#the terrible twos are afoot

[witchwrestler]

Guys he's 2 now !

[miicapitann]

Yuri Briar x Seme Male Reader

It's impossible to find any male reader fics about Yuri Briar from Spy x family, and I've had some ideas. I figured I may as well write them down, whether they end up being for myself or if others end up enjoying them.. I would like to continue this one, at least.

↜(つ▀¯▀ )つ︻デ┳═ー.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Summary: Yuri Briar finds himself with a new coworker, a mercenary by the codename Snake Eyes. After working with the man once, he finds him to be a few things: incredibly unaware, incredibly efficient, incredibly strong, and kind of hot?? Not that he can see the mercenary's face.. Tall, fully armed, and respecting his sister, whom he hasn't even met? Just Yuri's type!

Walking into his superior's office, Yuri removed his hat with his left hand, held it over his chest, and used his right hand to salute his boss.

"SIR!! How can I help you!" He shouted out, with what his boss interpreted as the enthusiasm of a puppy.

"A man who's been murdering civilians was brought in today; I'm assigning you to interrogate him with the 'officer' who caught him in the room." He paused, his more serious demeanor dropping as he looked up at Yuri, smiling. "You haven't worked with Snake Eyes yet, have you? He's a highly skilled mercenary who we've managed to secure under our belt; you two would get along." His smile changed from a grin as he tapped his cigar into the ashtray on his desk. Sometimes, his demeanor almost seemed like a schoolgirl's..

Yuri was mildly confused. He had never even heard of a mercenary working with the State Security Service, something he questioned his boss about. He was only told that this Snake Eyes fellow handled their most dangerous cases.

"Here's the file on the suspect. You're in charge of the interrogation; Snake Eyes is only there for intimidation tactics and keeping the perp in line. There's a list of what we need to know in the envelope. Do your best, Second-Lieutenant Briar!!" His boss beams at the end, shooing Yuri out to complete the interrogation.

As he walked from his superior's office to the interrogation room, he looked over the file quickly but thoroughly. Usually, he had much more time to brief himself on the situation and the suspect and even gather his own evidence. On this occasion, Yuri hadn't even been aware of a murderer being afoot, though he figured it may have been due to the fact that a case like this was certainly something that the Lieutenant would handle. Or perhaps it was how overworked and exhausted he was that something like this never reached him. Yuri neared the room that the 'scum of the earth murderer' was held in, having read his name to be Halbert Johnson.

'What a terrible name... I can't believe garbage like this walks the same earth as my dear Yor..' He thought to himself; his enraged feelings could be seen clearly on his face. And expression that was clearly seen by the Lieutenant, who walked toward him from in front of the interrogation room.

"Second-Lieutenant Briar." He started. Speaking calmly and controlled. Stiffening, Yuri saluted.

"Lieutenant Sir!" he said, with that puppy-like attitude that his boss had noticed.

The lieutenant had decided that if the interrogation with Halbert went well, not only would Yuri be trusted with more important tasks, but he may be paired with Snake Eyes more if they seemed to work well together. The second 'privilege' being a request of the big man in charge. He walked Yuri back toward the direction that he had come from, toward where the Second-Lieutenant was originally headed, the interrogation room.

"I'm sure you were informed that you would be working with Snake Eyes." He asked. A rhetorical question. "He's the guy in the combat gear. Introduce yourself and begin when you're ready." He finished, walking away right after.

Yuri turned his attention to the man 'in the combat gear' with whom he would be working. His gaze started at the other man's feet, dragging upwards, a climb that seemed to go on forever.

'This guy is gigantic!!' Yuri thought to himself, his emotions, this time shock, evident on his face. This was Snake Eyes.

Snake Eyes was incredibly tall; the top of Yuri's head barely reached the guy's collarbones. He was dressed in combat boots with a visible steel toe, black cargo pants cinched in around his thighs with straps that held heavy-duty weaponry, ranging from combat knives to guns and-

'IS THAT A FUCKING GRENADE??' Yuri wasn't really sure if the other man was allowed to have that, but given the fact that he also wasn't really sure what the station of the other man was other than mercenary, he decided not to question it. He was in the headquarters of the SSS. If he wasn't authorized to have it, he wouldn't.

The straps on the mercenary's thighs connected to a belt that sat around his hips, weaving through the loops on his pants. This belt held more gear, one of which was clearly a pistol. He wore a form-fitting dark green T-shirt, matching the green color of the SSS uniform, underneath a bulletproof vest. His arms were concealed with a long-sleeved black compression shirt that he wore under the T-shirt, and his hands were adorned with black and green gloves with small orange details that seemed to have armored knuckles. Strapped to his back was a submachine gun.

Yuri wasn't sure if he should be more afraid of the submachine gun, the grenades, or perhaps the man himself. But as he looked toward the other's face, finally ready to introduce himself, he noticed that Snake Eyes wore a black balaclava helmet and reflective goggles, his identity completely concealed aside from his eye-catching tall stature. He looked like he could stop a truck bare-handed, or at least, that was what was on Yuri's mind as he stuck his hand out to greet his new coworker or whatever he was.

"Hello, I'm Second-Lieutenant Yuri Briar. It's nice to meet you. I was told we are working together today," he said. his tone was formal, yet the slight confusion and nervousness were pretty evident on his face.

"𝚂𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝙴𝚢𝚎𝚜," the other man introduced himself, grabbing Yuri's outstretched hand and giving it an incredibly firm shake but not strong enough to hurt Yuri. "𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞."

The gear he was wearing muffled his voice, enough that Yuri couldn't match the voice if he heard it elsewhere, but not enough to make him unable to hear the other man clearly, and certainly not enough to make him unable to tell how incredibly deep the man's voice was either. What Yuri couldn't make out was any sort of tone in the tall man's speech nor the smile directed at him as they shook hands.

The two of them chatted for a moment, discussing the circumstance and who they were interrogating. This led Yuri to discover that while Snake Eyes was the one who brought Halbert in, he hadn't known the man's name prior to Yuri debriefing him. While he was confused and almost put off by the lack of information that the mercenary had, he sort of admired the fact that he was so committed to protecting the country that he focused on apprehending villains dutifully without worrying about the details, trusting his superiors fully. This was not at all why the other man was so ill-informed. He just didn't care; he was shown a face and given a location, and the rest was history, though it went over much more peacefully than he was used to.

Yuri stepped into the interrogation room first, slipping on his black leather gloves as Snake Eyes followed behind him, ducking through the doorway.

"Mr. Halbert Johnson, a murderer. I'm appalled a disgusting wretch like you was in the same city as my lovely sister." Yuri began.

His love for his sister and his dedication to protecting her showed immediately. Halbert did not respond, being aware that what you don't say cannot be used against you. Yuri settled at the seat across the table from Halbert, though opting to stand, leaning his weight on the table with his arms as he tilted forward toward the suspect, while Snake Eyes stood to Yuri's left, at the end of the table, facing the two of them with his back against the wall and his arms crossed, he said nothing. The other SSS officer in the room was unnamed to the mercenary, but he sat at a separate table directly across from him and faced Snake Eyes, writing down everything that had happened. Yuri continued to intimidate the murder suspect in front of him, making sure he knew that lying and withholding information was not to be tolerated while also very frequently mentioning and praising his beloved sister.

"The body of Patricia Phillips was found at the job site of a construction company that you work for. Significant evidence points in your direction; admit to your crimes." Yuri glared at the angry man in front of him. Seemingly having enough of Yuri's chatter, Halbert stood quickly, raising a fist to punch the Second-Lieutenant and shouting at him.

"FUCK YOU AND YOUR DUMBASS SISTER, I DIDN'T DO SHIT!!" He spat, figuratively and literally, as he put his full force into his fist.

Stepping in quickly, Snake Eyes lifted his arm, gripping Halbert by the face and slamming him down onto the floor where he lay on his back, the mercenary's hand still holding the sides of Halbert's head tightly and forcing him downward, the killer's legs squirming as his hands gripped at the much stronger man's arm desperately. Yuri stood up away from the table, shocked and in a cold sweat from almost being punched.

"𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚂𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍-𝙻𝚒𝚎𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚛," Snake Eyes spoke up, his hand squeezing tighter for a moment. "𝙰𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛.." He finished, gripping Halbert from the collar of his shirt, lifting him off of his feet, and tossing him back into his chair. Halbert froze but was forced to speak when a kick hit the leg of the chair he sat in just as the man in combat gear settled back into his position at the end of the table.

"I.." Halbert choked on his words, fear evident on his face. "I'M SORRY!! I'M SURE YOUR SISTER IS LOVELY.. AND INTELLIGENT!! I'LL TELL YOU ANYTHING!" He shook.

Yuri was shocked by the entire situation, and the initial act of violence made by Halbert scared him. He could not have reacted fast enough to block it himself, though it would not have injured him too badly. However, he was most baffled by Snake Eyes' actions, not only because he stepped in to protect Yuri but also because he made Halbert apologize for trying to hit him and for insulting his sister. He flushed a bit at that, feeling admiration toward the tall man and secretly loving the fact that he protected him. Yuri cleared his throat, shooing the redness on his cheeks away as much as he could.

"Did you kill Patricia Phi-" He was cut off.

"Yes!" Halbert admitted.

"𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖." Snake Eyes said as he checked the number of bullets in his pistol, effectively giving the criminal a new fear. That fear was him, of course.

"sorry.." Halbert said meekly.

As the short interaction between the man in combat gear and the murderer went down, the officer documenting the whole thing sat stiffly, in secondhand fear of Snake Eyes, while Yuri scolded himself for being attracted to how the man scolded the criminal like a child for interrupting him. No one had ever really defended him or taken care of him like that besides his sister.

"How many others have you killed," Yuri asked cooly, with fake composure, as he thought fondly of the mercenary in the room with him. Halbert hesitated but answered immediately when he heard Snake Eyes cock his gun, something that made every man in the room flinch.

"Thirteen! I-Including the woman!!" Halbert yelped. His attitude significantly changed from the cool and irritated front he had put on when they originally entered the room.

Yuri continued to ask the man questions, discovering the whereabouts of each victim's body, the people Halbert worked with, and the names of the people he had killed, ending the integration, not without Snake Eyes striking fear into everyone in the room a few more times, of course. Exiting the interrogation room, Yuri peeled his leather gloves off, sighing and relaxing his shoulders.

"Thank you for helping with the interrogation. It would have taken impossibly long without you. I doubt we would have gotten so much information out of him, too." Yuri praised the armored man beside him.

"𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?" Snake Eyes said, leaning down to speak closer to his ears. He did not like to raise his voice much. He was confused at what the smaller man was talking about. Yuri was baffled, not understanding how the mercenary was unaware of all the help he provided.

"He wouldn't have talked if he wasn't so afraid of you. You destroyed his confidence." He smiled up at the other, placing a hand appreciatively on the man's bicep.

He almost flinched at the feeling of the other's muscled arm underneath his hand. Sure, his undershirt was skin-tight, and his T-shirt was relatively form-fitting as well, but even by touching his arm himself, Yuri knew that he could only imagine how shredded Snake Eyes was under all his gear. The mercenary hummed in response to what Yuri had said, probably still somewhat confused. He was about to speak up when the Second-Lieutenant spoke again.

"So, where does the codename Snake Eyes come from? If it's okay to ask.." He trailed off, suddenly fidgety and nervous. His face reddened as the pause in the conversation grew.

