweetling?” His voice dropped lower with every spoken syllable, undoubtedly feeling the same pull in his chest. She wanted to kiss him, wanted to feel his lips pressed against hers, but something seemed to hold him back, something having to do with that elf (y/n) struggled to look at for longer than a handful of seconds.

“I haven’t chosen a different name yet, Mairon.” The growl leaving him drew a whine out of (y/n), she needed to feel him closer, desperate to taste him again just like she had longed for all those centuries.

“The elf, Galadriel, is a worthy asset in our game, I fear you need to put your trust in me once more.” Confusion pushed through (y/n), forcing her eyebrows to furrow while looking up at him. He let go of her before another word could leave her, forced to look at Galadriel reemerging from the shed.

He left her side to speak to the elf, murmuring words (y/n) couldn’t understand. Anger began to simmer inside of her, anger directed at her lover who hadn’t even kissed her yet after all those years apart, at the elf who seemed to pull him into her trap all too easily, at herself for falling for his game yet again. But no matter how much she wanted to rip herself free, she couldn’t leave his side again - not after only being reunited moments ago.

“Speak, what’s your name?” Galadriel had her eyes directed on (y/n), waiting for her to find her words again as she fought against the lump in her throat. For a second, she let her gaze find his, hoping to find something swimming in his pupils to direct her path, but he didn’t give her anything. Nothing but the grin she had once found herself obsessing over.

“(Y/n),” it was a simple reply, a reply that left him tensing while the elf only nodded her head. It had been centuries since he had last heard her name being spoken out loud - only he had allowed himself to call it out loud when lust overcame him, the simple pleasure mankind seemed to ache for as if it was the air they needed to breathe. But his longings for her had always been stronger than his arrogance, allowing him to let go of any darkening thoughts while fucking his hand to the thought of her.

“Do you know how to wield a sword?” Galadriel’s eyes didn’t leave hers once, a gaze filled with uncertainties and confusions. (Y/n) only nodded her head as she could watch a smirk widen on her lover's lips. Perhaps her return had been just what he needed, another asset in fooling the elf who looked at him as if he had placed every single star on the night sky himself.

“Good, you’ll come with us.” Wordlessly the elf turned away from them, not picking up on the sight of Halbrand and (y/n) grinning at one another with darkness swimming in their pupils. A darkness that forced lust through their veins, a longing both seemed to share as he positioned himself behind her on the saddle once more.

For a second, time seemed to stand still as he whispered to her in the language others feared, the black speech both had shared all those centuries ago. His longing for her was clear, as was hers while she pressed herself back against his chest, unable to bite down a soft whimper as his words kept teasing her. Her whimper turned into a gasp as he suddenly led the horse into a different direction, away from Galadriel who seemed to be oblivious to what was happening.

Trees blurred past them, putting more and more distance between them and the elf. And then the horse came to a sudden halt, almost throwing her off the saddle had it not been for the strong arm he’d wrapped around her waist. Wordlessly he helped her back down, feet meeting the ground before she found herself pressed against the nearest tree.

And then their lips met, finally, after all those years apart. He still tasted the same, of loving and a home others would curse but she had always been aching for. The kiss wasn’t soft nor was it sweet, their teeth clashed, their tongues got tangled while his impatient hands toyed with the lacing of her trousers. Heavy pants left them both, urged on by their longings and the need to unite their bodies once more.

“Tell me, did you let another touch you?” Anger simmered inside of her, a sensation so strong, it allowed her to switch places with him, pushing her lover against the tree while her hands worked on his armour to free his aching cock. He stared down at her, hairs falling into his forehead, eyes growing darker with lust.

“Do you think so little of me, Mairon? I’ve endured centuries without a single touch while all I could long for was your closeness.” A satisfied hum left her lover, eyes momentarily fluttering close as he felt her hands wrapped around him, touching him just like he had touched himself days ago to the thought of her. He felt heavy in her hand, leaving her walls clenching around nothing at the thought of him “But what about you? Did your game ask you to bed the elf? She looks at you as if you’re soulbound.”

A raspy chuckle left him, a sound that only agitated her further. His cold hand found (y/n)’s warm cheek, forcing her to keep looking at him even as he pushed her hand away. Wordlessly he turned them around again, with his hand finding its rest on her throat he kept her held in place, “Perhaps I have, perhaps I’ve fucked her to blindside her, you always knew of the sacrifices we had to make.”

She knew that he was lying, set on pushing her further into her anger to heighten her senses, and yet she couldn’t stop the curses rolling off her tongue, words in the black speech he cut off with his hand adding more pressure to her throat. Her eyes grew wider as she felt his cock near her entrance, coating himself in her slick before he finally pushed into her.

The second he pushed into her she could have sworn she felt the ground shaking, an eruption so strong it buzzed through her body. But the smirk lingering on her lover’s lips was enough to keep her focused on him.

He fucked (y/n) against the tree, hard, fast, set on leaving bruises to make up for all those lost centuries. Barely any air managed to flood through her lungs, just enough to leave her trembling against him while choking on his name, “I’ve almost forgotten how being buried inside of you feels like, no matter which form we take on, we’re always made to fit, sweetling.”

The words were unusually soft, leaving her brows to furrow while she felt the air around them growing heavier. Something was happening in the Southlands, but she didn’t dare give in to any distraction while her lover finally fucked her again, “You’re taking me so well, fuck, I should have known that all those years wouldn’t change your hunger for me, you’ll always be a cock hungry whore for me.”

“Fuck you,” she spat the words against his lips, a mere whisper and yet just enough to make him raise his brows in mock surprise. His thrusts grew rougher, drawing whines out of her as she felt her orgasm creeping closer and closer. He dipped his head down to kiss her throat, letting his beard scratch her skin while his hand let go of her, only to find her pulsing bundle.

“Beg for it.” It was a simple, rasped command, enough to make her see stars while she could taste her release on the tip of her tongue. For a moment, his thrusts grew slower, dragging out the moment as she searched for her voice. “Don’t tell me I’ve already fucked you dumb, you poor thing. Let me hear your voice.”

“Please, Mairon, let me cum.” A sob left (y/n), blurry gaze focused on his features. Darkness seeped out of his every pore, shadows wrapping themselves around the two, all while another hum left him. “I need it, oh fuck, please.”

“Cum with me.” Both fell over the edge at the same time, drawing moans from them while they lost themselves in the intense sensation. It had never felt this strong, this relieving, this perfect. A deadly mixture reminding them both of the power they could wield when their souls were finally connected again.

His forehead fell against hers, lips connected once more before he pulled away. But her hand darted out to cling to his jaw, searching his eyes while finding her trembling voice, “Tell me you’re still mine, tell me she’s nothing but a pawn in your game.”

A raspy chuckle left her lover, he shook his head while intently studying her, “She’s a worthy asset, a pawn to bring us closer to what we’ve been working towards. But she’ll never be you, nobody ever will, sweetling, and it’d do you good to finally remember that.”

(Y/n) pressed another kiss to his lips before both directed their gazes towards the darkening sky, tasting the smoke and ash in the air - something seemingly pushing excitement through his veins, “So it begins.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Just Friends: Get Ready

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

masterlist

Summary: Bucky sleeps over.

It’s giving

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You shimmy and sway before the mirror behind the polka dot skirt. It’s cute but is it date cute. Does it matter? It’s not really a date, not for you. You’re just there for moral support. Geez, isn’t Bucky a soldier? You think he could face a gorgeous sophisticated woman like Charlize. 

You don’t get how he doesn’t see how perfect they are for each other. She’s older and confident and so beautiful. And smart to boot. And he’s handsome and built and somewhat famous. They are the power couple for the ages. Quite literally with Bucky aging into his second century. 

It should be fun anyway. Dinner out can be a bit overwhelming but it isn’t so bad with friends. Heck, you’re sure they will be too busy gabbing and ditch you and your date quickly. At least, that’s what you’re hoping for. 

Your apartment buzzer goes off and makes you jump. You blanch at your reflection and pull the skirt on. You were never going to decide so you’ll just go with it. You swipe up the blouse with the eyelet collar and swoop it over your head. You leave it untucked as you slam the button to quiet the offensive noise. 

“Hey!” You call into the speaker. 

“Dreamy,” Bucky sounds angry as he growls through the crackling line. 

“What are you doing here? You should be getting ready.” 

“I am,” he snips. 

“Oh, right, well, come on up, I guess.” 

He huffs right before you let the button go. He’s been grouchy lately. You asked him if it was work. He shook his head and kept reading. You tried to keep guessing and he just groaned and told you nothing’s wrong. So, you let him mope. 

It doesn’t take him long to get to your floor. He pounds on the floor and you let him in. He doesn’t look ready. You squint and step back to look him up and down. 

“Bucky,” you reproach. 

“What? I got a tie,” he pulls his leather jacket open. “It’s just a bit... stubborn.” 

“Oh, gosh,” you tug on the crooked tie, “here.” 

He stoops to let you even out the tails and you pat it as you peer up at his floppy hair. His beard is getting long too. The tufts jut out at his chin like horns. 

“Come here,” you sneer and grab his wrist. 

He lets you drag him across the apartment and into the bathroom. You flip down the lid of the toilet and point him to it. You take your brush and sigh, shaking your head as you tut. You brush back his dark hair, strands of silver sparkling in the light. 

“You’re a mess.” 

“I tried.” 

“Sure,” you try to tame the flopping locks, “one second.” You grab your extra hold spray and press his hair back as you block his face from the aerosol blast. He shifts and you tap his boot with your toe. “Sit still.” 

“Mm, that smells good,” he stops fidgeting. 

“Coconut. It’s my favourite. And it’s expensive, so thank me for wasting it on you,” you put the bottle down and comb through his hair to give it a less stiff look. His eyes flick up and meet yours as your fingertips graze his scalp. 

“Ugh, you ever thought of getting into massage?” He chirps. 

“Har har,” you say dryly, “Bucky, what are you doing here? I told you to meet me at the restaurant.”  

You take a small comb and tidy his beard as he scrunches his nose. You finish and rinse your hands in the sink. You look at yourself. You’re still not ready. 

“Yeah, well... I couldn’t get my hair to behave.” 

“We’ll see if it holds.” You sniff. 

You tuck the blouse into your skirt and turn to him. He stares at you. You examine his collar and his slacks. They’re nice but the shirt is wrinkled. 

“Bucky, did you at least iron that?” 

“It’s new?” He shrugs. 

“It’s all covered in lines,” you cross your arms. “Take it off.” 

“What? I think the place requires shirts--” 

“Don’t be silly.” 

“Wow, if I had to guess, I’d say you’re nervous about our little date,” he stands and loosens the tie you just fixed. 

“I just... want it to be perfect. I want you to have a good time.” 

“I always have a good time with you, Dreamy,” he unbuttons his shirt. 

“Right, well, you should be worried about Charlize,” you stomp out of the bathroom and unfold the board behind the door. You plug in the iron as he comes close and tosses his shirt over it. He wears a ribbed tank beneath. “She’s so awesome. Aren’t you excited?” 

“Eh, sure,” he says noncommittally. “And what about you? You find someone?” 

“Yep, all’s sorted out. All my hard work,” you wave your hand in front of the iron as it warms, impatient for it to heat up.  

Finding a date hadn’t been as easy as you assumed. You thought when you offered free dinner, anyone would just come along for the meal. That was very much not the case but you found a workaround. 

“Don’t do that. You’re going to burn yourself,” he chides. 

“Mm, and you can blame yourself for not pressing your clothes,” you shake your head. 

“Oh, dreamy, I love it when you’re mad. It’s so cute.” 

“No teasing,” you snip, “try to be charming.” 

“What? I’m charming,” he blusters. 

You look at him, “sure.” 

He scoffs, “alright, Mrs. Polka Dot skirt.” 

“What? It’s cute.” 

“It’s not exactly date material,” he snickers. 

“Ugh, fine, you,” you point at him, “deal with your shirt and I’ll find a date outfit. Ugh.” 

You sweep around the board and stride into the bedroom. You swing the door carelessly behind you and make your way to the closet. A dress would be better, you guess. If it shuts him up, then you’ll happily wear one. Ah, that one’s cute! You forgot about it. 

You go to the bed and strip off the skirt and blouse. You stagger around before you manage to step into the peridot dress. The bows on the straps are too much. You look in the mirror and do a little dance. It fits, but it is short. 

You glance over and hesitate. The door is still slightly ajar. You flit over and as you come out, Bucky clears his throat. He puts his head down and focuses on ironing his sleeve. 

He peeks over at you and his brows furrow, “better?” You ask. 

“Uh, I guess. Green is a choice,” he smirks. 

“Okay, Calvin Klein, well, I will have to get you to help me with my closet later.” 

He chuckles and goes back to pressing the iron to the fabric. You go to the bathroom, conscious of him as you check yourself in the mirror. It feels like he’s watching you but it’s probably just that the place is so small. 

“I won’t be long, I don’t want to be late,” you assure him. 

[brunchable]

𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐲 | Vampire!Bucky × F!reader × Vampire!Steve.

Pairings: VAMPIRE Bucky Barnes x f!reader X VAMPIRE Steve Rogers Themes: Allure and Danger, Mind-control, Seduction, Powerlessness. Content Warning: This story containes themes of horror, suspense and supernatural elements that may be unsettling for some readers. It includes depictions of blood, violence, predatory behavior, and dark themes of power dynamics. Do not read if you are uncomfortable with themes like this. Summary: Your great-aunt left you an inheritance, but it wasn't just an old castle—it was a dark legacy. As she explores its eerie halls, Y/N unknowingly awakens something ancient and deadly, turning her from an unsuspecting heir into the next castle's victim. A/N: OooOooOOoo Advance happy hallooween. . . If you really want to get in the mood, look up vampire music povs on youtube. they are chef's kiss.

The castle loomed before Y/N like a dark, brooding sentinel against the storm-ridden sky. Its towering spires disappeared into the thick fog that clung to the surrounding mountains, and the jagged stones of its walls seemed to be weeping from centuries of decay. She shivered as she pushed open the iron-wrought gates, the hinges groaning like some tormented beast. The wind picked up, sending leaves spiraling around her, and she clutched her coat tighter, pressing forward with her mind set on a singular goal: This place needs to turn a profit.

What had her great-aunt seen in this wretched estate to leave it to her? The thought weighed on Y/N as she ascended the stone steps, each footfall echoing ominously in the stillness. The wooden doors creaked open under her hand, revealing a grand foyer lined with cracked marble and dust-coated chandeliers that dripped cobwebs like ghostly lace.

The last time she’d set foot in this place, she’d been just a child—five years old and clutching her mother’s hand tightly, staring wide-eyed at the looming shadows and the way the old portraits seemed to watch her. She could still remember the way the cold air had nipped at her skin, how everything had felt too big and dark, swallowing her small frame whole. Now, returning as an adult, it felt no less daunting—just as haunted and hollow as her childhood memories.

She took a deep breath and stepped inside. The air was musty, stale, and laced with something metallic that lingered on her tongue. Still, Y/N’s resolve didn’t falter.

