#the steps have been small. and are still small. it's like climbing up a spiral staircase

[visdiefje]

It's so wild and refreshing to me to want to be HERE. In my country. In my general area. Where I am

[maxlarens]

hi lilli!! i heard angst and i came running, how about searching for each other in crowded rooms, finding each other everywhere with logan or oscar, whoever sparks the most inspo, but plot twist—not being able to be together for some reason (the why is totally up to you, feel free to ignore if this isn't your cup of tea). thank u thank u <3

kait!!! hello!!! thank u for sending this in!!! im gonna do oscar 😁 it genuinely hurt my feelings SO BADLY to not have them make up at the end of this. so i sympathise with everyone that im about to make sad it was a bad time for me too❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

It's familiar, this feeling.

The squeeze of your chest, the grieving, panicking thing climbing up your throat. You've been feeling it a lot lately, every time you catch a glimpse of someone with hair the same colour as Oscar's; wearing clothes you swear that he has; a person with the same shoulders, the same gait.

You've been seeing him everywhere. You just think you have. Monaco is small… not that small apparently.

When it had first happened, at the beginning of summer break, you’d half expected to be back together within a week. For Oscar to message you and half-beg to talk to you again. In your dreams, you’d both come grovelling back to each other, apologising for cruel words, making amends for various mistakes. Then you would kiss him and you’d tell him how much you love him and things would get better.

Instead, you’ve spent weeks of your summer break totally and utterly miserable. Missing Oscar like a phantom limb. You reach for him, he’s not there. You go to text him, find a thread of messages discussing the logistics of returning the other’s belongings.

You sit in your flat and you watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy twice in a row twenty two hours and forty-four minutes because it doesn’t remind you of Oscar and it occupies your time in a way nothing else can right now. You cry until your eyes are puffy and you write in a diary you’ve never touched before, because it needs to go somewhere. The feeling stuck in your throat needs to be written down said out loud and you can’t say it to Oscar, who you would usually tell everything, because he needs “distance from you right now”.

Briefly, you convince yourself that “right now”, indicates that there still might be a later for the two of you. That this thing between you that’s fallen to pieces might one day be salvaged. In the quiet moments of Lord of the Rings you spiral down a rabbit hole of ways to get Oscar back, pathetic fantasies of how you might convince him to talk to you again. Then Arwen says, “I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone” and you cry for two hours straight.

You sob, your face in your pillow and you think that was supposed to me! That was supposed to be us! And maybe it wasn’t, maybe you’re not an elven maiden giving up her immortality for a mere man, but you love Oscar. You wanted to spend the rest of your life with Oscar. And now… now…

Well—

It is the waiting that’s the worst.

No texts, no calls. Lando sends you a few, but you can’t bear to hold a conversation with him, knowing he’s playing both sides. And anyway, you’re just thinking about Oscar. Is he there? Is he reading your texts? Seeing the pathetic selfies of you on your couch in days-old PJs? Is he staring at your stagnant text thread just like you are? Has he blocked you?

Your every waking thought is consumed by him. You drag yourself out of the apartment for coffee down the street and you wonder what he’s doing. Has he been rotting at home like you? More than likely he’s been doing things. Playing padel with Lando, going out for lunch, training at the gym, FaceTiming his family.

You feel sick to you stomach. You can list on one hand the activities that you’ve done since Oscar broke up with you at the beginning of the month:

Sleeping, crying, watching Lord of the Rings, ordering takeout, training because you have to. Going for coffee had been a big step out of your current comfort zone. You’re wearing pants that aren’t sweatpants… you’d even showered properly for fuckssake.

You got your most noise-cancelling headphones on, blasting sad Taylor Swift (who you don’t even like. It’s just something to fill the void) and staring down the barista so you can lip-read if they’re saying your name or the words Large Oat Latte. And then—

Then. The barista is mouthing Oscar and your stomach lurches as the exact object of your ire temporary depression walks to the counter. You try to convince yourself it’s not him, you keep seeing him places but it’s never really him. But it is, that’s his burgundy shirt, his swoop of hair, his knobbly little ankles.

You release a ragged breath that you hope isn’t too loud. You duck your head, try to avoid his gaze as he turns, pretending that you haven’t seen him. Try to look occupied by your phone though you’ve only had time to open to your home screen. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, you blink furiously, trying your best not to fall apart in this coffee shop.

At least he’s not with someone else, you think as a tightness crawls up your throat to settle at the base of your tongue. But he looks happy, he looks fine, he looks better than you feel right now. God, what if he’s better off without you? What does it mean that you don’t seem to better off without him?

There’s something wet sliding down your left cheek and then you see Nike trainers entering your vision, still directed firmly downward. Someone puts a hand on your shoulder— you don’t jump but it’s a near thing. You reach up to slip your headphones off, wiping the tear discreetly as you go. Then you look up and it’s him, it’s Oscar.

He’s holding out a paper cup labeled, Oat Latte and smiling at you tightly.

“They were calling your name,” he says by way of explanation.

“Right,” your voice is shaky, weak, “Thanks.”

He nods, you take the coffee, careful not to touch his hand. You’re trying to swallow down the lump in your throat that’s rising rising trying to claw its way out of your mouth. You blink away the tears filling the corners of your eyes. You can’t look at him.

You’re looking up at the ceiling instead, biting the inside of your mouth. Breathing in and out, in and out.

He says your name, and then, “Do you want to talk?”

You feel like a tonne of bricks has just hit your chest. Knocking the wind out of you. Tears, hot and wet, are slipping down your cheeks. You can’t speak, you turn around and leave the coffee shop without saying anything because surely you’ll just start crying if you open your mouth. Oscar finds you again across the road, in a dark cobbled alleyway. The heel of your hand is pressed to the middle of your chest, you’re hiccuping, trying to stifle heavy sobs that you’d much prefer to let out in the privacy of your own apartment.

“Hey,” he says, gathering you into his arms before you can push him away, “It’s okay.”

You whine, collapsing into his chest, face pressing into his shoulder, “No, it’s not.”

You cry loudly, trying fruitlessly to keep the sobs in. Oscar’s hand rubs comforting circles into your back, which makes it better until you realise it’s Oscar, which makes it immediately worse. You stay there a while. Until your eyes are puffy and your throat sore.

“Better?”, Oscar asks, the crease between his eyebrows prominent.

You sigh tiredly, shrug, “Sure.”

Your coffee is cold now, your chest feels void, hollow.

You shake your head before Oscar can say anything further, before you’re set off on another fucking pathetic crying fit in the arms of your ex-boyfriend, “I can’t talk, Oscar. I really can’t.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding and swallowing some lump in his own throat.

You bite down hard on your tongue. Turn to leave the dark alley to go home, your back prickling with Oscar’s wet brown-eyed stare on you. He lets you leave. You spend the ten minute walk wiping tears before they fall and itching to run back, to kiss him, to pour all the emotion in your chest into some physical action.

There’s an awful grieving ache in your chest that’s carving out your insides and when you check your phone after walking in the door there’s a text from Oscar that reads:

I miss you. I’d really like to talk to you soon.

not sure if it was weird but the lord of the rings Mentions were kinda about how you’re in such a fragile state during a breakup that something as irrelevant to your break up at lord of the rings will make you cry for hours for no real reason. (and not to expose myself but after a break up i did watch the lotr trilogy two times in a row. told my friends and got a text from one of them asking if i was depressed 😭 like yes… temporarily alright)

send me a prompt/req + driver and i'll write something. pls check if my requests are open first 💖

[corroded-hellfire]

Older Eddie freaking out when she tells him she’s pregnant. He gets worried he won’t be able to be there for them in ways he wants to and tries to run. But he sees the ultrasound picture and breaks down and goes back to his girl

Confused older!eddie, you still that dumb boy we all love

Words: 1k

I’m pregnant.

The words run through Eddie’s head again and again as he lies next to your sleeping form. The sound of your soft, slow breathing is the only noise in the trailer, but Eddie can hardly hear it over the beat of his pulse pounding in his ears. 

He’s glad you’re able to sleep because God knows he’s the farthest thing from sleepy. Pregnant. Eddie’s starting to think he can see the word scrawled across the shadowy ceiling he’s been staring at for the past three hours. 

You’ll be 52 when the kid is born, Munson, Eddie thinks to himself. Which means you’ll be 70 when he or she graduates high school. Well, at least 70 if the kid follows in my footsteps when it comes to education. Heaving a quiet sigh, Eddie tilts his head to the side to look at you. He watches the easy rise and fall of your shoulders with each gentle breath. 

There’s a sudden sense of panic climbing up Eddie’s chest and it feels like an iron hand clamps around his throat. You deserve so much more than this, he thinks. You deserve to have someone your own age, who can be there for you longer than I’ll be able to. 

Unable to bear the thought of you having to take care of your child and an aging Eddie, he pushes himself out of the bed and stalks out of the bedroom. 

2:02 am the neon green numbers on the microwave remind Eddie as he steps into the kitchen. He runs his hands through his salt and pepper curls and begins to pace back and forth in the small space. The two of you had never talked about having kids. Obviously, what was between you was serious and you were both in it for the long haul. Maybe one of you should’ve brought up the subject but it was too damn late now, Eddie mused. 

“Jesus,” Eddie says as he rests his hands on the back of a kitchen chair and hangs his head. “People are going to think I’m her dad and the baby’s fucking grandpa.”

The tightness in his chest returns tenfold as he imagines you calmly explaining to people their mistake, like you don’t mind it one bit. But Eddie knows it would bother you after a while and it would ignite embarrassment in him every single time. The same thoughts would spiral around his head that hadn’t been present since the two of you first started going out: she can do better; you’re too old for her; it’s selfish when you’re going to die at least twenty years before her. 

The shame is too much. Eddie’s nails dig into the wood of the chair as his jaw tightens. Before he can think better of it, he heads towards the front door, where his boots are settled next to. He shoves them on and doesn’t bother to tighten or tie the laces. The keys to his truck hang on the hook next to his leather jacket, but the sight of the jacket only reminds him that he isn’t wearing a shirt. 

“Fuck.” Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. If he walks back into the bedroom to grab a shirt, he knows he’ll see you, sleeping there like the beautiful angel you are, and fall into your arms. But leaving is what’s best for you…isn’t it? “Get it together, Munson.”

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down as much as he can, Eddie remembers seeing a sweatshirt hanging on the chair next to the one he was leaning on in the kitchen. It’s an effort to walk across the floorboards of the trailer in such heavy boots without causing a piercing squeak, so Eddie practically tiptoes his way. Calloused fingers snag on the worn gray cotton of the sweatshirt and snatch it up. In his haste, the sleeve of material knocks a few pieces of mail onto the floor.

“Shit,” Eddie mutters. He bends down on creaky knees to pick up the envelopes that bear both your and his names. At the very bottom of the pile, there’s a thinner piece of paper that had gotten mixed in with the mail. 

A slightly trembling hand raises the grainy black-and-white picture to eye level. Even if the lightning weren’t so scarce, the moonlight shining through the window over the sink its only source, Eddie would need to squint to see the image clearly. The small fuzzy bean in the middle of the sonogram has Eddie falling back onto his ass, tears filling his eyes as he stares at the picture of his child. His baby. Your baby. 

Fat tears begin to roll down Eddie’s cheeks and he brings his free hand up to cover his mouth. How could he be so stupid? How could he even consider leaving? Leaving you? Leaving this innocent baby? No, he knows with complete certainty that would be the biggest mistake he’d ever make. So worried about the amount of time that he’d have with you that he was about to throw away the best thing that ever happened to him. And who’s to say someone younger would have more time with you? The next day isn’t promised for anyone, no matter the age.

Eddie puts the sonogram back on the table and is quick to scramble out of his boots, kicking them beneath the chairs to be dealt with in the morning. Both his leather jacket and sweatshirt get tossed on the couch in his haste out of the kitchen, into the hallway, and back down to your shared room. 

When he enters, you’re sleeping on your other side now, so he’s able to see your face. Letting his eyes roam over your beauty, more tears begin to fall. He roughly wipes off his cheeks with his rough palms before climbing into bed with you. Though you look so peaceful asleep and tucked in the blankets, Eddie can’t help but slide in as close to you as possible and wrap you up in his arms. A small, sleepy murmur tumbles from your lips as you snuggle up to your boyfriend.

“Everythin’ ‘kay, Eds?” you mumble as you lift your head and rest it on his bare chest.

Eddie nods as he holds you even tighter against his body. 

“Mhmm, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head, a smile breaking through at the way you cling to him. “Everything’s great.”

[mushies-stories]

Keys: when in need

Juice x F!Reader

Summary: Exchanging keys can be a big deal but also a sign of trust and love. Reader gets a phone call with bad news while Juice is on a run. she seeks him out for comfort but settles with his apartment while he's away.

Warnings: None? pet names? crying...? The family problem is left open; we all go through some hard times, so I thought it fitting to leave it open for anyone who find it helpful to and comforting.

Authers note: i have a few ideas about how having a Key to Juices house is helpful and i think i might write like a little series for them. like nothing in order other than maybe this being the first with the how?

word count: 1867

Juice looked at you with a small smile while his hand dug in his pocket. “Here.” he says as he pulls whatever it was he was looking for. “This is for you.” he says and holds out a sing key on a keyring. You looked at the key then back to him, shocked that he was taking this step in your relationship. It made you happy while also nervous, no one had ever given you a house key before. You wanted to be closer however, it was just a surprise and a little out of the blue. Juice got nervous the longer it took you to respond, his smile faulted a little and his shoulder sagged just a bit. “You don't have to take it… I just thought-”

“I want it.” your words were rushed and sounded just as nervous as juice looked. You reached out and slowly took the key, eyeing it with a soft smile. “No one has ever given me a key before.” you confess. 

Juice relaxed a little with a soft chuckle. “That so? Well you're welcome over whenever baby.” he says with a crooked smile. 

Your own smile widens and you step closer to wrap your arms around his middle, his own came up to wrap around your shoulders. “Thank you juicy, I love you.”  you say into his chest.

He gives your shoulders a small squeeze and kisses the top of your head. “I love you too Baby.” he says with a goofy grin, happy you accepted his offer. 