"𝙸 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜.." The man admitted, feeling a little foolish for his reasoning. "𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜." he continued.

There was a short pause. Yuri was processing what had happened, surprised by how much he was willing to talk to him, given that he had been warned that the man was usually very quiet. He was snapped out of his jumbled thoughts when the taller laughed.

"𝙸 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍. 𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗." He finished. Yuri blushed heavily and sputtered for a moment before he could speak clearly.

"I-I think it makes sense to protect yourself and your family. Well, I'm a little confused about using it in the SSS, but you are a mercenary!" He fidgeted as he spoke, afraid of scaring the other away with the things he said.

"𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎... 𝙰𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎, 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎..." He trailed off for a moment. "𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 (𝚈/𝙽) 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑." He gave his real name, for once seeming nervous himself.

Yuri was ecstatic that (Y/N) had decided that he trusted him enough to give his real name; he rolled the name through his head over and over, repeating it in his thoughts, even analyzing it, 'Where was it from? Certainly not Ostania.' he thought.

"Ah! You can call me Yuri; there's no need for the Second-Lieutenant stuff!!" he stuttered. An intense blush rushed to his face, spreading to his ears and the back of his neck. As he stumbled around with his words, (Y/N) undid the clip on his helmet and pushed it back a bit, leaning down and pressing his forehead against Yuri's.

"𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔? 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚍." He said, removing one of his gloves, the velcro sending a crackling sound through the air as he pressed his bare hand against the back of Yuri's neck. Though some of the man's hair and skin were revealed at this moment, Yuri saw none of it. The blush spread down his shoulders and even appeared on his fingertips as his entire body went hot. He Passed out.

(2,623 words)

[gatheringbones]

[“Too many of us have chosen to live in sexually ambiguous, sexually boring, sexually dead lesbian relationships because it wasn't safe to talk about desire---desire for cock, desire for pussy, desire for leather, desire for diversity. Exploring my desire for men has led me in an interesting circle---back to my incredible passion for womyn. My queer world will have to stretch (again) to make room for my fantasies, and perhaps even an affair or two. It will have to stretch to make room for whatever I desire.

Finally I realize what I am so afraid of. I am afraid that men and penises have so much power in this heteropatriarchal world that simply desiring one can invalidate 25 years of deep womon-loving. I'm afraid that lesbianism is so fragile that it needs to be protected by an iron fence. I am afraid that by desiring a cock, I will be excommunicated, torn away from the world of womyn. I am afraid that if I allow myself to open, perhaps I will want more. This is why a lesbian wanting a man demands so much courage. Courage to stand outside of identity politics, to insist that our community grow to accept all of us.

My lesbianism is as sure and solid as the Himalayas, as predictable as the seasons and the phases of the moon, as familiar as a womon in my arms ("Wherever I go, there's one thing I know, I'm sure to have a womon around me"). My desire for men is as fleeting as good chocolate and ripe strawberries---not always available, sometimes bitter and disappointing, often intoxicating as nectar, somewhat allergic, and extremely tempting.

I can live with all these desires. I will not compromise myself again. Fitting in is less important than filling out. There is a revolution afoot, and it is stretching the parameters of the old gay life. The hundredth monkey. A friend says, "Oy, I'm not ready for this century." But she is. She is.

Just when I thought I'd made some sense of these desires for men and had come to peace with them, my ex-lover called. The butch who couldn't communicate and who could never fuck me right. She has something to share, something important, something very personal. She has decided to come out as a transgendered person---bi-gendered, s/he calls it. S/he has come to realize that s/he has both a male body and a female body. Hir language may be new, but the experience is familiar.

It was hir male body I always wanted. I'd called it butch. S/he says that when s/he is in hir male body s/he desires men; when s/he is in hir female body s/he desires womyn. In other words, s/he's as queer as a $3 bill.

Suddenly, a fog begins to clear. If I desired hir male body and hir male body desires men, and when s/he is in hir female body s/he desires womyn, then s/he must've wanted me womon to womon (or man to man?), while I wanted hir butch to femme (Dare I say, male to female?). Suddenly our sex problems become very clear.

I always felt hir switch. As I filled with desire, wanting hir hardness, her maleness, s/he would become soft, almost girly, and it was like someone pulled the plug on the bathtub, the desire leaked out of me, leaving me--us--empty.

This starts me thinking about the lover before hir. The one with the sweet curls in her hair, the big round belly, and the soft eyes. The kinky one, where anything goes. She loves my femme self, calls me bitch and desires to fell me with hardness, to force me into submission.

Somehow though, it never quite worked. I am beginning to see what went wrong. This one wanted butch/femme, boy/girl sex, and I wanted lezzie sex. I loved hir female body and wanted to touch her. S/he wanted to give me hir male body. When I tried to touch hir breasts, I was reminding hir that she was a womon and was therefore rejecting her power. The lover s/he picked after me identified as a heterosexual woman (although she too used to be a radical dyke). When my ex-lover told me this new lover wouldn't touch her (after all she did identify as straight), I thought, how terrible, such internalized homophobia. Now I am beginning to understand how, by ignoring the girl body, the boy could feel his power. It got old fast, but for a while it worked, fed the rejected boy place inside.

I began this piece saying I hadn't had a man in 15 years. I am beginning to suspect that I've had many men. They'd called themselves butches.

I suppose none of this makes sense if you just think about biological bodies. These girls definitely had female bodies, tits and ass, and oh, so lovely to touch. But there is no doubt that these womyn have also had dicks. I've never said this out loud before, because dick is a dirty lesbian word. But I have been filled by womyn's dicks, and no, they are not "just" dildos.”]

Lionheart, from wanting men, from genderqueer: voices beyond the binary, edited by Riki wilchins, 2002

[604to647]

Barón Tovar Takes a Wife

Third Movement (Presto agitato)

11K / Bridgerton AU Regency!Pero Tovar x fem!reader, a childhood best friends to lovers story

Summary: What do you do now that you realize you have feelings for the Barón?

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Pining and Angst. Semi public kissing, groping and sex. Someone comes in his breeches 🤷🏻‍♀️. F!oral, fingering, thigh riding, unprotected PiV. Pet names (spanish), Pero catches reader and gives her a little twirl once.

A/N: I'm sorry for the word count 😅😅 I feel like the pacing of this final part is kind of like season 1 of Bridgerton where it was like 5 episodes of flirting and then SMUTSMUTSMUT 🤭🤭 Just wanted to give our Spaniard and his Dulce a HEA, that's all! Please please correct my Spanish!! Google won't be offended! Thank you for reading along and hope you're looking forward to Season 3 of Bridgerton next week!

Series Masterlist 🎼 First Movement 🎼 Second Movement 🎼

The following morning you wake to your ladies’ maid gently shaking you and a massive headache.  Barely able open your eyes, so puffy from crying, you’re sure you gave her a terrible fright.  After asking for and drinking some water, you try using the cool glass to depuff your eyes and alleviate the pounding in your head, but no difference is made; you continue to feel positively awful.  Daphne comes into your room at the behest of the maid and immediately sees you’re much too unwell to entertain visitors today; it’s an easy decision to send all your suitors away and have them come back when you’re better.  When you start to apologize for causing a fuss, she immediately shushes you and insists you get rest - she will have the maids bring up some soothing tea.  You lay back down, exhausted, and drift off in the middle of telling her how much you love her.

---

Pero steps into Bridgerton House just as several young men are leaving; as they brush past him, he spots Colin speaking with a maid in the main foyer.

“Tovar! It’s been ages – how have you been?” Colin beams when he sees his friend. 

In truth, Pero is here to see you; he can’t quite get over the look of distress on your face when you left him last night.  Not for the first time, Pero silently curses Lord Ridlington for having sent over women to his house unsolicited last night, his apparent idea of a prank.  Leaving the women to themselves in a waiting room, Pero had been discussing with his butler the next course of action when you had surprised him beneath his window.  After you left, he made the proper arrangements for the women to leave discreetly, and had gone to bed thinking of you as usual. 

“I’ve been well, thank you.  Hope things have been going well here?  Have today’s suitors started their visits earlier than usual?” He gestures to another three men now descending the stairs and making towards the exit in an orderly line.

“No, my Lord,” the maid explains, “Miss is ill today.  Her suitors have been sent away and asked to return when she has recovered and is ready to receive visitors again.”

“Ill?!” How could you have taken ill when he just saw you?  Instantly Pero admonishes himself for having kept you standing outside last night - the night chill must have disagreed with you.  “Please,” he begs, “take me to see her.”

The maid looks panic stricken.  Surely this Spanish nobleman must understand the impropriety of a man being let in to the bed chambers of an unmarried woman.

Colin diverts her attention, “Marie, it will be okay.  Barón Tovar is an old family friend of the Count’s.  There is nothing improper afoot.  The door will remain open and you and I shall both be but a step away.”

With Mr. Bridgerton’s assurance, Marie the maid leads the two men to your door and opens it wide before stepping back to wait outside with Colin.  Pero walks into darkness, the curtains still drawn to help you sleep and ease the pain of your headache, but your magnetic pull leads him to you with no issue.

Kneeling by your bedside, Pero says your name softly, but you do not stir.  He goes to push aside some hair that’s fallen across your forehead and is alarmed when it feels hot to the touch; using the back of his hand to check your forehead and cheeks, he finds you clammy and feverish.  Shouting for Marie, both Colin and the maid rush in to Pero’s call, “Please find the Duchess!  Her friend is running a fever and a doctor needs to be called.  And please bring me a basin of cold water and a clean washcloth at once!”

Daphne rushes in minutes later to find Pero dabbing your forehead with the wet cloth that Marie procured, “Oh no!  I saw her this morning and knew she was unwell, but I did not think to check for a temperature!”

Shaking his head softly, Pero entreats the Duchess, “Do not blame yourself, your Grace.  Likely this morning she was not feverish when you saw her.  Please, has a doctor been called?”

The Duchess nods tearfully, grateful for Pero’s kind words and feeling a kinship with this man who clearly shares her tremendous concern for your well being. 

When the doctor arrives, Daphne stays in the room and gives Pero a nod of reassurance; he leaves begrudgingly though he knows you are in safe hands with the Duchess.  Hovering impatiently never more than a step away from the door, Pero breathes a sigh of relief when he overhears the doctor say that your temperature is no longer increasing, and that if kept cool and comfortable, your fever should easily break over the next day or two.  He vows to ensure both conditions are met to the best of his abilities until the moment you awake.

After the doctor leaves and Daphne has gone in search of a servant to fetch your father, Pero stays by your side, continuously stroking your hair gently and dabbing your hot skin with a cool cloth.  Every time Daphne passes by the open door of your room, she looks in to find Pero watching over you, brows furrowed, eyes full of concern and worry.  Sometimes the Duchess will see Pero’s lips moving, speaking gently to you - though she never hears the words he says, she can tell they’re heartfelt.  It becomes crystal clear to her that two weeks ago she had simply asked the Barón the wrong question; instead of “Do you intend to court her?”, she should have asked Pero: “Do you love her?”  The answer obvious. 

Pero never leaves your side, not when the Bridgerton women visit, or even when your father comes.  He just tucks himself into the corner of the room until their visits are over, as if afraid to leave you.  When it’s just him and you alone, he tries his best to make sure you’re comfortable, arranging your blankets nicely and propping up your pillows so that your sleep is restful and serene.  He requests that cool water and clean cloths are at his constant disposal, and makes sure to dab your face, neck, and decolletage at consistent intervals in order to keep your temperature down.  And while he does so, Pero continuously talks to you, encouraging you to get better, coaxing you back to him. 