“I’m not going to be scared off by a spooky old castle,” she muttered to herself, voice too loud in the silence.

Her footsteps seemed to disturb the quiet, sending whispers of sound skittering through the corridors. With every room she entered, every piece of dusty furniture she uncovered, Y/N’s confidence grew. She could see the potential—a little restoration, a few modern amenities, and Castle Roghnan would become the most unique boutique hotel in the region.

The ground floor was fairly straightforward. She made notes on what needed fixing, where to add touches of elegance, and what to keep authentic. At some point during her exploration, she’d set her bags down in the dining hall, thinking she’d return there once she’d finished her tour of the castle. The dining hall itself had been just as eerie as the rest of the place—long, dusty tables, cobwebbed chandeliers, and a massive fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been lit in a century.

But what really stood out were the portraits that lined the walls, watching her with eyes that seemed to follow her every move.

They were old, their colors faded with age, but they were still striking—two men, both with unnervingly pale skin and eyes that seemed to burn with an intensity that sent shivers racing down her spine. One of them wore a black coat, his expression stern, almost cruel, his dark hair falling over his forehead in an unruly wave. The other, dressed in a dark brown suit, had a more refined look, his beard neatly trimmed and his gaze piercing through her like he knew every secret she’d ever kept.

These portraits had haunted her as a child, filling her nightmares with faceless, shadowy figures that chased her through endless corridors. She used to wake up sobbing, convinced their eyes were following her even after she’d left the room. Now, staring at them again, it was as if the memories resurfaced with a vengeance—the same chilling sensation that made her want to look away and run, just as she had all those years ago.

She hadn’t lingered long in front of the portraits, the oppressive weight of their gazes making her uneasy. But something about them nagged at the back of her mind as she continued through the castle, their faces etched into her memory.

The ground floor completed, it wasn’t until she reached the narrow, spiral staircase at the back of the castle—hidden behind a tapestry of snarling wolves—that she hesitated. The door at the bottom of the stairs seemed out of place—heavy, iron-bound, and covered in strange symbols she didn’t recognize.

Y/N bit her lip, holding her flashlight tightly. Just a quick look. It’s probably just storage or a wine cellar. She descended cautiously, the staircase spiraling down into what felt like an abyss. The temperature dropped with each step, the air growing damper, thicker. The door groaned as she pushed it open, the sound echoing down the long, dark hallway that stretched out before her.

She hadn’t seen anything yet that couldn’t be explained away as an overactive imagination or a castle abandoned for too long. But as she stepped into the basement, something shifted—a change in the air, a heaviness that settled over her like a cloak.

Her flashlight swept across the room—stone walls lined with shelves of ancient tomes and artifacts. 

The cavernous basement seemed to pulse with a life of its own, the darkness growing thicker the deeper Y/N ventured. She could almost hear the castle breathe around her, its heavy silence shifting and settling like some ancient beast awakening from a deep slumber. With each step, her flashlight flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced across the stone walls.

At the far end, nestled against the wall, were three grand coffins, their surfaces adorned with intricate carvings and symbols.

Y/N’s heart pounded. What in God’s name were coffins doing down here?

She stepped closer, unable to tear her gaze away. The coffins looked… regal, almost. Like the final resting places of kings or warriors. But why were they here?

Each one was massive, carved from cold, unyielding marble that gleamed under the beam of her light. Veins of black and gray ran through the stone like blood vessels, and the lids were inlaid with symbols that twisted and curled like thorny vines. They were too pristine to be empty—an ominous, silent promise of what lay within.

Y/N’s hand shook as she approached the first coffin. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breath. It’s probably just a container? There’s no such thing as monsters. But even as she thought it, her pulse hammered in her ears, and every instinct screamed at her to run. Ignoring the warning bells ringing in her mind, she squared her shoulders and reached out, fingertips grazing the frigid marble.

The lid resisted at first, but then, with a heavy groan that echoed through the chamber, it shifted. Y/N pushed harder, the weight of it making her muscles strain. With a grunt, she pushed against it, the lid sliding open with a heavy thunk, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the air. She coughed, the sound reverberating in the suffocating silence as the flashlight beam swept over the coffin’s interior.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Inside lay a man—perfectly preserved, as if he’d only just fallen asleep. His skin was as pale as moonlight, his features sharp and aristocratic. Dark lashes rested against high cheekbones, his lips—redder than they had any right to be—were parted slightly, giving him an ethereal, almost haunting beauty. If not for the unnatural stillness of his chest, she might have thought him alive.

A choked scream tore from Y/N’s lips. The sound bounced off the walls, mocking her fear. She stumbled backward, the flashlight slipping from her hand and clattering to the ground, the beam jerking and casting wild shadows that seemed to twist and writhe in the corners of the room.

She landed hard on her backside, breath coming in rapid gasps. Her eyes never left the coffin, the terror flooding her senses. But he didn’t move. Not a twitch, not a flicker of life. Just… a corpse.

“Holy—” she gasped, heart pounding like a drum in her ears. She scrambled back, pushing herself away from the coffin until her spine hit something solid.

The other coffin.

The carved marble felt colder against her back, sending a shiver through her bones. Y/N twisted around, panic seizing her chest as she caught sight of the ornate symbols etched into this second coffin’s surface. She could barely think, barely breathe, but she found herself moving, fingers searching for purchase along the coffin’s lid as if compelled by something beyond her control.

Just get out, a voice whispered in the back of her mind, but her hands moved of their own accord. Dust cascaded down in a soft cloud as she pushed the second lid, her fingers trembling with the effort. It was heavier than the first, resisting as if the very air around it thickened to keep her from opening it.

With a final, desperate shove, the lid shifted, scraping against the stone floor.

Y/N didn’t notice the way the first figure shot up from his slumber, his eyes snapping open with a flash of red glow. She was too focused on the second coffin, too wrapped up in the horror and curiosity twisting inside her like a living thing.

She leaned over the marble edge, heart hammering, and stared down into the face of another man. He was similar to the first in his unsettling beauty, but his features were sharper, more feral. His hair, dark as midnight, framed a face that could have belonged to a fallen angel. The moment she saw him, a wave of terror and fascination washed over her, locking her in place.

The silence was deafening. She took a step back, her foot catching on the uneven stone, but before she could regain her balance—

She sensed it before she saw it: a low, almost imperceptible rustle in the air, like a predator moving in the shadows. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. With a gut-wrenching slowness, she turned her head, a chill of dread washing over her as her gaze fell back on the first coffin.

It was empty.

The man—the corpse—who had been lying so still and lifeless was gone.

Her breath hitched, and panic flooded her veins, drowning out all rational thought. She glanced frantically around the chamber, heart thundering. 

Desperation clawed at her senses as she whipped around to look at the second coffin. It, too, was now empty.

The blood drained from her face. Her entire body shook as her mind struggled to process what she was seeing—what she wasn’t seeing. She stumbled back, gasping, her gaze flitting wildly around the room. They were gone. Both bodies—once so still and dead—had vanished.

Her flashlight beam swung crazily across the stone walls and floors as she looked around, frantic, searching every corner and shadow. But there was nothing. No sign of movement. No one in sight. Just her—alone in the dark, empty crypt.

She swallowed the scream clawing its way up her throat and took a shaky step back. Move. The command rang through her mind like a gunshot. She turned, muscles seizing with fear, and sprinted up the stairs, breath coming in panicked.

The sound of her footsteps echoed wildly in the narrow passage, and the air around her seemed to close in, thick and suffocating. She didn’t dare look back, didn’t dare slow down, heart slamming against her ribcage as she reached the top of the stairs.

Her fingers fumbled on the handle, slick with sweat. She yanked the door open and burst through, slamming it shut behind her with a bang that reverberated through the castle. Hastily, she shoved the lock into place, her hands shaking so violently she could barely hold on.

For a heartbeat, she stood there, chest heaving, back pressed against the door as if her weight alone could keep whatever was down there trapped. The silence pressed in around her, thick and oppressive, broken only by her ragged breaths.

Stay there. Please, stay there.

She squeezed her eyes shut, praying to whatever force might be listening that whatever she’d just unleashed wouldn’t follow her. That whatever she’d left behind would remain in the basement—where it belonged. But even as she stood there, trembling and afraid, a cold certainty gripped her heart.

They were awake. And now… they were free.

× × × ×

With one last glance over her shoulder, she sprinted down the corridor, the muffled sound of her boots pounding against the aged wooden floors echoing through the empty halls.

She burst into the grand foyer, chest heaving, and then—almost instinctively—turned toward the dining room where she had dropped her bag and coat earlier. The chandeliers overhead flickered erratically, casting long, spider-leg shadows on the walls, and the air was different—thick and humid, saturated with the acrid scent of old wood and metallic.

Get your things and leave. Get out of here. Don’t look back. The frantic mantra repeated in her mind as she raced through the hallways, the feeling of being watched never quite leaving her. She reached the threshold of the dining room, skidding to a halt as her gaze swept over the familiar space.

She froze.

The once dark and desolate dining room was now bathed in an eerie, flickering glow. Dozens of candles, which she was certain hadn’t been there before, lined the walls and tabletop, their flames casting an unsettling dance of light and shadow. The long mahogany table was set with dusty, ornate china, as if in anticipation of a grand feast that had never happened. A low, haunting melody drifted through the air, the eerie sound of an organ playing a dirge that sent chills skittering down her spine.

But that wasn’t what made her breath catch in her throat.

Sitting casually at the far end of the table, sitting as if they’d been expecting her all along, were the men from the portraits—the corpses.

Steve lounged in one of the high-backed chairs, his boots propped up on the table as if he owned the place. He toyed lazily with a silver coin, flipping it up into the air and catching it with ease, his eyes tracking the motion with a hint of amusement. The candlelight played across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the unnatural glow in his eyes.

Beside him, Bucky sat sprawled in an equally regal chair, his posture relaxed, hands resting leisurely on the armrests. He watched her with a smirk that sent a jolt of fear through her veins. He tilted his head slightly, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead, his gaze almost mocking as it roamed over her disheveled appearance.

“So nice of you to join us.” Bucky’s smile was charming, almost disarmingly so, but the sharp edge of his teeth glinted in the candlelight. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, fingers steepled as he regarded her with a look of feigned politeness. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about us.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered in her chest. Her fingers clenched around the strap of her bag as she stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from the two men who—by all logic—should not have been there. Should not have been alive.

She swallowed, forcing herself to speak, but her voice came out a broken whisper. “What… what do you want?”

Steve’s gaze slid lazily over to her, the coin flashing as it spun through the air and landed neatly in his palm. He chuckled softly, the sound low and almost intimate. 

“Isn’t it obvious, sweetheart? You woke us. And now…” He gestured grandly to the table and the candlelit room around them, smirk widening. “We’re making the most of your hospitality.”

A soft inhalation from Bucky drew Y/N’s attention, his eyes darkening to a shade of red as his nostrils flared. His gaze drifted over her throat, lingering as if he could see every pulse and vein beneath her skin. 

“You smell so good,” he murmured, almost to himself, the words a low rumble in his chest. “So… tempting.”

Steve’s lips twitched, the coin spinning lazily between his fingers. 

“We were getting a bit… lonely down there,” he said with a note of amusement, though his gaze never left her, as if he were savoring every breath she took. “It’s been centuries, you know. One tends to get a little… restless.”

Y/N’s breath hitched as she took a small, hesitant step back, her gaze darting between the two of them. The door was only a few feet behind her, and if she could just make it outside, get to her car—

“Leaving so soon?” Steve’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and mocking. He swung his feet off the table, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. The coin slipped from his fingers, landing on the table with a soft clink. “We haven’t even had dessert.”

Her gaze flickered to the door and back. “I—”

“—don’t want to go just yet, do you?” Bucky finished, raising an eyebrow. His smirk widened, eyes gleaming with a dark, predatory light. His nostrils flared again, and a soft, appreciative hum left his lips. “We’ve hardly had the chance to get acquainted.”

Y/N stumbled back another step, her back hitting the doorframe. She flinched, the sudden jolt snapping her out of her stunned daze. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to wake us?” Steve interjected, voice smooth and dangerous. He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, his gaze locked onto her like a predator stalking its prey. “Well, that’s a shame, sweetheart. Because now that you have…”

Bucky shifted, his form blurring at the edges like smoke dissipating in the wind. Before Y/N could blink, he was no longer seated but standing inches away from her, his tall frame towering over hers. The shadows around him seemed to thicken and swirl, like tendrils of darkness coiling in the air.

“You don’t get to leave now, darling,” he whispered, voice a soft caress that sent shivers racing down her spine.

Y/N gasped and tried to step back, but in a blink—less than a blink—Steve was behind her, his presence a cold draft at her back. She whirled around, heart hammering, only to find his face inches from hers, his eyes glowing a brilliant, blood red.

“Going somewhere?” he drawled, lips curling into a smile that showed off sharp fangs glistening in the candlelight.

Y/N’s breath came in short, shallow gasps. Her head swiveled from side to side, searching for an escape that no longer existed. Their figures seemed to flicker like a mirage, shifting closer without moving, surrounding her with no more than a thought.

“Don’t be afraid,” Bucky murmured from beside her, his voice laced with something that almost sounded like concern—if not for the hunger burning in his eyes. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“Much,” Steve added with a soft chuckle, his gaze dropping to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse beat wildly beneath her skin. “But you do smell… exquisite.”

They exchanged a glance. With a flash of movement too quick for her eyes to follow, Steve’s fingers brushed her hair aside, exposing her neck. She flinched, but he only hummed softly, as if savoring the sight.

Bucky leaned closer, his breath a chilling whisper against her skin. “I wonder… how fast will you run if we give you a head start?”

Steve’s smile widened, fangs glinting. “Ten seconds?”

“Five,” Bucky countered, gaze flickering back to hers, the scarlet in his eyes deepening with each passing second.

Y/N’s pulse roared in her ears, the organ’s haunting melody blending with the sound of her panicked breathing. They were toying with her, their words teasing and light, but the threat was real—so real she could taste it, like metal on her tongue.

“Run,” Bucky whispered, voice low and full of promise.

Y/N hesitated for a split second, but that was all it took. The shadows around them twisted, their forms dissolving into hazy tendrils of smoke that coiled and writhed through the air.

“Run, little prey,” Steve’s voice floated through the darkness, echoing around her as the hazy mist of his form flitted across the room like a ghostly apparition. “We’ll catch you.”

Y/N didn’t wait to hear more. She spun on her heel and bolted out of the room, the sound of their laughter—a dark, delighted sound—echoing behind her as she fled.

As she sprinted down the hallway, the walls seemed to close in, the air thickening with each frantic breath she took. She could feel them—sense them—moving in the shadows, trailing her like wolves stalking their prey. Every glance over her shoulder revealed nothing but flickering candlelight and empty space, yet she knew—knew—they were there.

Their voices whispered through the air, soft and seductive.

“Run, little prey.”

“Run.”