A few days later you decided to make a spare key of your own and give it to him, showing him that you felt the same way and trusted him enough to have it. He showered you with affection and love over the whole thing and didn't complain when you told him you would prefer to be at his place, since he was so clean and his place was so nice.

~~~~

It was normal for you to text Juice and tell him you were going to come over or be there when he got home. You both had come to an understanding that his place was the normal meetup spot. You didn't mind your own place but Juice's apartment smelled like him, it looked like him and you felt comfortable there when he wasn't even home. He didn’t seem to mind it either, since it was naturally cleaner than yours anyways, something he tried not to tease you about.

There was a night however, he was gone for a three day run and would be back late at night. You had been given some news about a family member that caused you to spiral a little. With tears rimming your waterline you drove to Juice’s empty apartment in a daze. It was about 5pm when you pulled up and used your key to let yourself in. 

You left the door unlocked and kicked your shoes off. Still in a complete daze you went straight to Juice's closet and pulled down one of his black T-shirts. You pulled your own shirt over your head and replaced it with his. Climbing into his bed you wrapped yourself up in his blankets. The blankets and pillows smelt like Juice, like he was almost there with you. You felt safer, still lonely and sad but his scent and apartment helped soothe you enough to fall into a restless sleep. 

What you didn't know was that you had left your phone at home. Juice, who had tried to call you soon after you left to tell you he would be home rather late, had tried back all day. Every stop he called you once and then soon he was blowing up your phone just to make sure you were okay and every time you didn’t pick up his anxiety got worse. By the time they rolled into town Juice was making a B-line straight to your apartment. When he pulled up to find your car missing and your door unlocked with your phone inside he began to really panic. 

On auto pilot he rode straight to his own apartment, the last place he could look before falling into a full blown panic attack.

Juices felt the weight of the world lift from his shoulders when he saw your car parked in the spot next to where he puts his bike. He haphazardly parks next to your car and practically runs up the stairs to his apartment. When he placed his key in the door however he found it already unlocked and the sinking feeling that something bad filled his chest again. He held his hand near his gun as he entered his apartment. It was quiet and dark when he stopped inside. Your shoes were laying upside down by the door but there didn’t seem to be any kind evidence of a break in. Relaxing his shoulders a bit he closed and locked the door behind him with a soft sigh. 

Slowly he walked to his bedroom. A small smile crept across his face when he flicked the light on to find you asleep in the middle of his bed. You were wrapped in his blankets and your hair was a mess around you. Juice really wanted to let you sleep, you looked a little like you needed it at the moment.

He was too anxious and worried for that however. You had left your phone at home and the door’s were unlocked. You know by now how much Juice cares about your safety, you should have known better and locked them. He kicked his boots off, for the moment not caring where they landed. 

He sat on the edge of the bed and gently moved the hair that was obstructing your face from him. His smile flipped quickly into a frown, his brows pinched together. You had been crying, evidence dripped onto his pillow. You had probably been crying for a while now and it broke Juice’s heart. His thumb came to swipe threatening tears from your tightly closed eyes. “Baby, wake up.” Juice spoke soft and gentle, trying to coax you out of your slumber slowly so as to not startle you. “C’mon baby, wake up for me please.” he asked again, now stroking your hair a little. 

Your eyes shift a little before fluttering open. It took you a moment to focus and realize Juice was there. “Juice?” you croaked out. 

When you sat up Juice couldn't help the giddy feeling when he saw you in his shirt. You were upset about something and you seemed to seek him out for comfort. 

“Your home… What time is it?” you asked, rubbing your eyes while you try and read the clock. 

Sitting against the headboard Juice wrapped his arms around you enough to pull you and sit you on his lap. You didn’t hesitate a moment and wrapped your own around his torso and laid your head against his chest. “Almost one in the morning, if i knew you were here i would have been sooner.” he said softly, rubbing your thigh with one hand while the other held you against him by your lower back. 

It took you a moment to remember how you even got in his apartment. You felt bad, you hadn’t said anything and left your phone at home. You looked up at him with watery eyes. “I'm sorry.” you say, voice clever but still only just above a whisper. 

Juice gave you a tender smile and shook his head. “I'm just glad your safe Babygirl, I was worried.” he told you. “What's going on, did something happen?” he then asked. 

You nodded slowly, remembering the phone call you got earlier that day and all the emotions you were sleeping to get away from came flooring back. Fresh tears filled your water line before falling quickly. Before your own hand could come up to swipe them away Juice was there, gently wiping the streaks from your cheeks and tucking your hair behind your ear. He let you take your time, slowly getting the words out. You hated how broken your voice sounded but you felt just a little better telling him. He reassured you over and over he was right there, take your time, he wasn't going to leave you alone. You managed to tell him everything you knew about what happened. He didn’t know what else to do at the moment but to hold and listen to you and for the moment it was just what you needed. Safe in his arms while you poured your bleeding heart to the man you loved and trusted the most in this world. 

With a shaky breath you finally  gave him a small smile, tears still streaming down your face. “I just… didn’t know what to do or where to go.” you said, as you snuggled closer to him. “I just got in my car and drove here.” you admitted. 

Juice smiled softly, he didn’t like the pain you were in but knowing he was such a big part of your life now just made him happy. “I'm glad you came here, wish you would have locked the door and told me so I didn’t have to panic.” he scolded you softly. 

You hummed in agreement. “I know, I'm sorry.” you repeated, you felt a little awkward now that he was home, actually there giving you the comfort you had been seeking when coming here. You couldn't help but apologize. Your tears continued to fall but lessened enough so your breathing could even out. Listening to Juice’s heart beat helped keep your head in reality. 

Juice shook his head again with a short low chuckle. “Baby, no need to apologize. I'm here for you and I just want to make sure you're safe.” he told you. “Next time maybe just leave me a message okay?”

“I will.” you agreed.

For a while you fell into a comfortable silence while you calmed down. Your tears stopped and your eyes felt heavy now. It was still late and you knew Juice must be exhausted. “You need sleep.” you say and go to stand but Juice's arms stop you from moving and instead pull you to sit with your back pressed against his chest. 

He nuzzled into your neck. “Not before I know you're going to be okay.” He says. 

You smile to yourself. He really was a good man. “I'm okay Juice, I promise.” you say and lean into his hold. “You’re here with me and that's enough, I cried it all out anyways.” You joke light heartedly. 

He kisses your shoulder and lets you back in bed before getting up with a grin. “Okay, tomorrow I'll make breakfast and we can do whatever you want, alright baby? I'm all yours.” he says while undressing, opting to take a shower in the morning and getting into bed next to you. 

You hummed in agreement and scoot closer to him, cursing up against his side and laying your head on his chest. You were glad he was home, now you felt like you could get some real rest and hold off your worries for a while.

[livesworthlivingau]

Lives Worth Living Chapter 6

Spoilers for ISAT and Two Hats especially, CW: More mental spiraling, mentions/memories of being stabbed.

"FRIIIIIN! FRIIIIN WA-"

"AAAAAAH!!!" (You scream, jolting up in bed, frantically feeling at your chest then gripping at your sore neck. You gasp for air, panting violently, desperately filling your still burning lungs.)

"F… Frin?…" (Bonnie leaps back in shock, their excited expression instantly dropping into worry.)

"S-Sif! I-It's okay, it's over! We're here!" (You hear Isa's voice to your left, feeling his hand reach for you cautiously. Without hesitation you throw yourself into him, wrapping your arms as tight around his large frame as you could, burying your face into his chest. Tears continue to flow from your eye as you just struggled to breath for a short while, repeating your mantras to yourself. You're safe, you are loved. You're safe, you are loved. You're safe, you are loved… You feel a smaller figure pressing against you from behind, causing you to flinch at first before relaxing once again. Bonnie wrapping around you in a big hug as well. You're safe… You are loved…)

"O-Okay… I-I'm okay, th-thank you…" (You stammer out, sniffling and wiping the tears from your face. You slowly pull away from Isa, in spite of much as you'd love to stay in that moment forever.)

"Of course Sif, I'm here for yah…"

"Yeah! Me too!" (Bonnie bounces cheerily, happy to have helped, making you chuckle some at the sight of it, how proud they look, especially knowing the amazing person they grew into.)

"Hehe… Thanks Bonnie, y'know, I think your hug helped the most!"(You lean in to whisper loudly at them, making sure Isa could hear as you tease. Isa just chuckles to himself while Bonnie gets starry eyed before rushing out of the room.)

"MY HUGS ARE BETTER THAN ISA'S!!!"

"Hah! Can't believe you'd betray me like that Sif, and I thought we had something special!"

"Sorry, just being honest, you better step up your game big boy~."

"Heh… I guess that's something else we'll have to practice then…" (Isa adds, his cheeks growing darker as he does. You can feel yours heat up as well… You've been bonded for decades and he still gets you like this…Stars you're so pathetic, heh…)

"O-Oh! B-Bonnie was almost done with breakfast, I'll grab you a plate and you can rest up a bit more, alright?" (You nod some, still a bit flushed but giving him a happy smile as he leaves.)

(You finish breakfast and get dressed, feeling a bit better after… 'last night'. You look to the window, then to the door, contemplating for a moment, before deciding this required all of your attention. You open the window and climb out of it, you weren't as experienced with this as you used to be, but you keep a careful grip and manage to shimmy down well enough. You set your sights on the biggest tree you could find again… and you start walking.)

(You get lost in your thoughts as you wander, reliving the moment of your death over and over again. You place a hand on your chest… it still hurts a little, like a wound just freshly closed over. You don't understand what made Loop do that, but you still wanted to help… If you couldn't have Loop around this time then what was the point of having to go through all this over again…)

(You come to a stop, finally finding the small clearing from before. The favor tree towers over you. It's silent aside from a light rustling of leaves as the wind blows through.)

"… Loop?…. LOOOOOP?!…" (You wait, hoping, begging, wishing for a response!… No… No more wishing… You have to find them on your own. You suddenly perk up, looking down at your hand as you remember. You put your hand into the odd gesture that you were taught so long ago, bringing your thumb to your ear, and pinkie to your mouth. You hope so dearly that this still works…)

"… Loop?…" (You aren't sure how or why, but a part of you knows the message was delivered… You wait for a moment before realizing a response won't come.)

"Please talk to me Loop… I'm sorry I-"

["YOU'RE SORRY?! Am I such a sad excuse of a person that YOU'RE apologizing for getting STABBED?!"] (You flinch as their voice screams into your mind, hurting at first from the volume rattling through your brain.)

["Don't you get it?! You won! You can move on, you HAVE moved on! Why do you still need me?! I have no use to you or your family! I will never be able to move on, especially having to stare at you all constantly, knowing what was taken from me!!… What… What I gave up on… Because I wasn't as strong as you…"] (You feel the connection severed abruptly before you can speak, even hearing a bell ring for some reason? You lower your hand, just standing there, defeated… You slowly turn around and start the long trek back to your family… still missing the same member it always has…)

[littlebugs]

saved - chapter one

azriel x reader series

warnings: she/her reader, a little language, short!reader, reader is the archeon's half sister (no race mentioned), fluffy ish, azriel ooc, sfw, not edited oops, azriel has a big wingspan, elain slander i'm sorry i have to rafs bloo notes: this was supposed to be a blurb but i just...spiraled. first time posting a series here BE NICE. also i kind of imagine this charcater with a evie vibe hence the gif (: description: you're half fae, living life on the borders of various courts after your half siblings got dunked in the cauldron. set after acowar, feyre has invited her half-sibling to Velaris to reunite the family. but what happens after a certain shadowsinger takes interest in you?

The night air in Velaris holds a mystic chill as you ascend the multitude of steps leading to Rhysand's townhouse. More like a deathly chill,  as you’re not dressed for a trek up the small mountain stationed at what seems to be the highest point of Velaris. Finally making it to the top, you keel over, cursing whatever god decided this what your life. 

 Despite the weariness, a sense of anticipation lingers, excitement almost. Or maybe you’re catching frostbite and becoming delusional. After a few minutes, you finally reach the top, swearing and actually panting.  Before you can gather the energy to knock on the door, it swings open, leaving you surprised. 

A tall figure stands in the doorway, the glow of lights inside outlining his broad shoulders. His features, sharp and captivating, come into focus. The eyes, a shade of violet that sparkled with mischief, locked onto yours. Is he tryna rizz me up or- 

The tall figure extends a hand, his handsome face framed by windswept hair. "You look like you've just climbed a mountain. Welcome. I'm Rhysand." The sarcasm in his voice is undeniable, but you refrain from sneering. Ripping your eyes away from the High Lord, you notice two more figures emerging from behind him. One, with an easygoing grin and tousled hair, winks at you. The other, with piercing hazel eyes that observe with a quiet intensity, makes no move. They’re all very hot.

Rhysand vaguely gestures toward them, "This is Cassian, and Azriel."

Cassian, the one with the easy grin, greets you warmly, and you smile back. Azriel's gaze lingeres, still not making any moves, but stepping aside to allow you to enter. Finally out of this cold ass bit- You hear Rhysand snicker behind you, laughing at an unheard joke. Or maybe you’re the joke. It’s hard to tell. 

Only seconds after crossing the threshold, a joyous commotion erupts from deep within the townhouse. Feyre, Nesta, and Elain, a hurricane of brown hair and laughter, rush towards you. Feyre, her vibrant blue-gray eyes lit with happiness, embraces you first. "You made it!" Her hug crushes you, and you swear you hear a rib snap. 

Nesta, looking bored, adds, "It's been too long." But you swear you can see a hint of a smile on her lips as she hugs you alongside Feyre. And finally, Elain, looking sort of sickly but better than when she was human, joins the embrace. "I’ve missed you" she says softly, her arms wrapping around you. 

The reunion unfolds with laughter and hugs, your sisters laughing and examining you, everything from your hair, to your shoes, and kind of scandalous outfit which Elain pales at. 

After they finally get tired of you (you swear a singular tear escaped Nesta’s eye.) Feyre guides you into a sitting room, which is charming and cozy at the same time. Taking a seat on a couch, you find yourself flanked by Feyre and a blonde headed fae, smiling almost too widely at you.

As soon as you turn to look at her, she starts talking. Very fast. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you! Feyre has told us so much about you!"

You stammer, shocked by her swiftness “Oh, uhm I-”

Rescuing you from introduction, Elain chimes in, from the couch. "This is Mor, Rhys's cousin, and that's Amren, who's…yeah," her face strains at the mention of Amren, as she gestures to a woman sulking in a corner, who looks at you with nothing but disdain in those oddly shiny eyes. Almost.. silver? You quickly look away, trying to avoid her gaze.

As you settle into the space, the blonde, Mor, starts yammering on about some sort of dress. You listen intnetly, until your sister's mate enters the room. 

Rhysand, (The most delightful, cunning, handsome High Lord, as Feyre has told you,) takes the seat across from you, his two friends joining him. Almost out of earshot, he quietly leans toward Azriel. "What's going on, Az? You're acting strange."

Azriel, the one who has not said a word to you since you’ve arrived, remains silent, his focus elsewhere. He’s actually very….attractive. Like a greek god, like you would just let him throw you across the room and- 

Rhys snorts, distracting you from your train of thought. Almost like he heard what you were thinking. Oh. The blonde on your left quickly distracts you, laughing loudly, as the Cassian lad rants about the quickest way to behead someone, which is just..swell. And all the meanwhile Rhys and Feyre stare at each other giggling. Feyre opens her mouth in shock and Rhys nods, gesturing to you, engaged in silent conversation

Raising your arms up in silent defeat, you get up and walk to what seems to be a kitchen. With no food. Which is just-  You nearly jump as Azriel basically appears out of nowhere. He shoots you a seemingly uncharacteristic smile as he observes your bemused expression.

"Curious about the kitchen, aren't you?" Azriel's voice, deep and resonant, carries warmth. Very at odds at how he looked at you like you were some sort of demon  five minutes ago. 

You nod, very confused with the switch up, and lack of any food, while drinking in his appearance. His hair, dark and tousled, frames a face chiseled with handsome features. Hazel eyes, deep and mysterious, hold intensity that make you never want to look away. Why he kinda…  Feyre and Rhysand start laughing again, and you feel yourself getting flustered.

"Is there something I'm missing?" You ask, gesturing to the seemingly empty kitchen.

Azriel leans against the counter, looking oddly casual. He crosses his muscular arms across his chest in a way that makes you shiver, and continues "In this house, you don't find the food. You just..think of it."

Confusion lifts from your face as Azriel just…thinks. In an instant, the kitchen responds. A tall glass of water appearing in front of him automatically, as if the room itself is eager to please.

You can't help but marvel, "That's incredible." You look at him, but to meet his eyes you have to physically tilt your head, and as he loos down at you, the height difference is obvious.

With a stretches flex of his arms, his impressive wings unfold gracefully, each membrane extending with a mesmerizing precision. As the Illyrian basically flexes, the intricate webbing catches the light, with wings that are far bigger than the ones you saw on Rhysand at the door.

From the living room, a conversation commences "What is Azriel doing?" Cassian whispers, smirking slightly. Rhysand, clueless himself, raises an eyebrow. 

As you borderline gape, you catch Elain's gaze intensifying, frustration apparent in her expression. You can only wonder, why as Cassian blurts out from the other room "Well, someone's feeling extra dramatic today."

You look over to Rhysand, leaning back with a sly smile adding, "I didn't know our shadowsinger had a flair for the theatrical."

Azriel, with a casual shrug, replies, "Just felt like stretching my wings a bit."

Breaking the heavy silence that fell over the group, Mor finally breaks into laughter. "Well, well, Az. I never thought I'd see the day. What's next, a dance number?"

The group laughs, but seeing Elain’s pointed stare, you make your way back to the sitting room, leaving the Illyrian in the kitchen, unbeknownst to you, disappointed. 

______________________

As the night deepens, members of the once noisy dinner party leave one by one, leaving the town home quieter than it was. With only the three Illyrians and the blonde (whose name you keep forgetting) you head towards the stairs, bidding them good night. 

Your ascent to the second floor brings you to an opened door at the end of the hallway adorned with what you expect are Night Court aesthetics – moonlit tapestries, celestial motifs, and the faint scent of jasmine lingering in the air. You breathe in, and slowly sit down on your bed, trying to get the hazel eyes and mysterious shadows out of your head.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Azriel stands abruptly, and not so discreetly follows you upstairs. Cassian and Rhysand, left in the living room, exchange bemused glances

Rhysand, eyebrows raised in silent query, looks to Cassian for an explanation. Cassian, shrugging with an amused grin, whispers, "Beats me. Maybe our shadowsinger has a sudden interest in beauty rest."

Intrigued and sensing unspoken mystery, Rhysand and Cassian exchange conspiratorial glances. With shared nods, they decide to venture upstairs, their footsteps quiet as shadows against the Night Court's nocturnal melody.

Back in your room, you find comfort in the surroundings of your room. Moonlight filters through the window, casting a soft glow on the elegant furnishings. Deciding to settle in for the night, you slip into a set of…you could barely call them pajamas, more like scraps of silk, and stretch your arms, sighing faintly. 

A soft knock on the door interrupts your thoughts. You secretly hope for a certain shadowsinger as you trudge towards the door. Opening it, you silently rejoice to the cauldron as Azriel stands there, his typical shadowed demeanor now softened by an unusual glint in his eyes.

"Mind if I come in?" he asks, breaking the silence.

[carpenterswife]

ALL MY GHOSTS (viii)

series masterlist

- summary: With your ex-fiancé still at large, Beau takes you into his camper when you’re released from hospital, refusing to let you out of his protection. Despite your initial protests, you settle down comfortably in Beau’s camper within mere days.

- word count: 1755

- warnings: Mentions of abuse, kidnapping, abduction, inhumane treatment, trauma, dissociative behaviour.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

“I gotcha.” Beau murmured reassuringly, his hand outstretched. Your frail hand landed in his, his other pressing to the small of your back, helping you climb up into his truck. “All settled?” He eyed you worriedly.

The visible marks had, somewhat, improved over the last five days, but the bruises were still ugly and green, and the wounds were scabbed; red and inflamed still.