He calls you carino, hermosa, princesa, mi reina, mi amor, and all the other endearments he doesn’t ever let himself call you save for in his head.  He lavishes you with compliments and words of praise that he's never allowed to slip past his lips - how perfect you are, how sweet and smart, that he doesn’t know anyone else like you and that your cheerful demeanor and melodic voice are the only things that can ever make him smile.  He tells you how he hasn’t smiled as much as he has since he reunited with you at the Danbury ball in years.  He confesses that every time he holds you while you dance, he has trouble letting go when the music ends, and when he sees another man take your hand and spin you around the room, he has to hold himself back from physically stepping in and pulling you back into his arms.  He tells you that he finds you beautiful and intoxicating, and describes every last inch of you that he can’t stop dreaming about, but lingers the longest in his description of your eyes and the richness of expressions they make that leave him breathless.  He tells you all these things because if he doesn’t say them out loud, he thinks he will burst from having to hold his feelings in all the time.  He tells you these things because he knows you will never hear them.

As the doctor predicted, the fever breaks late the following day and you start to stir shortly after.  Blinking your eyes open slowly, they come into focus to your father’s worry lined face and you watch as it cracks with relief, “Welcome back, dearest.  How do you feel?”

Not sure you can trust your voice right now, you give your father a small smile and nod when he says he needs to get the doctor.  In the few minutes you have alone, you try to get your bearings; the last thing you remember is waking to a terrible headache and falling back asleep after Daphne told you she would be sending your suitors away.  You swear you have vague memories of Pero’s voice and soft touch, but that couldn’t have been real.  Pero.  Oh.  You remember now the reason for having woken up before feeling empty and sad, but you don’t have too long to linger on it because your father returns swiftly with the doctor.

After declaring you well on your way to a full recovery, the doctor leaves you with your father; the Count, looking like the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders, hugs you tightly and clasps his hands tightly over yours, “I am so glad you are better, dearest.  Now, will you please tell your suffering father what is troubling that heart of yours?”

You’re shocked.  How could your father know about your feelings for Pero when you only realized them a few nights ago?  Your surprise must be written all over your face because the Count gently explains, “My dear, in the entirety of your life, you have only ever had such a fever twice, both times due to crying yourself sick from heartbreak.  The first time was when you were a young girl and I read you The Little Mermaid - the ending saddened you to tears.  The other was when we were leaving Portugal and I didn’t let you keep the stray puppy you had been feeding for a month.  This is how I know something ails your heart terribly.  Please.  Tell your father so he can help you.”

Your heart swells with affection for your father - he has always been the most loving and caring man, attentive to your feelings and understanding of your nature.  There is no one on this earth who you trust so whole heartedly and with whom you feel so safe.  Except for Pero, you suddenly realize. 

You tell your father everything.  You tell him about how Pero lets you be yourself without reservation, and that with him you don’t need to temper down your enthusiasm for your interests or make your experiences seem smaller than they are.  How he encourages you in everything you do and makes you feel like you’re capable of anything and everything.  He respects you and approaches you with kindness, always making you feel safe and taken care of.  That he makes you laugh all the time.  And that you’ve taken Pero and his wonderfulness for granted, not realizing just how rare and valuable all his amazing qualities are because if you had you would have figured out earlier that you’re completely in love with him.  You cry softly and confess to your father that your heart is broken because you’re in love with a man who will never see you more than a childhood compatriot, and that you may never get over this sad truth.

The Count listens to you sympathetically, and when you’re finished, he simply tilts his head thoughtfully and asks, “How do you know he does not care for you in the same manner?”

You can hardly tell your father that you snuck out of Bridgerton House and interrupted Pero when he had company over, so you have to cite another reason you’re so certain of how Pero feels about you.  But you find yourself struggling to come up with any concrete examples or reasoning that satisfy even yourself; all you can say is, “Because he wishes for me to find a husband.  He encourages me to do so.  I’m simply the daughter of his father’s friend.”

Something like bemusement dances over your father’s face, “It seems to a me that a man who thinks of you as simply the daughter of his father’s friend would not have purchased my shares in the fleet.”

You’re absolutely stunned.  Pero purchased your father’s shares?  But why?  There was no inherent income from the investment, the dividends benefitted you and your future children only, “Why would Pero do that?”

“You will have to ask him yourself, dearest.  It shouldn’t be too long before he visits himself now that he’s likely heard you’re awake.  He had not left your bedside for nearly two days and it was only at my insistence that he let me sit vigil so he could go home and change his clothes.”

Again, you’re astonished; is it possible that your vague recollections of Pero’s voice and gentle touches while you were ill are real? 

“I will say, when I asked him the same question of why, his answer was that he did not want the hard work you and I put into our happy venture to be squandered.  He said he knew that would break your heart.”

It’s true, it would.

“With his experience, I know the fleet would be in good hands.”

Nodding, you have to agree.

“… and you would be in good hands.”

You look up to see your father looking at you with an expression you can’t quite place.  You’re about to ask him about it when you hear a quiet knocking and you look over to see Pero standing in the open doorway, as if you had summoned him with your conversation.

“My apologies, I do not mean to interrupt.  I thought I heard your voice and wanted to see if you were awake,” Pero looks tired, but hopeful.

The Count waves him in and gets up, whispering in your ear, “Be kind to him, dearest.  The man has been in anguish and has not left your bedside for more than a few minutes these past two days.”  Kissing you on the cheek, he tells you he will go and find the Duchess to give her the good news of your recovery if the doctor has not yet done so himself.  After he pulls away, you notice for the first time that your room is filled with peonies, every flat surface covered with the most splendid displays in the prettiest pastel colours – your heart soars at the sight.  When Pero takes your father’s place in the chair across from you, neither of you notice that the Count closes the door behind him.

“Dulce, how are you feeling,” asks Pero with as much feeling as you’ve ever heard from him.

You tell him you’re much better, and that although no one has said so explicitly, you suspect that much of your recovery is due to his diligent care and watch over you.

“It was nothing, Dulce.  I was worried about you.  I am glad you are okay now,” he says, relief evident in his voice.

“Thank you for taking care of me.  I really don't know what I have done to deserve your kindness, Pero.  And not only these past two days when I’ve taken ill, but over the entire course of this season – I do not think I have ever properly thanked you for being there for me, supporting and encouraging me, and bringing me such peace and joy so that I did not buckle under the pressure of my debut.  Please allow me to do so right now.  Thank you, Pero,” you look at him with adoration and admiration, pouring all your feelings out and disguising them as simple gratitude.

“It has been my absolute pleasure, truly.  I am so very proud of the woman you have grown up to be: beautiful, smart, funny, and so, so very caring.  You are one of kind, Dulce – and the lucky man who marries you needs to know just how special you are.  There isn’t anyone else who has your vibrant spirit, your sweet disposition, your fun-loving heart.  He needs to know and nurture all these wonderful qualities so that your light never goes out,” Pero espouses your virtues and merits with eyes fixed upon yours, wishing he could express just how deep his admiration truly runs.

To say you’re affected would be an understatement, and it makes you bold and brave.

“Pero, I cannot tell you how much your kind words mean to me.  I have never known a man to be more genuine and earnest that you; when you say something, you mean it.  I find you so very thoughtful this way.  And in other ways as well – I know, for example, it must have been you who filled this room with my favourite flowers.”  Pero nods indulgently and you carry on, “… and I know you purchased the shares in the fleet from my father.  Thank you, Pero.”

Pero is surprised, although he had not asked the Count to keep the sale from you, he didn’t expect you to know already.

You’re looking at him with an expression he won’t let himself name, eyes soft, almost pleading, “Why would you do something so generous, Pero?”

Pero remains quiet, as if wrestling with how he wishes to answer and you wait patiently, not sure what to expect.

“The owner of the shares has custody of a great gift.  The fleet is an impressive venture - it has potential to do considerable good in this world, and much of that is thanks to you and your father’s dedication and contributions – the holder of these shares cannot squander that opportunity; he needs to honour you and your father’s legacy by carrying on the good work you’ve started together.  But that in and of itself is not the gift.  The man who holds these shares is also given the gift of being able to take care of you, to have a small hand in ensuring a prosperous future for you and your children.  I… could not take the risk that someone who did not understand the honour of this charge would hold these shares.  I hope you can understand and not think it imprudent of me.”

You don’t know what to say.  Pero is so generous and considerate – how could he ever think you would view his gesture as anything but deeply caring?  Unsure of your silence, Pero attempts to lighten the mood, “This way, I can still be in your life.  I can come to see you when I need to discuss matters of the fleet.”

“Pero, you’re my friend!  You do not need to have a business pretense to see me.”

He shakes his head sadly, “You will be married, Dulce.  Your husband would not like a man like me visiting his wife frequently.”

“A man like you?” you’re not sure what he means.

“A man who looks at you the way I look at you.”

You inhale sharply, hardly allowing yourself to breathe, “And how do you look at me, Pero?”

“Like you are the sun, Dulce.  Like everything you touch is made brighter and better from the light of your smile and the warmth of your sweet laugh.  As if under your care and attention, everything and everyone, including me, grows – stronger, brighter, better.  I look at you like I dream about the graceful notes of your voice every night and wish to hear your melody of thoughts and opinions on all things.  I look at you like I am hypnotized just by the sway of your hips and even the lilt of your fingers.  Everyday, I’m ever more enchanted with the tilt of your head and curve of your mouth.  I look at you like I could never get enough.”

“And what if I don’t want that?”

“Then I will stay away, mi reina.  Anything you wish,” though crushed, Pero knows that he would do whatever you asked.

“No, Pero, you misunderstand.  What if I don’t want a husband who does not want you looking at me like that?  What if I want you to look at me like that?  What if I do not want a husband who isn’t you?”

“Dulce…” Pero’s heart has leapt into his throat, he can hardly allow himself to believe what he’s hearing, “… you do not know what you’re saying.  You would not want me for a husband.”

You smile kindly, “And why not?”

Pero looks at you so sadly it breaks your heart, “You would not wish to separate from your friends and leave England to be mistress of a lowly Barón’s estate in a foreign land where you know no one and do not speak the language.  Not when you have suitors with much grander fortunes, with estates nearer to your friends, and where you and your children would grow up in the style befitting the daughter of a British Count.  You would not want a husband who is never home and spends more time on the seas and in far off lands than he does on home soil; one you never see and for whom you would worry all the time, not knowing where he is or what he is doing.”

“Would you not be willing to take me with you on your travels, Pero?”

“Of course, I would,” Pero never second guesses his answer.

Heart still aflutter at Pero’s romantic declarations, you press ahead, determined.  “Well.  It seems then that no one would be better suited to be my husband than you!  You must know me well enough to know that I do not care for grand fortunes and estates, and my dear father and now you have made sure that I will never be financially dependent on any husband.  What I care for is freedom and adventure!  And exploration and not being kept from the joys this life has to offer because I am a woman, or just somebody’s wife.  As for my friends, I can always visit!  And I am fortunate enough that the strength of our bonds is not dependent on having to see each other constantly.  Honestly!  This would not be the first time in my life I have gone to live in a foreign country where I do not speak the native tongue – it’s practically second nature to me now!  But I can see how it would be useful to be able to fluently converse with servants and locals - I suppose I would just have to commit myself to learning Spanish.  That is,” you’re suddenly embarrassed upon realizing that Pero hasn’t actually asked you to be his wife, and instead, you’re espousing all the reasons you find the match to be agreeable when he himself hasn’t expressed any desire for it, “if you would wish to have me.” 