But no matter how fast she ran, how desperately she tried to escape, she could feel their presence closing in, the scent of her fear and blood drawing them closer.

They were right behind her.

And they were hungry.

× × × ×

The organ’s mournful melody chased Y/N through the hallways, the haunting notes twisting around her like ghostly fingers. She ran, legs burning and chest heaving, every instinct urging her to flee faster, to not look back. The heavy shadows seemed to move with her, shifting and swirling as if they, too, were alive.

Almost there. She could see the grand foyer ahead, the large double doors she had left ajar when she first entered. The cold night air wafted through the small gap, carrying with it the promise of escape, of safety.

Her heart leapt as she pushed herself harder, fingers outstretched toward the door that seemed both impossibly close and unbearably far. Just a few more steps, and she’d be free. She’d be—

A flash of movement blurred in front of her, a gust of wind that sent her hair flying. Y/N skidded to a halt, the scream caught in her throat as a figure materialized out of thin air, solidifying in front of the door in the span of a heartbeat.

Steve.

He stood casually, his hand resting on the edge of the door, which he shut with a single, effortless motion. The heavy wood slammed into place, the sound reverberating through the grand hall like the final toll of a death knell.

“Oops, there goes your exit.” he murmured, voice low and taunting, a dark smile curling his lips as his gaze raked over her with predatory delight.

Y/N staggered back, blood roaring in her ears. She spun on her heel, only to collide with a solid wall of muscle and cold flesh. Her breath hitched as she looked up, eyes widening in horror as Bucky’s smirking face loomed above her, his hands braced loosely at his sides, but every line of his body radiating power and menace.

“Careful,” Bucky drawled, a dangerous light dancing in his scarlet eyes. “You might hurt yourself, darling.”

Fear sent a surge of adrenaline through her veins, and without thinking, Y/N swung her fist at him in a desperate attempt to break free. But Bucky moved faster—far faster—his hand snapping up to catch her wrist with a grip like iron. She gasped as he twisted her arm gently but firmly, pulling her closer until her wrist was just inches from his face.

He inhaled deeply, the sound almost like a purr, his eyes fluttering shut as if savoring the scent of her skin. 

“Mmm,” he hummed, his lips curving into a wicked smile. “You smell… absolutely delicious. It’s turning me on.”

Y/N struggled, trying to wrench her arm free, but Bucky’s grip tightened, holding her firmly in place. He lowered his head, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her wrist, and a soft, dark chuckle rumbled from his chest.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, the words sending a shiver through her entire body. “You’re making this so much more fun.” He glanced up at her, his gaze heavy with hunger. “Do you know what it does to us when you fight?”

She tried to pull away again, her heart slamming against her ribs, but Bucky only chuckled, a low, intimate sound that sent heat flooding through her veins. He turned her wrist slightly, pressing his nose against the pulse point, his fangs just barely grazing her skin.

“Stop!” Y/N choked out, her voice shaking.

Steve’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. 

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he murmured, his voice a soft, seductive whisper that seemed to coil around her, tightening with every breath she took. He took a slow step closer, head tilting slightly as if to savor the sound. 

“It’s racing—your blood rushing so fast… it makes you more…” Steve paused, his gaze dropping to the frantic flutter of her pulse in her neck. “Irresistible.”

Bucky hummed in agreement, his tongue flicking out to taste the skin of her wrist, his lips brushing lightly over her veins. 

“Mmm, yes,” he murmured, the words a low purr against her flesh. “Like a sweet, ripe fruit ready to be plucked.”

Y/N’s body trembled, fear and confusion warring with the strange, unwanted heat curling in her stomach. 

“Please, let me go,” she whispered, the plea breaking on a sob.

Steve’s gaze locked onto hers, a dark smile curving his lips as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over the curve of her throat. 

“Let you go?” he whispered, voice filled with dark amusement. He shook his head slowly, the gesture almost pitying. “Oh no, sweetheart. You’re too… delectable for that.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly over her racing pulse, and Y/N gasped, jerking back. But she had nowhere to go—no escape. She was trapped between them, the air around her thickening, stifling.

“I can feel it, too,” Bucky murmured, his grip on her wrist tightening slightly as he drew her closer. His gaze was heavy-lidded, the crimson glow in his eyes deepening as he stared at her with a hunger that sent a fresh wave of fear crashing through her. “The way your blood sings to us.”

“Begging to be tasted,” Steve added softly, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. “Every heartbeat… every breath… makes us want you even more.”

He leaned closer, his mouth hovering over her throat, and Y/N’s heart nearly stopped as the sharp tips of his fangs just barely grazed her skin.

“Careful now, Steve,” Bucky murmured, his tone darkly amused. He tugged her wrist gently, but his strength was undeniable, forcing her to take a step back. “If you keep taunting her like that, she’ll faint before we even get her upstairs.”

Y/N stiffened, terror flooding her veins like ice. “Upstairs?” she echoed, voice shaking.

Steve pulled back just enough to meet her wide-eyed gaze, his smile slow and deliberate. “That’s right, sweetheart. You didn’t think we’d let you run around down here all night, did you?”

Bucky’s fingers brushed against her pulse, the touch both possessive and deceptively gentle. 

“We’ve been waiting for so long,” he murmured, his gaze sliding down her body with a look that made her skin prickle. “We want to… enjoy you properly.”

She tried to pull away, but Bucky’s hold only tightened, his smile widening. “Oh, don’t be shy. You’ll look lovely in something a bit more… suitable.”

He glanced at Steve, something dark and knowing passing between them.

“What do you think, Stevie?” Bucky’s voice dropped to a seductive purr, his eyes never leaving hers. “Should we take her upstairs? Dress her up nice and proper before we really have some fun?”

Steve hummed softly, his gaze trailing over Y/N’s trembling form. 

“Definitely,” he agreed, his voice a low, velvety murmur that sent a fresh wave of fear—and something darker—curling in her stomach. “A delicate, white nightdress, perhaps. Something soft. Something… pure.”

Y/N’s mouth opened to protest, to scream, but before she could utter a word, the world around her twisted and blurred.

The shadows swirled, and the ground seemed to fall away beneath her feet. A dizzying rush of cold air engulfed her, squeezing her lungs and making her head spin. It felt as if her entire body had been caught in a whirlpool, pulled in every direction at once. She gasped, vision darkening at the edges, the sudden pressure and cold lancing through her mind, making her feel like she was being torn apart and put back together all at once.

The sensation was sickening and exhilarating, a chaotic mix of terror and euphoria that left her senses reeling. She wanted to scream, but her voice was swallowed by the disorienting void around her, the sound crushed and muted. Her stomach twisted violently, nausea rising in her throat as the world spun faster, faster—

And then, as abruptly as it began, it stopped.

Y/N staggered, her knees buckling as her feet hit solid ground. The world snapped back into focus, the swirling darkness giving way to dim light and soft, suffocating warmth. She swayed on her feet, her head throbbing and her vision swimming as she tried to catch her breath.

“Oh, darling,” Bucky’s voice purred from somewhere nearby, the sound reverberating in her ears like a sweet, sinister lullaby. “You look a little pale. The first time’s always a bit rough, isn’t it?”

Y/N blinked, her vision slowly clearing. She glanced around, confusion and fear flooding her senses as she realized they were no longer in the dining room.

They were in a bedroom—a large, opulent chamber shrouded in shadows and bathed in soft, muted candlelight. Heavy velvet drapes covered the tall windows, casting the room in shades of deep crimson and black. A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, its dark wood gleaming dully in the low light.

“What… what happened?” she croaked, swaying on her feet as she tried to get her bearings. Her entire body felt like it was floating, her skin tingling as if she’d been electrified. She raised a trembling hand to her forehead.

“You’ve never been teleported before, have you?” Steve’s voice was closer now, a low, intimate murmur that seemed to curl around her like smoke. He appeared beside her in a blur of movement, his hand slipping under her elbow to steady her. “I suppose it’s a little… disorienting.”

A little disorienting? Y/N’s stomach churned, and she fought back the urge to vomit, the sensation of being torn through space and time still lingering like a phantom ache in her bones.

Steve’s hand tightened slightly on her arm, his gaze intent as he studied her face. “But it does have its perks.” His lips twitched into a faint, teasing smile. “We get to move you wherever we want… whenever we want.”

Bucky’s laughter, low and dark, echoed through the room. 

“And right now,” he murmured, his voice like velvet as he stepped forward, the crimson glow in his eyes sending a fresh wave of fear—and something disturbingly close to anticipation—coursing through her veins. “We want you here.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her gaze darting around the room. The bed loomed in the center of her vision, its silk sheets and plush pillows looking far too inviting. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she tried to back away, but Steve’s grip on her arm held firm.

“Easy now,” Steve murmured, his voice low and soothing, though the amusement in his eyes belied the gentleness of his tone. “Don’t hurt yourself. We’re not going to bite… yet.”

Bucky’s smirk widened, shadows curling around him like living tendrils, drawn to the darkness that seemed to bleed from his very being. He wore a stark black shirt, the fabric almost blending into the darkness itself, its high collar emphasizing the unnaturally pale skin of his throat and the strong column of his neck.

Every step he took was a predator’s prowl, his gaze locking onto you with an intensity that made your stomach drop. His lips curved, exposing just a hint of his sharp teeth, and it was in that moment you realized: Bucky wasn’t just dangerous.

He was death itself, dressed in human skin.

“But we will have you dressed properly,” he murmured, gesturing to the far side of the room.

Y/N’s eyes followed his hand.

Hanging from a delicate gold hanger beside the vanity was a nightdress—white and sheer, the material almost translucent in the flickering candlelight. The lace trim and delicate embroidery only added to the impression of fragility, of purity… of something meant to be ruined.

“Put it on,” Bucky commanded softly, his voice firm but oddly gentle. He raised an eyebrow when she hesitated, his smile sharpening. “Or shall we help you?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, every fiber of her being recoiling at the idea. 

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, I won’t—”

Steve’s eyes locked onto hers, the crimson depths suddenly brightening with an unnatural, otherworldly glow. 

“Yes, you will,” he whispered, his voice sinking into her mind like a hook, the words wrapping around her senses, squeezing tight. 

A cold and insidious sensation slithered through her thoughts, wrapping around her consciousness like a vice. Y/N’s body stiffened, her limbs freezing in place as if invisible chains had locked her in place. She tried to shake her head, to pull away, but she couldn’t move—couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe.

The world around her blurred at the edges, fading into a hazy, dreamlike fog. Her limbs felt heavy, sluggish, as if she were underwater. She watched in growing horror as her own hand—moving of its own accord—reached for the nightdress.

“No…” she whimpered, but the sound was distant, muted. She could hear herself speaking, could feel the resistance building in her chest, but it was as if she were watching herself from the outside, trapped behind a thick pane of glass.

“Good girl,” Bucky murmured approvingly, his voice a soft, dark purr. He stepped back, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he watched her fingers close around the delicate fabric. “Don’t fight it. It’ll only make things harder for you.”

Y/N’s hands moved mechanically, unbuttoning her shirt and slipping it off her shoulders, the cool air prickling her exposed skin. Her fingers trembled as they tugged at her pants, the motions stiff and jerky, her mind screaming in protest.

No, stop it—stop—this isn’t me!

But no matter how much she struggled, how much she screamed inside her own head, her body continued to betray her. The nightdress slipped over her head, the soft fabric brushing against her skin in a way that made her shudder. The lace clung to her curves, the sheer material leaving little to the imagination.

“There,” Steve murmured, stepping closer, his hand cupping her chin and tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “Isn’t that better?”

Y/N’s lips moved, but no sound came out. She felt trapped, helpless, as if she were caught in a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. Bucky’s gaze roamed over her slowly, hungrily, the dark smile on his lips widening. 

“Absolutely perfect,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble that made her skin prickle. 

Y/N’s mind screamed, tears spilling down her cheeks as she tried to break free from the invisible hold on her body. But Steve’s hand tightened on her chin, his thumb brushing away the tears with a gentleness that only made her feel more trapped.

“Shh,” he soothed, his voice a dark, dangerous lullaby. “There’s no need to cry, sweetheart. We promise it won’t hurt… much.”

The softness of his touch a cruel mockery of the horror swirling inside her. The spell that held her body in thrall made her movements sluggish and uncoordinated, as if she were a puppet dancing on invisible strings. She could feel herself trembling, feel the rapid beat of her own heart hammering against her ribs, but she couldn’t control a single thing. Couldn’t even speak.

“Look at me,” Steve murmured, his voice a silken command that echoed in her mind. Her eyes snapped to him of their own accord, pupils wide and glazed. His gaze held hers captive, locking her in place. “You’re not going to fight anymore, are you?”

A part of her wanted to scream, to tell him that she would never give up. But her mouth betrayed her, the words that slipped from her lips a soft, obedient murmur. “No… I won’t fight.”

× × × ×

She was aware—painfully, terrifyingly aware—of every movement, every breath that came too fast, too shallow. Her limbs felt heavy and distant, her mind caught in a strange, numbing haze.

Move. Run. Do something. 

But her body refused to obey, her muscles unresponsive to her control. All she could do was watch through her own eyes as Bucky and Steve moved closer, their forms looming over her like shadows.

Y/N struggled to form a coherent thought, her mind spinning as their mouths brushed over her skin—soft, lingering kisses that sent shivers racing down her spine. Every time she thought she might catch her breath, Steve’s mouth would graze her ear, or Bucky’s fangs would scrape lightly over her collarbone, drawing a gasp from her lips.

“You taste as good as you smell, I bet,” Bucky mused, his lips curving into a wicked smile. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a slow, teasing kiss. His tongue brushed over her lower lip, coaxing her to open for him, and Y/N’s body betrayed her—responding with a soft, helpless whimper.

And then he bit her—just a light, almost playful nip, enough to break the skin and let the faintest hint of blood well up on her lip. Y/N froze, shock flooding her senses as the metallic taste filled her mouth.

Bucky pulled back slightly, his tongue darting out to catch the tiny bead of blood. His eyes darkened, the red in his irises flaring with sudden, unrestrained hunger.

“Oh,” he breathed, his voice rough with desire. “Sweetheart, you taste—”

“—divine,” Steve finished, his gaze fixed on the tiny cut. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both soft and demanding. The taste of her blood mingled with his tongue, sending a shudder through him. He groaned, the sound vibrating against her lips. “So sweet. I just had to have a little taste myself.”

Steve’s mouth was on hers again, his kiss deeper this time, interlocking hers. His hand cupped the back of her neck, holding her still as his tongue explored every inch of her mouth, tasting, savoring. When he pulled back, his eyes were practically glowing, a wicked smile curling his lips.

“Mm, delicious,” he murmured, licking his lips. “I think we’ve been missing out, Buck.”

“Definitely,” Bucky agreed, his gaze never leaving her face. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her jaw, her cheek, her throat—teasing, taunting, making her breath hitch and her pulse race. “But don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll make up for lost time.”