You nodded back at him, still silent.

You still hadn’t said a single damn word to him since that first day.

With a soft smile, hoping to comfort you a bit, Beau shut the passenger side door. He didn’t miss how you flinched at the noise.

Beau was angry. So fucking angry. Jack had hurt you. And he’d had the man in his clutches and then let him walk away; let him return to you and inflict even more pain. He should’ve done better. To protect you. To be there. To find you.

He was blaming himself again. He always did this. The guilt weighed heavy on his chest, soon to be accompanied by. a heavy dose of self-loathing.

He climbed into the truck, glancing at you momentarily. He felt a sharp stab in his heart, starting the engine. He didn’t know what to say or do to help you.

He’d been a cop for up to nearly half his life; he’d seen victims come out kidnappings with layers and layers of trauma. But, after the case was finished, they were sent home. He never saw the long-lasting impacts. He’d never had to care for and love someone who was still reeling from the impacts and the pain and the trauma.

He was clueless.

Beau Arlen had no fucking idea what he was doing.

Still, he drove you out to his place.

There were no words exchanged the entire drive. Beau was tense, knuckles white around the steering wheel. One glance at you made his heart constrict; you were curled up on his passenger seat, knees tucked close to your chest, head on the windowpane. Like you were protecting yourself.

God, you were normally so chatty with him. You got in his truck and you blasted music, and you teased him relentlessly.

Jack had stripped you of everything that made you, you.

He wanted nothing more than to make you feel okay again. Make you feel safe.

The doctors had warned him it’d take a while. That sometime like this could have permanently damaged your psyche. That the psychological effects of an abduction alike to this one could last months. (At least you’d agreed to come home with him. Both he and the doctors had thought you’d want to go to your home. But you hadn’t argued when he offered.)

He felt useless. And then that proceeded to make him feel bad. Who was he to make this about himself? You were a beaten, lost, broken mess, and he was feeling shit?

Beau spiralled the whole drive home.

It didn’t help that you didn’t say a word. Even as he helped you out of his truck, and grabbed your hospital bag from the back, putting it over his shoulder, you didn’t speak. Beau guided you to the front door, hand hovering over your back.

Was he allowed to touch you like he used to? He used to be so comfortable with you. But he didn’t want to hurt you, or scare you. He didn’t know how to help.

Unlocking the door, he steadied himself mentally, opening the door to let you into his home.

The moment you entered, three cats were pawing at your legs. Beau watched you soften, with an easing heart, at the realisation he’d taken in your cats. He stepped in, around you, shutting the door, letting you kneel down to greet your pets with scratches.

He nervously played with his keys, making them jingle and clink. “I didn’t want to leave them.” He explained himself quickly. “They would’ve been taken by a shelter, so I took ‘em in. They’re very sweet. I didn’t know what to feed ‘em, but I took the cat food in your cupboard, and they— well, there’ve been no complaints.” And here he goes, rambling. “I think I’ve been looking after ‘em fine. I’ve never had a cat before. But they seem fine. I haven’t killed ‘em at least. Not that—“

“Beau.” Your quiet, scratchy voice cut him off. He took in a deep breath, meeting your eyes. Your lips pulled into a small smile. “Thank you.” You whispered, voice raspy from days of not being used.

Beau relaxed. He bit back a happy grin. He did something right. He gave you a goofy smile, pleased with himself. The sight of you smiling, relaxed, scratching your cats as they climbed over you, simultaneously broke and warmed his heart.

It was the first time you’d smiled in days. But you were smiling.

Baby steps, Beau, he reminded himself. Baby steps.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

Beau’s camper was comfortable and cozy.

You’d been here for the occasional movie night, occasionally by Jenny and Cassie. But you’d never stayed overnight. It was almost silent — not a single car, just the wildlife outside. You curled up on the surprisingly comfortable sofa with your three cats, and just relaxed.

This was nice.

Yet, still, you couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the new environment, maybe it was the lingering tension and anxiety, but your brain wouldn’t relax.

So, as the sun began to rise, you succumbed to your sleepless night, and got up to explore the kitchen. Which is where you found pancake batter. With nothing else to do, you turned on the stove, and got to work.

It was comforting. Just peacefully cooking pancakes, the orange and pink hues of the sunrise peeking in through the windows, three cats by your feet incessantly meowing. It felt normal. Like it was before. For a moment, you didn’t feel afraid. Beau was in the next room. Everything was peaceful.

Then the door opened, and tension filled your shoulders.

Just Beau. It’s just Beau.

You managed to relax at that reminder, turning to the sheriff. He looked half-asleep, like he’d been dragged from bed by his ankles, knuckles digging into his eyes. Confused, Beau blinked at the sight in front of him, vision hazy.

Sheepish, a tad bit nervous, you smiled. It was small and your lips trembled, but it was smile. Beau took it as progress. “I made you pancakes.” You whispered, slowly gaining more courage to speak to him. “As a thank you.”

His eyes softened, staring at you with admiration and awe. The corners of his mouth tugged into a smile. “Thank you, honey.” He padded over, experimentally sniffing the air. “Smells good. Y’didn’t have’to.” Still, he smiled happily, and picked up the plate of steaming pancakes.

Your shoulders lifted into a shrug again. “I couldn’t find out how to use your coffee machine.”

Beau chuckled, amused. “I’ll make ya one. Sit.” He smiled, ensuring his words sounded more like a suggestion than an order. “Ya wanna head home today? Pack up some stuff?”

Sitting on the kitchen counter, you fiddled with your sleeves. Beau had graciously allowed you to wear his shirt and sweats last night, as you didn’t have anything to wear. However, they were comedically big on you, which he’d found hilarious.

“Yeah.” You agreed quietly. “Sounds good.”

He just smiled, handing you a mug of coffee. His eyes traced over your face. “No problem, honey.”

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

You improved, as the days went on. You were still jumpy, and woke up abruptly from nightmares, but you were talking again, and you were smiling. He’d occasionally pulled a rare laugh from you.

It was, slowly, getting better. You had bad days, where he found you curled up on the sofa, you’d back to him. On those days, he cooked you breakfast, and left you, unless you asked him to stay. Which you had, a few times. It always made his heart feel like it was about to burst.

Dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, you played with your youngest kitten on the decking. Beau was tending to the fire, watching you with a fond smile. Jenny and Cassie were coming over for a movie night; it’d been a good day, and you finally felt ready to see your other friends. Beau was ecstatic, to see you improving so fast.

You dangled a string in front of the cat, giggling quietly as the kitten leapt up and swatted at it. Beau’s smile grew, melting in his chair at the adorable sight.

He hadn’t felt like this in years.

He remembered when he first fell in love with Carla.

It’d been a warm, gooey feeling. A warmth washing over his entire body, muscles relaxing, every time he looked at her.

And here you were. A girl who’d been through hell and back. Who’d gone through so much, and had come into his life so abruptly. A girl, so unfortunate, but still with so much kindness and sweetness.

The world had not been kind to you. But you weren’t repaying that favour. You were effortlessly sweet; sunshine. That old nickname. God, Beau hadn’t seen you smile like that in so long. That sunshine smile that had him almost on his knees the first time he’d seen it.

His heart was a mushy, gooey mess. And he meant exactly what that feeling meant.

Tires crunching over gravel signified Jenny and Cassie’s arrival. In the next moment, the two girls were wrapping you tightly in a hug, practically shielding you. Beau didn’t mind being left out of this one. You girls needed your moment. He silently stood up, making his way to get the drinks, leaving the three of you to (likely) shed a few tears.

“You stuck with her.” He looked over his shoulder. Jenny had followed him in. She took two of the drinks. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”

Beau’s eyes gazed outside. At you. You were crouched in front of the fire, tending to it, laughing quietly at something Cassie said. The way the fire shadowed your face made you look ethereal. He didn’t say a word. But the silence was enough. It said millions.

Jenny smiled knowingly, following his eyes to you. “You should tell her.” She advised quietly. “You’d be surprised.” With that very cryptic message, she retreated back outside, handing off the two cups to you and Cassie.

Beau took a deep breath and followed after her.

Baby steps. That’s all he needed.

━━━━━━ ✿ ━━━━━━

a/n: sorry for the lack of updates recently !!!!! a levels have been kicking my ass. u have my first exam on the 14th n i am STRESSING

taglist: @yvonneeeee @deans-spinster-witch @fanfic-n-tabulous @dwonfilm @foxyjwls007

@just-levyy @i-love-ptv @hobby27 @zepskies

[onboardsorasora]

omg deaged daniel has my heart:(( he’ll feel so much more comfortable I bet once he gets to talk to his mom:((((

he does!! ok this is literally spiralling lmao!

De-Aged Daniel | De-Aged Daniel Pt2 | Part 4

Max watched as Little Daniel watched him through his lashes as he made his calls. His sticky red ring pop was always close to his lips and Max could see how stained his tongue already was.

“Do you like ring pops?” Max asked kindly, Little Daniel makes eye contact for a moment before looking at Max’s shoulder again and nods. “I like them too, I love the green flavour.”

“‘Shell likes the green one.” Little Daniel offered softly. 

“All the more red ones for you!” Max smiled when Little Daniel grinned. 

“Ok so I ordered the pizza, would you like to play with the cats while I make another phonecall?”

“Your phone’s weird like the one’s in the movies.” Little Daniel mumbled. And Max figured that must be true, an iphone wasn’t exactly the current tech in 1994.

“It is, I’m still learning it too. May I lift you up Daniel?” 

Little Daniel nodded softly and Max lifted him onto his hip. He walked the few steps into the living room and placed the boy gently on the couch. Jimmy was the first to be curious. Little Daniel looked at him dubiously before reaching his hand out slowly to pet the cat.

Max watched them out of the corner of his eyes while he scrolled through his contacts. Grace picked up after three rings, and Max hoped it wasn’t very late in Perth.

“Max, lovely to hear from you!” Grace’s voice was a balm, Max felt completely out of his depth.

“Hey Grace, unfortunately this isn’t a social call.”

“What’s happened?” Her voice was immediately tense and Max kicked himself, he could have handled that better.

“Nothing terrible. I’m gonna show you.” After hearing her noise of agreement he changed the call to a facetime. She looked at him with worried brown eyes, Max flipped the camera to show Little Daniel stiltedly petting Jimmy’s head. His ring pop clutched tightly in his other fist.

“Oh.” Her gasp was sharp. Max watched her eyes grow soft and yearning. 

“Blake said he’s been stressed lately, it happened not twenty minutes ago.”

“So its temporary then.” She spoke to herself, eyes still staring at the little boy who was her miniature in every way. “He likes the show Lamb Chops, and The Wiggles. Don’t let him choose the pizza, he likes the pictures but he doesn’t like the peppers or olives. He’ll eat pepperoni or hawaiian.” 

Max groaned because Little Daniel absolutely chose the pizza and there were all sorts of peppers and olives. 

“Do you still have the epi pen?” She asked quietly.

“I do.” 

“Good. You may need it.”

“Pistachios, hazelnuts, peanuts. I remember.” Max smiled. 

Grace made that ‘oh honey’ face that Daniel sometimes did when he thought Max was going to be in over his head a little. “Some kinds of grass, milk, ice cream, air fresheners, may make him puke–”

“How did you let him move to Italy on his own??” Max laughed when Grace snorted. He had no idea Daniel had been allergic to so many things.

“He grew out of most of it. And he was very convincing.” She smiled, before biting her lip. “Can I talk to him?”

“Of course!” Max crossed the room quickly and flipped the camera back to the front facing one. “Daniel, I have someone who would like to speak with you, is this ok?”

Little Daniel looked up from where Jimmy was trying to climb onto his small lap and nodded softly. Max sat beside him and brought his phone to Daniel’s face.

“Mum!” Little Daniel screamed, scaring Jimmy a little. He scooted forward on the couch to get closer to the phone, Max brought to phone to him. “That's my Mummy!”

“Danny my baby, are you being good for Max?”

Little Daniel gasped, his mouth dropping open. He nodded quickly, his head bobbled like a toy. “Uh huh! Mum are you coming to get me?”

Grace sniffled and covered her mouth with a palm. “Soon my baby. It’ll take a little bit so be good for Max ok? He’ll take care of you until we get there.”

“Ok! I promise!” Little Daniel chirped, he nodded again like a bobble head. 

“That’s my baby. I love you Danny Wanny.”

“I love you more Mummy Wummy!” Little Daniel grinned and looked up at Max when the screen when dark. Max bit his lip, not expecting the cute aggression that took hold of him.

“Do you want to watch The Wiggles?” Max asked instead, smiling with Little Daniel nodded happily.

[bussyslayer333]

1. Take me to your best friend’s house

summary: jake’s back home on leave, restless without his friends to keep him company, until you arrive that is.

pairing: best friend’s brother jake seresin x fem!reader

word count: 2.0k

warnings: swearing, one mention of alcohol, small amount of smut and heavy sexual tension heheh

drive me wild

Jake is antsy.

It’s his last week of leave and he’s staying back at his parents house in Texas. He’s been there for two weeks already, spending quality time with his older sisters and their kids.

He loves them all. Truly. But he’s been dying to beat Javy at a game of darts again, or drink the beer he actually likes, or actually sleep with a woman instead of jerking off in the shower like he’s 14 again.

Jake loves his family. But he also loves his space. Which he was not currently experiencing as his 3 year old niece Ellie climbs her way around his torso.

He can hear his mother chatting animatedly away on the phone in the room over, only mildly blocking out the loud snores coming from his father’s sleeping form in his arm chair across the room.

Jake’s mother enters the room just as Ellie makes an unfortunate misstep in her climbing.

“Fuck!” Jake groans.

“Jacob!”

Shit.

Jake looks to Ellie who is now flopped on the sofa next to him, giggling evilly.

He pleads with her with his eyes, trying to pout sadly through his pain. Just as he thinks he’s gotten away with it, his oldest sister Emma pops her head round the door.

“You want some juice, baby?” She questions to Ellie.

“Fuck!” She squeals, laughing and grabbing at Jake again.

Jake looks to Emma apologetically, she’s already seething. Lucky for Jake, his mom has already sensed the bubbling tension and decides to finally announce what she had entered the room to say.

“Addy and her friend are going to be here soon!” She smiles.

Addison and her friend. Two more people in the house. Great.

Truthfully, Jake was excited to see Addy, but he also felt guilty. It’s spring break of her third year at UCLA and he’s only really seen her at christmas and easter for the past few years. She’s only a two hour drive away from San Diego, but he never seems to find the time to do it.

Before he can spiral too much into older brother guilt, his dad awakes from his slumber from the commotion in the room.

“Huh?” He mumbles blearily.

Emma laughs, coming to sit down next to Jake and pulling Ellie into her lap.

“Addy and her friend Dad, they’re going to be here soon.”

“Yeah I know that,” he mumbles, still half asleep.

The doorbell goes, interrupting what Jake’s mother was about to say. She springs up and looks to Jake expectantly.

“Come help with the bags!”

Jake grumbles, pushing himself up from where he’d been sat on the couch. His mother sends him a pointed glare, shutting him up immediately. She could be scary when she wanted.

When he finally makes it to the entryway, the door is already open and his mom is making a fuss of someone he can’t see. Addy is stood next to you, dropping her bags on the floor loudly.

“Hey freak.” She supplies smirking at Jake.

“Hey dipshit.” He retorts.

She runs over quickly, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. He ruffles her hair lightly and moves back over to where his mom is standing, surrounded by bags.

“We’re so glad to have you here darlin’!” his mom smiles down at you, stroking your arm comfortingly.

“But still, thank you, seriously,” you reply, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

His mom shakes her head and moves to the side finally to talk to Addy, allowing him to get a good look at you.

The first thing that registers in Jake’s mind is how goddamn beautiful you are, the second thing is that you’re staring straight back at him with a coy smile on your face.

“You must be the mysterious Jake,” you tease, stepping closer to Jake.

He laughs, “mysterious?”

You seem to inch even closer, Jake can smell your sweet perfume. Vanilla. It’s intoxicating.

“Addy talks about you a lot. It’s great to finally meet you.” You supply.

“Likewise,” he smirks, giving you a once over.

Jake revels in the way you flush under his gaze, hands fiddling with the hem of your short skirt. Before he can attempt to charm you further, Addy interrupts once again.

“Chop, chop bell boy! These bags aren’t gonna move themselves!”

Suddenly, he remembers why he doesn’t visit her.

Jake rolls his eyes and looks back to you, “Which ones are your bags?”

You point to a large blue duffel bag on the floor and a smaller backpack beside it,

“You don’t have to-”

Jake already has both your bags in his hands and is motioning to the tote bag on your shoulder.

“Nonsense, pretty girls shouldn’t have to carry anything.” He flirts, southern drawl heavy on his tongue.

You giggle whilst Addy gags from beside you,

“Can you stop being a fuckboy for five seconds?” She whines.

Jake scoffs and flips her the bird, “carry your own bags.”

Addy retaliates with her own middle finger and huffs, “Come on babe, I’ll show you your room.”

Addy grabs your hand and drags you towards the staircase, pulling you up towards the guest room.

Jake watches from the bottom of the stairs as he catches a glimpse of the pink lace underneath your fluttering skirt. He gulps and reverts his eyes back up in time to catch your shooting a wink at him before Addy pulls you around the corner.

Jake’s pillows are soft, and the temperature in his room is perfect. So he can’t really understand why he isn’t asleep.

That’s a lie.

He just doesn’t want to admit it to himself.

Every time he closes his eyes, Jake’s mind begins to wander to you. The way you smile at him, and the way you smelled, the way your eyes lit up when his other niece May called you pretty. Of course your tiny clothes and knowing what your underwear looked like aided to his mental images, but he had the excuse that at least it wasn’t all that.

He wondered if you knew the affect you already had on him. Surely you did, he tried to rationalise, the wink for god’s sake.

Jake tried to fight the hand that was slowly inching its way down his chest towards his aching cock, but he was weak. The first stroke of his hand had him whimpering, Jake is pretty sure he hasn’t ever been this hard in his life.

He tries to start off slow, thinking about the way you pulled your hair up into a loose ponytail at dinner, the silky span of skin that was exposed making him sweat. That’s when he realised taking it slow was pointless. Jake strokes himself fast, thrusting his hips up into his palm. His breath is shallow and harsh, trying to hold in any incriminating sound he could make. He’d like to imagine that you’re in the same position, whimpering on the bed in the guest room that was just across the hallway from his, pumping your fingers in and out of your cunt thinking about him.

How was he to know he wasn’t wrong?

Jake is close, hips stuttering after each movement of his hand. He imagines you on your knees for him, wide eyes staring up at him, your glossy lips parted begging for him, whining,

“please, Jake-”

And that does it for him, cum spurting out of his cock down onto his hand and chest. His breaths are ragged and heaving. The sticky sheen of sweat on his body becomes uncomfortable and the mess of cum is just a reminder of his predicament.

He uses the tissues on his bedside table (shout-out horny teenage Jake) to wipe away his drying spend, but he still feels unclean.

Deciding the only way to remedy this, Jake moves to get up from his bed and heads towards the door. If he’s quiet he presumes he can make it to the bathroom and back without waking anyone. He shuts his door behind him carefully, wincing as it clicks shut.

He only makes it a few steps across the floor before something bumps into his solid chest. Jake looks down to see you staring at him with eyes widened in surprise. His body is warm against yours, stood half naked in front of you clad only in his boxers.

If you thought Jake was handsome with his clothes on, the attraction had just tripled. The hard plains of his chest and sprinkling of hair that ran down his abs had you salivating slightly. You clear your throat and look back up to his eyes,

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” you smile sheepishly up at the man.

Jake thinks this must be a cruel joke. The way you’re staring up at him in a thin tank top and shorts that could be declared glorified panties. He doesn’t know whether he should curse or thank God.

“It’s okay sugar,” he drawls, watching as you keen slightly more into him.

You place a hand onto his chest, feeling emboldened by his words,

“I was just going to get a glass of water,” you whisper, dragging your hand down further.

Jake watches in horror as you look down and catch sight of his semi pressing against the fabric of his boxers.

“I’m real thirsty,” you continue with a smirk.

Your hand trails down his chest hair towards the band of his boxers, toying with the elastic.

“Jake?”

“Mhm,” he affirms.

“Do you want me?”

Jake looks into your wide eyes and nods quickly, awestruck.

You giggle and retreat your hand from him.

“Good to know.”

You slip past him quickly, heading towards the stairs. Jake unabashedly watches the way your ass moves until you’re out of his line of sight. He exhales and pinches at the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck.”

The next morning at breakfast, Jake is sat opposite you. You’ve not exchanged many words apart from a polite “good morning” or “how did you sleep?”.

Jake can feel your gaze on him whenever Addy’s sentences run on too long. He feels excited for the first time in weeks. A dampener on his mood however, is his sister Josie.