“Dulce, all I have done since the moment I laid eyes on you at the Danbury Ball is wish to have you.  Do you know how hard it was for me to see you entertaining all those suitors when I was certain none of them could ever appreciate you for even half the wonderful person you are?  None of them had any idea what a smar-“

You crash your lips to his, and after the initial surprise, Pero kisses you back with the fervent need that’s been building in his soul the past few months.  Throwing your arms around him, you open your mouth to his just as his hands pull you flush to his chest; it’s the warmest, hungriest first kiss to have ever been kissed.  Your mind having only recently caught up to your heart, and Pero’s constrained feelings finally being set free, your tongues press together over and over, spilling all the unspoken words between the both of you.  On instinct you fist Pero’s shirt and pull him down with you onto the bed, Pero’s eyes darkening as he climbs on top of you, placing one knee in between your legs while keeping the other on the ground.  You finally run your hands through his soft curls and it feels as incredible as you had imagined two nights ago; you both moan softly at the sensation.

“Dulce, you make the prettiest noises…”

You purr softly at Pero’s praise, leading him to groan deeper into your mouth and you feel the hand that isn’t braced on the pillow next to your head start to skate up your side, landing near your breast and tentatively drawing circles on the underside of your plush curves with its thumb. You arch into Pero’s hand to encourage him to touch you, and he responds as he always promised he would if he had the chance which is to give in to your every desire.  Groping your breast and finding your nipple between his fingers, Pero rolls and pinches so expertly that you can’t help but writhe beneath him.  He shifts to kiss down your neck as he continues his attentions on your peak and when his knee brushes your throbbing centre, you gasp loudly before covering your mouth with your hands.  Still breathing heavily, the two of you giggle and smile stupidly at each other in the tender moment.  Pressing his forehead against yours, Pero whispers, “Mi reina, we should stop, I still need to ask your father for your hand.  Tomorrow, I am sure he will come here for breakfast and I will ask to speak with him after.”

Looking deep into is eyes, you nod; you know Pero’s right, though there’s a warmth radiating from your very being that wishes to invite scandal and tell him to never stop touching you, knowing by the way he’s making you feel right now that it would be worth it.

Not without regret, Pero pulls himself off of you and stands; after he helps you sit up, Pero tips your chin with his finger so you look at him squarely.  A seriousness takes over his face, an expression he usually reserves for others, “Are you sure you want me, mi amor?  You have so many suitors, so many options.”

Your eyes shine with sincerity and so much softness for this man that does not seem to understand just how much you love him.  You vow to spend the rest of your days showing him, “There are no options when there’s you, Pero.”

You can’t help but shriek a little in laughter as Pero falls on you and crushes his lips to yours, pinning your body to your bed with his large and solid frame.  Kissing you over and over, Pero punctuates his affection with barely strung together words of love - So perfect.  So perfect.  Can’t believe it.  How.  How did I get so.  Damn.  Lucky.  Beautiful. Perfect girl.

Right before your giggles can turn into moans, a knock on your door freezes you both.  The noise is quickly followed by the Duchess’ slightly amused voice, “Is everything okay?  We have brought up dinner.  Please let me know when it is decent for us to come in.”

Giving you one last peck on your lips before chuckling lightly, Pero pulls you up and whispers, “Tomorrow,” before going to open the door for Daphne.

The next morning you find Pero waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs when you come down.  Checking quickly to make sure there aren’t any lingering servants, you step off the third to last step and fling yourself into his arms.  Pero catches you easily and gives you a twirl before placing you gently on your feet, then places a less gentle kiss to your lips.  With a few hurried murmurings of devotion - I missed you.  You look beautiful. I still can’t believe you’re mine - you break apart and head to breakfast.

When the two of you enter the dining room, you’re greeted exuberantly by your friends congratulating you on your recovery and expressing their delight that you’re well enough to rejoin them.  Your father hugs you and you think you detect a knowing smile gracing his face, but you’re too soon seated with platters of food being offered and pushed towards you for you to be sure.  It’s a happy occasion but also slightly awkward – you’re seated next to Pero, but you have to pretend that nothing has changed between the two of you.  Trying to cheerfully chat with your father and friends, you find yourself unable to give the conversation your full attention because you trying with all your might to hold in the most wonderful news of your life, and with it, your overflowing happiness.  It doesn’t help that Pero finds increasingly mischievous ways to secretly touch you throughout breakfast: foot reaching over to playfully nudge yours, gently squeezing your thigh under the table.  When he purposefully brushes his hand down your arm and over yours in order to reach for the butter dish, you gasp in surprise - his touch out in the open sending a warm thrill through to your heart.  In response to your friends’ concerns, you have to lie and say you may still be feeling fatigued, and Pero, ever the menace, pats your shoulder affectionately and reminds you not to overexert yourself before buttering his scone with a smirk.

After your father finishes his meal, you nervously watch Pero hastily shove his last piece of food into his mouth before asking the Viscount for use of his office, and entreats your father for a word.  Finishing your own breakfast as quickly as you can without drawing suspicion, you find your way to the closed office doors and pace outside impatiently.  Try as you may, you cannot make out any of what is being spoken in the office, even when you press your ear up to the door.  After what feels like an eternity, the door opens and Pero exits; not the least bit surprise to find you outside, he whispers in your ear as he walks by, “Your father wishes to see you now, Dulce.  Come find me afterwards.  I will be upstairs writing a letter.”

The Count welcomes you into the office with open arms and you immediately fly into your father’s loving embrace.  As he continues to envelope you in the warmth of his joy, he chuckles, “Well, dearest, I think your old father deserves some acknowledgement for being right.”

Pulling away from him, you look at the face that’s so much like your own, eyes crinkled in mirth and a smile big enough to rival yours, “I concede, Father - you were right.  And I have never been so happy to have been wrong!”

Your father’s already expressive eyes shine with an extra brightness, “All I have ever hoped for is your happiness, my dear.  Pero is a good man, like his father before him and he has given me every assurance that he will cherish and take care of you the way you deserve.  I shall rest easily knowing that you will be in his capable hands… and he in yours.”

What did you ever do to deserve such a brilliant father who has given you the most wonderful life?  You ponder this as you walk up the stairs after telling your father that you love him and saying goodbye for the day.  You suspect you’ll never discover a satisfactory answer, but can only hope you can one day bestow the same unconditional love and support upon your own children.

You find Pero sitting at the corner desk in the drawing room where some of the Bridgertons are relaxing: Eloise and Colin reading, Francesca tinkering at the piano forte, Daphne looking over some correspondence of her own.  Approaching him silently, you look over his shoulder and whisper, “Mi rey, to whom are you writing?”

Smiling at your Spanish endearment of choice, Pero responds without looking up from his task, “I am writing my king, Dulce, and asking him for his permission to marry.”

Ah right, you consider that the Count could very well be penning a similar letter to the queen at this same moment, “What happens if he refuses, Pero?” 

“Then I abscond with my new bride and we live like pirates on the run,” smiles Pero, still not looking up.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” you grin.

Pero finally sets his soft gaze upon you, “Nothing can be so bad if you are by my side, mi reina.”

He looks at you with such devotion and affection, you can’t help yourself - you cup his perfect face in your hands and bend down to kiss him.  Pero returns your soft, gentle kisses with his own, nothing urgent, nothing hurried – just a moment of tenderness that couldn’t have been restrained.

You don’t break apart even when you hear the successive gasps of your friends or even when Colin cheers, unable to part from Pero’s lips even a moment sooner than you need to.  When the two of your finally look up, it’s to the sight of the Duchess standing with her hands on her hips and a beaming smile on her face, “Do you two have something to tell us?”

You and Pero attend all of the remaining season events as a happily engaged couple.  Pero, no longer scowling all by his lonesome against the wall, but standing tall and proud next to you; his hand laced through yours or comforting and firm on your lower back as the two of you receive congratulations from the ton.  He drinks in the jealous looks from your former suitors and inwardly chuckles a little at the conceding grumbles from the mamas who proclaim with surprise that they didn’t know he had been looking for a wife.  His stoic countenance cracking just a little at their poorly concealed scandalized faces when he replies that he hadn’t been.  For your part, you don’t notice any of this; you only have eyes and ears for Pero.  Your face hurts from smiling so much – it’s all you can do to tear your eyes away from your handsome fiancé in order to respond politely to the questions you receive from curious members of the ton.

You still dance every dance, floating on air as you traverse the floor in the strong arms of your dashing Spaniard; now that there is no danger of some other man whisking you away from him for the next dance, Pero quite enjoys the dance floor.  He holds you closer than he probably should, chests touching and faces so close that the gentle fan of your breath curls over his lips; his hands find themselves placed low on your back during the waltz, dipping scandalously close to where he really wants them to be, itching to squeeze the plush globes of your ass.  If anyone was to make a comment to you about it, you would giggle and simply say that your fiancé is a passionate man.

And he is.  A passionate man, that is.  Under his grave and steely visage, Pero is a man who yearns for and craves the woman he loves, hungry for you at all times.  Such a man is not made of infinite restraint - the limits of Pero’s self control having already been sorely tested for the past few months.  As such, whenever an opportunity to escape the rigid formality of these events would arise, Pero wasted no time whisking you away for himself.

At the Grand Picnic, he steals you away to a secluded spot in the gardens where he proceeds to kiss you so fervently and passionately that you actually get dizzy.  He presses you against the base of some winged sculpture and hungrily licks and sucks down your neck, all while you cover your mouth with your hands, hoping against hope to contain your moans and soft whimpers.  The stone angel watches from its perch as Pero trails his mouth down past your collar towards the swell of your breasts, already rapidly rising and falling.  Pressing feather light kisses to the tops of your breasts, Pero drinks in your breathy giggles when his scruff tickles you, before diving in devilishly, lapping at your ample curves and the valley in between.  As you start to pant from arousal, Pero finds himself most ardently wishing that your tits would break free of their fine silk confines and spill into his mouth. 

A la mierda, he thinks and glides his tongue into the sliver of space between your dress and skin, dragging it across your chest until he hits your hardened nipple; having found his prize, Pero dives in, straining with his tongue to stroke your peak harder and faster.  When he leverages enough space with his chin to wedge in between your soft skin and the fabric of your dress, Pero takes your breast into his mouth and sucks while groping your other breast with his hand, finding the twin nipple already straining against your gown, aching to be played with.  The combined sensation has you grabbing at Pero’s hair and pressing him closer to you; with your hands now otherwise occupied, your gasps and moans spill unfiltered from your open mouth.  The obscene sounds Pero pulls from you must start to carry, because soon you hear voices getting nearer to where you and Pero have now frozen, his mouth buried in your chest; he places one last chaste kiss to tops of each of your breasts before the two of you giggle and run hand-in-hand out of the gardens.

At the Opera, Pero secures a box on the second mezzanine for the two of you.  With most of the ton preferring the orchestra seats or boxes closer to the stage, you find yourselves alone in the secluded alcove nearer to the house balcony.  Once the lights dim and the overture starts, Pero takes your hand in his and you lean on his shoulder, relaxing into his closeness.  By the time the audience is enjoying the soprano’s heart-breaking aria in the third act, Pero has his left arm thrown around you and the knuckles of his right hand are ghosting over the front of your panties where he finds them already damp from want. 