Y/N’s body trembled beneath their attention, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Please… don’t…”

“Don’t what?” Steve asked softly, his lips trailing down to her collarbone. “Don’t kiss you? Don’t touch you? Or…” His teeth scraped lightly against her skin, drawing a shudder from her. “Don’t bite you?”

Bucky chuckled darkly, his fingers sliding up her side, brushing against the thin material of the nightdress. 

“Poor little thing,” he murmured, his voice filled with dark amusement. “You don’t even know what you want, do you?”

Steve’s laughter was soft, almost indulgent. “But that’s okay,” he murmured, his mouth hovering over the delicate curve of her throat. “Because we know exactly what you need.”

His lips brushed against her pulse, the softest hint of his fangs grazing her skin, and Y/N’s entire body stiffened, a small, choked sound escaping her throat.

“Shh, shh,” Bucky soothed, his hands caressing her gently, almost lovingly. “It’s alright, sweetheart. We’ll be gentle… at first.”

Steve’s fangs grazed her neck again, the sharp tips just barely pressing into her skin, and Y/N’s breath caught, fear and something dangerously close to anticipation tangling together in a twisted knot in her chest.

“You’ll like it,” Steve whispered, his voice a dark, seductive promise. “You’ll like the way it feels when we sink our teeth into you… when we drink from you…”

Bucky’s mouth curved into a wicked smile, his gaze locked on her face as he leaned down, his breath cool against her throat. 

“You’ll ask for it, darling,” he murmured, his fangs glinting in the low light. “Ask us to bite you… beg us to make you ours.”

Y/N’s heart pounded wildly, her mind a chaotic whirl of fear and confusion and something else—something dark and thrilling that she couldn’t quite push away.

“Let us in, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, his mouth moving lower, kissing the spot where her pulse fluttered frantically beneath her skin. “Let us make you feel… alive.”

Bucky’s lips brushed against her ear, his voice a low, velvety murmur that sent shivers racing down her spine. “Let go, darling. Just let go.”

And as their fangs grazed her skin, as their voices whispered promises and lies against her flesh, Y/N felt herself slipping, surrendering to the darkness that beckoned.

“Just one bite,” Bucky murmured, his voice dripping with wicked pleasure.

“Just one taste,” Steve echoed, his mouth pressing against her pulse, the sharp points of his fangs sending a jolt of fear and excitement racing through her.

When their fangs sank into her skin—Bucky at her throat, Steve at her shoulder—the pain was sharp and sudden, a piercing sting that shot through her body like a lightning strike. She gasped, eyes flying wide as her body stiffened, every muscle locking tight in anticipation of agony.

But the pain never came.

Instead, a strange, overwhelming euphoria spread through her, radiating out from the points where their teeth broke her skin. It was as if a wave of warmth and pleasure crashed over her, drowning out everything else, leaving only a dizzying, intoxicating sensation that made her gasp again.

Her body reacted on its own, arching off the bed, pushing up into them as if seeking more. The nightdress, so pristine and delicate just moments ago, now pulled taut across her skin, the sheer fabric doing nothing to hide the way her body shuddered beneath their mouths.

“Ah—” The sound escaped her lips before she could stop it, a moan choked with pleasure and disbelief. She could feel every pull of their mouths as they drank deeply, every flick of their tongues against her skin sending pulses of heat spiraling through her veins.

What… what is this? The question tumbled through her mind in a daze, but she couldn’t hold onto it, couldn’t grasp any thought that wasn’t focused on the dizzying mix of sensations flooding her senses.

The venom, or whatever it was they were releasing into her bloodstream, felt like liquid fire, like every nerve in her body was lighting up with an unbearable, exquisite pleasure. She should have been horrified—terrified—at the way her body reacted to them, the way her back arched off the bed, her lips parting in soft, breathy gasps. But all she could feel was heat, need, and the dark, aching desire for more.

Bucky’s mouth moved lower, his teeth scraping over her collarbone, leaving a trail of red in his wake. He bit down again, harder this time, and Y/N cried out, her body jerking as another wave of euphoria crashed through her.

“Fuck, she tastes good,” Bucky growled against her skin, his voice rough. He licked at the fresh wound, his tongue swirling around the bite marks as if savoring every drop of blood. “So fucking sweet.”

Steve’s hand slipped under her jaw, tilting her head back further, exposing more of her throat to his hungry gaze. 

“Good little prey,” he murmured, his breath cool against her flushed skin. He leaned in, biting down just below her ear, and Y/N’s vision blurred, a soft, helpless moan escaping her lips.

“More,” she whimpered, the word slipping out before she could think, before she could stop it.

Their answering laughter was dark and delighted, a sound that sent a shiver racing down her spine.

“More?” Steve echoed, his lips curving against her skin. “You want more, sweetheart?”

Y/N’s fingers twisted in the sheets, her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe through the overwhelming sensations. 

“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the word.

“Mm, that’s what we like to hear,” Bucky murmured, his mouth descending on her shoulder, his fangs sinking in deep. He drank greedily, his tongue lapping at the fresh flow of blood as he groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through her body.

“You taste like fear and fire, darling,” Bucky drawled, . “Sweet like honey laced with venom. I could drink you forever and still crave more.”

Steve shifted lower, his lips trailing down her chest, brushing over the swell of her breasts. He bit down again, and Y/N’s body jerked, her back bowing as the pleasure spiked, her head spinning.

“Such a good little thing,” Steve whispered against her skin, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “So sweet… and so willing.”

Their mouths moved over her with a ravenous, chaotic hunger, biting and sucking, drawing blood from every inch of exposed skin they could find. Her shoulders, her arms, the delicate curve of her collarbone—all of it was fair game, all of it marked by their fangs and painted with her blood. Each bite sent a fresh surge of pleasure crashing through her, the venom making her feel drunk, delirious, lost.

Her nightdress—once so white and innocent—was now stained crimson, the thin fabric clinging to her like a second skin. Bucky’s hand fisted in the delicate material, pulling it down further, baring more of her to their hungry eyes.

“Look at you,” Bucky murmured, his gaze dark and fevered as he leaned back, his mouth and chin smeared with blood. “Such a mess. So fucking beautiful like this.”

Steve licked his lips, his eyes practically glowing as he looked down at her. “Covered in your own blood… our own little masterpiece,” he murmured, his voice a soft, dangerous caress. He leaned down, his tongue flicking out to trace the curve of her jaw, licking up the blood that dripped down her neck. “Fuck, I can’t get enough.”

Their mouths descended again, a frenzy of bites and kisses and nips that left her gasping, her body writhing beneath them. She could feel herself slipping further, falling into the dark, twisted pleasure they offered, every part of her aching for more.

Steve’s fangs sank into her shoulder again, harder this time, and Y/N’s body arched, a sharp cry tearing from her lips. Bucky shifted lower, his teeth scraping over the delicate curve of her wrist before he bit down, his fangs piercing the soft flesh. The pain was sharp and sudden, making her fingers twitch and her back arch as the sensation shot through her like a live wire.

Blood welled up from the fresh punctures, thick and warm as it pooled around his lips. The scent hit them both immediately—a heady mix of iron and heat, rich and intoxicating—filling the air and making Bucky groan softly against her skin. He drank deeply, his mouth moving against her wrist with a ravenous hunger, the velvety liquid sliding down his throat in a way that made his entire body shudder in dark satisfaction.

Steve’s mouth pulled greedily at her shoulder, his tongue swirling over the puncture marks as he drank deeply, the taste of her blood flooding his senses like the richest wine. The thick, coppery warmth coated his tongue, sliding down his throat in a way that made his body vibrate with the sheer pleasure of it. It was more than just sustenance—it was power, each drop surging through him like fire, seeping into every corner of his being, fueling a primal hunger that clawed at his insides.

Their hands roamed over her feverishly, holding her down as they fed—Steve’s grip tight around her waist, Bucky’s fingers digging into her wrist, their mouths relentless as they drew more and more of that precious liquid from her. The blood gushed over their tongues, soaking their lips and chins, the scent of it filling the room with a heady sweetness that made them both groan.

Steve tore his mouth away from her shoulder, his lips and bearded chin smeared with crimson. He tilted his head back slightly, the blood dripping down his throat as he let out a low, breathless sound of satisfaction. The metallic tang lingered on his tongue, each taste making his eyes burn brighter, his gaze dropping back to the fresh wound with a predatory gleam.

Bucky’s teeth dug deeper into her wrist, his tongue lapping at the fresh flow of blood that oozed from the punctures, the sensation making Y/N’s body shudder violently. 

“Fuck,” He pulled back slightly, his mouth slick and red, a faint trail of blood seeping down his chin. The scent of it was overwhelming, making his entire body hum with raw, unbridled hunger.

Steve let out a low moan, his body trembling with the force of his hunger as he bit down harder, the taste of her blood flooding his senses. 

“More,” he muttered, his voice a low, desperate growl as he buried his face in her skin, fangs sinking in deeper, deeper.

“More,” Bucky echoed, his mouth descending on her again, his teeth scraping against her throat. He drank greedily, his body coiling tighter with every pull. “I need more.”

Y/N’s vision blurred, the room spinning around her as her body shuddered beneath them. She could feel her strength draining, her limbs growing heavy, but the pleasure was too much—too overwhelming. She couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t fight it. All she could do was gasp and moan as they devoured her, every bite, every pull of their mouths sending fresh waves of euphoria crashing through her.

“Buck, stop,” Steve growled suddenly, his voice low and fierce. He lifted his head, blood dripping from his lips as he glared at Bucky, his eyes blazing. “Stop, you’re going too far.”

Bucky ignored him, his mouth still latched onto her skin, his body trembling with need. “Just…” he muttered, his voice thick and slurred, like he was drunk on her blood. “Just a little more—”

“Enough,” Steve snarled, his patience snapping. He grabbed a fistful of Bucky’s hair and yanked him back with a force that made Bucky stumble, his head jerking back, blood splattering across the sheets. “I said enough!”

“What the hell, Steve?” Bucky snapped, a wild, feral look flashing in his eyes as he licked the blood from his lips. He didn’t look guilty or apologetic—instead, he looked like he wanted to rip Steve apart. “She’s mine to feed on too!”

“She’s losing color,” Steve snarled back, his voice a dangerous growl. He shifted, his body shielding Y/N from Bucky’s hungry gaze. “I won’t let you fucking kill her because you can’t control yourself.”

Bucky’s nostrils flared, his chest heaving with labored breaths. He took a step back, eyes narrowed, but there was no hint of remorse in his gaze—only dark, simmering annoyance. “I wasn’t going to kill her.”

“Well, I’m not letting you drain her dry,” Steve snapped, his gaze flicking down to Y/N’s face. Her skin had taken on a ghostly pallor, her breaths coming in and out shallow. “She’s too weak. We’ll need her alive if we want to keep this fun.”

Bucky’s lips curled into a sneer, but he forced himself to take another step back, eyes lingering on the fresh bite marks marring Y/N’s throat. 

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice laced with frustration. 

With one last glare at Steve, Bucky spun on his heel and stormed across the room, his movements sharp and agitated. Steve sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he looked down at her, his gaze softening just a fraction. 

Bucky turned back to face them, he brought his blood-stained fingers to his mouth, his gaze locked on Steve’s as he sucked the crimson liquid from his fingertips one by one. He hummed in satisfaction, the sound low and almost sensual, as he savored the taste of her on his tongue.

“Don’t act like you’re not thinking the same thing,” Bucky said, his voice a soft, dangerous drawl. He pulled his fingers free, licking his lips. “You felt it, didn’t you, Steve? How much more she can give?”

Steve’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening as he glanced down at Y/N’s pale, still form. Covered with bite marks against her throat, forearm, wrists. She looked fragile, almost broken—but there was a faint rise and fall to her chest, proof that she was still hanging on. Barely.

“Don’t get sloppy, Bucky,” Steve muttered, his voice a low, dangerous growl. His fingers brushed over one of the deeper bite marks, smearing the blood there. He brought his hand up to his mouth, tasting the crimson streak with a flick of his tongue, a shudder running through him. “She’s not some plaything to bleed dry. I’m not interested in breaking her too quickly.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, a cruel smile curving his mouth. “Too quickly?” he echoed, his voice laced with amusement. “I see. You want to draw it out, don’t you? Take her bit by bit until she’s begging for death.”

Steve’s gaze flicked back to Bucky, a cold, mirthless smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Maybe,” he murmured softly. “Or maybe I just want to keep her.”

Bucky’s eyes flared, he took a step closer, his gaze sliding back to Y/N’s face, lingering on the smear of blood on her lips, the way her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

“Most humans would’ve passed out by now… or died. But she’s still hanging on.” He leaned down, his fingers brushing against the bite mark at her throat, smearing the blood there. “It’s almost like she wants more.”

Steve’s smile widened, his gaze glittering with cruel amusement. “You think she can take more?”

“I know she can,” Bucky breathed, his gaze locked on the steady pulse fluttering weakly at her throat. He dipped his fingers into the blood pooling beneath her collarbone, his eyes hooded as he brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a satisfied hum.

Steve’s eyes followed Bucky’s movements, the way his tongue flicked over his fingers, savoring every drop. 

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice soft, a dangerous edge to his tone. “If you keep pushing, you’ll drain her completely.”

Bucky’s smile widened, a wicked, dangerous curve. “You really think she’s that easy to break?” He glanced at Y/N, his gaze dark and calculating. “Look at her, Steve. She’s not some fragile little human who’ll shatter at the first touch. She’s still here… still breathing.” He leaned down, his mouth brushing against the shell of her ear, his breath cool against her skin. “Still ours for the taking.”

Steve’s gaze darkened, his fingers digging into the sheets as he watched Bucky trail his tongue along the curve of Y/N’s neck, lapping up the blood there with a slow, almost languid motion. He let out a low, breathy sigh, his lips grazing her ear.

“Next time, darling,” Bucky whispered, his voice a low, dangerous promise. “I’d like to have you for myself.”

Steve’s eyes flared, his body tense, coiled tight with barely restrained hunger. He reached out, grabbing Bucky’s wrist and yanking him back with a vicious snarl. “Stop playing with your food, Bucky.”

Bucky straightened, his smile turning sharp and mocking. “Oh, so that’s how it is?” he murmured, his voice a soft, dangerous drawl. He glanced down at Y/N, his gaze lingering on the fresh bite marks, the bruises forming beneath her pale skin. “Afraid I’m going to break your little toy?”

Steve’s grip tightened, his eyes blazing. “She’s not yours alone to play with.”

Bucky’s smile widened, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. “Maybe not,” he murmured softly, his gaze flicking back to Y/N’s face. “But I’ll be damned if I let you have all the fun.”

With a low, mocking laugh, he wrenched his wrist free from Steve’s grip, his eyes gleaming with dark delight. He turned on his heel, his movements sharp and predatory as he made his way back to the door.

“Let her rest then. But the next time I get my hands on her, I’m going to see just how much she can really take.” He paused at the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on the pale, bloodstained form sprawled on the bed. “And I’m not going to stop… even if she begs.”