She’s only two years older than him, they’re the closest out of all the siblings, and she can read him like a kids book. It’s usually nice, Jake always feels like she understands him. Now however, it’s pissing him off.

“What is wrong with you?” he snaps once they’re in the kitchen and out of earshot.

Josie snorts, “I feel like I should be asking you that!”

Jake rolls his eyes, deciding to play nonchalant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stop eye fucking Addy’s friend!”

Jake’s eyes widen and Josie’s exclamation, he motions to shush her out of fear of anyone else hearing.

“I am not!”

Josie rolls her eyes with such familiarity it’s painful, “you’re looking at her like you used to look at Miss Mayfield in ninth grade.”

Jake scoffs at the memory of his freshmen year english teacher.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sensing they weren’t going to get anywhere with their conversation, Josie decides to take a different approach.

“Look Jakey, just think about Addy. Please?”

Jake rolls his eyes, and is about to retort when the kitchen door opens.

“Oh! Sorry, your mom just asked me to get the juice?” You smile, sweeter than ever.

Josie watches unimpressed, as Jake quickly retrieves the juice for you, hand lingering on yours as he passes it over.

“Here you go, sugar.” He croons.

“Thanks, Jake,” you place emphasis on his name before you saunter off, hips swaying.

As soon as the door shuts behind you, Josie laughs. Loud.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Jake laughs nervously, “what?”

“We’re too old for this shit.” She states, moving past Jake to join everyone in the dining room again.

next part

a/n: first part done 😰😰😰 I HOPE EVERYONE ENJOYS

they will be getting it on next chapter dw hehehe

i’m not sure how many parts to plan on but you can probably expect at least 10 !!

as always pls comment, reblog or send me an ask and tell me what u think!!

ty for reading :)

- honey <333

tag list:

@blairfox04

@eddiemunsonreader

@girl-in-the-chairs-void

@1111zxc

@aemondssiut

[isthlsfate]

⌞ 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 ⌝

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: elvis presley/austin!elvis x black!reader, angst, fluff, sexual content (mdni), cursing, the colonel, racism, mentions of pregnancy, hints at ab*rtion, slightly possessive!elvis, inaccurate timeline, LONG

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5k

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

the air is thick with anticipation, the heat of the summer night pressing down as you stand among the sea of people at russwood park.

though divided by skin color, the crowd hums with excitement. your heart thuds in your chest as you wait, eyes fixed on the stage.

you’ve seen him in pictures, on tv, but nothing could have prepared you for this—the moment when elvis presley takes the stage.

the lights dim, and a surge of screams erupts around you as he steps out, all swagger and confidence.

his black suit glints under the spotlights, the red tie around his neck standing out, and the world seems to tilt slightly as he steps up to the microphone.

your heart pounds in your ears as the crowd, like you, waits eagerly for his next move.

“there’s been a lot of talk about the new elvis…and you know, that other guy.”

elvis raises and wiggles his pinky, his smirk sending ripples through the audience, a mix of awe and wild adoration.

he mockingly croons ‘hound dog’, the familiar rhythm thrumming through you, but it’s when he begins to sing ‘trouble’ that something shifts.

the air becomes charged, electric. his voice drips with rebellion, teasing the crowd.

and then it happens.

his eyes meet yours.

for a brief, fleeting second, the rest of the world falls away. it’s just you and him, the connection sharp and undeniable.

you freeze, heat rushing to your face. elvis presley is looking at you, singling you out in a crowd of thousands.

your breath catches in your throat as he holds your gaze, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he continues with the song.

but the crowd is wild, feeding off his energy, and as he moves across the stage, things start to spiral.

the excitement turns into chaos—people pushing, screaming, climbing over barriers.

the authorities had warned about this, about how his performances stirred up too much passion, too much rebellion. and now you’re seeing it, living it.

the crowd surges, and for a moment, you’re swept up in it, struggling to stay on your feet.

you flinch as officers start swinging their batons at your side of the crowd.

before you can process what’s happening, a strong hand grabs your wrist. you look up, startled, and there he is—elvis—pulling you through the madness, past the screaming fans and the frenzy.

his grip is firm but gentle, and you follow him without question, heart pounding in your chest.

he leads you out of the roar of the crowd, toward a waiting car—a sleek black cadillac gleaming. without thinking, you climb into the backseat beside him, your pulse racing, every sense heightened.

the door slams shut, and suddenly, it’s quiet. the chaos outside seems distant, unreal.

he turns to you, his face inches away. his eyes, even more captivating up close, hold a mix of concern and amusement.

“you alright, honey?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, laced with that unmistakable southern drawl.

you nod, breathless, still trying to make sense of everything.

“i think so.” you manage to say, your voice shaking.

he chuckles softly, a sound that sends warmth through you.

“didn’t mean to drag you into all that. crowds can get a little wild.” his smile is softer now, but no less mesmerizing.

before you can respond, you notice camera flashes through the car window—photographers capturing every second of this surreal moment.

panic flickers across your face.

what will they say? what will they write about this?

elvis seems to sense your worry. he leans back, running a hand through his sweaty hair with a sigh.

“looks like you’re part of the story now.” he says with a crooked grin. “tomorrow, they’ll be writin’ about this in every paper.”

you swallow, the weight of the situation sinking in.

“what’s going to happen now?”

he glances at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“well, can’t just send you back out there after all that.” he pauses, his smile widening, “guess you’ll have to come to graceland with me. lay low until this all blows over.”

you can hardly believe what you’re hearing, your pulse racing as the car pulls away from the chaos of the park. the idea of staying at graceland—with him—seems unreal, but there’s something thrilling about it too.

the way he looks at you, the way your heart races every time he smiles, makes you wonder if this could be the start of something more than just a crazy night.

as the car winds through the quiet streets, you steal a glance at him. you’re caught in his orbit now, and there’s no escaping it.

*

the days at graceland blur together, a strange blend of quiet moments and stolen glances.

elvis is busier than you’d imagined, always rehearsing, meeting with people, planning his next moves. but in between, you find yourself growing closer to him, sharing moments that feel like they’re just yours—ones that the outside world, with all its frenzy, could never touch.

it’s been months since that night at russwood park, and the tabloids are still buzzing. the colonel, elvis’s manager, has made it clear that you’re to stay out of sight until things die down.

every time you ask when you’ll be able to leave, he gives you the same answer: ”soon, honey. it’s just for your own good."

you can tell that it’s as much for elvis’s image as it is for your safety.

at first, it was strange—being hidden away in the vast mansion, moving through rooms you never imagined you’d see.

you spent hours by yourself, wondering how your life had taken such a surreal turn. but then, elvis started coming around more, seeking you out.

you’d share late-night talks in the kitchen over peanut butter and banana sandwiches, or he’d take you out on long drives when the world outside was asleep, just the two of you, the radio playing softly as he hummed along to the songs.

it’s in these quiet moments that you see the real elvis—not the larger-than-life figure the world knows, but the man behind the fame.

he’s funny, warm, and surprisingly thoughtful. he asks about your life, your dreams, and listens intently when you talk, like your words matter.

one evening, you’re both sitting in the backyard, the air warm and heavy with the scent of magnolias.

the sun is setting, casting a soft glow over the lawn.

elvis leans back in his chair, guitar resting on his knee, strumming lazily as he hums a tune under his breath.

you sit across from him, watching the way the fading light plays off his face.

“you know,” he says after a long stretch of comfortable silence, “it’s been real nice having you around. didn’t think i’d be saying that when all this craziness started.”

he glances at you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

you feel your heart skip a beat at his words.

“i didn’t either.” you admit with a soft laugh. “it’s been... unexpected, but i’ve liked being here. with you.”

he stops strumming for a moment, his gaze holding yours.

“you’re different.” he says quietly, his voice almost thoughtful. “everyone always wants somethin’ from me. but you… i don’t know, you’re just you. and i like that.”

a warmth spreads through you, but before you can respond, the sound of footsteps interrupts the moment. the colonel appears, his expression unreadable.

he’s been watching you both closely these past few days, more than ever.

“elvis.” he says, his tone all business. “we need to talk. press is still stirring things up. we need to keep everything locked down for a bit longer.”

elvis sighs, glancing at you before turning to face him.

“what’re they sayin’ now?”

“more speculation. they don’t know who she is yet, but it’s getting harder to keep her out of the papers. we need to be careful.” his eyes flicker to you for a moment, and then back to elvis. “we don’t need any distractions right now.”

you feel a strange mix of guilt and frustration at being labeled a distraction, but elvis speaks before you can say anything.

“she’s not a distraction.” he says firmly, his voice calm but resolute. “i ain’t gonna hide her away forever, colonel.”

the colonel’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push back. he just gives a curt nod.

“i’ll give you two some time. but think about the bigger picture, son.” with that, he turns and walks back inside, leaving you and elvis alone again.

elvis leans back in his chair, shaking his head.

“man, he don’t know when to quit.”

you glance over at him, unsure of what to say.

“i don’t want to cause trouble for you, elvis. maybe it’s better if i leave, soon as the press moves on.”

he looks at you, his expression softening.

“you ain’t goin’ anywhere.” his voice is low, but there’s no hesitation in it. “not unless you want to. i don’t care what the colonel says or what the papers write. i want you here. with me.”

your heart flutters at his words, the sincerity in his voice settling deep within you. the colonel may be trying to keep you hidden, but in this moment, it’s clear that elvis doesn’t want you anywhere else.

and maybe—just maybe—you don’t want to be anywhere else either.

the night stretches on, the weight of the colonel’s words still hanging in the air. elvis watches you, a softness returns to his expression, cutting through the tension.

he stands up from his chair and walks over, sitting down next to you, close enough that your knees brush.

the warmth of him sends a shiver up your spine.

“i don’t want you hidin’ in the shadows.” he says, his voice softer now. “i’ve been thinkin’ about it. i can’t just keep you a secret, no matter what the colonel or anyone else says.”

you bite your lip, searching his face for some hint of hesitation.

“but… the press, elvis. they’re already stirring things up without even knowing who i am. if they find out—”

“i don’t care.” he cuts you off, his voice firmer now, but not unkind. his hand reaches out, fingers gently brushing you face. “i’ve never been one to follow the rules. not when it comes to somethin’ that matters.”

your heart races at the intensity in his eyes.

you’ve seen that look before—on stage, when he’s in full command of the crowd—but here, it’s just for you. you can feel the walls you’ve built around your heart start to crumble.

“elvis…” you start, but your voice falters, the words lost as he leans in closer.

“i don’t want to play pretend.” he murmurs, his gaze never leaving yours. “not with you. you’re the one thing that feels real in all this madness.”

the space between you closes as his lips brush against yours, tentative at first, like he’s waiting for permission. you respond without thinking, leaning into him, your lips meeting his in a soft, tender kiss that makes everything else disappear.

the world fades away, leaving only the feel of his hand on your cheek, the warmth of his body pressed lightly against yours.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

"i’ve been wantin’ to do that for a while now." he whispers, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“i was hoping you would.” you chuckle softly, still trying to steady your breathing.

his thumb traces your jawline, his voice lower, more serious now.

“i’ve fallen for you, darlin’. i don’t know when it happened exactly, but i know it’s real. and i ain’t about to let anyone—fans, the press, or even the colonel—take you away from me."

the confession sends a flood of warmth through you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek.

“i feel the same, elvis. i’m falling for you too.”

the moment feels raw, vulnerable.

for the first time since that wild night at russwood park, everything is out in the open.

you can see the tension leave his shoulders, a kind of relief washing over him.

he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“then it’s settled. we’ll tell the world. i don’t care what they think. you’re mine, and i want everyone to know.”

you lean into him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“you sure about that? it’s going to be a lot.”

“i’m sure.” he replies, no hesitation in his voice. “we’ll face it together.”

*

the announcement is everywhere.

headlines scream about elvis’s new romance, and the world reacts exactly the way you expected it to.

some fans are thrilled for him, but many aren’t. and then there are the tabloids, picking apart every detail of your life. your face is plastered across magazines, the headlines growing more vicious as the days pass.

‘who is the woman stealing elvis’s heart?’ one headline reads. but it’s the ones that call attention to your race that sting the most. ‘elvis’s secret black lover exposed!’ ‘elvis defies segregation with new flame!’

the implications are clear, and they aren’t kind.

the first time you see the hateful comments, you feel a knot tighten in your stomach. but when you show elvis, his reaction is immediate and fierce.

he tosses the magazine across the room, his eyes dark with anger.

“let ‘em talk.” he growls, pacing the living room. “they don’t know a damn thing about us. they’re just tryin’ to stir up trouble.”

you nod, but the sting is still there.

"it’s just… hard, you know? seeing it like that. i don’t want to be the reason people come after you. we’ve only been together a few months.”

he stops pacing and comes over to you, his hands gripping your arms gently but firmly.

"listen to me. i don’t care what anyone says, alright? i love you, and if they can’t handle that, it’s their problem, not ours." his voice softens, his forehead resting against yours. “you’re everything to me. don’t ever think you’re causing trouble. i’d fight the whole damn world for you if I had to.”

his protectiveness only grows as the press continues to dig into your life, and though it should feel suffocating, you find comfort in it.

he’s always by your side now—his arm draped around your shoulders in public, his hand holding yours tightly as if to ward off the world’s cruelty.

one night, as the two of you sit together on the couch, elvis speaks quietly, almost as if to himself.

"sometimes i think about how things might’ve been easier if i’d just kept quiet… but then i look at you, and i know i couldn’t have done it. i couldn’t have kept us hidden. you’re worth all of this. you always will be."

you smile softly, resting your head on his shoulder.

“i don’t care what the world says, elvis. as long as i’ve got you, i’m fine.”

his arms tighten around you, and you feel the weight of his devotion in every touch, every look.

the tabloids may hate you, some of the fans might too, but here in this moment, in his arms, none of that matters. elvis’s love is fierce, unyielding, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

*

the fairytale could only last so long.

you grew weary of constantly monitoring your every move and enduring the harsh words people threw at you.

as elvis grew busier, you felt increasingly alone. the colonel kept sending him from one place to another, and elvis, so absorbed in his image, seemed to have forgotten about you.

now, you sit on the bed, gazing off into the distance, tears welling in your eyes.

the room is dimly lit, a single lamp casting a soft glow that does nothing to ease the tension hanging thick in the air.

elvis stands by the window, his silhouette framed by the heavy drapes, arms crossed over his chest. he’s wearing one of his sleek suits, the collar slightly open, but tonight the usual charm in his stance feels distant, almost cold.

"you really think that?" his voice is sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

"i don’t know what to think anymore, elvis. it feels like i’m just... part of the show. like i’m just another move to piss off the colonel."

he spins around, eyes narrowing.

“the colonel? this ain't got nothing to do with him, and you know it."

your heart pounds in your chest, frustration mixing with a sadness you can’t quite shake.

"doesn’t it? everything you do seems to revolve around him! i’m just here for the ride, right? someone to throw in his face when he gets too controlling, another way to rebel!"

elvis steps closer, his gaze intense, his jaw set tight.

"you think i’d do that to you? to us?"

you meet his stare, refusing to back down.

"sometimes i wonder if 'us' even exists. or if i’m just caught in the middle of your war with him."

he looks away for a moment, running a hand through his dark hair, visibly frustrated.

“quit talkin’ crazy. it ain't like that."

"then what is it like?" your voice cracks despite yourself. "because it feels like i’m just another way for you to prove something—to him, to yourself. but i’m not a game piece, elvis. i’m a person."

his eyes meet yours again, softer this time but still defensive.

"you ain't no game piece. you’re more than that, more than all of this. don’t you see? you’re the only thing that makes sense in this whole damn circus."

you take a shaky breath, trying to push through the confusion and hurt.

“then why does it feel like i’m the one always getting caught in the crossfire?"

elvis moves toward you, his hands reaching out, but you step back, needing the space. his face falters slightly, his usual confidence dimming.

"i’m tryin’, darlin’. i really am. but this life... it’s complicated."

you nod slowly, the ache in your chest growing heavier as tears begin to fall.

"yeah, i know. but i need to know that you’re with me because of me, not because of some twisted need to defy him. otherwise, what’s the point? why don’t i just leave?”

elvis's eyes darken at your words, and something in him snaps. his voice erupts in a furious yell.

"like hell you’ll leave!" he slams his hand down, sending his belongings crashing off the dresser. "how dare you! i’m with you because i love you, not to prove a point. do you have any idea how much you mean to me? i’m not lettin’ you walk away."

his sudden outburst leaves you trembling, feeling small as you cower on the edge of his bed. you’d never seen this side of him before; you hadn’t even had an argument until now.

elvis’s anger quickly fades as he sees the fear in your eyes.

his expression softens, and he drops to his knees in front of you, his hands reaching out in a desperate plea.

“i’m sorry.” he says, his voice trembling with regret. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to scare you. i’m just... so afraid of losin’ you. please, don’t be afraid of me. i love you, and i’m not tryin’ to hurt you. i’ll do anythin’ to make this right.”

you watch him, the raw honesty in his voice softening the edge of your sadness.

"i just want to believe that. to believe that what we have is real and not just another way to stick it to the colonel."

elvis takes a deep breath, his tear struck eyes searching yours.

"i get it. i really do. and i promise you, honey, it’s real. if you can give me a chance, i’ll show you."

you consider his words, the weight of the argument still heavy but slightly relieved.

"please, don’t make me regret it."

he nods, a look of genuine relief crossing his face as he thumbs away your tears.

“i won’t. i swear."

you lean in, your lips meeting his in a gentle kiss that quickly deepens into something more urgent. elvis responds with the same hunger, having craved your touch far longer than he’d ever admit.

in one swift motion, he pushes you onto the bed, his body hovering just above yours as your kiss turns wild, a mess of lips and teeth.

a soft moan escapes you when you feel his hips press against yours. instinctively, your hands find their way to his scalp, fingers tangling in his hair.

you pull away just enough to speak, lips still grazing his as you whisper.

“show me you mean it.”

elvis’s gaze softens with adoration, like you’ve hung the stars just for him.

clothes are discarded in a rush, the cool silk sheets brushing against your skin, amplifying every sensation.

you’re wrapped in each other—breathless gasps, whispered ‘i love you’s and the soft creak of the bed filling the room.

one deep thrust from elvis has your back arching off the bed, a sound of pleasure escaping your lips.

he smirks, unable to hide his satisfaction, seeing you unravel beneath him, because of him.

your moans spur him on, his breathing heavy as he nears his breaking point.

leaning close, he whispers into your ear.

“let go for me, baby.” he presses a tender kiss just below it.

your eyes flutter open, wanting to memorize the moment, unashamed and fully present.

“i love you.” you whimper, the pleasure building inside you, ready to burst.

his hips stutter as he loses control, the vulnerability in his expression—the furrowed brow, parted lips—sending you over the edge with him.

he kisses you softly once more before collapsing beside you, pulling you into his arms.

your head rests against his chest, a contented sigh escaping your lips.

“i love you, darlin’. don’t ever doubt that.”

you hum in response, the weight of sleep quickly pulling you under.

*

things were finally getting better, much to your relief. elvis was more attentive—bringing you along whenever possible, planning quiet nights for just the two of you, and always reassuring you with his love.

but as always, life had a way of reminding you it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

your hands tremble as you sit on the examination bed, the doctor speaking words that don’t quite register.

the ringing in your ears drowns everything out.

a hand suddenly grips your shoulder, and you flinch. the colonel stands beside you, his gaze cold and unforgiving.

“do you understand what the doctor’s telling you?” he asks, his voice sharp.

you nod, though your mind feels sluggish, still struggling to process.

all you wanted was for elvis to be here with you, but the memory of how today unfolded sends a wave of nausea through you.