“Keep your eyes on the stage, Dulce,” he whispers in your ear as his thumb draws slow circles over your clit.  You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out, trying with all your might not to let your whole body react to Pero’s teasing lest it draws the attention of the opera house attendees sitting on the balcony or in the boxes on the opposite side of the hall.

Pero is patient.  And thorough.  He takes an inordinate time exploring the shape of your pussy - running his thumb then fingers over the outline of your slit and the hardening form of your clit, eventually cupping your mound and letting you grind down on his palm to give you some of the friction you so desperately seek.  He toys with you over the fabric of your underwear for the remainder of the 3rd act until your panties are completely soaked through.  Only once the 4th act is underway does he slip his hand down the front of your underwear and start to run his forefinger through your folds.

“Pero…” you sigh, spreading your legs wider to allow him more freedom of movement.

“Doing so good for me, mi amor,” he whispers back, continuing his smooth, teasing strokes, dragging your sticky arousal through the valleys of your seam and trailing it up to your clit, spreading it over and around your bundle of nerves before returning his fingers to your wet core.  He repeats this over and over, alternating the speed and pressure of his fingers, never letting you settle into a complacent state.  Quite the opposite – you feel like your body is on fire. 

Willing yourself to breathe through your nose as evenly as you can, you focus on the soprano’s finale song before the ensemble gathers for the finale; just as the singer hits the high notes of her solo with a warm vibrato, Pero pushes a finger straight into your heat and you whine in harmony with her.  Slowly he pumps his finger in and out of your tight hole, nearly losing control with the way you clench as he drags along your warm warms; Pero feels you hum around him as pleasure you’ve never felt before radiates throughout your entire body.  The squelching sound of Pero working your cunt are thankfully masked by the musical drama unfolding on the stage, and Pero uses the opportunity to ask you if you’re ready for another. 

Seeing you nod as subtly as you can, Pero murmurs, “Good girl,” before adding a second finger to join the first.  Oh.  You’re so full.  It’s a stretch, but the sting pairs perfectly with the devastating pleasure now coursing through your veins as Pero slowly drives his fingers into you.  Staying with a slower pace until you start dripping down his wrist, Pero’s fingers now start to thrust faster, keeping tempo with the musical build that the ton in the orchestra is enjoying, clueless to your lascivious activities above them.

When Pero presses his thumb to your slippery clit, you surge forward and grab onto the balcony banister for stability, nearly in danger of drawing the attention of unwanted eyes.  Refusing to ease up in his efforts on your cunt, Pero continues to push you closer and closer to your high, his fingers never faltering from their punishing pace until you come and cry out in tune with the finale’s final chorus.  While the rest of the audience applauses when the curtain falls, Pero’s praise is only for you - purring that you did so good for him and kissing you gently as his slips his slick covered hand back into his glove. 

At the Hastings Ball, you’re the one feeling bold.  Having arrived at your friend’s estate a week prior to help the Duchess with preparations, you familiarize yourself with the grounds and all the intimate, secret corners perfect for intimate, secret things.  Once all the guests have arrived and the festivities have begun in earnest, you sneak off with your fiancé, leading him down a hidden staircase into the Duke’s impressive wine cellar.  With all of tonight’s refreshments having already been pulled from inventory, you know no one will be coming down here during the ball; you’re free to touch, feel and love on Pero in all the ways you desire.  Once Pero realizes the amount of privacy you’ve been afforded, he’s like a dog unleashed, stalking and cornering you into a wall with a growl, sniping at your neck with his teeth and lips, pawing at your soft curves already on display for him in your pretty ballgown. 

Here in the cellar, while you still cannot be loud, but you don’t have to be quiet – the cavernous room echos your quiet moans and Pero’s deep grunts like a soundtrack of pleasure that’s percussed by heavy breathing as the two of you drown in one another.  Lips attached to yours, but eyes kept open to take in your lustful expression, Pero spies an unopened crate out of the corner of his eye and smiles against your mouth, “Come here, Dulce.  Let me show you something.”

After letting him lead you to the crate, you allow Pero to help you on top before scooting you back so your legs no longer dangle over the edge.   Grinning, you ask playfully, “What, pray tell, do you wish to show me, Barón?”

“Want to show you how I’m going to make my pretty wife feel good every day we are married,” Pero looks at you, eyes dark, as his starts to ruffle up the many layers of your dress.  You giggle as his pushes through the yards of fabric with a feigned annoyance, bunching it up for you to hold against your chest like an overstuffed pillow.  Once Pero is satisfied with his unfettered access, he gently pushes you to lean back on your elbows, hands still laid prettily on your pillow of dress skirts, eyes watching your handsome fiancé’s movements.  Pero leans over the edge of the crate and rubs your silk stocking covered calves with his big firm hands as he starts kissing up your leg starting from where your stockings end mid thigh.  Every kiss he leaves on your skin gives you a shiver as the cool cellar air hits the imprint his lips leaves behind; then, as he gets closer to your heat, he starts to open mouth kiss where you’re the most sensitive, dragging his tongue back and forth over these tender spot and leading you to throw you head back and close your eyes in heady desire.  When he repeats this fog inducing pattern on the inside of your other thigh, you start begging, “Pero, please… please, my Lord, ple-pl-please!”

Nipping at your sensitive flesh with his teeth, Pero smirks against your leg, “What do you need, mi reina?”

Opening your eyes, you nearly buck into his face when you see Pero’s roguish expression peeking up at you from between your wide spread legs, “Touch me please, mi rey.”

“Here?” he asks, with pretend innocence before he dives in and starts devouring your pussy over the fabric of your underwear without waiting for your answer.  This feels different.  So much like his fingers but even more sensual, intimate, wild.  Pero mouths and nuzzles your cunt with a precision only rivalled by that of his tongue; his tongue has a mind of his own, gently prodding, exploring, reaching where his lips can’t. Pero's hands reach up your legs and hook under the band of your soaked panties and you catch him look at you before he murmurs “May I?” directly into your cunt.  The vibrations of his question run through to your chest and it’s all you can do to nod quickly before you watch him pull the frilly undergarment down your legs and have them drop to the ground.  Already completely wrecked, Pero takes in your glistening folds, wet and primed, and growls, “Look at this perfect pussy.  And she’s all mine.”

You run one hand through his soft curls and grip his hair so he’ll look at you, smiling lazily, already unbelievably blissed out, you promise, “All yours.”

“Mine,” Pero repeats, and then he buries his face into heaven.

The sensation is overwhelming in the very best way.  Pero is eating you, no, devouring you like a man starved; every press of his lips to your pussy somehow deeper and hungrier than the last, as his tongue licks every crest and wave of your core and marks them for his own.  Your slick pools from you, down your backside and dampens your gown beneath you; the wet noises from Pero’s mouth against your folds echo obscenely around you and your voice cannot help but try to add in its own harmony.  All of this makes you feel like a worshiped goddess about to ascend her alter and simultaneously like a wanton whore who knows that true heaven lies in the bodily pleasures of this mortal realm.  Then, as Pero’s mouth closes over your clit and he starts to flick your throbbing nub with his tongue, you realize in your daze that no, what you are is something better than either of those two things: you’re the woman who is marrying Barón Pero Tovar.  That’s the thought that overflows from your thumping heart and pushes you over the edge, coming on Pero’s face as you chant his name in a grateful prayer.

After the Ball, you’re positively exhausted from purposefully overdoing the socializing after returning from the wine cellar so no one would recall your long absence.  Yawning, you’re giving your hair a final brush when you hear a soft clink against your bedroom window, followed shortly by another, then another. 

Confused, you approach your window with slight trepidation, and upon looking out, you think at first that your tired eyes must be deceiving you.  Below your window, gazing up at you, is Pero.  He looks devastatingly handsome; yet to undress – Pero is still in his formal breeches, but his white shirt has been unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, exposing his smooth, tanned skin to your admiring gaze.  You might lick your lips at the sight.  Giggling as you tiptoe down the stairs, you walk out onto the terrace that hangs off the sitting room directly below your bedroom, greeted by Pero’s blinding smile, “Barón, what are you doing here?”

It's an easy climb up the side of the wall to the terrace level for Pero and his long legs; once he’s standing directly in front of you, he answers, “I could not sleep without seeing you one last time, Dulce.”

Where did this man who adores you so openly and without reservation come from?  You throw your arms around his neck and pull him in for a gleeful kiss; you adore him too, after all. 

Still grinning, Pero jokes, “And as I recall, it is my turn to call upon you in the dead of night from beneath your window in order to rouse you from the comfort of your bed chamber.”

Although he has no such intent, Pero’s words immediately transport you back to the night you realized your feelings for him… and how you had left his house, devastated upon the discovery that he was not alone.  Stilling in your movements, you shrink away from Pero a little; none of this goes without notice.

“Dulce, are you okay?  I’m sorry, I did not mean to imply there was anything wrong with these late-night meetings, but if you prefer to go back inside, I understand.”

You shake your head to let him know you’re not upset by that, but still your expression remains slightly sad and hurt.  Pero bends at the knee to meet your eye, “Mi amor?”

You’ve never lied or kept anything from Pero in all the time you’ve known him, and now that you’re his fiancé, you’re not about to start.  Looking at the ground next to you, you mumble, “I’m sorry, I was just remembering the night you’re alluding to; when I interrupted you… with those two women.”

When Pero doesn’t answer, you wonder if he’s upset with you for having disturbed him that night, and you look up to meet his eye finally, trying to give him a brave smile, “Please do not be upset with me.  I did not know you had company, which would have been entirely your private business, to which I know I am not entitled.  But if I must be honest, I do not particularly enjoy imagining you with other women.”

Pero has to stifle a laugh; if only you understood the war that raged in his chest every time a suitor placed his hand on your waist for a dance or when you would laugh at their jokes with that twinkle in your eye he loves so much – then you would not feel as if you had to hide these feelings from him.

Stroking your jaw gently, Pero tips your face to his, “Dulce, I could never be upset with you.  Firstly, you are entitled to all my business, private or not.  Secondly, the women to which you refer were not there by my invitation – Lord Ridlington had sent them to my house that evening as some sort of prank.  In his words, maybe if the Barón got laid, he would not be such a stick in the mud.  Nothing happened with those women, I promise, mi amor.  When you arrived, I was right in the middle of arranging for a carriage to take them home.  And thirdly,” Pero walks you backward until your back hits the wall; he braces an arm above your head, and towering over you, grips firmly onto your waist with his other hand, “how could I ever even think of another woman when there is you?  You with your pretty face, and your sweet smile, and your heavenly laugh.  You with your witty quips, and your melodic voice that says the smartest things, and this gorgeous body…” 

Pero’s voice trails off as he starts to kiss down your neck and his strong hands start to move up and down your sides in unison, then separating so one can reach up to massage your breast and the other down to grope your ass.  Your head tips back to allow Pero more access as you melt into his touch - he’s everywhere at once, overwhelming all of your senses.  Kissing down to your breasts, Pero finds them available to him in a way he has yet to experience, your thin night dress much flimsier than the gowns you wear during the day; he can already see your nipples poking up through the fabric, hard and inviting.  Without warning, he ducks and takes one in his mouth, teasing and sucking in tandem with your loud gasps and moans.