Steve watched him go, his gaze dark and simmering with barely restrained hunger. His eyes flicked back to Y/N’s face, the faintest trace of a smile curving his lips. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear in a whisper of a kiss.

“Rest up,” he whispered, his voice a soft, dangerous promise. “You’ll need it.”

And with that, Steve pushed off the bed, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned and strode out of the room, his steps silent, predatory.

The room fell into silence, the air still and heavy, the faint scent of blood lingering like a dark memory.

Y/N lay there, her body limp and drained, every nerve still singing with the lingering echo of pain and pleasure. Her mind swam in a haze, consciousness slipping in and out as darkness closed in around her.

But even as she drifted into the oblivion of sleep, a single thought lingered at the edge of her mind—an unspoken fear, a dark anticipation that sent a shiver racing down her spine.

They weren’t done.

And when they came back… she didn’t know if she’d survive it.

[axeeglitter]

Melorius's shop: Piracy in the blood

Ethan stood on the bustling street corner, peering into the dusty window of a small costume shop he had never noticed before. The worn wooden sign and faded paint suggested the shop had been there for decades, yet it was the first time Ethan had seen it. Desperate to find something unique for Halloween, he decided to step inside.

The moment he crossed the threshold, a bell jingled, and a thick wave of musty air hit him. Inside, the shop was crammed with racks of elaborate costumes. Everything from Victorian attire to knight's armor hung on the walls. The dim lighting gave the place an eerie, antique feel.

At the back of the shop, behind an old wooden counter, stood a man with silver hair and a long beard. His deep-set eyes watched Ethan with a knowing smile, though he said nothing.

Ethan felt a shiver run down his spine, but he brushed it off. He needed a costume, and this shop seemed to have exactly what he was looking for. Approaching the counter, he caught sight of an ornamented portrait painting, covered in dust, hanging on a nearby wall. The portrait looked ancient, almost as though it had been forgotten for centuries and neglected. Ethan was intrigued by it but before his brain could really focus on it, the owner appeared in front of him. “Good morning, sir, how can I help you today?” said Mister Melorius in a kind, peaceful voice.

"Hello, I was wondering if you had any costumes for a Halloween party I’m going to tonight? It’s not really my thing so I don’t really know what to wear, I know that some of my friends go as Super Heroes, other into officer. I simply have no idea what to get that could fit me." Ethan said, his voice wavering slightly.

The shopkeeper’s smile widened, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he went in the storage and came back a couple seconds after holding a box and placed it in front of Ethan. “Trust me son, this is exactly what you need!” No words were exchanged, just a simple gesture for him to take it.

Ethan, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and apprehension, picked up the box. It was surprisingly heavy. He didn’t ask any more questions, simply nodding in thanks before heading to the small dressing room tucked away in the corner of the shop.

The dressing room was cramped, with an old mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. Setting the box down on a rickety chair, Ethan carefully opened it, revealing the contents: black trousers, a white, billowing shirt with a deep V-neck, a thick leather belt, knee-high boots, and a weathered coat. An ancient looking leather harness and a couple of weapons sat neatly on top. “A pirate costume?” he thought out loud. “I mean, it could work, Julia always said she had a thing for Will Turner so maybe wearing this I’ll have a chance to approach her and finally invite for a dinner date.”

Ethan stood there in the cabin holding the clothes between his fingers, there was something undeniably authentic about the outfit. Ethan couldn’t help but feel a strange pull toward it. He removed his own clothes and began to dress, starting with the shirt. The fabric felt soft but heavy against his skin, the deep V exposing more of his chest than he was used to. Next, he pulled on the black trousers, which fit snugly against his legs.

As he tightened the leather belt around his waist, something shifted within him. His breathing grew heavier, his heart pounding in his chest. "What... what the hell?" he muttered, glancing at his reflection.

The moment he slipped into the boots, a sudden surge of heat coursed through his body, like an electric shock radiating from his feet to the top of his head. He staggered, gripping the chair for support. His reflection blurred, the mirror rippling as though it were water.

He gasped, watching in disbelief as his body began to change.

His shoulders started to broaden, muscle bulging under the fabric of the shirt. His chest heaved as it expanded, growing thicker, more defined. Hair sprouted between his pecs, the once-smooth skin now covered in coarse, dark fur. The hair spread quickly, forming a dense mat that stretched down his abdomen and forming a happy trail, stopping just above his groin.

"What’s happening to me?" Ethan’s voice trembled, but it was already deeper, rougher. He tried to pull the shirt off, but his arms wouldn’t obey. His muscles flexed against his will, as though they had a mind of their own. He could feel the power growing in his biceps, his forearms bulging with veins that snaked across his skin like ropes.

A strange anger began bubbling up from deep within him, replacing the fear he initially felt. His usual calm, quiet demeanor was slipping away, replaced by something far more aggressive, primal.

His hands, once soft and delicate, now looked like they belonged to a man who had spent years working under the sun, gripping ropes, handling weapons. The calluses formed almost instantly, thickening his palms, making them rough and unyielding.

"No... no, stop this!" Ethan’s thoughts raced, but his body continued to morph. He watched helplessly as his legs lengthened, growing taller, more imposing. His thighs swelled, pressing against the fabric of the trousers, the muscles there thick and corded. His calves, too, became more defined, the boots now fitting perfectly around his larger frame.

Then, he felt it, a sharp prickling sensation on his face. His jawline, once clean-shaven, began to darken as bristles of hair pushed through his skin. Within seconds, a thick, wild beard sprouted, covering his face. His reflection showed a man he didn’t recognize, a man far older than his 25 years.

The muscles in his face hardened, his boyish features replaced by a rugged, weathered look. His nose seemed to grow more prominent, his cheekbones higher, more angular. His lips twisted into a sneer, a cocky, arrogant grin that didn’t match the terror screaming in his mind.

"No! This isn’t me!" Ethan’s thoughts screamed, but his body didn’t care. His hands reached down on the chair, grabbing the leather harness and securing it around his chest, making sure his heavy muscled hairy pecs were pushed even higher, almost slipping out of his V line shirt. Then he grabbed the weapons before securing them too inside the harness.

He stared at his reflection, feeling the heat rising in his groin. His cock, which had always been average and uncut, now strained against the fabric of his trousers. It grew bigger and thicker with every beat of his heart. Like if his blood was transporting inches and girth with them. Then as he saw his bulge growing heavier and heavier inside his well-used pants, he started to feel a rush of sensations around his cock head. Suddenly he felt an awful pain around his girth as his foreskin disappeared in dust. His cockhead started to rub against his pants again and again. The sensation was growing duller and duller, and soon, it was something his new dick was used to. The sensitivity in his dick head dulled as though it had endured years of rough handling. His groin felt foreign to him, yet powerful. It belonged to this new body, a pirate’s body. Ethan tilted his head back up only to be met with a cocky grin plastered on his face. Suddenly, the tingling sensation started again, this time in his arm pits, legs, and most particularly around his new huge cock. From the corner of his eyes, he could see millions of hair follicles starting to grow, faster and faster, thicker and thicker, curlier and curlier. Ethan wanted to scratch, to get this itch to stop, but the only reaction he could summon from this new foreign body was to scratch his pubes before his hands automatically rise to his nose where his lungs took a deep breath. His brain was assaulted by a new sensation, his potent musk.

The smell hit him hard, an overwhelming musk of sweat, rum, and saltwater. He reeked of the sea; his skin slick with a sheen of sweat that only added to the intense masculinity radiating from him.

"No, please... I’m not this man..." Ethan thought desperately, but the man staring back at him in the mirror was no longer Ethan. He was someone else entirely. He clenched his fists, feeling the raw power in his grip, the authority in his posture. He was no longer the shy, soft-spoken young man who had entered the shop.

A sinister voice echoed in his mind, low and gravelly, as his reflection smirked. "Ye be Captain Blackstorm now, lad. No turnin’ back."

The room around him shimmered and dissolved. Ethan’s heart raced, his mind spinning as he tried to comprehend what was happening. But the harder he tried to hold on to his old life, the faster it slipped away.

Ethan blinked. Darkness swallowed him for a couple of seconds and suddenly, he was no longer in the dressing room.

The creaking of wood, the crashing of waves, and the scent of saltwater overwhelmed his senses. He found himself standing on the deck of a massive pirate ship, the Blackstorm, surrounded by a rough-looking crew of only men going from 20 to 45.

Ethan tried to scream, tried to move, but his body no longer obeyed him. His mouth opened, but the words that came out weren’t his own.

"ALL HANDS ON DECK! RAISE THE BLOODY SAILS, YE SCURVY DOGS!"

His deep voice boomed across the ship, the crew scrambling to follow his orders. His body moved with the confidence and swagger of a man who had been a pirate captain for years, barking commands left and right.

"No! I’m not Captain Blackstorm! I’m Ethan! Stop this!" His mind screamed, but his body didn’t listen. The pirate captain’s cocky grin was plastered on his face as he stood at the helm of the ship, guiding it through the turbulent seas. …………..

As the days passed, Ethan’s soul became trapped inside his own head, a prisoner in a body that was no longer his. He could still think, still feel, but he had no control. Every time Captain Blackstorm laughed, every time he bellowed orders, Ethan was forced to watch, helpless and horrified, wondering if he would ever go back to his college life and see his friends and family again.

His thoughts grew darker, more confused, as Blackstorm’s memories began to replace his own. He couldn’t remember his last name anymore, or what his life had been like before the transformation. The more he tried to hold on to his identity, the more it faded.

Soon, even his name felt foreign. He wasn’t Ethan. He was Captain Blackstorm.

One night, after a particularly brutal raid on a coastal town, Blackstorm stood on the deck of his ship, surveying the spoils. Among the prisoners was a young man, dressed in fine clothes, clearly a young officer from the Spanish Marina. The man was elegant, his sharp features framed by short, curly hair. Blackstorm’s eyes locked onto him.

"Bring ‘im to me," Blackstorm growled, his voice dripping with hunger.

Blackstorm’s eyes locked onto the sailor’s terrified expression, and a predatory grin spread across his face. Ethan, trapped deep inside, recoiled in horror, not knowing what was coming but powerless to stop it.

“Tell me son, what is your name?” “My name is Paulo sir.” Said the young men with fear in his voice. He knew that he wanted a chance to survive, he had to do what this captain wanted. “And tell me, Paulo. What were you doing out there? You look around 22, a bit old to be a cabin boy.” “I was just promoted as an officer, sir. Please don’t hurt me, I’ll do anything. Please.” Paulo broke almost in tears as he remembers the legend of the captain of the Blackstorm.

"Ye look soft, lad," Blackstorm sneered, his breath hot and reeking of rum. "But ye’ll toughen up. I’ll make a proper sailor outta ye."

Ethan’s thoughts screamed in protest, but the words coming from his mouth weren’t his. "No! Stop this! I’m not him!" But the pirate captain’s voice continued to fill the air as if Ethan's consciousness no longer mattered.

Paulo, trembling in Blackstorm's grip, whimpered, "Please, sir, I’m no pirate. I, I’m just an officer."

Blackstorm chuckled darkly, his grip tightening on the young man’s shirt. "For now! Ye’ll learn soon enough, lad. Now get below deck. I’ll see to yer trainin’ myself."

Ethan’s body moved of its own accord, dragging Paulo down to the captain’s quarters, where the room was dimly lit by the soft glow of lanterns. It smelled of sweat, rum, and the salty sea air, Blackstorm’s natural musk now, deeply embedded in the walls and furniture. Ethan wanted to gag at the overwhelming odor, but instead, his body breathed it in like it was the sweetest scent.

Ethan watched helplessly as Blackstorm tossed the young officer onto the bed, his powerful muscles flexing with every movement. The younger man looked terrified, eyes darting to the door as if considering an escape, but Blackstorm was faster. He pinned the young men down, a dark hunger in his eyes.

Paulo struggled beneath him, but Blackstorm’s calloused hands, worn from years at sea, held him firmly in place. "I’ve had my eye on ye since we boarded yer commander’s ship, lad," Blackstorm growled, his voice low and gravelly. "Now, ye belong to me."

"No! I can’t let this happen! This isn’t me!" Ethan’s thoughts were frantic, but the captain’s grin only widened as he leaned closer to the young men, inhaling his scent. The fear radiating off the man seemed to excite Blackstorm, fueling his dominance.

"I’ll make ye a man of the sea, lad," Blackstorm whispered, his hands roaming over the butler’s body, feeling the smooth, uncalloused skin beneath his fingers. "You see, what makes a great captain is not the fear he inspires in his enemies; Noooooo… It’s the respect he inspires in his crew. If you have a crew devoted to you, then nothing is impossible. And I make sure that each and every one of my men are the best versions of themselves. And in exchange, they are devoted to me. Now, you have a great potential, lad, let’s see what’s hidden under the surface. We’ll start with rum, but soon enough, ye’ll learn there’s more to bein’ a pirate than just sailin’."

Ethan screamed internally, but his body reveled in the power and control Blackstorm wielded over Paulo. The pirate captain’s beard brushed against Paulo’s neck, and Ethan could feel the younger man’s pulse quicken in fear.

As Blackstorm grabbed a bottle of rum from the bedside table, uncorking it with his teeth, he forced the officer to drink. "Take it, lad. Ye’ll need this to survive aboard the Blackstorm."

Paulo sputtered, coughing as the harsh liquid burned down his throat, but Blackstorm gave him no respite. He shoved the bottle back into his hands, forcing him to drink more, the warmth of the rum spreading through his body.

With every gulp forced down his throat, Paulo could feel the heat rising in his body. Drops of sweat started to appear on his forehead as his legs started to shake and tense with pression. Soon a crack was heard as his pants started to tear at the seam. The same started to occur on his chest, then his feet. His short brown hair started to grow longer and curlier, his face sharpened a bit, his cock lengthened and lost his foreskin and the sensitivity that goes with it and his body hair started to grow under his pits, and around his cock. Soon Paulo’s body was totally transformed. A perfect specimen of a young manly men devoted to his new life style of pirate.

"Now, lad," he growled, his hands unbuttoning his new crew member’s torn shirt and pants, exposing the smooth, tanned skin beneath. "Let’s see what ye’re made of."

Ethan’s mind fought desperately to regain control, but his body didn’t listen. His hands—Blackstorm’s hands—caressed Paulo’s body with rough, experienced strokes, exploring every inch of his skin. Paulo gasped, his body responding despite himself, a mixture of fear and arousal flashing in his eyes.

Ethan’s thoughts screamed as he realized what his body was about to do. He wasn’t even attracted to men. All he wanted was to get to the party to ask Julia on a date. Ethan could feel his thought getting muted, they were growing weaker, drowned out by the sensations overwhelming his body.

Blackstorm’s cock stirred in his trousers, hardening as he pressed against Paulo’s thigh. The once-shy, soft-spoken Ethan was gone, replaced entirely by the pirate captain who reveled in his dominance, who craved the control he had over his captive.