sitting alone in the kitchen, the queasiness hitting hard, barely making it to the bathroom before breakfast came back up.

the colonel had found you there, immediately sneering and dragging you to the doctor to confirm his suspicions.

“elvis is not to hear a word of this.” the colonel instructs the doctor, slipping him money.

“w-what’s going to happen?” you stammer, finally finding your voice. both men turn to look at you, as if they’d forgotten your presence.

the colonel lets out a dry chuckle.

“you’ll return tomorrow for a small procedure, then we’ll take you home like nothing ever happened.”

your heart races, dread flooding your veins as you realize what he means.

“no, no. you can’t do that. elvis would never forgive you.”

“that’s why he won’t find out, right?” he raises an eyebrow, daring you to defy him.

“you’re despicable!” you shout, jumping off the bed, rushing toward the door.

the colonel grabs your arm, his grip tight and unyielding.

you can see it in his eyes—he’ll never respect you, never care about your relationship with elvis. since the moment you entered his life eight months ago, you’ve been nothing but an obstacle to the colonel’s ambitions.

“if you care about him, you’ll do what’s necessary.”

you scoff, yanking your arm from his grasp, bolting out to the car.

when you get home, relief washes over you at the sight of elvis in the music room, absentmindedly playing the piano.

“there you are, honey.” he calls out, a warm smile on his face. “i was wonderin’ where you went. i got a lot done today—wrote some songs i think you’ll love—“

his words stop abruptly as he hears your soft, broken sob.

his head snaps up, and he’s on his feet in an instant, rushing to catch you as you struggle to hold it together.

his heart pounds as he pulls you into his chest, cradling you gently, one hand stroking your head, the other wrapped around your waist.

elvis guides you to the couch, sitting you down carefully. his eyes search your face for any sign of what’s wrong, but he can’t piece it together.

“talk to me, baby.” he pleads softly.

“the colonel... i’m preg—he won’t let me keep it—i’m scared.” you manage to choke out between hiccupping sobs.

“whoa, whoa, slow down, honey. i can’t understand.” he says gently, thumbing away the tears that streak your cheeks.

you take a shaky breath, your lips trembling.

“i’m pregnant.” you finally whisper. you watch elvis’s face light up with excitement, but before he can react, you continue, “the colonel set up an appointment for tomorrow. he says it’s what’s best for your career. says a child will ruin your image.”

silence hangs in the air as you try to make sense of the expression on elvis’s face.

by now, you’ve seen every side of him, but this look is unfamiliar, unreadable.

before you can say anything more, the door swings open. the man you despise strolls in, wearing that same cocky grin.

you don’t have time to react as elvis lunges at him, rage burning in his eyes.

sonny and red burst into the room, grabbing elvis by the arms, barely managing to hold him back.

"you piece of shit! don’t you ever talk to her again, you hear me? don’t come near her!"

you’d seen elvis angry before, but this was different—this was a fury you hadn’t known he was capable of.

spit flies from his mouth as he hurls insults at the colonel, his face flushed red with rage, arms flailing wildly as he struggles to break free from sonny and red’s grip.

"calm down, son. i’m only looking out for your best interests."

elvis lets out a bitter, disbelieving laugh, utterly disgusted by the man standing before him.

"she," he gestures to you, "is my best interest. my only interest. i oughta shoot you in your fat, goddamn face."

"elvis aaron presley!" you scold, unable to let the situation escalate any further. you wouldn’t let him stoop to the colonel’s level.

elvis stops fighting against red and sonny’s hold, running a hand over his face in frustration, but they stay between him and the colonel, just in case.

he shoots one last venomous look at the man.

"you’re fired."

you can feel the weight of the colonel’s icy glare on you, but you turn away as elvis grabs your hand, leading you upstairs without another word.

"see him out.” he calls to his men, receiving a firm "yes, boss" in response.

when you reach the bedroom, a heavy silence fills the air.

elvis goes straight to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. he emerges a moment later, sighing deeply as he sits beside you on the bed.

"i’m sorry—"

"don’t you dare." he interrupts, his voice breaking in a way that startles you. you looked up to see him on the verge of tears, his usual composure cracking.

gently, you cup his chin, guiding his face toward yours, and that’s all it takes for him to break completely.

your heart aches at the sound of his sobs, and you pull him close, shushing him softly as you fight back your own tears.

"i feel like i failed you.” he cries, his voice shaking. "i trusted him, ignored all the shit he pulled, and it nearly cost me our child."

you wipe his tears away, pressing a tender kiss to his trembling lips.

"it’s not your fault, baby. he was supposed to look out for you, but he only cares about himself. you didn’t see it, but that doesn’t mean i blame you."

he nods, resting his forehead against yours, his breathing still uneven but slowing down.

"you’re never leaving my side again." he whispers, the rawness in his voice making it a promise.

you smile softly.

"i wouldn’t want it any other way."

*

years have passed since that heated night, and now, elvis’s career has soared to new heights, all without the shadow of the colonel.

the once tumultuous whirlwind of fame has settled into a thriving, creative journey.

filming movies and releasing hit songs, elvis’s name shines brighter than ever, and he’s made sure to include you and your little family every step of the way.

as you sit on a sunny afternoon, watching your six-year-old daughter play with the same carefree joy you’ve seen in elvis countless times, you can’t help but reflect on how far you’ve come.

elvis, now in his late twenties, is equally captivated by his role as a father and husband, balancing his incredible career with precious moments spent with you both.

you find yourself reminiscing about the fateful night that started it all.

it was a chance encounter, so ordinary at the time, but one that blossomed into this extraordinary life.

sitting together with elvis, you share a quiet smile. the memories of how you met, the ups and downs, and the journey that brought you here are now woven into the fabric of your life.

it’s a testament to the fact that sometimes, the most unexpected beginnings can lead to the most wonderful endings.

with elvis by your side, and your daughter’s laughter filling the air, you know that every step of the journey has been worth it.

___

taglist: @dhimpson @powerofelvis @ab4eva @crash-and-cure

i hope it’s okay that i’ve tagged you all, you’re just some of my favorite blogs that come to mind! if you’d like to be removed or if anyone would like to be added, please let me know <3

[redsummermoon]

Between the Smoke and Sunset

Charlie Dalton x reader CW: female reader, use of Y/N, smoking, kiss [1.2k words]

Charlie felt like he was trapped in his own skin, every nerve on edge. Irritation had been bubbling beneath the surface all day, and the dark circles under his eyes made it obvious he hadn’t slept well in days. Anyone who looked at him could see he was running on fumes, and Y/N was no exception. She had watched all day as he wrestled with whatever was eating at him, knowing she could ease the tension.

“Hey, Char,” she called, sliding into the chair next to where he was sitting, his shoulders hunched in defeat. “I was gonna go have a smoke if you wanted.”

Charlie looked ready to snap at whoever had interrupted his peace, but then his eyes landed on Y/N. His girl. Just the thing he needed to pull him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“Babe, yes, please,” he responded, his voice softening.

Y/N smiled and got up, reaching out her hand to him. Charlie took it gratefully, and she began to lead them toward the exit. But before they reached the door, she suddenly stopped in front of a large window.

“What’re you doing?” Charlie asked, confused by the detour.

“This window has a great view, don’t you think?” Y/N replied, her eyes fixated on the warm light pouring through.

Charlie paused, following her gaze. The golden hour had painted the world outside in hues of fiery orange and soft pink. The trees looked like they were aflame, their leaves glowing in the fading sunlight. The window faced west, perfectly framing the sky as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The sunset was going to be breathtaking.

Y/N, still holding his hand, moved closer to the window, pulling Charlie along. He was puzzled at first but didn’t question her. He trusted her with all he was.

As they neared the window, Charlie noticed there was a small, flat space just outside of it. It was secluded, the perfect spot for two people to sit and watch the world pass by without anyone noticing them.

Y/N glanced up at Charlie, and he immediately understood what she was thinking. He stepped forward and began fiddling with the window, trying to get it open. It was stuck.

“Keep an eye out,” Charlie grunted, putting his strength into it. “This might take a second.”

Y/N stood watch, her heart racing with the excitement of sneaking onto the roof of Welton. Finally, with a soft creak, Charlie managed to pry the window open wide enough for them to slip through.

“After you, m’lady,” Charlie said with a grin, offering his hand to help her climb out.

“Thank you, sir,” Y/N chuckled and took his hand, carefully stepping out onto the ledge. Charlie followed right behind her, squeezing himself through the small opening. The small space outside the window felt like a secret world. One that could be just theirs. The fading sunlight bathed them in a golden hue as they sat close together, their shoulders brushing. 

Charlie pulled out his pack of cigarettes and took one into his mouth, then offered the pack to Y/N. He pulled out a lighter and they both leaned in to catch the same flame, the flick of his lighter casting a brief glow on their faces. Charlie takes a slow drag before exhaling into the cooling air. Y/N took her time, savoring the familiar burn in her lungs, the calming ritual of it all.

For a moment, they were silent, just enjoying the quiet intimacy between them. The sun dipped lower on the horizon. The gentle hum of the world outside felt distant, almost irrelevant. This moment was theirs.

“I’m so tired of this place,” Y/N finally said, breaking the silence. She exhaled a stream of smoke, watching it curl and twist in the air. “School, the pressure, everyone’s expectations. It’s all so exhausting.”

Charlie took another drag, his eyes narrowing as he blew the smoke out slowly. “Yeah. It’s like every day’s just a battle to stay sane. It’s been wearing me down.”

He looked over at her, studying her face in the fading light. She seemed smaller somehow, more vulnerable. 

“You ever think about just… walking away from all of it?” he asked, his voice low, as if the thought itself was forbidden.

Y/N’s lips curled into a small smile as she took another drag from her cigarette. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But then I think… what’s out there for me? What’s next? It’s terrifying.”

“Yeah,” Charlie nodded, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “The unknown. But maybe that’s what makes it worth it, right? The idea that something better could be waiting.”

Y/N leaned her head back against Charlie’s shoulder, letting her eyes drift closed as she exhaled. “Maybe. But it’s hard to think about that when all I can see is what’s right in front of me. The exams, the pressure to succeed… it’s all-consuming.”

Charlie’s hand found hers, his fingers wrapping around hers with a reassuring squeeze. “I know. But you’ve got me, and I’ve got you. We’ll get through it together.”

She turned her head, opening her eyes to meet his. There was something in the way he looked at her that made her heart skip a beat.

“You keep me sane, Char,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Charlie smiled, that crooked grin she loved so much. “Right back at you, angel.”

She leaned into him, their faces just inches apart now. The smoke from their cigarettes mingled in the air between them, adding a hazy, almost dreamlike quality to the moment. Y/N’s eyes flickered down to his lips, and she bit her own for just a second before letting out a soft sigh.

“You know,” she said, her voice teasing as she brought her cigarette to her lips again, “if this is our little escape, we should make the most of it.”

Charlie chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “Oh, I’m all for making the most of it.”

Y/N’s gaze met him again, and this time, she didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, closing the distance between them, her lips brushing against his. The kiss was slow, deliberate, like they had all the time in the world. Charlie’s hand came up to cradle her cheek, deepening the kiss as he pulled her impossibly closer.

The world outside seemed to disappear entirely. All that mattered was the warmth of Charlie’s lips against hers, the taste of tobacco lingering between them, and the way their hearts seemed to beat in sync.

When they finally pulled away, both breathless, their foreheads resting against each other as they tried to steady themselves. Y/N took one last drag from her cigarette before stubbing it out on the ledge, her fingers brushing lightly against Charlie’s hand.

“Maybe the unknown isn’t so scary,” she murmured, her voice laced with a newfound sense of hope. “Not if I’ve got you.”

Charlie smiled, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand. “Yeah,” he agreed softly. “We’ll take on whatever comes next. Together.”

They sat there in silence for a while longer, finishing their cigarettes and watching the last light of the day fade into twilight. There was no rush to leave, no urgency to return to the real world. Here, in their secret spot, they could just be.

And that was enough.

[lixenn]

OCtober 2024 day 27: fear

For today I decided to write a little snippet featuring René and his anxiety since fear is pretty much part of his life 24/7.

TW: minor self harm and anxiety? attack (René is not having a great time 😔)

The trembling wouldn’t stop.

Five minutes and 45 seconds.

The breathing exercises didn’t help, distractions just made him miserable and there weren’t anymore nails left to bite at.

René might have a problem.

A small one. Barely a blib on other people’s radar. Not significant in any way but a problem nonetheless but that was nothing new.

6 minutes.

His hands were still shaking, he should probably. Just … stop, but he reached the point where tremors were on the last place of his priority list.

The experiment failed again. Seven times. All of them gone to shit. He’d followed the protocol to the letter, replicated the entire process from the exact materials to the environmental conditions but still. No dice. Which made no logical sense because René knew it should have worked. He’d seen it with his own eyes, analysed the data and the results spoke for themselves, but one success meant nothing in science. Without statistics there’s no proof, no proof meant no conclusive result and no result was failure.

René was sick of failing.

Sick of experiments, sick of lab, sick of numbers that made no sense.

Sick. Sick. Sicksicksicksicksick.

The trembling stopped but only because he was gripping his hair too hard for there to be any room for further movement. The stinging pain was a slight relief against his spiralling thoughts, so he tugged, harsh. Once. Twice. His scalp burned and some hairs gave away to his grip. René let go, staring at the strawberry red strands woven between his fingers. His vision was obstructed by tears, partly from the pain but mostly result of frustration and being overwhelmed.

The urge to rip, scratch, bite bubbled up again, but René caught himself before he dove of the deep end.

I-

I need.

I need Cilmi.

Cilmi would fix it. Cilmi always fixed it. When anxiety crept up on him in the dark, when fear dragged him down and chained him to despair.

Cilmi will fix it.

Climbing to his feet was hard. Taking a step forward was harder and actually entering the hallway was nearly impossible but René managed. Somehow. He always managed. He needed to. Because his mind never left him alone, anxiety a constant companion ever since he’d been small and with time he learned to cope with his treacherous brain. But there were bad days and worse days and days where he could barely get out of bad without hyperventilating.

Today was bad but not …. the worst.

Because Cilmi was still there. As long as his best friend was still in reach, René could handle the trap falls of life.

The door to the library – oaken, heavy and still splattered with drops of blood – was a welcome sight to René’s tired eyes.

Nearly there.

The smell of books, a mixture of paper, ink and a smattering of dust, brought tears into his eyes again. It smelt like home. Safe.

René homed in on Cilmi, who had looked up from his book as soon as the silence of his sanctum had been disturbed by the squeaking of the door. His dark eyes catalogued everything, the wet cheeks, messy hair, trembling lip and blood crusted nails. No judgement, no disgust, no pity. Cilmi just registered everything that René’s appearance had to offer, came to a conclusion and carefully closed his book.

In a matter of seconds his friend stood before him, taking over his entire vision. A heavy hand dropped onto his hand, the weight familiar and unmistakable, the careful ruffle a stark contrast to his earlier pain.

Cilmi was always careful with him. Careful and kind.

And with the very same kindness he enveloped René in his Flames and ordered:

“Sleep.”

Reality fell away, making space for the bliss of unconsciousness and René let himself fall into a dreamless sleep.

Thanks.

[cgogs]

dear atlas, c!dnf | 4.7k | angst with a happy ending

@dreblrsecretsanta for @purpleglitch !! Sorry for the early upload, it's just that I'm about to be BEYOND busy for the holidays and figured I'd upload this now while I have time. I hope you enjoy it so much!! Happy holidays to you <3

Each step up the castle tower sends a razor-sharp, bone-deep bolt through Dream’s legs. It’s his boot’s fault, mostly. He’s been meaning to replace them, it’s just that every hour more important things are added to his to-do list. Mediate this conflict, protect George, meet with someone here, monitor status on this, go here, deliver that, and try not to die until the day’s itinerary is complete.

Shopping just isn’t a high priority, but he’s beginning to reconsider that sentiment. He really should just give in and invest in another horse, but it would probably just be killed within a month and they’re just far too expensive for that. 

His armor clinks quietly as he moves, uneven and exhausted. A small part of him alerts like a guard dog– straighten up, nobody can know you’re vulnerable, anyone could hear how hurt you are– but another painful step quiets the barking. He traps the groan behind his teeth.

Dream stops for a moment to lean against the wall, hand braced on where the candelabra fixture hooks into the stone. This spiral staircase is dearly kicking his ass, more so than usual. Without the climb to focus on or the pain to blur his vision, he has the opportunity to take in his surroundings.

The castle is quiet, quieter than usual, candles burning low and dripping on the floor. Moonlight cuts through the windows at an angle sharper than it should. 

Dream pulls his communicator from his belt to check the time, a curse slipping out under his breath as the numbers meet his eyes. It’s nearly three in the morning. He’s coming home late. Very late. They talked about this, Dream promised he’d try to get home earlier. 

Guilt settles thick in his gut, despite barely having the brainpower to feel much of anything at all other than exhaustion. He blows the stray hairs out of his eyes, chuffing like an annoyed horse.

Four nights ago, George had been waiting behind the door at the top of the tower. Dream knew he was in trouble before George even opened his mouth. He was holding a clock and asked Dream to guess how late it was. When he guessed wrong, George shoved it in his face, too close to even see the hands, and angrily proclaimed it was nearly one in the morning, and that Dream had been coming home at one in the morning every night the last week after spending all day ‘doing god knows what, who knows where.’

Dream had done his best to be earnest and honest, as much as he could be. If George had it his way and was privy to every little thing Dream did, he’d be stoned in the street or tied to a pyre. Dream’s not sure what events would bridge the gap between these two truths, but he knows it would happen.

He had told George he would try, but that he had so much to do this week. George was anxiously picking at his cuticles the way he did when he was thinking hard, and asked him to promise he wouldn’t come home later than this. Dream thought he’d be able to. And, yes, he’s sorry he broke his promise but… it’s all so important. So important.

He hadn’t meant to let time get away from him. He just had so much to do, and so many stupid things got in the way, Tubbo and Fundy, then Q… and he got in a scrape on his way back and it was all just so fucking stupid.

Guilt grows like a vine up his throat.

He’s sorry. He thinks about what he’s going to say, how he’ll explain himself. He can’t grip on a coherent sentence or script, eyelids heavy like mud, mind fuzzy, feet aching.

Maybe it’ll be fine. George will be asleep, and they can talk about it in the morning. He’ll open the door and see dark hair splayed over feather pillows, still as death. Dream will strip his armor and curl into his body and fit whatever position George fell asleep in, and he’s so excited for it. Though currently, he’s not sure which lover he’s looking forward to seeing more– the bed or the boy.

The last seven days have felt like seven years.

Wax drips onto his fingers. Wincing, he takes another painful step forward. Suddenly things like guilt and excitement were as far away and abstract as distant planets or stars. 

Dream nearly falls through the door when he reaches the summit. He catches his breath, straightens his posture, and prepares to get ready for bed without waking his king. 

He opens the door as quietly as possible. Thankfully, it squeals only a little bit. He tiptoes in, craning his head to look at the boy already fast asleep. He’s curled all the way to the edge of his side of the bed, back facing the door. Dream wonders if it means something. 

He unhooks his cloak first, folding it gently on the table in the middle of the room. It’s a large room that can fit a round dinner table, as well as bookcases and couches and a fireplace. The kinds of things George doesn’t appreciate as much as Dream thought he would.

The boots are next to go, then his sword and his axe, then armor one by one until he’s stripped to his pants and shirt. After a moment’s thought, he shucks off his pants. Shirt and boxers. He looks at the bed and practically salivates, not even thinking to bother with changing his bandages. He sets his comm on the bedside table and attempts to lift a leg to climb in.

Dream’s legs wobble and give out as soon as he leans his weight on the bed. He collapses onto his side, a symphony of pained noises trapped behind the cage of his teeth. He looks up, wide-eyed, to see if he’s woken his Sleeping Beauty. George remains still as a corpse. 