“Oh Pero, right there, oh- nghhh, please that feels so good!” you cry out breathily.  Spurned on by your praise, Pero frantically rucks up the skirts of your nightgown and slots his thigh between your legs, pulling you down to sit.  The pressure and friction on your cunt sends a wave of pleasure through you, amplified and extended by Pero’s tongue and lips laving their attention on your breasts.  He encourages you to rock against his thigh, using his grip on your waist to help you find an enjoyable rhythm, and once you’ve found one that catches your clit on the flex of his leg, his hands leave you to your work and travel up your body to pull down the front of your night dress, exposing your tits to the cool night air and Pero’s darkened gaze.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, as he leans back to admire everything before him: your naked curves, your hardened peaks begging for his attention, and the sight of the woman he loves getting off by rubbing her pretty pussy all over his thigh.  He thinks he’s minutes away from combusting.

Instead, he dives right into your chest, mouth and tongue licking, kissing and nibbling, hands groping, pinching and pulling all your delicious parts so that he can bring you to your second orgasm of the night.  While tugging at your nipple with his teeth, he hisses low, “Were you jealous, Dulce?”

Half out of your mind from pleasure you gasp back, “Yes!”

Growling, “Good,” Pero sucks in a mouthful of your breast and kneads what he can’t fit into his mouth with his hands, panting out words when he should be taking in breaths of much needed air -

Now you know how I felt.

When some other man would touch you.

When you would smile at your suitors.

When you didn’t know I would burn the world for you.

You cry out at his confessions, gripping the back of his head and pulling him closer to you still; increasing your rocking, you’re chasing your own high when your knee brushes up against something hard, something big.  When it jumps at your touch, you use your knee to stroke Pero’s length with every pass of your pussy over his thigh. 

Your breasts now wet from Pero’s mouth, the cool night air’s chill against your skin causes you to tighten in Pero’s arms as he continues to electrify you with his hands, his mouth, his tongue, his words -

Never need to be jealous ever again, Dulce.

There’s only you.

Never want anyone else.

Don’t need anyone else.

You’re my everything.

Mine.

You come to his loving and possessive declarations, singing back your own - Yours, yours, yours.  Body violently seizing and shuddering, Pero holds you close as you ride out your high.  As you continue to buck against him, he crests to your desperate whimpers and breathless panting – his eyes never leaving your face, mesmerized by the sweet blissed out expression that he pulled from you.  Finally opening your eyes, you grin lazily at the sight of your lover smiling at you, calming down from his own summit; and when you feel the dampness of his trousers against your bare knee, you giggle in pride and pull Pero back to you lips for a flutter of happy kisses.  As he walks you to the door to the waiting room, you hardly give him a moment without a light peck on his lips, cheeks, neck – not sure you’ll be able to stand being apart from Pero for even a few hours of sleep.

Before he leaves you, Pero cups your face in his large hands, whispering against your lips, “I’m yours,” and you smile back and press your mouth to his before returning, “Mine.”

You marry at the end of the season in late June with the blessing of the Spanish king to do so in England.  The ceremony itself is wonderful and your gown is gorgeous, but you hardly remember anything save for how handsome Pero looks waiting for you at the end of the aisle and how he and the Count both had tears in their eyes for most of the wedding.  What you remember much more vividly is the fun you and your friends had when preparing for the nuptials.  Days and nights filled with laughter, play fighting over flower arrangements, tearful promises to never let distance impact your friendship – you thank the Bridgertons over and over for their love and support during this season and bringing you to Pero; you can never repay them.  When you board the ship to your new home, it’s not without tears as you say goodbye to your friends and father; everyone sends you off with mirroring sentiments and promises to visit soon.

If the Tovar estate servants had any concerns or misgivings about having a foreigner as mistress of the house, you soon win them over with your kind and gentle nature; your cheerful and easy-going demeanor overriding any language barrier, which with their help and your dedication, you were overcoming more and more every day.  And if there were any remaining whispers, be they among the members of the Spanish court, villagers, or any one else, they were quickly quieted once the concerned party bore witness to the ferocity of your love for your husband and his obvious and complete devotion to you.  The older house staff observed quite readily that they hadn’t seen the Barón smile as much as he did since he was a boy.  The newer servants declared that prior to his marriage, they had not seen him smile at all.

One morning, only two months after landing in Spain, you wake to find yourself alone in bed for the first time since you and Pero got married.  Deciding it unnecessary to ring for your ladies’ maid (Lucia, a delightful woman whose English was improving as much as your Spanish), you throw on a dressing robe over your night dress and pad downstairs, sure you’ll find your husband in the dining room having breakfast. 

As usual, you’re right; for a few minutes you remain standing in the doorway, admiring your handsome hulk of a husband as he shovels the remainder of his breakfast into his mouth.  You love the way he eats… everything - with voracity, unabashed hunger, like he can never get enough.  Strolling in only when you see him push aside his empty plate in favour of a pile of letters and paperwork to begin reading, you thank the footman who had already seen you and plated you a warm breakfast, before you approach Pero’s chair.  Dancing your fingers across his broad shoulders, you slide onto your husband’s lap before laying a soft morning kiss to his lips, “Buenos días, mi rey.”

“Buenos días, mi reina,” Pero kisses back, turning his full attention to you as he always does.

“Te echo de menos esta mañana (I missed you this morning),” you pout, although you’re not really upset with him in any way.

Pero smiles at you indulgently, “I thought you might like to get some extra sleep.”  He nuzzles your ear and you can hear him smile, “Considered you might be tired after your activities last night, Baronesa.”

You giggle and pull him in for another kiss, your cheeks get hot just thinking about the multiple orgasms that Pero pulled from you with his talented fingers, mouth and cock; you purr back and pepper his scruff with kisses, “Very thoughtful of you, Barón.”  Your eyes soften, “No me gusta despertar sin ti, Pero (I hate waking up without you, Pero).”

Pero kisses your temple, “My apologies, Dulce.  How can I make it up to my pretty wife?”

You squirm in his lap; a thrill still runs through you when you hear him refer to you as his wife, and you start to plant breathy kisses to the spot right behind his ear that you know drives him crazy.

“Already?  Is my wife so insatiable?” chuckles Pero, though his voice his has dropped to that low baritone register that makes your stomach flip.  You nod into his neck and start to run your fingers through his soft curls, tugging impatiently at the ones at the base of his neck.

“Déjanos por favor (leave us please),” Pero calls out politely.  The servants in the dining room leave at once and close the doors, some smirking - all the servants having gotten used to their master and new mistress’ voracious appetite for one another.  The younger servants were mainly amused and some even found it romantic; the older servants acting scandalized, but secretly pleased to see such a happy marriage on the estate after so long.

 “Sit up here, mi amor,” Pero pulls you off his lap gently and directs you up onto the dining room table; you move his papers aside and push his flatware out of the way.  Teasing him, you quip, “I thought you already had breakfast, my lord?”

“I’m ready for seconds,” growls Pero as he pulls up his chair and seats himself between your legs.  Licking his lips greedily, he unties your robe and peels it open to reveal your lacey nightgown underneath. Lifting up the skirt to reveal your already wet and waiting naked cunt, he murmurs, "Delicious," before lowering himself to meet you where you already need him so desperately.  Aware that you might still be sensitive from the previous night’s sex, Pero is careful with you – his licks and strokes to your folds are gentle and slow, he mouths and sucks your clit with tenderness and reverence, and when he presses two, then three fingers into your tight hole, he does so with restrained worship.  It’s only when you cry out for more, more, more, that he quickens his pace and fully presses his mouth to you, tongue tangling with your sensitive bud before nibbling it between his teeth.  Your moans and debauched sounds of rapture have never been restrained in this house, your house – and you come with a desperate and enchanting scream befitting the blinding pleasure now electrifying your body. 

Kissing up your nightgown and planting loving open mouth kisses to your breasts before letting you taste yourself, Pero licks into your mouth and whispers, “Te amo, mi reina,” before standing back to unlace his pants.

Your mouth waters as you watch your husband free his cock; no matter how many times you’ve taken him in your hands, your mouth, your cunt, you’re still in awe of its size and the things that Pero’s length can do to you.  Whenever you feel the stretch of him entering you, you always recall the first time and how gentle he was as he pushed in.  When you remember the tenderness in his voice and face as he made sure you were comfortable, putting your pleasure before his – your heart always blooms with overflowing love for this man.  How did you get so lucky?  Pero would of course always say that he’s the lucky one, and then show you just how deep his affection for you runs by thrusting with intensity, punching that spot inside that makes you see stars, over and over – the exact way he’s doing so now.  “¡Cómo te amo, Pero!” you whimper again and again, and by the way he continues to drive into you, you know he believes you.  Folding himself over you so that he can bury his face into your neck and nip at the delicate spot at the base, Pero's pants and groans have you arching your back and fisting his hair just for something to hold on to lest you float away.

“I’m close, Dulce.  Come with me,” Pero growls, snaking a hand between your bodies and finding your clit with ease.  Drawing quick circles over your swollen nub, you feel the coil beneath your belly tighten and tighten until it snaps and you throw you head back chanting your husband’s name as you fall over the cliff.  Not far behind, Pero’s pace falters before he spills into you with a long and low grunt in your ear that shoots straight to where you’re joined as one. 

Weak, limp and perfectly satisfied, you let Pero pull you into a sitting position and kiss him deeply and sweetly as both of your breaths start to even, the heaving of your chests slowing in unison.

Forehead resting against yours, Pero catches your still dazed eyes and gives a small nod towards the papers that had been pushed aside and forgotten, “Dulce, I’ve been charged with accompanying His Majesty’s naval fleet to Naples, Italy.  Would you join me?”

Smiling because you know he already knows the answer, you nod, “Of course, mi amor.  I’ll start making the necessary arrangements today.”

Pero tilts his head, eyes soft and reassuring, “Are you okay with leaving?  We will have only been home for a few short months.”

Cupping your husband’s face in your hands, you gaze adoringly into his eyes, “My home is where you are, Pero.”

Pero closes his eyes and pulls you flush against him, with him still softening inside you, you’re as close as two people can be.  He tips your face to his and whispers, “You’re my home, Dulce,” and all you can do is sigh in unsurpassable happiness as he presses his lips to yours once again.

I've never done a tag list before so please let me know if it doesn't work, or you don't/do want to be on it, or it sets your phone on fire 😅 @drewharrisonwriter @inept-the-magnificent @tuquoquebrute @stcrrjoon @anoverwhelmingdin

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[babyhatesreality]

Baby Burrito

Pairings: Daddy!Stucky x little f!reader

Summary: Your daddies come up with a clever way to help you get through one of your sensory challenges. 

Warnings: SFW Agere (SSC), f! reader, reader is named but name used sparingly, pet names, angsty baby (getting her fingernails and toenails clipped), fluffity fluff fluff fluff. 

PLEASE NOTE- THIS STORY IS AGERE AND SFW, THE REST OF MY BLOG IS NOT NECESSARILY SO. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSUMPTION. DO NOT COPY, PLAGIARIZE, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS ONTO ANY SITE. Likes, comments, and reblogs deeply appreciated! 

You wiggled your little butt in your chair, sighing happily. The delicious taste of Papa’s mac and cheese lingered on your tongue, washing away the icky broccoli he’d made you eat too. You had eaten all your veggies, your eyes flicking to both your daddies to see if they’d noticed. All veggies gone meant cookies!