Paulo, now panting under Blackstorm’s touch, whimpered, "Please... sir… I need … you” Blackstorm silenced him with a rough kiss, his beard scraping against his chin as the pirate’s tongue claimed his mouth.

The taste of rum lingered on the Paulo’s lips, and Blackstorm groaned, his hands gripping the man’s hips tightly as he ground against him. His cock, thick and heavy, strained against the leather of his trousers, begging to be freed.

With a swift motion, Blackstorm yanked down his trousers, exposing his throbbing length. The pirate captain wasted no time, positioning himself between Paulo’s legs, his rough hands forcing them apart.

Ethan’s mind was a swirling storm of panic and confusion, but it was drowned out by the primal lust consuming Blackstorm. His cock brushed against the ass, and with one rough thrust, he entered the younger man, groaning as he buried himself deep inside.

Paulo gasped in pain, his body tensing beneath Blackstorm, but the pirate captain didn’t stop. His thrusts were hard, brutal, and unrelenting, his cock stretching the ass in ways he had never experienced before.

"Take it, lad," Blackstorm growled, his voice thick with lust. "Ye belong to me now."

Ethan, trapped in the pirate’s mind, could only watch in horror as Blackstorm claimed the young men with each powerful thrust. The pirate’s body was drenched in sweat, his muscles flexing as he moved, the scent of musk and sea growing heavier in the small cabin.

Paulo, now whimpering beneath him, began to relax, his body slowly adjusting to the brutal rhythm. His soft cries turned to moans as Blackstorm’s cock filled him over and over again, stretching him until there was nothing but pleasure.

The captain grinned wickedly, leaning down to whisper in his new lover’s ear. "Yer mine now, lad. Ye’ll be beggin’ for more soon enough. Now cum for me, Esteban"

Ethan’s thoughts were fading, his sense of self slipping away with every thrust, every groan of pleasure that escaped his lips. He could feel himself being absorbed into Blackstorm’s mind, his old life nothing but a distant memory. Paulo could feel every thrust going deeper and deeper, he was moaning in pure pleasure not remembering what just happened to his body. As he heard Blackstorm, he felt his body tense. Suddenly, a rush of feelings opened in his brain and he fainted in pure bliss as he started to shoot his cum and his old life. He couldn’t remember where he grew up, what was his work, what was his name. All he could see were Blackstorm, the sea, and the name Esteban flashing in his eyes.

Finally, with one last powerful thrust, Blackstorm came inside Paulo, filling him with his seed and cementing his dominance over his new crew member. The pirate groaned, his body shuddering with release as he collapsed on top of the younger man, his chest heaving with each breath. Ethan screamed one last time as he felt himself being totally assimilated in this new life that was given to him.

For a moment, there was silence. The only sound was the soft creaking of the ship and the distant crash of waves against the hull.

Blackstorm rose from the bed, pulling on his trousers and adjusting his belt. He glanced back at Esteban, who lay panting on the bed, his body trembling from the intensity of their encounter. He went to his personal clothes and grabbed a white shirt, a crimson red sleeveless coat, a black leather trouser and a pair of leather boots before putting them next to Esteban.

" Your name, your life and your future are mine now," Blackstorm growled, his voice dripping with satisfaction. " Get some rest, lad, ye’ll need yer strength for tomorrow’s session."

As he left the cabin, Esteban’s soft, exhausted moans followed him and after a couple of hours, Esteban got up and dressed himself before walking on the deck of the ship as a new men. Blackstorm grinned to himself as he saw his new devoted crew member smiling at him while groping his manhood to adjust it.

Ethan was gone, lost forever in the depths of the pirate’s mind. Only Captain Blackstorm remained, cocky, ruthless, and forever bound to the sea. ............ Mister Melorius was walking back to his counter when he heard a tingling resonating in his left ear. As he turned back, he saw the portrait behind him start to vibrate as the golden plaque under it shone while a new text appeared on it: “Captain Blackstorm, commandant of the Blackstorm. Respected and beloved by his whole crew, adventurer of the seven seas and beyond. 1718” Melorius smiled, knowing Ethan, or Blackstorm, was on for a great adventure and will remain in history as the greatest captain of them all.

______________________________________________________________ Hey guys! Hope you'll enjoy this story created from @tf-vigilante's prompt: "A shy and soft college student enters Mister Melorius's shop looking for a costume. Even though that kind of costume is not like his personnality at all, he is weirdly compelled to ask for a pirate costume. What will happen to him ? How will his Halloween night turn out to be ? Maybe this will be truely life changing…" Hope you guys enjoyed it and as always, feel free to send me asks if you want to pick a costume from Melorius's shop! See you soon!

[dinsbeskar]

Two's Company, Three is Torture (Sauron/F!Reader)

Sauron finds new ways to please his wife as Annatar and Halbrand have their way with you; or:

Sauron Smut 2: Electric Boogaloo

Sequel to Evil Will Find Her // AO3 Link

Warnings: Annatar/you/Halbrand - there's 2 of them now, I am sorry!! Threesome, P in V sex, double P in V sex, overstimulation, mentions of oral sex (female receiving), fingering, teasing, praise and degradation (sporadic use of sl*t/wh*re)

A/N: This fic is @sansaorgana's fault, I blame her for everything 😂 One Sauron is a lot, two of them is torture, but you take it like a champ.

Word Count: 3.1k

"I think," Annatar murmurs in your ear, "that you like this, love."

You can feel Halbrand smirk against your neck and continue his attentions licking and kissing up to your ears, biting your earlobe and making you moan.

"Is that right, angel? Is this making you wet for us?" Your already ragged breath hitches at Halbrand's rough voice in your ear; his fingers trail to your chest, kneading your heated flesh and you gasp aloud, making them chuckle.

"I don't think she's capable of intelligible speech at the moment, right sweetheart?" Annatar continues his ministrations, teasing your mound, tracing idle circles every which way, except for where you ache for them.

~

When your husband returned to you, it was not a form you'd have instantly connected to him. Obviously you knew it was him, your souls singing in their close proximity, his inability to hide his thrill at your presence. But he was clearly a Man, not Elvish in appearance as he had been, and roguishly handsome, with dark curls and the beginnings of a beard. In other words, opposite in every way to what you were used to.

Once you'd got over your shock at his return, and said all you needed to say after your centuries apart, you got to admiring him. Rugged where he had been ethereal, dark in countenance where he had been unearthly and radiant, rough and untempered, calloused hands and stubbled skin that set you ablaze with every gentle touch.

It was unfortunate then, that you did not get the chance to enjoy him as much as you'd have liked, thanks to Galadriel discovering his identity, forcing him to flee. You'd lain awake thinking of him often before he returned to you, and you continue that particular ritual after he flees, but now he appeared more and more often as Halbrand; would he be upset to learn you desired him however he might appear, that the fair forms he chose to please you were wasted on you, if you'd be happy with some man from the Southlands?

You'd stayed in Eregion after Sauron had fled, to await his inevitable return after he'd set his plan in motion in Mordor. You were sure he would have to disguise himself once again, and to your great dismay you mourned the King of the Southlands. Surely you should be happy with him, however he appears, however he acts? Your lord husband had returned to you, that was the only thing that mattered.

So when Lord Celebrimbor lets slip that Halbrand is back and waiting on his front porch, your heart soars. And you feel an unmistakable wave of arousal. He had been nigh insatiable for the weeks he'd spent with you while they forged the three rings; frankly, even the mention of his name was enough to warm your blood and wet your thighs.

"Don't you think we should let him in?" You ask softly, "We can't let him freeze, and we can treat with him tomorrow?"

"Lady Galadriel was very clear, I won't break my word to her." Celebrimbor will not be swayed so easily, and it is only when his favourite apprentice, Mirdania, tells him that Lord Halbrand is injured, it is cold, we should let him in for the night if only to tend his wounds, that he concedes and goes to speak with him himself.

You know your husband will have his way, and so you settle into your soft warm bed to wait for him; he'll be along, he always knows where to find you.

By the time he slips through your door in the dead of night, you have drifted off, hugging a large leather bound tome, candle burning low.

He greets you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, before curling around you and pulling you close. You open your eyes to find the room near dark, with only the moon illuminating the pair of you. His strong arms around you and his familiar smoky scent immediately put you at ease, and you nestle closer, beyond content that he is by your side once more.

"You feel different, my love."

He tenses a little, nuzzling his face into your neck.

"I'm here now, that's what matters." He seems to say it more for himself than you, but you take it anyway, always so greedy for any sweet sentiment he bestows upon you.

You notice long hair tickling your neck, and the distinct lack of friction on your skin from Halbrand's facial hair, and you realise he has disguised himself once more. It would have been nice to give Lord Halbrand a parting gift, you think to yourself, but after all how can you complain when you know he is the most beautiful creature in Middle Earth, whatever form he takes.

~

Lord Annatar is a taskmaster, and his long hours in the forge make you restless and wanting for him. Thankfully for you, he does not require rest and is always the obliging husband.

It is during the afterglow one night when he had ravished you senseless, that the two of you speak of Halbrand again.

"Beloved, I have a question for you."

"It had better be a good one, I was falling asleep," you grumble, but you turn to face him anyway, head resting on your hand while you trace his chest.

"I think it is." He is uncharacteristically slow to speak, making you wonder what could possibly have him so tongue tied.

You take his hand and lace your fingers together, reassuring, steadfast in your affection.

"I know your heart like it is my own," he avoids your gaze, seemingly far-off in his own thoughts, but continues, "and of late I wonder if perhaps you're missing something."

Your brow furrows deeply; what could you possibly long for, now that your soul has returned to you?

"I know you were unsure when I came home to you, that I was... unlike myself," he searches for the words, something you have never seen him need to do. "I could not appear as I once did, and I worried that Halbrand would repulse you-"

"You could never, my love," and you grip his fingers tightly, kissing his palm, "you could appear to me deformed, with three heads, no body at all, and I would still want you." You cannot help but interrupt him, to soothe the nagging doubts he appears to have.

"-but I was wrong." He looks at you finally, his expression making your stomach drop.

"You weren't repulsed at all, in fact you enjoyed the low man from the Southlands far more than I ever thought possible." He graces you with an affectionate smile, and your heart begins beating again.

"He was... different. But he was you, and that is all I ever need." You lean in to kiss him deeply, entwining your fingers in his long silky hair.

"I thought perhaps," he pauses, an uncharacteristic blush painting his features, "that you might want to see him again?"

Your heart melts, aching in your chest as you reflect on his question. Of course you'd like Halbrand in your bed once more. But you were very happy with the man in front of you too. The choice made your head spin.

"I want you, only you, however you appear. He had a certain... quality, that I enjoyed, I cannot lie. But I love you, and I couldn't be without my Lord of Gifts now that I have tasted him." You kiss the tip of his nose, and feel his soul swell against yours, caressing you tenderly.

You roll over and nestle into his chest once more, pressing your back against him insistently, his arms wrapping around you instinctively. After a long pause he speaks again.

"What if you could have both?" He asks, tone steady but heart racing.

"Wouldn't that be nice..." You murmur, already halfway between waking and dreaming. You pull his arms tighter around you and sigh, letting his heartbeat lull you to sleep.

He can only but watch you, eyes crinkled at the corners with a beautiful genuine smile, the like of which he keeps only for you. He kisses the top of your head and waits for dawn.

~

That is how you ended up in your bed, wrapped in two pairs of arms, with two mouths driving you to distraction, adored and sinfully worshipped.

~

"I think, my lovely wife, that you don't want me to know how much you love this." Annatar's fingers at your entrance halt, and you whimper, begging in breathless moans for him to continue.

"That the attention you crave from me cannot possibly be satisfied by one pair of hands, that I must build an army to ravish you, one by one, until you're a shaking quivering mess." His warm breath ghosting over your skin as he teases you is driving you wild, and you buck up into his fingers. He withdraws them completely and fixes you with a scolding glare.

"Ah ah, you're not chasing us tonight, there is more than enough for you, greedy little thing, you have to exercise patience for once." Halbrand's smile is so sweet, you could almost forgive him, no, them, the torture inflicted upon with two pairs of hands, two mouths, not to mention-

"Do you think she's ready? She's dripping for it, she'll feel so fucking good," Halbrand turns to his counterpart, his hard cock throbbing for your attention, seeming to beg to be allowed to touch you further, a reminder of who is really in charge here.

"Do you deserve us yet, love?" You'd beg for their touch if Annatar had not already silenced you, his lips pressed to yours as he languidly strokes himself.

The moment he pulls away, Halbrand takes his place, worrying your bottom lip with his teeth, kneading your flesh with such desperation, it wrenches your heart. He retreats slightly to give you a reprieve, to let you take in a breath and to stare at your face in wonderment.

Your hair is mussed and tangled, your blushing face covered in a sheen of sweat, your lips parted and panting; he looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

Annatar cuts short your respite with a bruising kiss, pulling your head back with his fingers in your hair, tugging at your scalp deliciously, the twang of pain shooting straight to your core.

Halbrand reaches between you and finds your swollen clit, so eager to please, his patience already thin and wanting.

There is nothing but the two sweat-slicked bodies pressing you into submission; you can think of nothing else but the thrills they bestow on your frazzled senses.

Annatar's hard length prods insistently at your back, making you giggle and reach around for him. You feel his lips at your neck; you can picture his self-satisfied expression as he taunts you with his caress, running the tip of his cock along your entrance.

You arch back against him, pulling him closer, but Halbrand holds you firm, claiming your lips for his own once more.

They are relentless; one pulls away so you can catch your breath only for a second before the other steals it, devouring you like starving men.

"You know just how to please us, angel," Halbrand murmurs in your ear, shifting your weight and positioning you over Annatar's lap.

He eases inside you slowly, languorously, with one hand around your throat pulling you back into his dangerous embrace. You lock eyes with Halbrand, looking up at you through hooded eyes, panting in tune with you, his every breath matching yours.

As Annatar starts to move, your toes curl and you reach for Halbrand, your hands on his shoulders as you tense your thigh muscles against the long, leisurely strokes inside you. It isn't long before you feel yourself clench around him, relieved to finally find your release.

"Not yet, love," you hear Annatar sigh, brushing your hair over your shoulder and pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck.

He robs you of the fullness in your core as he pulls out, breath shuddering as he mourns the loss of your tight wet heat around him, but he perseveres; tonight is for you, his pleasure can wait.

They make eye contact over your shoulder and Halbrand's face lights up; it is his turn with your cunt and he doesn't hesitate, burying himself to the hilt, teasing your breasts with his tongue as you press closer to meet his thrusts.

One hand is entwined with his sweat-soaked curls, the other woven into Annatar's long golden hair, pulling them to meet you in a clash of tongues that spikes a wave of slick between your thighs, provoking a long guttural groan from the pair of them as they take you in all your glory.

"So fucking tight on my cock, so wet, listen to those moans, you'd fuck us both over and over until you can't stand, wouldn't you?" Halbrand's stream of consciousness is ceaseless as he ruts into you, as Annatar traces your sides and kisses you languidly.