He rather pathetically pulls himself up to spoon him, arm laying limply over George’s side. A sigh of utter relief slides out of his lungs as his chest decompresses. It’s relief like an ice bath in the desert or hot soup in the snow.

The bed is soft on his aching body, George’s sweatpants soft on his bare, bruised legs. Dream drags his calves to tangle with his, allowing himself a relieved whimper into the crook of George’s neck. He sometimes teases George for dressing like he’s living in constant winter, but really he wouldn’t change it for the world. It means soft hugs when he drags his miserable body into bed at the end of the day. If he didn’t wear his sweaters, George wouldn’t be able to cradle his head in his sleeves when he’s bleeding, and Dream wouldn’t be able to bite down on the thick fabric when he had to scream. 

He feels the tension in his body slowly unwind. Every breath has him sinking further and further into the mattress, a taut string slowly, slooowly let to rest. He pulls George closer, hooking his arm tighter around his waist. If he wasn’t used to it it might feel a little like cuddling a corpse. 

That dog in the back of his mind starts growling again. Telling him to check, check, check. 

Dream obliges since it’s a simple request, and he knows he’ll never be able to sleep otherwise. He slides his fingers down George’s arm to find his wrist, pressing on his pulse point. It takes a few adjustments, but he finds that steady beating pressing against the pads of his fingers. Alive. Safe. The last requirement needed to sleep is fulfilled. Dream sighs, nuzzling his head against George’s neck, hand still loosely wrapped around the bone of George’s wrist. 

The midnight air is clear and cool. Dream is warm and holding the love of his life. Nothing outside that horrible wooden door matters here. Nothing else matters. No blood, no bone, no war. Just George.

That is, until he hears the unmistakable sound of his communicator buzzing against the table behind him. Dream ignores it at first, but it comes again and again. His eyebrows knit in frustration. He buries his nose further into the dark space between George’s neck and the pillow, like he could outrun the nagging in the back of his mind. 

It vibrates again, breaking Dream’s resolve. He groans miserably, more than half asleep, as he untangles himself to reach back for the comm. His vision is blurry with sleep, making it near impossible to read the screen until he’s blinked a dozen times. The light of the screen shines too bright for how dark it is. He uses a hand to shield George’s direction so it won’t wake him.

It’s Punz. Punz, in code, telling him he’s finished the reconnaissance he’d been told to do two days ago. Updates on the pet experiments, no luck yet. Their theory about the revive book being exclusive to human souls is seeming more and more solid, but that’s not something he wants to be thinking about at the moment. 

<Dream> thkx

<Dream> domt text me this lat e

He fumbles the buttons, accidentally sending Punz a string of gibberish before giving up entirely on typing a coherent goodbye. He’s about to throw the device down and shove his nose back into the crook of George’s neck when the body next to him begins to tremble.

Dream stares for a moment, wondering if he’s hallucinating from lack of sleep. Then there’s a hiccup, followed by two sharp breaths, both so quiet Dream would have missed them if he wasn’t holding his breath. 

“George?” Dream whispers, voice wrecked from all the yelling he’d done today. He drops the comm on the bed so he can lay his full hand on George’s shoulder. He could be having a nightmare, but he’s not sure. All he knows is that he wants to fix it. “George?”

George gives up on keeping it in and starts crying honestly. Whiny but guttural, more hurt than angry– but it’s with his teeth, not throat. Dream sits up in bed, the exhaustion that had been possessing him instantly chased away. 

“B–by?” Dream whispers, word cracked in two from his shredded voice. “What’s wrong?”

He feels like an idiot trying to catch something that’s about to fall, chasing it around with his arms outstretched. He wants to fix this, but doesn’t know how. George is mad, he can tell, but he’s hugging himself, and that isn’t something George does when he’s mad. It’s something he does when he’s scared. 

“You’re safe.” Dream rubs his arm, pushes those beautiful brown curls out of his face, watches the tears fall over the bridge of his nose. “I’m right here.”

“Why’d’you– why’d you lie to me?” George says, strangled. He seems to decide crying is stupid and embarrassing, because he furiously wipes at his eyes. “Why are you always lying to me?”

Dream bites his lip anxiously. The same guilt from the hallway lacquers his insides again. 

“I didn’t– I’m– I didn’t lie. I lost track of time. I’m sorr–”

“You’re lying to me.” George sits up, eyes red and stubborn. He’s pulling his thoughts together to form an argument, Dream can see the gears turning. “You’re hiding things.” 

“I’m, that– okay, just. What am I lying about?”

“Where you go all day!” George has grabbed a pillow to hug, rocking himself back and forth. Dream thinks, briefly, that he looks cute. He wants to hold him, but the way they’re sitting is classic parley formation, facing each other with crossed legs, knees touching. Neither of them can cross the middle line until the argument is over. That’s just how they do things. “I don’t– I don’t know exactly what, but…”

“I’m not lying to you about where I go. I have a lot of projects, and I’m helping–”

“I know. I know. Helping, helping, helping. Fingers in a lot of pies.” George puts up an honorable fight against the wetness in his voice, still furiously wiping his tears. The skin under his eyes has turned an irritated pink. “But why? Why do you have to do so much? You’re my knight. I’m your king. You should be with me.”

George has a way of shooting arrows straight through him. Dream rubs his eyes as the words dig into his gut. His voice sounds defeated already. “I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“Dream. Like, I– I just don’t understand…”

“Yeah, you don’t.” His voice breaks and turns quiet halfway through, like he could’ve softened the blow.  He doesn’t know why he said that. He’s just tired of this same argument, over and over. It’ll be over soon. So soon. He wishes George would just believe him.

George’s expression screws into desperation, fingers digging into his pillow. “Then tell me! Just, tell me, Dream. I’m not– stupid, I can understand things. I’m not stupid.”

It’s not that Dream is angry. It’s just that he’s tired beyond tired and this is the only time of the day he doesn’t have to wear his armor. The one room where nothing else matters but the people who occupy it. He burrows his head in his hands. 

“Why don’t you trust me, Dream? Did I do something wrong?”

“Why don’t you trust me? Why don’t you just–” 

“Because I can’t even trust you to keep a super simple promise! I’m– you can’t expect me to just, like, be fine with never getting to see you.”

“Well maybe if you tried to be king even a little bit, I wouldn’t have to go do all your shit for you.”

George damn near barks, sharp and angry. Dream watches his mouth form the beginning of a thousand different sentences, hands clenching into fists before his expression breaks entirely. His angry grimace turns into a quivering frown, eyes wet with fear, voice pitched and tight.

“Are you cheating on me?”

Dream feels like he’s swallowed a bucket of ice. His back straightens as he shoots up. Instantly, he regrets antagonizing him. He doesn’t know why he said that. He’s lined with dog teeth.

“No! What? Absolutely not.” He wants to break the rules to touch him. So he does. His side stings as he leans to brush his fingers against George’s knuckles. “Never.”

Whatever angry force of nature George had been channeling before is dying now, Dream can see it fading in his eyes. Fading into some kind of relief. Maybe it was the reassurance, or the touch, but something is pacified.

“Did someone tell you that? Or make a joke?” He knows people don’t have many kind things to say about him these days. George picks at his cuticles, rocking slightly. Dream rocks with him a bit, too.

“No. I guess. Not really…” He sniffles. There’s a stiff silence. Dream searches his eyes, trying to read his mind. “I’m sorry. I’m just crazy.”

“What happened?”

“I just really wanted you to come home tonight. I stayed up.” George shrugs hopelessly, looking anywhere that isn’t Dream. “You have to understand from my perspective. I never see you, and then when I do see you you get into bed and start texting someone else. This isn’t the only time it’s happened.”

“It was just Punz,”

“I don’t care. I don’t care. Not, not my point.” George stresses, “you swore you’d be my knight but you don’t even. Knight. And I guess it’s whatever because I don’t really king either. But I… miss you. I miss you.”

Dream doesn’t know what to say. He opens and closes his mouth like an idiot fish, trying to find a way to comfort him but not make a promise he can’t keep. George waits for it. It never comes. They both feel it when the other gives up on a solution. Defeat on both sides. 

They look at the sheets silently. Their knees rub together. Moonlight makes the room glow, lines the edges of George’s hair in silver.

His voice is small when he speaks next. “Where were you tonight?”

Dream was going to lie so he wouldn’t worry him, but. “I had some trouble with monsters. I got pinned down in the forest. I’m sorry.”

George scoffs. Somehow, Dream knows the frustration isn’t directed at him. “Oh my god. That’s not even your fault.”

“I don’t know. I could have texted you or something. I’m sorry I kept you up.”

George wipes his nose with the edge of his pillow. Dream would think it was gross if it was anyone else. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I’m not around. I want to be. This, it’ll all be over soon. Things will settle down.”

“Does it have to be you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

George nods weakly. He knows he won’t get a better answer. Dream doesn’t have a better one to give him. He’s too tired. 

“And you’re not cheating on me?”

“You are the prettiest thing in the whole world. I’d be an idiot.” He doesn’t know if flattery will get him far, but he can see the corners of George’s mouth flicker, and that’s enough. “You’re the only one that would put up with me anyway.”

“Why is your voice so messed up?” George lays his pillow back down on the bed. His legs unfold and he moves to lay back down. Dream wants to scoot closer, but thinks twice. There’s a moonbeam shining there. He doesn’t want George to see his legs. 

“Screamed a lot.”

“Why?”

“Scaring people to cut their shit out.”

“Mmh.”

This is George’s script for end-of-day. It doesn’t have a lot of heart this time. Dream is realizing it never truly did. He feels bad. George lays his hand in the empty space, beckoning him to come forward or lay down. Dream doesn’t move. He sucks in a breath.

“Are you okay? Did… Dream, are you hurt?”

He’s an idiot for thinking he could keep it from George, of all people. But he didn’t want to worry him.

“Uh. Well, yeah. But it’s okay. I promise. I already treated it.” Dream knows this won’t work. He tries to lay down, legs twitching through the pain. George clocks it immediately, propping himself up on his forearms.

“Show me.” 

It’s not a request. So, Dream does. He pulls his legs into the light in all their bruised glory. His foot, the one that was giving him the most trouble, is a far deeper shade of purple than he anticipated. 

George runs his fingers over each bruise, marble white and cold as stone. His expression is stone. He must spot a hint of bandage from under Dream’s shirt, because his eyes flit from his bruises to his side, and Dream knows the jig is up.

“I promise it’s okay. I promise, George.” Not that his promises mean anything. 

George must think so too. He ignores him in favor of gently pulling up his shirt, spying the blood soaked bandages wrapped around his middle. Dream hisses when the fabric of his shirt catches on the gauze. George frowns.

“Why would you let me just yell at you for being late? You should have told me.” 

“To be fair. I was late.”

“To be fair. You were wounded. You literally got jumped.” 

George gives it an apologetic look, tracing the blood stains with the tips of his fingers. Guilt doesn’t look good on him, but Dream doesn’t know how to fix it. 

“Change those first thing when you wake up.” George sets his shirt back in place. He gently tugs on Dream’s neck to lay down. Nothing sounds better. “And don’t jump around and stuff.”

“I know.”

They curl up together, noses nearly pressing. It’s faint in the dark, but Dream can see the pitiable expression on his face. Thin, cold fingers come to rest on Dream’s jaw. Dream holds his hip in return. Equal and fair, reciprocated and even. George searches his eyes for an anchor, something to respond to. He just looks sadder and sadder as the minutes press on.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I just miss you.”

It’s hard for Dream to whisper back. “I miss y–u too.”

“Do you really?”

“This is my favorite part of the day. Getting to hold you. ‘N be held by you.”

The fingers on his jaw twitch. George’s thumbs cradle his face. Dream watches his face carefully. Though he knows every curve and edge and nasty imperfection of George’s being, it only hits him in moments like this just how much he has to protect. The whole world fits in the curve of his arms. The whole world has a kiss like a nine-volt battery and fury like a god. The whole world waits for him to come home every day, hoping he’s in one piece. Dream wonders if the world knows he’s trying to save it. 

“I love you.” George whispers, barely tethered to the waking world. Maybe he realized he hadn’t said it when they were fighting, or after they decided to stop fighting. Maybe it's the last thing he thinks before going to sleep, and the first thing he thinks in the morning. Maybe it was coating the back of his throat like Dream’s guilt coats his, and he just had to tell him.

“I’m sorry.” Dream kisses him. “I love you.”

George falls asleep with tear tracks that have just barely dried. Dream wipes them away with his thumbs, admiring how peaceful he looks. 

Dream sleeps like the dead, but wakes with the dawn no matter what. He lingers in the warmth for a while before the sun’s light is too much to bear. Properly waking up to pain first thing in the morning is beginning to be a more and more common occurrence. His legs pulse with every beat of his heart, and his side isn’t much better. There’s a few droplets of blood on the sheets, which is what finally gets him to untangle himself from the mess of limbs that snaked around him in the night. 

George stirs lightly, but it’s unlikely he’ll truly wake before eight. Dream gently tugs at the arms around his neck, and they retract with a sleepy, confused mumble.

“I have to change these bandages.” Dream whispers against his temple. 

George makes an agreeable noise before moving to hug his pillow instead. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Dream spends the morning planning his mental itinerary. But also, redressing his wounds, and trying to figure out what to do with his legs. Salve, maybe. A healing potion, but he’s running low and wants to save them for an emergency. Besides, he took a few sips when it happened. It should be fine.

He’s supposed to get up now and meet with Punz. And then work on the book, and then go here and do this, and patrol that. But his legs just won’t move. 

He thinks, maybe for one day, he can spend it doing nothing. Besides, he actually is wounded. He does need to recoup. It’s not an excuse, yeah?

He wants to make it up to George. He’s not much of a romantic, and really he sucks shit at being a boyfriend, but he knows one thing that always makes George smile. The big toothy kind that makes his cheeks pink. He wants to see it before he has to get back to work.

Dream leaves a note on his side of the bed telling him that when he wakes up he should go to the hill outside. The one with the big tree.

Dream hobbles himself to the florist. He hopes that with his mask and baggy clothes, Niki won’t notice his limping. A dozen red roses. By the time he’s gotten there and halfway back, he’s convinced himself he’s walked off his bruising. 

Under the oak tree on the hill overlooking the castle, Dream spies a red cape blowing in the wind, and the glint of gold. The person faraway raises a hand over their eyes to peer, then uses his entire arm to wave at him hugely. It makes Dream laugh. 

They hurry to meet each other. George just seems excited to see him, like he always seems to be, except late at night when he’s already too angry. George doesn’t leave the shade, but he holds out his hands for Dream to take so he can pull him up the hill. Dream gives him one arm, the other holding the bouquet behind his back. 

“Wow. You’re actually in the sun. I never see that.”

“I got you something. I’m, uh, making it up to you.”

George pauses, wide eyed, trying to lean to see what’s behind his back. 

“It’s not a puppy, right?”

“What? No. What? Why would I get you a puppy?” Dream keeps turning to keep him from seeing. He can feel his own smile cracking his face. 

“I don’t know, I got scared! Now gimme.” George tries to blindly reach behind him. Dream grabs his wrist and pulls him close, wrapping an arm around his waist. George smiles at him smugly.

“Not even a thank you or anything?”

“I don’t know what it is yet, idiot. You haven’t given it to me.” George’s busy hands settle for pushing his mask up, instead. The breeze feels cool on the light layer of sweat that’s formed on his forehead. George smiles warmly at his face. It’s a smile Dream doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of. But not the exact one he’s aiming for.

Dream’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Ohh, you want me to give it to you? Here? Outside??”

“Oh, shut up! Show me. I demand it. As your king.” He tilts his head regally, crown glinting in the light that’s casted through the leaves. Dream almost forgets they ever had a fight at all.

Dream pulls the flowers from behind his back and presses them to George’s chest. He tries to give him a smile with it, but knows it probably looks a bit forced. George doesn’t seem to notice at all, face erupting into a smile nearly immediately. The smile. Dream can’t help but stare.

Dream thinks this must be what sunbathing is meant to feel like.

“Dream! I love it. I looove it.” George hugs them close, still beaming. Dream thinks he understands religion. “What’s the occasion?” 

“Huh? Oh. I’m sucking up.”

George laughs. Takes a brief break, then laughs again. “You’re so stupid.”

“I wanted to cheer you up.” Dream rubs his thumb on his side idly, soaking in the feeling. 

“You derailed your whole day just to get me flowers?”

“Uhhh, well. I canceled my whole day to recover from my grievous wounds. My life threatening injuries. Oh no. “ Dream spins them a bit dramatically, just to make George laugh. There’s a few rose petals on the ground.

“Oh, you need someone to kiss it bett– wait, really?”

“Yeah, really. Hey, what was that you were offering just now?”

“You’re not doing anything today?”

Dream shakes his head. George’s face lights up. 

“Stay!” He blurts, “You should stay. Stay here. With me. I’ll kiss the stupid boo-boos better.”

“I don’t have anywhere better to be.” Dream shrugs, casual, aloof. “And I like kisses. Sure.”

Unexpectedly, lips crash into his. All of George’s weight crashes into him, really. Arms snake around his neck, and he tries to support them both before he realizes George is trying to make them fall. He goes limp, letting George tackle him into the grass. George is still kissing him. He pulls Dream’s neck to the side, which Dream allows because he hadn’t realized they were on the edge of the hill.

He yells into George’s mouth as they go tumbling, wrapping his arms around George’s head to make sure he doesn’t hit it. Someone is laughing, maybe both of them, as they spin and spin and spin and leave a trail of petals behind. 

The world finally comes to a stop with George cradled on top of him, gloved hand still covering the back of his head. 

George sits up, looming over Dream’s face, laughing like the whole world is laughing with him. Dream might have gotten the wind knocked out of him. The sun is eclipsed by George’s hair, a halo hanging behind him. His actual crown has probably rolled further away, but neither of them can care about such stupid things when there’s so much in front of them. 

Dream breaks the mirage to sit up and kiss him. Then kiss him again. There’s a buzzing in his back pocket, but it’s tomorrow’s problem. 

Today, the world loves red roses and fits in the curve of his arms.

[neyswxrld]

familiar faces

Reece x gn!reader

summary: After some months of uncertainty, you finally reunite with your loved one.

words: ~1780

warnings: reader is in a depressive state of mind, feelings of loneliness and hopelessness, injuries, kissing

a/n: hello! this is a somewhat special fic and a little thanks for @trixie2023! i really appreciate your lovely and kind reblogs, and now i finally had an idea how to bring reece into a fic with some @summer-of-bad-batch prompts: "it's just a scratch" & injured.

i hope you enjoy!

MASTERLIST

Just a few months ago, everything was fine. You were saying goodbye to the love of your life, Reece, wishing him good luck for the mission you agreed to stay behind and sit out from. 

The two of you were helping Rex and his men out, supporting his clone rebellion as a thanks to how he helped Reece to escape the hands of the Empire.

The mission was supposed to be a rather easy one. A fellow clone called for help, and Reece and some of his other brothers had the task to pick him up.

You didn't exactly know what or how it happened, you just knew that Reece didn't come back.

None of them did.

The loss of him, the uncertainty if he was dead or in the Empire's hands again, maybe even on this mysterious Mount Tantiss place Rex and his brothers were looking for since so long, made you sick.

You felt awful, like your heart was ripped out. Empty. Sad. Upset. Angry.

You felt like someone pushed you into a deep, dark hole, and you weren't able to climb up again.

The light had left your life.

To say you were useless and not a big help for Rex was an understatement.

Deep inside, you knew that he just meant well when he sent you with Echo to that weird island his brothers lived on after the Teth incident. But you couldn't feel any different than like he was pushing you away.

You felt like he didn't want your help, like you were too much, and you were in his way.

It took you some time to grow somewhat accustomed to the tropical weather and the many polite people on the island.

And even though you still were empty inside, you slowly started to feel better.

You were friendly with most of the people, tried to help them.

You lived in your own small house almost on the top of the island.

Life started to become a little easier again.

At least until the Empire reached the island, looking for the girl who was with the Bad Batch, taking her with them.

It felt like your world was tumbling down again.

You pulled back after that. All those feelings you swallowed down came back rushing in.

You missed him.

You missed Reece so much.

His kind eyes, his warm laugh. The way he held you, made you smile. His stupid jokes that always made you laugh, the way time felt like nothing and all when he was with you.

You missed him so, so much.

The Batch went after the girl almost immediately. And even though you didn't have to do too much with them, you felt alone again.

Suddenly, there weren't any clones here anymore. No familiar faces. No one that could remind you of the love of your life and that made everything even worse.