“Atta girl,” Bucky said, reaching over to gather your plate and giving you a kiss on the cheek. “You ate all your broccoli without complaining. I’m proud of you.”

“Tank you! Cookies pwease!”

They both chuckled at that. “You’ll get your cookies later, princess, I promise,” Papa said, leaning back as Daddy took his plate too. They exchanged a brief glance that you missed in your delighted wiggling before Bucky took the dirty dishes to the kitchen sink. 

Steve leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his hands folded. “Okay, princess, we’re going to change up the routine a bit tonight,” he said to you, watching you carefully for your reaction. You stopped your wiggling and tilted your head to him, curious as to what he meant by that. “We’re going to go take a bath now, okay?”

“Is bedtime?” you asked, suddenly nervous. Baths always came right before bedtime and bedtime was terrible (in your little mind, anyway). Steve shook his head, then looked quickly over at Bucky, who was hustling to load the dishwasher, before focusing back on you. 

“No, not bedtime yet, it’s too early,” Steve reassured you, smiling when you sagged in relief. “But Daddy and I are going to give you your bath now, then afterwards you can pick out a movie to watch and we can have cookies. Does that sound good?”

“Yeah! Is good!” you cheered, not clueing in to the look they exchanged again. “I wove cookies,” you said smugly, very happy with how this evening was panning out. 

“Yeah, we know you do, Trouble,” Bucky teased over his shoulder, before drying his hands and coming back to the table. “So be a good girl during bath time tonight and you can have all the cookies you want, okay?”

“Well, now, I don’t know about ALL the-” Steve began, but you interrupted him with a loud scream of delight. 

“I WILL BE SO GOOD! YAAAAAAY!!!” 

“Hey, hey, inside voice please,” Steve gently reprimanded, reaching out towards you across the table. You stopped the joyful yelling but kept the butt wiggles, eager for bath time to get going. Steve chuckled and came to get you. You squealed in delight as he lifted you onto his hip. You were halfway to the bathroom before you realized Bucky was right behind the two of you. 

“Daddy, you gonna take a baf too?” you asked. 

“I’m gonna help Papa give you a bath, Little Bit,” he said, reaching out to boop you on the nose. You giggled a bit, but something was off. Usually one or the other of them gave you a bath- they were both big super soldiers and took up a lot of space, so having all three of you in the bathroom at once was usually not a thing. Unless...

Your gaze suddenly swung to Steve, who noticeably picked up his pace. “Papa, we gonna take baf?” you asked anxiously, worried that something was afoot. He didn’t answer you until all three of you were in the bathroom, and Bucky closed the door, standing in front of it. Your eyes widened in horror. No...it wasn’t time....it couldn’t be time to do it again....

“We also need to trim your nails, baby,” Steve said softly. 

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

You began wiggling with all your might, but you were held fast in the arms of Captain America. You might as well have been trying to move a tanker by leaning against it. You flailed, trying to escape, but it was useless. “I don’t wike it!! I don’t wike it!!” you yowled, twisting madly as Steve tried to lean his face away to escape getting clocked like last time. 

You HATED getting your nails trimmed. Didn’t matter that neither Steve nor Bucky had ever hurt you doing it, didn’t matter that your nails were accidentally scratching you on the daily now. Every time it happened, it made you feel as if your teeth were being peeled. You hated the sensation and would do anything to avoid it. 

Bucky stepped forward, gently wrapping his arms around both you and Steve, creating another barrier between you and your freedom by pressing you in between them. When you couldn’t even wiggle anymore, you resorted to your overly theatrical wailing, slamming your head into Steve’s shoulder in despair. 

“It’s okay baby girl, it’s okay,” Bucky whispered in your ear. “We’re gonna try something new that will help, okay?”

“Don’t wanna!”

“I know you don’t, precious, but we have to,” Steve murmured, pressing his cheek to the top of your head. “We can’t have you getting hurt with your scratchy nails, can we? You’ve got claws like a kitty cat and you’re getting all scratched up.”

“I like kitty cats! Am Katie Cat!”

“We know you are- you’re our special little Katie Cat,” Bucky said, stroking your cheek. “But you’re not a kitty. You’re our little girl and we can’t let our little girl keep getting hurt.”

“Not hurt!”

“Yes you are, that scratch on your arm hurts, doesn’t it?” You growled something unintelligible, unwilling to lie and say that it didn’t hurt. You knew how they felt about lying and after all, it did sting. “And Papa and I want to try something new for you that we think can help. Will you let us do that? Please?”

You turned your teary face just enough to peek at Bucky with one eye. “Wha you do?” you asked, before sniffing mightily. Bucky reached under the sink as you tensed up in Steve’s grip- quite an accomplishment seeing as you were already tense. Bucky came back up with a soft, yellow, fuzzy blanket. Despite your nerves, you perked up a bit. It was pretty and anything that was pretty immediately had your interest. 

Daddy held out a corner of the blanket to you, and Papa released his grip just enough to let your little hand reach out. It was so fuzzy and soft...and heavy. “It’s a weighted blanket,” Daddy explained, taking another small handful and rubbing it along your hand so you could feel the smooth texture. “How about we wrap you in the blanket, all nice and cozy, and Papa snuggles you real good? Huh? I’ll go real fast and it’ll be over before you know it. What do you think, baby bear?”

You looked back at Bucky, then at Steve. You let out an exhausted whimper and pressed your face into Steve’s shoulder again. He immediately began rubbing your back. “it’ll be over so soon, princess, then we can watch movies and eat cookies. And you can snuggle in your new blanket. Okay?”

“Don’ wike it, Papa.”

“I know, baby, I know. Your new blanket will help and I will hold on to you the whole time. Are you ready?” 

Knowing that there was no way you were getting out of it, you sighed heavily and over-dramatically, hoping it would at least get you a few more cookies after having to endure this torture. “Fast, pwease,” you whispered to Bucky, before turning your face back into Steve’s neck. 

Steve rubbed your back consolingly as he sat down on the closed lid of the toilet. He quickly stood you in front of him and Bucky wasted no time draping the warm, sunshiney, weighted blanket around you. Before you could even whimper at what was happening, you were cocooned in the deliciously soft yellow blanket and back on Steve’s lap. 

But your eyes never left Bucky. He was getting out the little trimmers, moving quickly but gently so as not to scare you even more. He knelt in front of you and Steve, holding out his vibranium hand to you. It was almost too much, having to give your hand over so he could...you didn’t even want to think about it. “It’s okay, baby bear,” Bucky said soothingly. “Daddy’s not gonna hurt you. Let me have your hand, please.”

It took everything you had in you to extract your hand from the safety of the blanket and peep it out just enough for Bucky to see. He smiled warmly. “That’s my girl, being so brave,” he said encouragingly. He took your hand in his vibranium one. They had learned that even if you were trying your hardest to be good, you would sometimes twitch and jerk away when you felt the clippers. So Bucky used his vibranium hand to hold yours, in a non-painful but still vicelike grip. You squeezed your eyes shut and turned your head into Steve’s chest when you saw him bring the clippers up to your hand. 

“Doing so good, bunny,” Steve whispered, keeping his warm, safe arms around you. You were trying as hard as you could, but everything inside of you was telling you to wiggle out of his arms and run away. A tear escaped your eye and you sniffed as you felt the clippers do their work. It didn’t hurt- Bucky never ever hurt you- but you still just absolutely hated it. “See? One hand down. I’m so proud of you, baby,” Steve said, kissing the side of your head as Bucky let your hand go. 

“All done,” you tried to declare, yanking your now trimmed nails back into the safety of the blanket. “All done, Daddy. All done. We done.” Maybe if you said it enough, they’d believe you?

“Not quite done, angel,” Bucky said, trying to smother his smile at your attempts to get out of this. “But you’re doing really good. What kind of bath bomb do you want after this?” he asked nonchalantely, as his hand slipped into the blanket to find your other one.  

“Um...” you said, distracted when you felt him find your untrimmed fingers. He kept talking, trying to get you to focus on him.

“We got a pink unicorn one, and we have a purple one that smells like grapes, and we have the blue one...”

“Um...blue and pink one?” 

“Stevie, we have a blue and pink one, don’t we?”

“We sure do.”

“Would you like the blue and pink one, baby?”

“Yes, pwease.”

“Okay, blue and pink it is. And guess what? Hands are all done,” Bucky said proudly, letting your other hand go. You looked at your now trimmed nails in wonder as Bucky smiled smugly at Steve, proud of himself that you had barely noticed his ministrations while you’d been thinking about bath bombs. Steve winked at him. “We’re almost done, kiddo, you’re doing so good,” Bucky said. He chuckled as he reached for your feet. “You look so cute wrapped up in your fuzzy blanket. Do you like it?”

“Um...yeah,” you said hesitantly, rubbing your cheek on the soft material. 

“You look like a fuzzy little duck,” Bucky teased, trying to work fast so you wouldn’t notice. You giggled a bit, but then Steve came up with the real winner. 

“With you all wrapped up in this blanket, you look like a Baby Burrito,” Steve said, hugging you a bit tighter and nuzzling your cheek. That made you explode into laughter- something neither of them had ever heard from you while going through the hell of trimming your nails. 

“Baby Burrito!! I a Baby Burrito!!” you squealed before laughing again. It sounded so funny! You kept repeating it over and over. Papa joined in your laughter, and Daddy took the opportunity to race through your last couple trimmings while you were so thoroughly distracted. “Daddy?”

“Hm?”

“Can I be a burrito in your army?”

“Of course you can.”

“I Private Baby Burrito!”

That made all three of you laugh uproariously. Before you knew it, Papa was starting to unwind you from your new burrito wrappings. Alarmed and suddenly anxious again, you snatched it back and flung it around yourself. “No! I a burrito!” you said, trembling when you remembered what was happening. 

Papa smiled indulgently at you. “You can be a Baby Burrito again after your bath. Don’t you want your pink and blue bath bomb now?” Your head whipped around to find Bucky sitting crisscross applesauce in front of you, grinning to beat the band. He held up his empty hands- the clippers had disappeared. 

“You’re all done, Private,” Bucky said, enjoying the moment. “Time for bath and then movie and cookies.” You looked back at Steve in astonishment for confirmation. He smiled at you too. You couldn’t believe it. You were done? And you....had laughed during it? It was over? You sagged in relief against Steve’s chest. 

“I WOVE being a burrito,” you mumbled in your bliss. Steve and Bucky laughed again and quickly got to work on bath time. A little while later you were in the living room, having drug your new favorite burrito-blanket out with you and wrapping yourself in it so snuggly that Bucky had to pick you up and put you on the couch between them as you couldn’t move. You managed to pull your hands free when the cookies came out, though. Ah, this was the life. 

[megamindsecretlair]

Be My Little Darling - Chapter 12

Chapter 11 Interlude

Pairing: Loki x Black!Fem!reader / Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+. Minors DNI. You are in charge of your own reading experience. ANGST. There's ANGST. Mentions of grief, violence and suicidal ideation (please seek help, it's never a light subject). Soft Loki.

Summary: Loki is the exclusive owner of the hottest club in New Asgard. Dubbed the Nine Realms, each of the nine rooms represent a different realm. You are his second in command, working the floors and ensuring everyone is having fun. An attack on the club affects everyone, you most of all.