The polar opposite sensations have you in a spin and you grip the bedsheets, desperate for any kind of release from this exquisite torture.

"You are beautiful like this, love," Annatar whispers in your ear, biting your earlobe, "anyone would think you like being the Dark Lord's needy little plaything? Is that it? You so enjoy being at our mercy, like a good little slut, that you'll take anything we give you." His voice is becoming rough, his pupils blown, as he gives himself over to the pleasure the three of you share.

Every drag of Halbrand's cock is accompanied by a ragged moan that reverberates in your core; you run your fingers through the soft hair on his chest, face buried in his neck, as Annatar sucks a deep bruise on your neck, fingers tracing your entrance as Halbrand bounces you on his thighs.

You feel Annatar's length once more at your entrance, and you can't breathe. No way is he about to do what you think he is planning. You gasp as Halbrand's thick cock enters you, followed by Annatar's long clever fingers stretching you deliciously, robbing you of breath and sense.

You arch your back, breasts in Halbrand's face only for a second before he takes a nipple in his mouth, giving you all the attention you crave and more.

It's too much, your sensitised flesh screams for release, as Annatar adds another finger, then another, whispering praise in your ear with every addition.

"Good girl, so good for us, are you ready for me, love? Need you, want you, can't wait any longer..." he withdraws his fingers as Halbrand slows his thrusts, idly pumping into you as a wordless agreement passes between them.

"Tell us to stop," Halbrand groans, gripping your thighs like you might slip through his fingers, "tell us you don't want this and we'll stop, tell us you don't need this just as much as we do, that you haven't dreamed of us taking you at once..."

Even if you wanted them to stop, you couldn't find the words to do so, all powers of language and reason seemingly spent.

"She would never," you hear Annatar behind you, readying his cock with your wetness, tip at your entrance. "She wants this more than us, don't you, sweetling? So sweet, so fucking good, but a needy slut all the same-"

He interrupts himself by sliding into your cunt, thrusting up and moaning in your ear, offering you his fingers that you take in your mouth gladly, muffling your scream as you taste yourself on his fingers. You rest your forehead on Halbrand's, body tensing at the new intrusion; they give you a moment to adjust, to accommodate this alien sensation of both of them inside you.

"Are you ready, love? You're ours, and we can have you whenever we wish." Halbrand gives a low chuckle at your parted lips, your blown pupils, and throws all caution to the wind.

When they both thrust inside you, you see stars, you can't breathe, it's too fucking much-

"Don't fucking come, that's a good girl," Halbrand has to be the one to speak, Annatar is buried in your neck, thrusting in time and panting, kissing every inch of you he can reach.

They have you fixed between them, nowhere to go, no way to move, prisoner to their attentions. The way they're stretching you out, you're not sure you'll ever be content with one husband again, you're so thoroughly spoiled with two.

Halbrand finds your lips and swallows your moans, finding your swollen clit amidst your tangled flesh; so in tune are the three of you that you don't know where you end and they begin.

You feel hands clawing at your breasts, tracing your sides, pulling at your hips, but there is no distraction from the incredible fullness in your core. Your thigh muscles burn as you take every delicious inch twice over, the sweet spot inside you coiling, inflaming you and driving you to madness.

"Done so well, love," you hear Halbrand say between groans, "do you think you should be allowed to come?"

They both smirk at you adoringly as you cry out, pleading, trembling.

"Please, fuck... please, I've been so good, please..." Your throaty moans are lost as your husbands hungrily claim your lips one after the other, someone's fingers in your hair, tracing the sensitive tips of your ears; you’ve lost track, only feeling flesh on flesh.

"Come for us, darling, such a good needy little whore for us, for your Dark Lord, given us everything, and you always will, won't you?" Annatar's question breaks you from your reverie and you whimper.

"Yes, love, everything, always." You don't know what you're saying, and you don't care, totally lost in the spell he has cast over you.

Stars explode behind your eyes, warmth floods your body, and you're wracked with a pleasure that surmounts anything you've ever experienced with him before. You can feel them pulsing inside you, a satisfying warmth filling you up as you greedily take it all, your walls milking every drop of seed deep into your womb.

It's too much, intense and drawn out, but they hold you between them, wringing every clench and moan they can from you as you ride your high, exhausting every last drop of pleasure from you, before laying you down between them, still touching you all over, encompassing you in every which way.

It takes a minute for you to come back to them, but when you do, they're already kissing better the bruises they've left, soothing your aching muscles.

"We should do that again," you murmur, each hand tracing their faces, revelling in the different sensations they afford you.

"We have all night, love, rest for now." Halbrand chuckles, stroking your hair, as Annatar parts your thighs, and settles his face between them.

"On second thought-"

You don't get much rest that night after all.

[ancientrome]

Marble sarcophagus with the Triumph of Dionysos and the Seasons. Roman ca. 260–270 CE. x

This highly ornate and extremely well-preserved Roman marble sarcophagus came to the Metropolitan Museum from the collection of the Dukes of Beaufort and was formerly displayed in their country seat, Badminton House in Gloucestershire, England. An inscription on the unfinished back of the sarcophagus records that it was installed there in 1733. In contrast to the rough and unsightly back, the sides and front of the sarcophagus are decorated with forty human and animal figures carved in high relief. The central figure is that of the god Dionysos seated on a panther, but he is somewhat overshadowed by four larger standing figures who represent the four Seasons (from left to right, Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall). The figures are unusual in that the Seasons are usually portrayed as women, but here they are shown as sturdy youths. Around these five central figures are placed other Bacchic figures and cultic objects, all carved at a smaller scale. On the rounded ends of the sarcophagus are two other groups of large figures, similarly intermingled with lesser ones. On the left end, Mother Earth is portrayed reclining on the ground; she is accompanied by a satyr and a youth carrying fruit. On the right end, a bearded male figure, probably to be identified with the personification of a river-god, reclines in front of two winged youths, perhaps representing two additional Seasons.

The sarcophagus is an exquisite example of Roman funerary art, displaying all the virtuosity of the workshop where it was carved. The marble comes from a quarry in the eastern Mediterranean and was probably shipped to Rome, where it was worked. Only a very wealthy and powerful person would have been able to commission and purchase such a sarcophagus, and it was probably made for a member of one of the old aristocratic families in Rome itself. The subjects - the triumph of Dionysos and the Seasons - are unlikely, however, to have had any special significance for the deceased, particularly as it is clear that the design was copied from a sculptor's pattern book. Another sarcophagus, now in the Hessisches Landesmuseum in Kassel, Germany, has the same composition of Dionysos flanked by the four Seasons, although the treatment and carving of the figures is quite different. On the Badminton sarcophagus the figures are carved in high relief and so endow the crowded scene with multiple areas of light and shade, allowing the eye to wander effortlessly from one figure to another. One must also imagine that certain details were highlighted with color and even gilding, making the whole composition a visual tour de force.

Very few Roman sarcophagi of this quality have survived. Although the Badminton sarcophagus lacks its lid, the fact that it was found in the early eighteenth century and soon thereafter installed in Badminton Hall means that it has been preserved almost intact and only a few of the minor extremities are now missing.

[novaursa]

The Queen's Command (1/2)

Requests are closed!

- Summary: You came to Westeros to offer your services to the crown as a healer. And once the Dance starts and both Queens start to curry for your favor, you are forced to change the already written destiny of this war forever.

- Paring: Alicent Hightower/male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: @subjectac7 , here is the first part of your request. I have to split it in half to establish a better background of the character you requested. I'll post the next part tomorrow that will include all other information you've provided me. This is more Rhaenyra centric, but the next part will contain Alicent pairing in it as well.

- Rating: Mild 13+ (rating will jump up in the next part)

- Next part: 2/2

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

“You cannot be serious,” Grand Maester Mellos huffs, his face flushed beneath his graying beard as he paces before the hearth in King Viserys’ chambers. His robes of faded grey and white brush the floor, almost as if they carry the weight of centuries of tradition along with them. He glares at you from beneath furrowed brows, as though your mere presence is an affront to his authority. “Bloodletting has been practiced for generations in Westeros, and you—an outsider—would dare suggest otherwise?”

You stand, unmoving, across the room, your eyes obscured by the mask you wear. It covers much of your face, leaving only your sharp gaze visible beneath the shadow of the hooded cloak that hangs over your shoulders. The deep reds and blacks of your Asshaii garb seem foreign, almost unnatural, against the dull, familiar tapestries of the Red Keep. You do not flinch under Mellos’ stare.

“The king's ailment is not one that can be treated by such... primitive methods,” you say, your voice low, accented, each word carefully chosen. The hint of the Shadowlands lingers in your speech, an echo of lands far away and shrouded in mystery. “The corruption in his flesh, it festers deep within. Bloodletting will only weaken him further. What he needs is the poultice I have crafted, using ingredients from the Shadowlands, to draw the sickness out.”

Mellos scoffs, waving his hand dismissively. “Ingredients from the Shadowlands,” he repeats with mockery in his tone. “Herbs and roots that no Westerosi has heard of, much less approved of. Do you truly expect the King’s Council to trust a healer who hides behind a mask and speaks of dark magics?”

“I expect you to trust results,” you counter, stepping closer. “Results that I have delivered. How many men have I treated, who would otherwise have been lost to their injuries or sickness? Would you have them believe that my skills are unproven, Maester Mellos? Or are you simply afraid that they threaten your own?”

“You dare—”

Before Mellos can finish his sentence, the doors to the chamber swing open, and Ser Harrold Westerling strides in. The Kingsguard knight, ever stalwart, cuts through the tension with the urgency of his message. “Forgive the interruption, Grand Maester,” he says with a respectful nod, but his gaze quickly moves to you. “Princess Rhaenyra has requested your presence.”

Mellos straightens his posture. “I shall go at once. The princess—”

“Not you,” Ser Harrold interrupts, his tone firm yet respectful. “She has called for him,” he gestures to you. “There was a dragon riding incident. The princess landed awkwardly when she dismounted Syrax. She asks for the healer from Asshai.”

Mellos’ face goes white with indignation. “Impossible! The Princess would not—”

“She did,” Harrold cuts in, his gaze unwavering. “I witnessed it myself.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging the order without gloating. “It seems, Grand Maester, that Westerosi traditions do not always hold the favor of your nobles.” With that, you turn toward the door, your robes swaying as you move to follow Ser Harrold out into the corridors of the Red Keep.

As the two of you walk through the hallways, the torches lining the stone walls flicker with your passing. The clanking of Ser Harrold's armor is a steady rhythm next to your nearly silent footfalls. The knight, a man of duty and few words, finally speaks.

“I’ve seen what you can do,” he says, his voice low, so as not to carry. “There are soldiers, men who were once as good as dead, now back on their feet because of you. I’ve heard whispers, even saw one man after the battle with the Crabfeeder... wounds that should have taken weeks to heal, mended in days. Some say it’s dark magic. Others say it’s just skill. I don’t care which it is, as long as it works.”

You keep your pace steady, eyes focused ahead, your voice calm. “The Shadowlands teach many things, Ser Harrold. Some would call it magic, others simply knowledge they do not understand. But I assure you, everything I do is to heal, not harm.”

He glances at you from the corner of his eye. “And what of the King? Can you heal him?”

There’s a brief silence as you consider your response. “The corruption in his body runs deep. I can slow its progress, perhaps ease his pain. But to truly heal him…” Your voice trails off for a moment before you add, “It would take more than even I know. There are forces at work here, beyond any single healer.”

Harrold nods, accepting the answer for what it is. “Rhaenyra trusts you. She’s not easily impressed.”

You glance at him, sensing an unspoken question behind his words. “And you, Ser Harrold? Do you trust me?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and for a moment, the only sound is the clinking of his armor and the crackle of torches. Finally, he replies, “I trust what I’ve seen with my own eyes. Time will tell the rest.”

The two of you reach Princess Rhaenyra’s chambers. As you enter, the familiar scent of dragon lingers in the air—an unmistakable smell of sulfur and smoke. Rhaenyra lies on a cushioned bed, her face pale but composed. Her leg is propped up awkwardly, and you can tell by the slight grimace on her face that the pain is intense.

She looks up as you approach, her eyes sharp. “You came quickly,” she says, her voice strong despite her discomfort. “Good.”

You kneel by her side, gently examining her injured leg. “You dismounted Syrax too soon,” you say, noting the swelling in her ankle. “A sprain, most likely.”

Rhaenyra winces slightly but allows you to work, watching you closely as you reach into your satchel and pull out the poultices and herbs you’ve prepared. “I trust you’ll have me back on my feet soon,” she says, her tone laced with both humor and challenge.

You meet her gaze through your mask. “Soon enough, Princess. Though I recommend resting this time, even if the pain subsides.”

She smirks. “We’ll see.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes continue to gleam with mischief as she watches you work. The playfulness in her voice carries through the quiet of the room. “You know,” she says, leaning a little closer, “I often find myself wondering what lies beneath that mask of yours. It’s not often I see a healer who hides his face.”

You glance up briefly from your work, smirking beneath the mask though she can’t see it. “Perhaps I wear it to keep a certain air of mystery, Princess,” you jest, not missing a beat. “Or maybe it’s better to leave some things to the imagination. After all, isn’t that more intriguing?”

Rhaenyra chuckles, her lips curving into a smile that matches the playfulness of your tone. “Intriguing indeed,” she muses, her fingers brushing idly against the table beside her. “But I am not a patient woman, Y/N. If there’s a mystery, I’ll uncover it eventually.”

You meet her gaze through the shadowed eyeholes of your mask, enjoying the playful dance of conversation. “Careful, Princess,” you say, the corner of your mouth lifting under the mask. “Sometimes the mystery is better left unsolved. You might find that what lies beneath is simply... underwhelming.”

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the banter. “Somehow, I doubt that. You wouldn’t hide it otherwise.”

You shake your head, focusing back on the work in front of you. “It’s not hiding, Princess. It’s... discretion.”

The silence that follows is not uncomfortable, but charged with a strange sort of intrigue. Rhaenyra watches you as you finish tending to her ankle, her curiosity about you only growing with each passing moment. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve met at court,” she says quietly, her gaze lingering on your hands as you work with practiced precision. “The others—Maesters, knights, and lords—they follow rules, traditions. You seem... outside of that.”

You glance at her again, briefly pausing in your work. “Asshai is far from Westeros. Its ways are not your ways,” you reply, your tone measured. “But I do what I must to heal. The rules of your court, your Maesters... they do not always align with the needs of the body.”

Rhaenyra seems to ponder your words, her interest piqued. “Perhaps that’s why I find you so... refreshing. Someone who doesn’t follow the same tiresome paths.”

You finish tying off the bandage around her ankle, gently securing it with a practiced touch. “There,” you say, rising to your feet and stepping back slightly. “The injury is not severe, but I advise rest.”

Before Rhaenyra can respond, the door opens, and in steps Queen Alicent, her presence commanding as ever. The light fabric of her green gown sways as she enters the room, her face calm, though you catch the briefest flicker of something unreadable in her eyes when they land on you. It’s subtle, but you notice it—a moment of hesitation.