From that point on, you were spiraling downwards.

You felt like no one could help you, except Reece. And at the same time, he just wasn't there.

Until that one day, when a small shuttle landed on top of the island.

You were trying to do your weekly shopping tour for food and things you'll need to survive, when the shuttle touched the ground.

A lot of people were wary at first. No one has been notified of visitors.

But then the door opened, and three (or four, if you counted the baby too) small figures stepped out of it, followed by a tall woman that looked just as unsure as the villagers.

Her name was Emerie, and she was one of the head scientists in Mount Tantiss. The Batch just started an attack, trying to free Omega. Freeing other clone prisoners while they were on it.

For the first time in a while, you felt a spark of hope in your chest. Normally, you would put it out and ignore it immediately, But this one time, you couldn't. Fully aware, that if Reece won't step out of the shuttle with the rescued prisoners, it would shatter you.

It took almost a whole other day, until you could hear a new shuttle approaching.

After the news, Emerie and the kids had, you put your bought stuff in your home, jittery and sloppy, not even putting everything away how it should be.

Since then, you lingered on top of the island, wringing your hands and waiting for the shuttle. The one shuttle that could bring him back to you.

Your nerves are on edge when you catch sight of the shuttle.

It touches down almost too slow.

The doors open.

You take a look at every single person stepping out of the shuttle.

You recognize the Batch, relieved at the way Omega stays close to them.

Echo is climbing down, nodding at you once. He looks relieved, but at the same time he is tense.

All around you are familiar faces, but at the same time you seem to recognize no one.

Your heart begins to crack.

When the last person steps out, you swallow dryly, almost embarrassed about how you could allow yourself to hope so much for such a little chance.

Shaking your head, you turn away, ready to drown yourself in your tears, when you hear a broken, painful gasp behind you.

Someone is calling your name.

No, not just someone. 

You turn back in an instant.

There are two other clones left, now stumbling out of the shuttle slowly.

One leans heavily onto the other, holding on for dear life.

His face is pale, his hair grown out and messy. He clutches his side with one of his hands, a bloody, ripped shirt below.

"Reece?" you ask quietly, unbelieving.

"Yes," he says. His smile turns a bit painful as he starts to wobble towards you.

"H-How-... What?" you ask, still not understanding, that he indeed stands in front of you.

"The Empire got us after we picked him up," Reece explains and nods to the brother who keeps him standing. "Shipped us to Tantiss. But... But now we got out. What are you doing here?" he asks back, finally reaching you and putting his free arm around you. 

"That's a long story," you whisper. His touch is soothing, familiar. And Suddenly you realize that he is really standing here, in front of you.

"Maker... Maker, I missed you. So, so much. I'm glad you're safe," he breathes as he puts some of his weight on you.

"Reece," you whisper again when he leans into your side, groaning with pain. "You're hurt. You shouldn't-"

"It's just a scratch. Everything is fine," he tries to soothe you, but with the way he's talking you just hear in how much pain he is.

"Stop lying, I see that that's not the truth. You need medical attention," you say, unconvinced and lay your arm around his back too, trying to support some of his weight.

"No, Echo already cleaned my wounds. All I need now is peace and quiet. And rest. And you," he tells you, a small smile on his lips as he looks at you.

Unconvinced, you shake your head, swallowing a few times.

He's really standing in front of you.

"Do you want to come home?" you ask him, and his smile grows.

"Yes, please," he nods. Together, you say goodbye to his friend, Nova, and start to walk down the street.

When you arrive, you try to help him as much as you can.

You give him food, something to drink. You help him clean up, wash his hair and look at his wound again.

His whole body is covered in bruises. Here and there are some small bacta patches, and he looks too thin. It makes him look even smaller than he already is, sitting on the edge of your bathtub like that.

You feel nauseous, but Reece just shakes his head. "It's not as bad as it looks. I'll live, I promise," he tries to soothe you.

"You promise?" you ask again.

"I promise."

You look into each other's eyes. Deeply. Loving. Longing.

"I never said it back earlier, but I really missed you, too. I felt so lost and incomplete. I'm so glad you're with me again. A-And I hope you can stay here for a while. I don't-" you begin, but Reece stops you.

"I'm not leaving you again," he breathes, promises you. "Never."

You look down at him, into his warm, brown eyes, and put your hands on his cheeks, stroking them with your thumbs.

"I'm not leaving you either," you assure him. He puts his hands on your hips, pulling you slightly closer, between his legs.

It's like the world slows down, and then there are just the two of you.

You bend down to him, he tilts his chin up, and then - oh so slowly and carefully - your lips touch.

And suddenly you know, how lonely you really felt in all those months.

Suddenly, you're complete again. Whole.

His beard tickles your face, his breath makes you feel alive again, and his lips on yours feel like heaven.

You missed him so much.

Only when he puts his hands on your face too, and wipe away some tears, you realize you started crying.

They're not tears of sadness or loneliness- They're tears of relieve and happiness. Of thankfulness. You're thankful he's here, and he's alive.

You know that the next days, weeks, or even months won't be easy. He sure as hell will have some fears and traumas to work through, but you know the two of you could put up with it. Could pull through. You would help him heal, and you are ready to give him everything he needs.

You're going to be fine, as long as you stay together.

Later that night, you lay in your bed together.

Carefully to avoid his wounds, you try to cuddle up to him. Like so often, he puts his arm around you and pushes you into his side.

For the first time in so long, you smell him again. Feel him again. He's laying here in bed with you again.

He's here again.

You still can't really believe it, almost too scared to close your eyes and fall asleep, only to open them again and realize it was just a dream.

His whispers soothe you, and you try to do the same with your gentle touches.

He's home again.

He's home, and he'll never leave you again.

Not able to fight sleep any longer, you close your eyes.

When you open them again, he's still there.

TAGLIST

@isthereanechoinhere96 @trixie2023 @freesia-writes

[ghostieagere]

i'm sorry i've been hoarding this ask for so long, dear anon :0 i think it's about time i got around to writing this one properly, don't you ? <3

cw: mountain is worried he's being annoying/a burden, little mountain, caregivers swiss and rain, they/them rain, allusions to spanish swiss and french rain

The kettle kicks into motion as Swiss moves around the kitchen. He's making himself a coffee, but he figures it wouldn't be out of place to make some teas for anyone else who wants one. As he's reaching into the high cupboard to grasp around for the tin of teabags, though, a noise catches his attention.

It sounds like a whine, or maybe a sniffle, but either way it's quiet. As if whoever is making the noise is trying to stifle themselves. What's confusing though, is that there is no one else in the kitchen with Swiss; they're all on the sofa preparing for their weekly movie night while Swiss makes their drinks (it's Sunshine's turn to pick the movie this week so they're watching The Exorcist, again).

The sound reaches Swiss' ears again, just barely concealed by the thrum of the kettle. It sounds like a kit's whine, Swiss notes. A distressed kit, or a lonely one. Perhaps both. He quickly runs to the lounge area and does a quick headcount. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine... Someone's missing, and Mountain's beanbag is empty.

Oh.

Swiss races back to the kitchen and calls out for the earth ghoul. "Mount?" He calls. "Tierra, are you in here?"

Another sniffle answers him, and one of the lower cupboard doors swings open slightly.

Swiss slowly walks over to the cupboard and crouches down in front of it, opening the door just as gradually. He doesn't want to spook the earth ghoul even more than he seems to be.

As Swiss opens the cupboard door, tear-filled green eyes stare back at him. Mountain, at some point during the day, has managed to squish himself and his comfort blanket into the cramped kitchen cupboard.

Swiss smiles down at him gently. "Hi, Mounty. What are you doing in here, tierra?"

Mountain furrows his brows and brings his blanket up to cover his face.

"Oh, you're hiding?"

The little earth ghoul nods, blanket still draped over his horns.

"You don't wanna come watch the movie with us?"

Mountain shakes his head so rapidly that it's a wonder he doesn't fall out of the cupboard from dizziness.

"Ex-ist," he croaks. Words are always difficult for him when he slips into this headspace.

"Ex-ist...?" Swiss wonders aloud. "Oh! The Exorcist?" Mountain nods. "You don't want to watch The Exorcist?"

Mountain shakes his head, bringing his blanket off of his head, and Swiss finally realises that the cause of the tears filling the earth ghoul's eyes is fear.

"You don't have to watch the scary movie if you don't want to, baby," he assures Mountain. "We can go to my room and do something else, if you'd like." He smiles at the little earth ghoul, hoping he'll be able to coax him out of the cupboard; the cramped space doesn't look very comfortable at all.

Despite the relief in Mountain's eyes when Swiss tells him he doesn't have to watch the movie if he doesn't want to, Mountain shakes his head yet again, opening and closing his mouth as he tries to say something. He only gets more frustrated when his vocal chords don't want to cooperate with him.

"I'll tell you what, tierra," Swiss starts, quickly stepping in to stop Mountain's spiralling thoughts. "If you let me help you out of your cupboard, we can go and get your whiteboard. Then you'll be able to tell me what you're thinkin' in that brain of yours, yeah?"

Mountain gives Swiss a small smile and a nod, holding his hand out to let Swiss help him out of the cupboard. The multi ghoul grasps his wrist and tugs gently, still allowing Mountain to climb out at his own pace. Once he's out, the little earth ghoul sits on the floor, legs straight out in front of him, the corner of his blanket in between his teeth as he chews and sucks on the soft fabric.

"Alrighty, little buddy," Swiss reaches a hand out and rubs Mountain's knee comfortingly. "Do you want to come with me to get your whiteboard?"

Mountain shakes his head and points to the floor with the hand not holding his blanket up to his face; he wants to stay on the kitchen floor.

"Will you be okay on your own in here?"

Another shake of the head.

"Who do you want to keep you company, tierra?"

Mountain shrugs.

Swiss gives him a grin and a thumbs up before jumping to his feet. "I'll be back real soon, 'kay?"

Mountain nods and Swiss only just manages to catch a glimpse of the shaky thumbs up that the little earth ghoul gives him in return.

As Swiss rounds the corner to the lounge area, Sunny spots him and smiles before making a face when she sees that he isn't carrying any drinks like he'd promised earlier. "Can one of you go look after Mount for a sec, please?" He asks. "He's in the kitchen and wants some company while I grab his whiteboard."

Rain nods and makes their way over to the kitchen as Swiss heads in the opposite direction towards Mountain's bedroom. He gathers up Mountain's whiteboard and pencil case of markers under one arm and does a quick scan of the room for anything Mountain may want later on. All of the little earth ghoul's favourite cups, bowls and snacks are in the kitchen, he's already got his blanket with him, and he's not slipped far enough to want or accept a pacifier or teether, so Swiss deems the whiteboard and markers enough for now and makes his way back to the kitchen.

When he gets there, Rain and Mountain are sitting side-by-side and Rain is helping Mountain to play some kind of counting game on their fingers. The water ghoul nudges Mountain when they see Swiss walk in, pointing to the multi ghoul to let Mountain know he's back.

"Look what I've got..." Swiss sing-songs, grinning wide when Mountain looks up at him excitedly, already reaching his hands out for his communication tool.

Once Swiss has passed it to him, the little earth ghoul grabs his favourite green marker in his fist and starts writing messily on the board. He turns the board around for Swiss and Rain to see.

"wanna wach a moovy but not exy-sist but sunny wants to wach exy-sist so it is mean if i do not let her :("

"Oh, tierra, Sunny won't mind if you ask if we can watch something else."

"Yes," Rain agrees. "She likes The Exorcist, but she loves you more, mon petit chou."

Mountain turns the whiteboard around and erases the marker on its surface, quickly writing another phrase before turning it back around to face Swiss and Rain.

"promiss?"

“We promise, darling,” Rain assures him.

Swiss smiles his agreement. “Do you want to ask Sunny, baby? We can help if you want us to.”

Mountain nods tentatively and out of the corner of his eye, Swiss sees Rain’s face split into a soft smile as well.

“How about you get something written down on that whiteboard of yours then, tierra?” Swiss reaches out to ruffle the little earth ghoul’s hair gently as he finishes speaking. He can see Mountain fighting off a smile as he rubs the marker off with his sleeve and begins writing.

Rain moves around to look over Mountain’s shoulder, nodding along as they read what the the little earth ghoul writes, occasionally giving him ideas for phrasing his words nicely. Mountain gives them both a thumbs up when he’s done.

Rain kisses the top of Mountain’s head and assures him that he’s done a very good job before standing up and holding their hand out to the little earth ghoul.

Swiss gently swipes the whiteboard and marker out of Mountain’s hand before mirroring Rain’s action, both of them offering to pull Mountain up. Once he’s up, Swiss offers the whiteboard back to him, but Mountain shakes his head, lifting his both hands where they’re joined to Rain’s and Swiss’ own.

“You wanna keep holding hands, tierra?”

Mountain nods, almost shyly, like he doesn’t know if it’s okay.

“That’s perfectly alright, petit chou,” Rain smiles.

“Yeah,” Swiss agrees. “We’ll keep you nice and close in the common room too, okay?”

Mountain nods, more sure of himself this time.

“You ready?” Swiss waits for yet another answering nod from the little earth ghoul. “Alrighty, let’s go find Sunny!”

[larkspyrr]

chapter iii — beat me up so i can fight for what i believe in (wc. 5k)

prev — masterlist / ao3 — next

reblogs are appreciated!

You and Molly stepped away from the sprawling opulence of the Opera Epiclese and directly into a spiral stairwell leading to a lift, gears whirring softly as the sliding doors shifted shut and you were ferried away to another world. You couldn’t help but inhale sharply as the cabin was closing off, subconsciously trying to preserve a wisp of the outside world within you, tucked safely away in your lungs, for just one moment longer.

You were lowered to a hallway that smelled of stale water and kelp, dotted with a collection of orange-toned gas lamps that did little to warm the temperature or the atmosphere. Dim, greenish light filtered down into the elevator shaft from between the blades of a massive fan, where you and Molly looked at each other with twin unease. You moved forward, but there were no other people in the hallway but for two guards, who did not so much as look at you as you passed by and into what looked to be a lobby ahead. The echo of your footsteps bounced off the walls and ceilings overhead as you continued down the murky passageway — a dirge for the freedom of countless souls who had made the march before you.

The reception area was a huge space, centered around a long, bare desk manned by a bored young woman, tapping her chin absentmindedly in the eerie glow, eyes looking somewhere far away. Multiple fans like the first spun along the walls, though it seemed they did little to circulate the air, still somehow stifling and muggy despite the chill. Behind the desk was an aquabus sitting in a pool of shallow water, idling. A few people were scattered throughout the space, accompanied by guards or tearfully hugging loved ones farewell.

Above it all was an enormous sign embedded into the far wall over a large, circular portcullis. On it, engraved in bronze — those who do not work shall not eat. You swallowed, inexplicably nervous.

The woman noticed you at last, hand dropping lazily to the desk where it continued its absentminded percussion. "You must be her. The warden is expecting you," she drawled, gesturing to the aquabus behind her. "Hop in. Should only be a few minutes."

You thanked her and gingerly climbed into the aquabus, trying and failing to keep your hem dry as you stepped across the water to board. True to her word, a little lilac Melusine wordlessly hopped in only a minute later, fiddling with the machinery to get the bus going. There were only a small handful of the others aboard, guards and new inmates whose loved ones were left behind as they moved onward to their fates.

You thought the journey would never end, aquabus steadily rocking along the gloomy waterway, algae clinging to the cool stone. Unsurprisingly, it seemed none of the other passengers had much to say. You felt it would have been inappropriate to try and start a conversation with Molly, who still sat beside you, steady as ever, and instead decided to endure the uncomfortable silence.

Finally, the ferry came up upon its destination, a second portcullis yawning open to allow entry to another large chamber, better lit than the last. Water dripped down onto you from its teeth as you passed beneath it and bobbed into the next room.

As the aquabus entered the new chamber, you froze. Molly gasped softly at your side, hand reaching up to cover her open mouth. You only noticed out of the corner of your eye, suddenly unable to tear your gaze away from the sight that unfolded before you.

You were rooted in your seat before the almost paralyzing beauty of the sea in its mesmerizing entirety; three floor to ceiling windows, unveiling the heart of the Fontemer before you, as mighty and vibrant and captivating as a living painting. You were herded off the aquabus by an impatient Melusine; barely noticing it as you continued to walk along the windows, each shifted angle revealing something new and wonderful in the aquatic landscape lain before you. Fish swam in colorful schools past kelp as tall as any building in the Court. You could see towering structures far off in the distance, emitting streams of bubbles and piercing light. A group of rays danced by, opalescent wings catching the light of the day far above. A single otter swooped into view, tapping what looked like an oyster on the glass in front of your nose before zipping merrily off into parts unknown, leaving a thin trail of bubbles in its wake.

It was bewitching. Humbling. You’d never felt smaller.

After allowing yourself as much time as you could afford to simply look out at the depths, all the other passengers having long since departed with their escort, you took the last lift down, somehow further still into the depths.

You were deposited into a hallway that bustled with unexpected life, moving with as much energy and color as the sea from beyond those enchanting windows.

The Fortress of Meropide was both exactly and not at all what you had expected.

It felt like the underworld from Enkanomiyan mythology you had read about — guarded by three-headed dogs, the river of souls and her cold ferrymaster behind you, lined in frigid bronze. Briny air filled your lungs, the chill clinging to your skin as though it were a palpable entity, but it lacked the bite of the air from the journey down... and also smelled vaguely of food, fresh and delicious.

The architecture remained consistent with the previous levels, yet here at the bottom, the atmosphere could not have felt more different. You were surprised by the energy of the residents, inmates and guards alike. People milled about the floor, mingling with one another regardless of which uniform they wore. A bulletin board with a dozen colorful notices and drawings — was that a child's drawing? — stood proudly beside a huge offshoot tunnel, a couple of inmates chatting animatedly in front of it, gesturing towards a bulletin of interest. A couple of kids ran past, giggling, not a soul paying them or their ongoing game of tag any mind. You could hear a man unexpectedly hawking Fonta, of all things, over near what looked to be a cafeteria to your right. You realized at that same moment that the cafeteria must be the source of whatever smell had set your mouth to watering.

Above the cafeteria — the ‘Coupon Cafeteria’, you noted with mild curiosity — was that motto, yet again crowing at the inmates on the pitfalls of laziness. However, the threat seemed to mean little to the throng of people that went about their days just below its warning, laughing and eating and living.

The Fortress felt more like a town than a prison.

"State your business."

You looked up from your observations as a guard regarded you with a neutral expression. Behind him was a large, bronze door, crowned high above by the same three-headed beast that you’d seen before.

You cleared your throat, once again attempting to harness something vaguely resembling dignity as you realized you had been fully gawking at everything and everyone on the floor. "I’m here to see the duke. He should be expecting me," you said.

He grunted decisively, nodding. The guard on the opposite end of the walkway nodded as well, snapping a quick salute before gesturing for you to follow him. With you and Molly in tow, he approached the impressive, bronze door across the small bridge.

He knocked twice, hard, before leaning against the metal with what looked like his entire body weight. The heavy door swung open under his efforts with an unexpectedly soft groan, considering the sheer size of it.

"Your Grace?" the guard called, heading poking into the room beyond. "Your, uh… guests are here."

"Thanks, you can send them in," came a familiar voice, soft and echoing, inexplicably distant.

The guard saluted you once more before returning to his post. You entered what you realized must be Wriothesley’s office, a large circular space connected to another on a higher level by a bronze spiral staircase curling along the far left wall. You made your way up, dress in-hand to avoid tripping on your hem, still damp at the bottom with seawater from your journey. Molly waited politely by the door, hands folded in front of her waist. She offered you a reassuring nod, somehow detecting your nerves despite your efforts to appear composed. She knew you better than most.

The top of the stairs revealed a surprisingly inviting space — lit not only by more gas lamps, but by the sun, far above in the distance and filtered by a league of glittering seawater. The light moved around the room in ethereal, blue-hued shafts, the rays shepherded along by the slowly spinning blades of the overhead fan. The walls were a clean, interlocking stone, lined with bookshelves overflowing with hundreds of titles and items. There were two circular windows, their stained glass overlooking the strange little world that spun on just outside the office, where people surely still went about their days below as though it was the sky that hung over their heads and not the weight of an ocean. On the opposite side of the room was a classy, red couch and a long tea table, home to several stacks of books, letters, and a clearly expensive, elegant tea set. Steam piped pleasantly from the kettle. The room smelled nice — like freshly brewed chamomile and something warm and masculine, maybe the duke’s cologne. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was.

The curved desk at the center of the room was just as cluttered with various books and papers as the sitting area. There was a gramophone on the far end, playing light, melancholic piano music. A teacup rested near it, though it appeared empty. A red chair matching the lush couch was behind the desk. It looked surprisingly comfortable.

You wouldn’t have called the room cozy, necessarily, but it was much closer than you imagined a prison’s main office could get.

Finally, the man himself hummed from his place in the chair. His hair looked somehow messier than usual, a feat you’d previously thought highly improbable, almost as though he’d been running his hands through it over and over. "Welcome to the Fortress of Meropide," he said distractedly, not looking up from the parchment beneath his hands, and suddenly you'd never felt more like a stranger in your life. "Please give me just a moment to finish this. Then we can begin the tour."

You shifted your weight. "Of course," you said. "Take your time."

He look up at you then and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. Please feel free to take a seat," he said and gestured to the sitting area. "Tea in the kettle is still hot."

You smirked, an ounce of tension draining away as you sat at the end of the couch. "At least your priorities remain intact."

He made a noise that sounded vaguely like a laugh and got back to work.

The song continued to play in the quiet, the lilting melody filling the space as you waited, listening to the scratch of his pen against the parchment. You watched him — blue eyes narrowed as he scribbled away at whatever report he was filling out. He stopped for a moment, non-dominant hand rising to pull thoughtfully through his hair as he spun the pen between deft fingers in his other. You noted with an amused smile that the habit was likely a contributor to the constant state of his hair, despite his apparent efforts to tame it.

The humanity of it was somehow able to ease your nerves a bit further. Just a bit.

The moments passed quietly. You could hear Molly clear her throat from where she waited on the first level of the office. You had a feeling it was more for your benefit than hers.

Finally, Wriothesley sighed, putting the pen aside and standing from the desk, with a brief stretch of his shoulders and neck. "I’m sorry, I lost track of time. Thank you for waiting," he said gently. "I had intended to meet you at the entrance this morning. I know the journey down can be... daunting."

You rolled your eyes as you rose from the couch, swallowing down a relieved sigh as you felt the last remnants of your irrational anxieties fade. "Oh yes," you said, wry. "The murky and oppressive architecture was very charming. Quaint, even."

He snorted. "Unfortunately, that particular aspect of the onboarding experience was designed for our usual through-traffic, as opposed to lovely, law-abiding visitors such as yourself. Truly artfully done, isn’t it?" he mused, looking you over, mouth pulling into a small frown when he reached your feet. "Your dress is wet," he pointed out needlessly.

You lifted your hem a little, kicking at the heavy fabric around your heels. "I’m aware, believe it or not," you said sarcastically. You shot him a look. "No matter. I won’t be wearing it long." The duke raised an entertained eyebrow and your face immediately warmed. "That is to say," you continued quickly. "I can ask Molly to have it dried while we are in the Pankration Ring. When I change into training clothing. Which is when I won’t be wearing these particular clothes."

"Yeah," he said slowly. His lips quirked at the corner. "Of course."

You cleared your throat, arms crossing in front of you. You realized you were being teased. The duke looked dangerously close to smirking, to your consternation.

"Alright then," you said haughtily, attempting to resist the urge to fidget — and nearly failing. "Should we begin the tour, then?"

"This is the administrative floor," Wriothesley announced as the heavy door swung shut behind you.

You hummed appreciatively. "I didn’t get much of a chance, but I did have a quick look on the way in. I'm pleasantly surprised. This place is not at all what I expected."

He smiled, a satisfied look in his slightly downturned eyes. "We hear that a lot. It’s taken a lot of work to get the Fortress to where it is today. It wasn't always like this."

"I believe it."

"Follow me," he said, and you easily fell into step behind him as he began to speak. Molly remained at your side, curiously hanging onto his every word about the history and lifestyle of the Fortress. He walked you around the level along the moat, a clockwise circle from his office, remarking on an interesting feature or landmark every so often, demonstrating his wealth of knowledge. You asked questions here and there about whatever caught your eye and he was always more than happy to answer, rattling on and on, defying every rumor you'd ever heard about the 'taciturn' warden.

He was clearly very proud of how far they'd come. You had nothing to compare the current state of the prison to, but you'd heard dozens of stories spanning centuries of history and none of them were in any way 'feel-good' tales. None of them painted a picture like this. You could only imagine the true difference, if his pride was anything to go by.

Nearly done with a full lap of the administrative floor, Wriothesley stepped in front of the cafe, folding his arms behind his back. "And here is the notorious Coupon Cafeteria," he declared. "A favorite haunt of many of our residents, regardless of their criminal record or lack thereof. Wolsey is our head chef. Good guy, been here ages," he said with a friendly wave to the man behind the counter who you assumed must be Wolsey. The older man waved back before turning back to the woman standing at the kiosk, who had continued chatting away through the interruption, undeterred. "We can stop here to grab a bite to eat later. Wolsey's food is excellent. You can get a fortune too, if that’s your thing."

You chuckled quietly, looking over the cafe area, observing at least a half-dozen inmates trying and failing to look as though they weren’t actively analyzing the duke’s every move. You glanced at him, then to the engraved motto overhead, smiling sardonically at its foreboding declaration. "Don’t I have to work first?"

He sighed, hand going through his hair once again, pulling at the already tousled mess. His voice was weary. "Funny. That philosophy is outdated, barbaric, and ridiculous. Everyone here gets to eat."

"How generous."

"It’s not generosity. It’s a basic human right," Wriothesley explained. "Everyone gets a full meal, once a day, even if they don't work. But we do offer ample rewards to motivate the inmates to stay productive of their own volition. Honest pay for honest work and all that. It allows the Fortress to function, of course, but also helps the inmates themselves. Self-discipline is a skill many of the people who come here have never learned by the time they arrive. This system helps them to readjust to life back on the surface once their sentences end so they can reintegrate and become productive members of society who are less likely to reoffend."

You considered this. "That makes a lot of sense," you said approvingly. "I’m glad to see the philosophies of the past are being left where they belong."

"Glad you see it my way. Many of our peers do not share the sentiment." He offered you a tight smile. "Still, forgive me for the monologue. It’s becoming muscle memory, I think. I find myself having to defend my system more often than not these days. This experience is a novel one for me."

You laughed. "Don’t apologize, I'm genuinely curious. I was only poking fun. Plus, that makes two of us for novel experiences. It's not every day I receive in-depth historical tours of subaqueous prisons."

He looked out over the cafeteria, then at the children whose game of tag had long since ended and were now seated in a corner behind some boxes, scribbling on scraps of paper and chattering away. You'd asked about them during the turn around the administrative floor — orphans, Wriothesley had explained, born to inmates and with nowhere else to go. His eyes seemed to soften as he watched them. "It's not just a prison," he said finally. "Not just, anyway. For many people, this is home."

You were quiet for a moment as you followed his gaze. "Yeah?"

He paused, eyes far away, and nodded. "It offers people a second chance. A fresh start. For many of the people who live here, that is something they never could have hoped to be given in the overworld. Many of them decide to stay after their sentence ends. Leave their pasts behind them."

You could understand wanting to leave your past behind you for something new. Archons knew you wished you could. "So things run smoothly. If people are not only productive but content enough that some are even willing to stay, why would the Court wish to revoke its autonomy?"

Wriothesley scowled, brows furrowing over darkened eyes. "It's about mora, isn't it? Everything is," he said shortly. "This is a prison, but it’s also a successful and lucrative business. If the means of production were in the control of the Court, there would no longer be any fees associated with keeping the production zones running other than whatever it was they chose to allocate to it. Which, I promise you, would be a pittance."

"And you think they’d revoke a lot of the changes you’ve made."

He shook his head defiantly. "I know they would. Some have even told me as much. 'Why pay for wasteful endeavors like welfare meals when they work just fine when their only other option is to starve'," he rattled, clearly an echo of someone else's words. It sounded suspiciously like Lord Thibeault to you. "On top of that, if the Fortress were integrated as a formal entity of the Fontainian government, they would no longer need to purchase any of the items we produce here, from clocks to gardemeks, the funds for which currently go directly back into the prison itself. It would all simply be government property for them to provision as they so wished, whenever they wished. Driving production up and profits down in one fell swoop. You see the problem."

You did see. Your eyebrows drew together in concern. He painted a clear picture and the implications were not happy. "And what about you?"

He scoffed. "Well, I’d be unemployed at best, but it’s really not about me," he said. "Without this system, everything here in the prison would begin to break down. They would revert back to the way things used to be and then become worse. Credit coupons would be revoked without rhyme or reason. Inmates would receive no rehabilitation and then be forcibly ejected once their sentences end, left to flounder for a place in a world that no longer welcomes them. That they don’t know how to function in. People without coupons, for whatever reason — if they had them stolen, if they were sick, or injured, or unable to work — they would starve. People would be overworked to keep up with rising demand and receive no compensation for their labors. People would lose their purpose. The Fortress would lose its sense of community."

You were at a loss for words. "That's awful," you said at last. "That's how it used to be?"

His smile was humorless as he held your gaze. "Sure it is. I lived it."

You tilted your head in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Don't tell me this gossip has truly evaded you?"

You huffed, offended. "I’ve never been one to seek out gossip on purpose."

He looked at you hard for several long moments before coming to some internal decision and sighing in defeat. "I've spent the majority of my years here," he said. "Now as an administrator, but before, as an inmate."

You froze, scanning his face for any sign of deception or humor. You found none. "You’re serious, aren’t you?"

"As a heart attack," he said, hand to his chest. "Your father was in attendance at my trial. I was sure he would have told you."

You were sure he should have, at least, but couldn't say you were surprised he didn't. Perhaps he didn't remember.

You studied Wriothesley's face. It gave nothing away. "What was your crime?" you asked bluntly.

"How bold of you to ask," he intoned, inflectionless. His face tightened. "Look, I paid the price and served my time. That’s all there is to know. But you can understand now why my title means next to nothing to many members of the court."

You nodded, mind racing with hundreds of thoughts you didn't have names for. You decided to let it go for now. "I can," you agreed. "Alright. I understand your predicament better now. And that it’s not just your position at stake. I can respect that."

"Exactly," he said, exhaling. "Thank you. Most of these people are just those who have made a few bad decisions or hit rock bottom. They don't deserve the kind of life — not even life, the existence — they would have were we to have our autonomy taken from us. Of course, there are those who are better off never seeing the light of day again anyway," he said with a frown. "Luckily, Monsieur Neuvillette is as adept at administering the law as the Maison Gardiennage are at enforcing it. And beneath them, there’s me, just trying to give people down on their luck a second chance while trying to protect the overworld from those who need protecting from. Something I pride myself on being quite good at, considering my unique resume."

You looked at him approvingly. You still had questions, of course, but far be it from you to pry when he had clearly come so far and done something good with his life in the time since his incarceration.

"You are just full of surprises, aren't you, Wrio?" you said, offering him a faint smile.

"Yes, well," he said brusquely. He cleared his throat. You thought maybe he sounded a little relieved. "I like to keep people on their toes. Now! Enough with the doom and gloom. I still have several floors to show you."

You passed beneath a huge iron signboard depicting two crossed arms, hands fisted, its once-cheerful paint chipped and peeling. You boarded another lift, heading once more downwards to yet another lower level. It shuddered as you descended, seemingly trying to communicate that it was as exhausted with being put through its paces that afternoon as you were with riding it. You sighed.

It continued down. Molly seemed to press herself against the back wall as it caught and jumped a bit more vigorously than it had previously.

Wriothesley, by contrast, seemed quite at east. "This concludes our tour," Wriothesley announced as the lift came to a sudden stop, stepping out of the cabin, tugging the fingerless gloves off his hands. You paused for a moment in the lift before following him out, Molly trailing not far behind in a skittish hustle. The air on this level of the Fortress was much colder than the others; the deeper you got, you'd noticed, the more pronounced the chill on your skin.

"Good. Thank you for the tour, but I think I’ve taken enough lifts today to last me a lifetime," you droned. "Aren’t you going to show me around the ring, though? That's where we are, isn't it?"

"It is, but nope," he said, lips pulled into a wide grin. "You will get an interactive tour. Trial by fire, as they say."

"Is that so," you drawled, allowing your gaze to take in as much of the room as you can. Nestled between stone risers, wooden boxes, and mountains of boxing paraphernalia, was the ring — a well-made, raised platform ringed by a battered stone barrier. There was intricate masonry inlaid into the flooring — it hardly seemed a comfortable training area, though you imagined the number of amenities within the Fortress that could be considered 'comfortable' were likely tallyable on one hand.

"Clear the ring for the afternoon," Wriothesley was saying to a red-clad man so brawny he looked inflated. He was standing by a small metal board that held various charts and spreadsheets. "I need it for personal use."

"Yes, Your Grace," said the man quickly, nodding and starting to collect his things. You could feel, more than see, him sparing a few curious glances at the three of you as he finished shoving stuff into an enormous duffel bag. He scurried down the hall and into the elevator, pulling the lever to ascend without another word.

Alone at last and without a rapt audience to dissect your every word and gesture, you exhaled, letting your shoulders relax. "This is an impressive gym," you remarked.

"It's a favorite for many, that's for sure. It’s important for the inmates to have a physical outlet," Wriothesley said. "And I’ve found that having this ring dedicated to organized fights has drastically reduced violence in… unsupervised capacities. Here, they can work out their aggression, settle disputes, get exercise, so on. On the ring, everyone is on equal footing, just like in the Fortress as a whole. Noble, common, what have you. It is also a gathering place and a community for fighters and non-fighters to have fun and let off a little steam. Many of the inmates and guards have taken to placing bets on outcomes. It's another motivator for the inmates to get to work. Betting was never for me — I always preferred to fight — but I can see the appeal."

"You fight the inmates?" you asked incredulously.

He smiled, dry. "Not so much anymore. I join tournaments from time to time to let off some steam. Most people don't want to fight me, though, for some reason," he said, winking, "So this will be some good exercise for me as well. Ladies’ locker room is over there." He gestured to one of the doors off to the side of the ring, beneath one of the raised ledges. "Get changed. Meet me back here once you’re done."

You went in the direction he indicated, quickly finding the locker room in question. You were itching to get into the ring; to see what sort of training he'd be offering. You picked an arbitrary locker and stripped out of the many layers of your dress, with Molly’s assistance — changing into dark trousers, a white shirt, and short boots, suitable for mobility. Simple, but comfortable. No frills or heels or lace to get in the way.

You exited the locker room, allowing Molly to disappear to the laundry to clean and dry your waterlogged dress with a few quick words of gratitude. Wriothesley appeared to not have gone far — he was lacing up a different pair of boots as he looked up to meet you, having removed his jacket and some of the other accoutrements from his own attire. They were in a neat pile near the outer edge of the ring. In just his undershirt and vest, sleeves rolled up, and his usual dress trousers, his physique was even more on display than usual — strong and rugged and well-defined. You couldn’t help but to feel a twinge of trepidation as you looked him over. Whether he was a frequent competitor anymore or not, he looked as at home in the ring as he had anywhere. He looked formidable.

"Ready to start," you called, drawing his attention to you.

He looked up from his boots and froze for a second, eyes wide, before straightening back up to his full height. His gaze was heavy on you as he took in your change of attire. He shook his head quickly, not unlike a wet dog, and gestured towards the ring, eyes falling away from you. "Uh, alright, head on up. Let’s get started."

He hopped over the railing of the stairs and climbed up into the ring, tossing you a pair of lightly padded gloves that had been draped over the stone rail as you reached the base. You caught them deftly and followed him up. "Put these on," he told you. "We don’t need either of us leaving with a black eye today. I’m sure the ladies would call it 'unbecoming'."

You laughed, pulling the gloves onto your bare hands. "Astute observation. I’m afraid the ladies would find it very unbecoming of you indeed," you said airily, securing the gloves around each of your wrists.

"Such confidence! Almost enough to make a guy swoon," he said, flippant. He beamed at you then, eyes flashing. "This might actually be interesting. Okay! Now, to start — the most important thing to remember here is that it isn’t the fighter with the most strength who is going to win, nine times out of ten. It’s about speed and technique."

Without warning, he lunged forward, and you instinctively pulled your arms up before you in a defensive stance. He stopped his glove before it made contact. "Good. Always be on your guard. Reflexes can be honed."

You sniffed, lowering your hands. "I’ve already told you," you said primly. "I am not new to combat, only to boxing."

"So you did," he said, nodding. He looked far too smug for your liking. "But I’ve yet to see you in action myself. I’d like to know where you’re at before we go to town."

"I assure you," you countered, surging forward and jabbing your gloved fist into his rib with a smile. He stepped back with a soft, surprised laugh. "I am more than ready to ‘go to town’, Your Grace."

He watched you withdraw with a look approaching complete bafflement before his face morphed into something that you found... maybe a little intimidating.

"Careful," he said tauntingly, a mischievous glint to his eye as he widened his stance, bending at the knees, arms rising, "what you wish for."

"Hold on —"

He pounced.

You landed flat on your ass yet again, the air forcibly evacuating your lungs. You could hear Molly clapping excitedly from somewhere else in the gym, your dress long since dry. You allowed yourself to collapse backwards and tried to catch your breath.

You lay flat on the mat Wriothesley had dragged out for training, panting heavily, arms spread out, gloved palms up at either side of your body. You stared directly into the harsh golden light far above. You were starting to think, after all the time you’d spent looking at it, that maybe it was starting to stare back. Maybe it was just the adrenaline. You frowned at it for good measure. Just in case.

Wriothesley paced a few feet away, adjusting the dark wrappings around his forearm. Your ego was consoled by the fact that, even if he was looking worlds more composed than you were, at least he was sweating as well. If nothing else, he’d had to try at least a little bit, fearsome in the ring though he was.

You exhaled, air burning your throat. He truly was a sight to behold. You understood now where his unexpected grace and precision had come from on the ballroom floor; he demonstrated nearly identical fluidity and control in here. It was, quite frankly, captivating.

You also now understood why most people were hesitant to fight him, and it had nothing to do with his rank and title.

You pulled yourself back up into a semi-sitting position, resting on your elbows. You smiled broadly, mustering up all the bravado you had in your body.

"Almost had you that time," you lied.

He laughed, brighter than the sun a world away, the sound echoing throughout the room. He offered you a hand. You took it, groaning as he dragged you back to your feet.

"Not a chance," he said, grinning. "Let’s do it again."

a/n: poor molly, this entire chapter: 🧍

if anyone were to ask me, i'd say the fontemer is made of super duper special writer-friendly water that light passes through more easily bc i like the imagery

next up will be the other half of their little date