“Rhaenyra,” she says, her voice softer than you expected. “I heard what happened. Are you all right?”

Rhaenyra smiles, waving off the concern. “I’m fine, Alicent. It was a minor incident, nothing more.”

Alicent’s gaze, however, shifts to you, and for a moment, there’s a tension in the room. She studies you, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. You know what this is. Otto Hightower’s warning about you lingers in her mind. She has heard about you—the healer from Asshai, with methods that defy the Seven’s teachings. Your presence unsettles those who cling to the old ways.

“I see you’ve... called upon Y/N,” Alicent says, her tone polite but guarded. “Father has told me about you.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her without bowing fully. “Your father is a wise man, Your Grace. But wisdom sometimes comes with... caution.”

Alicent’s lips press into a thin line, her eyes never leaving you. “He said your ways are not... natural. That they defy the will of the Seven.”

Rhaenyra glances between the two of you, her gaze flickering with amusement. “Oh, Alicent. Must you always listen to your father? Y/N’s methods may be different, but they work.”

Alicent remains silent for a moment, her brow furrowing. “Different doesn’t always mean better,” she says softly, but the words seem more directed at herself than at you or Rhaenyra. Her gaze lingers on you, wary, as though she’s still trying to make up her mind about what exactly you are.

The silence that follows is heavy with unspoken tension, and you can feel Alicent’s discomfort. Yet, there’s something else there—something that goes beyond mere suspicion.

Rhaenyra, sensing the weight of the moment, breaks the silence with a smile that’s more mischievous than polite.

"Enough of this," Rhaenyra says, her voice light but firm as she rises from her seat, clearly intent on dismissing the uneasy air. “Whatever the Maesters or anyone else may think, Y/N has proven his worth to the crown. And I, for one, am grateful for his service.”

Her smile turns more genuine as she meets your eyes—or rather, the mask that conceals them. "In fact, I think it’s only proper that I express my gratitude personally," she continues, a playful tone lacing her words. "I would like to invite you to a private dinner, Y/N. There are many things I wish to know about you—about your homeland, your methods." She tilts her head slightly, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. “And perhaps we can finally solve the mystery of that mask.”

Alicent shifts uneasily beside her, her discomfort evident as she glances between you and Rhaenyra. Her fingers tighten slightly around the folds of her green gown, but she says nothing.

You incline your head, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. "A dinner with the Princess herself," you say, your voice smooth. "How could I refuse such an honor? Though I cannot promise the mask will come off so easily."

Rhaenyra's eyes narrow with amusement. "We’ll see about that."

Alicent clears her throat, clearly uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. "Rhaenyra," she begins, her voice soft yet laced with subtle reproach, "perhaps it’s best to be cautious. After all, there’s much we still don’t know about—"

“Oh, Alicent,” Rhaenyra interrupts, her tone slightly dismissive but still playful. “Y/N has done more for the crown in one day than some have in years. I see no need for caution when gratitude is in order.”

Alicent’s lips press into a thin line, her unease apparent. She steals a glance at you from the corner of her eye, her expression betraying a hint of something deeper—curiosity, perhaps? Or is it the uncertainty that comes with the unfamiliar? Otto Hightower’s warnings still weigh on her, but something else lingers as well, something unspoken.

You turn to face Rhaenyra, offering a small, respectful bow. "Then, Princess, I shall look forward to your company."

As you turn to leave the room, you can feel both sets of eyes on your back—Rhaenyra’s filled with intrigue and mischief, and Alicent’s with something more complicated. Her gaze follows you, hesitant, cautious... and yet, there’s a flicker of something else.

For now, though, you leave them behind, the faint echo of their divided loyalties lingering in the air.

The dining hall Rhaenyra had chosen for this private dinner was smaller and more intimate than the grand banquet rooms of the Red Keep. The hearth crackled with warmth, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls, while a table draped in fine velvet sat between the two of you. A small feast had been laid out: roasted fowl, rich sauces, and goblets of deep red wine.

Rhaenyra leaned forward with a smile, one hand resting casually against her goblet. "So, Y/N," she began, her tone playful, "you’ve done well to avoid the subject of that mask of yours. We’re alone now—surely there’s no need to hide.”

You offered a slight chuckle, shaking your head slowly. "I wear it out of habit, Princess. It is part of who I am." You gesture toward the spread of food between you, your hands resting still in front of you. “Besides, a mask does not prevent me from sharing your company.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she took a sip of wine. "But it does prevent you from sharing a meal," she teased, nudging the plate of food toward you. "Surely you can’t eat through that mask."

You allow a smile to linger in your voice as you respond, “Perhaps, but I’ve grown quite accustomed to not eating in front of others.”

She leaned back, crossing her arms with a huff, clearly not content with your evasiveness. “You’re avoiding the question again,” she said, smirking as if she enjoyed this game of cat and mouse. “You can’t keep your face hidden forever.

You tilt your head, humor lacing your words. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the mystery. After all, didn’t you say it made things more intriguing?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpened as her smile faded into something more deliberate. “Y/N,” she said, her tone still light but more commanding now. “Take off the mask.”

You froze for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly behind the mask as her words shifted from request to command. “That’s hardly fair,” you replied, your voice calm but with a hint of wariness. “Ordering me to do what you’ve been trying to coax from me all evening?”

Rhaenyra’s lips curled into a knowing smile, sensing your hesitation. “Fair or not, you’re in my service now. And I wish to see you—truly see you. So I order you.”

There’s a pause, a long, heavy silence between you. Her words linger in the air, and you can feel the weight of her demand settle over the room.

With a sigh, you slowly reach for the ties of your mask, your fingers loosening the cords that hold it in place. As the mask comes away from your face, you see Rhaenyra’s eyes widen ever so slightly, her playful demeanor faltering for the first time that night.

She stares, taken aback by your appearance, the easy confidence in her gaze replaced by something more like wonder.

You meet her eyes, your features now fully exposed to the flickering firelight. The contours of your face are unlike anything she’s seen before—your skin bearing the deep, rich tones of your distant homeland, marked with faint, intricate scars that seem almost ceremonial. Your eyes, so often obscured by the mask, are piercing, dark as onyx and filled with an intensity that feels more ancient than anything in Westeros. There is a strangeness in your appearance, something foreign, even to someone as exotic as Rhaenyra, whose Valyrian blood sets her apart in this world. You are different—more alien even than she, with her silver hair and violet eyes.

She blinks, clearly taken aback, her breath catching for a moment as she takes you in. “Gods,” she whispers, her voice soft, almost reverent. “You... you look like something from one of the old tales. Like you stepped out of another world.”

You watch her carefully, gauging her reaction. You’re used to this—used to the looks of surprise, fear, even fascination. But this moment feels different. Rhaenyra doesn’t shy away or recoil in discomfort. Instead, her eyes linger on yours, filled with a strange blend of curiosity and something else—something deeper.

“It is not every day a man from Asshai dines with a princess of Westeros,” you say, your voice calm but with an undercurrent of amusement. “I suppose we are both somewhat alien here, are we not?”

She laughs softly, though her eyes still linger on your face, studying every detail as if committing it to memory. “More alien than I thought,” she murmurs, her smile returning, though more thoughtful now. “I knew you were different, but... this.”

You tilt your head slightly, a small smile playing on your lips. “Do you regret ordering me to take off the mask?”

She shakes her head, her silver hair catching the firelight. “No,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “But I didn’t expect you to be... this.”

The two of you fall into a quiet understanding. Whatever assumptions she might have held before are gone now, replaced by something more genuine, more real. You are no longer just a mysterious healer from the far east. You are something she cannot quite place but cannot ignore.

“I wanted to know more about you,” Rhaenyra continues after a moment, her voice softer. “But I think I still don’t know enough.”

You lean back slightly, meeting her gaze with a smile. “Perhaps that is something we can remedy... in time.”

Rhaenyra leaned forward slightly, her gaze still lingering on your features as the moments passed in silence. You could feel her studying you, but now there was something more in her eyes—something contemplative, even vulnerable.

“I have a request of you, Y/N,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now, losing the playful edge it had carried earlier in the evening. “It concerns my father.”

You knew where this was heading even before she finished speaking. The condition of King Viserys had been a topic of whispered discussions around the court for months now. You had seen it with your own eyes—how the illness had taken hold of him, how the rot had spread. But the Maesters, and most notably Grand Maester Mellos, had kept a tight grip on his care. They had kept you at arm’s length, regarding your methods with disdain and suspicion.

“I would help him if I could,” you replied evenly, placing down your goblet. “But your Grand Maester refuses to allow me much access to the King. He sees my methods as... unnatural.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened slightly, frustration flashing in her violet eyes. “Mellos is stubborn. He insists that his way is the only way, but I’ve seen my father’s condition worsen under his care.” She sighed, brushing a strand of silver hair back behind her ear. “If there’s something you can do, something that could ease his suffering...”

You hold her gaze, understanding the weight of her words. There was no love lost between you and Mellos, but Viserys’ condition was worsening far faster than you had expected. There were treatments you had at your disposal, remedies from the Shadowlands that could slow the spread of the sickness. But those who worshipped the Seven viewed such methods with suspicion.

“I can try,” you say after a moment, your voice measured. “But it won’t be easy. Mellos will block me at every turn.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, her fingers tracing the rim of her goblet absently. “Then we’ll find a way,” she murmured. “I won’t stand by and watch him fade, not when there could be another path.”

The quiet in the room felt heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts. You finished your meal, the last bite of roasted fowl disappearing as you placed your fork down gently. Without another word, you reached for your mask, fingers curling around the edges as you prepared to don it once more.

But before you could pull it over your face, Rhaenyra’s hand shot out, stopping you mid-movement. Her fingers were warm against your wrist, firm but gentle. “Wait,” she said softly, her voice more of a whisper now.

You paused, glancing down at where her hand rested against your arm. “Princess?”

She smiled, a hint of mischief returning to her eyes, but there was something deeper now, something more intimate. “I wish to give you a gift for your services to the crown,” she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial.

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her sudden shift in tone. “A gift?”

Rhaenyra leaned in, her fingers still wrapped around your wrist, preventing you from putting the mask back on. “Yes, Y/N,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper now, her lips curving into a smile. “Something personal.”

Before you could respond, she moved closer, closing the distance between the two of you with an almost predatory grace. Her hand slid from your wrist to rest lightly on your shoulder, her breath warm against your skin.

And then, without warning, she pressed her lips to yours.

The kiss was soft, yet filled with an intensity that took you by surprise. Rhaenyra’s lips were warm, her hand still resting against your shoulder as if to keep you anchored in place. You could feel the heat of her body, the closeness of her form, and for a moment, the world outside the room seemed to disappear entirely.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were bright with something unspoken, her lips parted slightly as if she, too, were surprised by the suddenness of the kiss.

“That,” she said, her voice still soft but with a playful edge, “is your gift, Y/N.”

You stared at her, caught between surprise and amusement, the weight of the moment hanging between the two of you. She gave you a slow, almost teasing smile, watching your reaction carefully.

“Well,” you said after a beat, your voice low and amused, “I’ve received many gifts in my time, but none quite like that.”

Rhaenyra laughed softly, leaning back in her seat with a satisfied expression. “Good,” she replied, her tone once again playful. “Then I trust you’ll keep this one close.”

The Red Keep’s courtyard buzzed with the usual clamor of activity—horses being saddled, guards shouting orders, and the echo of clattering armor. You stood near the stables, your horse nearly ready, its saddle secured as you prepared to leave. The weight of the past few days pressed heavily on you. Your attempts to aid King Viserys had been met with resistance at every turn. Mellos, ever watchful, had made sure of that.

Just this morning, he had summoned you to the council chamber, where Otto Hightower waited with his usual calculating gaze. Mellos had been quick to present his case: how your methods, unnatural and foreign, posed a threat to the King's health, how you undermined the maesters' authority, and how the Seven themselves would frown upon your practices. It hadn’t taken much convincing for Otto to act on Mellos' words. You were relieved of your duties, with a polite but firm warning that your services were no longer required.

And so here you were, tightening the reins of your horse, ready to depart. You had no desire to stay where you weren’t wanted—where your hands were tied, unable to help those who needed it.

But just as you reached for your horse’s bridle, a voice broke through the noise, sharp and unmistakable. “You can’t leave.”

You turned, and there she was—Rhaenyra, standing at the edge of the courtyard, her silver hair catching the late afternoon light. Her expression was fierce, her eyes locked onto yours with a fire you hadn’t seen since the night of the dinner. She strode toward you with purpose, her gown billowing slightly in the wind.

“Princess,” you greeted her, your voice calm, but you could see the urgency in her eyes.

Rhaenyra stopped a few paces away, her chest rising and falling with the remnants of whatever anger or frustration had driven her here. “I heard what happened,” she said, her voice lower now, though no less intense. “Mellos went to Otto. He convinced him to send you away.”

You sighed, not surprised but still weary. “It was only a matter of time, Princess. Mellos has always seen me as a threat. He used Otto’s fear of the unknown to push me out.”

“You can’t leave,” she said again, more forcefully this time. Her violet eyes searched yours, as if trying to find some way to convince you to stay. “My father needs you. I need you.”

You stepped closer, the reins of your horse still in your hand. “You know as well as I do, Rhaenyra, that Mellos won’t allow me near your father. Every time I’ve tried, he’s blocked me. Even now, your father’s care is in his hands.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw clenched, her frustration clear. “You could help him. You could stop what’s happening to him.”

You sighed softly, shaking your head. “There are limits to what I can do when the very people who should be working with me are working against me. If I stay, I’ll be wasting time fighting battles I cannot win.”

Her gaze softened, but there was still a fierceness behind her eyes. “Then stay for me,” she whispered, her voice barely above the wind. “Not for them.”

The sincerity of her words hung between you, heavy and undeniable. For a moment, you considered it—considered staying, if only for her. There was something between you now, something that had grown in the quiet spaces between words and the stolen moments you shared. But even that couldn’t change what had been done.

You stepped forward, closing the space between you and Rhaenyra. “We will see each other again, Rhaenyra. This isn’t the end.”

She looked up at you, her eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt. “How can you be so sure?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “Because some paths are meant to cross again.”

Rhaenyra’s face softened at that, but the fire in her eyes remained. “I don’t like it,” she said, her voice full of that same determined stubbornness you had grown used to. “But I believe you.”

You reached out, gently touching her arm, your voice quiet but firm. “Take care of your father. And take care of yourself. I will find my way back when the time is right.”

With that, you turned toward your horse, mounting it with ease. Rhaenyra stood back, watching as you prepared to ride away, the wind catching her silver hair as it whipped around her face. You met her gaze one last time, a silent promise passing between you.

And then, with a gentle nudge of your heels, your horse moved forward, carrying you out of the Red Keep and into the city beyond.

As you rode through the gates, you couldn’t help but glance back once more, catching a glimpse of Rhaenyra standing in the courtyard, a figure of silver and fire, watching you disappear into the distance.