Word Count: 4,604k

Masterlist

A/N: See! Not too long between updates! Alsooo, had to rework some things in the outline. I don't think it's going to require all 22 chapters and I like the condensed version. I don't want a story to linger just because I can't say goodbye to it eventually. LOL. Likes are always awesome. Please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! I block ageless blogs!

Taglist: @cantstayawaycani @braverthanthenewworld @monaeesstuff @chaos-4baby @dayjlovesromance @soft-persephone @mybonafidefeelings @nerdieforpedro @browngirldominion @thecookiebratz @we-outsiiiide @foxherder @itzgabz22 @iv0rysoap

You and Loki ran towards the screaming. Your heart leapt in your throat. Was there no end to this bullshit? Your headache from earlier only increased tenfold. The shrill, loud screaming grated on your nerves. Working here was becoming a dangerous hazard. Once you found this blasted saboteur, you’d have to worry about people leaving this job. 

Responsibilities were starting to stack like those colorful block things Midgard children played with. The blocks would topple soon though. Some errant wind or careless leg would crash into it and bring the whole thing crashing down.

Would you survive it? 

The screaming was coming from the Helheim room. Patrons and performers were leaving the room, shrieking with a terror reserved for their worst nightmares. The entrance was surrounded by dark smoke but there were no alarms and the sprinklers weren’t on. Was it a fire?

You took a deep breath but didn’t feel anything burning. You attempted to enter, but Loki held you back. “I don’t like the way this looks,” he said. His calculating sapphire eyes took in the entrance and the people spilling out of it, but you didn’t see two of your performers. 

There was still so much screaming. You were not one to ignore it. You constructed two batons in your hands and rushed inside anyway with Loki calling after you.

The smoke was thick. Tangible in a way that let you know that magic was afoot. You called out for the staff members that were assigned to the room at the time. “Sweetie! Baby!” 

Yes, you knew the names were stupid. But Loki was terrible with names and it provided an extra layer of mystery for the patrons. Not to mention privacy. There were too many drunk tourists that you had to kick out for trying to get handsy with your wait staff. 

“Darling!” Loki called after you. You looked behind you but the smoke was too thick. Too cloying. You breathed it in and it was like sweet fog from a fog machine, except thicker and blacker. The dark decor in the room did little to help. The fog obscured everything. You couldn’t see two inches from your nose.

You coughed around the thick fog, grunting every few minutes as you ran into a table or a chair. You didn’t know how far you traveled into the room or where you were. “Call out!” You yelled. 

“Oh gods!” 

You turned to the sound. “Call out!” You yelled again. You moved to your right. If you only traveled a few feet in the room, you should be approaching the small bar area. Your stomach crashed into the corner and air whooshed out of you in a painful sigh. 

You clutched your stomach and dissolved one of the batons. You checked your stomach by feeling alone. It didn’t seem broken. And nothing cut you, you hoped.

“Darling!” Loki’s voice echoed. 

“Loki!” You yelled. 

You coughed. The fog in the room seemed to get thicker, crawling into every nook and cranny that you possessed. It went up your nose, down your throat. It burned your eyes. The coughing only got worse as you uselessly searched for your employees. 

Flashes of green light turned your attention to the far left side of the room. Whatever Loki was attempting, it did little to combat the fog. However, it was a beacon that you stumbled towards. You held out your hands to try and avoid obstacles or getting hurt in the process.

Screaming from outside of the room was still driving your headache up the wall. Everything hurt. Your heart, your head, your eyeballs. The green light continued to flicker every so often. The more you walked towards it, the more it bobbed away at the last moment. 

“Loki!” You called out.

“Darling!” Loki sounded like he was behind you, distant. The flickering green light was in front of you.

The fog must be playing tricks on you. You coughed, trying to clear it from your mouth but the chemical taste remained. “Loki!” 

The green light hovered mere feet away. You reached out your hand, prepared to grab a piece of Loki’s suit. An arm or Hel, you’d take a leg at this point. When your hand swiped through the light, Sweetie appeared. 

Her eyes glowed green, a twisted visage of anger. You screamed and tripped back, crashing over a chair, and falling into the ground with a painful thud. 

“Is this all the attention I’m worth, Loki?” Sweetie asked. Her voice sounded amplified as if she were speaking through the stereo system in the room. 

“I leave you clues to know who I am and yet all you concern yourself with is your pet?” Sweetie moved in an angry line, pacing back and forth like a warrior gearing up for a fight with a frost giant.

“Why the games? Why not reveal yourself?” You heard Loki but you didn’t see him. 

Another pair of glowing green eyes emerged from the dark fog. Baby. She joined Sweetie as they paced, of one mind and body. Similar to those jerks who attacked the club. 

“I want to see the look on your face when you figure it out. Until then, the fun must continue. But I will not be ignored!” Sweetie and Baby spoke in unison. It was creepy. It was wrong. 

Pain bloomed up your leg but you had to get up. You had to help. You got to your feet and limped towards your employees. “Sweetie!” You grabbed her hand and shook her, trying to get her attention. She had to still be in there.

Sweetie - or whoever was controlling Sweetie - tilted her head at you. Her hand came up to gently caress your cheek. 

“He will break you too,” she said, softly. 

“Sweetie, I know you’re in there. Fight it!” You yelled. You shook Sweetie but she remained stiff, strong, and unyielding. 

“It’s what he does. And you will help my revenge,” she said. The fuck was that supposed to mean? 

You moved around her, heading towards Baby. Either she closed her eyes or the entity left her because the green light went out and you could no longer see. You coughed and spread out your hands, waving your remaining baton. You didn’t want to hit either one, but maybe pain helped. 

A strong hand gripped your neck and you screamed, turning to bring your baton down. Thanos emerged from the fog, like a devilish mountain. He grinned, his purple face transforming into a satisfied smirk. 

He moved methodically around the space, illuminated by some inner glow to where you could see everything. Icy fear wrapped a bony hand around your heart and squeezed painfully. You stumbled away from Thanos.

Gold glinted off of his gauntlet. The monstrosity was half complete, filled with glowing rocks around the knuckles. “It should have been you,” he said, kindly. Patiently. You hated that most of all about him. The way he spoke as if this was some divine duty he had to perform and not the massacre it was. 

You couldn’t breathe. Combined with the thick fog, your head swam. The lack of oxygen made your steps falter. You backed away and couldn’t take your eyes off of Thanos. You tripped over something and fell hard on your ass. You patted the ground around you and clutched fabric.

The lump you tripped over felt like a body. A man by the feel of it. He wasn’t moving or breathing. Thanos continued his slow steps towards you. “It should have been you,” he said. 

Tears sprang to your eyes but did little to obscure his face. That terrible face that haunted your every waking moment. Your dreams. Your thoughts. Beside him, a figure emerged.

“No,” you gasped. Your friend, the one Thanos snapped away, stood beside Thanos as if she were his daughter. She leaned her head on his thick, protruding arm. 

“It should have been you instead of me,” she said. Her voice was just as you remembered. Clear and loud as a bell. Soft and feminine. She had thick ropes of dark hair, a small elven face, skin like butterscotch. She used to read those silly little pamphlets out loud to you while you walked to the playhouse. Gods, you missed the playhouse. You missed her.

Tears flowed freely now. You had thought of her so often, but her image had started to fade away. Asgard didn’t have those…camera things that Midgard had. There was no way to capture someone’s image except by painting their picture. 

Silly commonfolk like you and her didn’t have need for such things. Asgard seemed endless. Like a paradise in the universe. You had forever with her. Forever to live. And it was savagely ripped away. 

“It’s time to right that wrong,” Thanos said, bunching up his brow. He was so hideous. Disgusting. Hairless and cruel. 

“It’s time for you to die this time,” your best friend, Erian, said. Even thinking her name hurt. 

“No, no, no, I’m sorry!” You screamed. 

“Darling!” Loki’s voice was a distant buzz that faded too quickly. Your thoughts were wholly on Thanos and Erian walking beside him. 

You scooted along the floor. You knew better than to turn your back on an enemy but you flipped over and crawled along the floor. Your tears were a haunting, ugly thing leaking from your eyes. Snot dripped from your nose. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

“Look how she cowers. You’re a craven, rotten piece of trash,” Erian said. 

“I know,” you whispered. Your fingers gripped the disgusting floor as you pulled yourself towards the direction of the door. There was a faint, pale light there. Your head continued to swim. A painful throbbing made your eyes ache. Your throat burning from your mumblings and apologies and the thick fog. 

“Stop this, at once!” Loki’s voice was still too far away. You were alone. Alone. 

You would always be alone. You were too stupid, too weak, too desperate to do things right that it only turned out wrong. You couldn’t take care of your siblings. You couldn’t find your family. You couldn’t take care of the club and deduce who the saboteur was. You couldn’t get Loki to admit his feelings. And now Thanos has returned.

How did he find you? How did he know? Could he scent your uselessness across the galaxy? Had he realized his mistake? That he should have taken you and not Erian? 

You didn’t know what force propelled you forward. You longed to stop crawling. To let him take you. To let him trade your life for Erian’s. Still you moved forward. Cravens still had a tiny drive for self-preservation. Some ancient, deep knowledge in your bones told you to move forward and escape the danger.

Thanos’ taunting laugh made you shriek with fear. Your heart felt like it was going to shrivel in your chest. You didn’t have enough air to breathe let alone scream out for help. Who in the world would help you? 

Loki. Loki would help. 

All Loki cared about was himself. He was more interested in owning you, torturing you, than ever seeing you as a true partner. How could you think such a thing? That you were worthy of a god? 

You weren’t even worthy of the skin you occupied. “I’m sorry, Im sorry,” you cried. 

“Do you think I want your apology?” Erian asked. Her soft voice sounded wrong. Twisted. Cruel. 

Sobs wracked your body, making you shiver with fear. You didn’t want to be crushed under Thanos’ thumb. You thought you’d die doing something else. Perhaps in old age or in a fight. Perhaps by your own construct if anyone ever got the better of you. Not like this. Not like this.

Your thoughts were violently pulled back to the day on the ship when Thanos attacked. How his minions showed no mercy. No capability of the sort. Thor tried to fight but after dealing with Hela and Surtur, not to mention the total and complete destruction of your homeworld, he was powerless to stop him.

Thor, the golden Prince who summoned lightning, was powerless. It was laughable if it weren’t so sad. Loki attempted to fight him as well, going so far as to summon a knife to drive into Thanos’ neck. The gauntlet prevented him from doing so and Thanos blasted him against the ship’s hull, knocking him out. 

Thanos’ minions separated the rest of your people. You could smell the fear and despair in the air. There was misery and heartbreak aplenty. You clutched Erian’s hand in yours, desperate to stick together. 

You watched his minions shove people back and forth but they were paying more attention to the other side. You pushed Erian. You pushed for her to go to the other side so she would be safe. She cried and shook her head. You needed her to survive.

You tried to push your siblings as well but they clung to you instead. You tried to join Erian but there were too many hulking beings in your way. One such creature shoved you back to your side. Without warning, they turned their blasters to the opposite side and began firing.

“No!” Your scream only joined the ones on your side. The lucky ones. You watched Erian crumple into a heap on the floor and you screamed and you screamed and you screamed. 

You finally reached the entrance to the Helheim room and crawled out into the hallway. There were others there, lost in some kind of trance. Your staff’s eyes glowed green as they stalked through the halls.

The black smoke spread to the other rooms, invading like a malevolent parasite. People screamed and coughed. Pandemonium raced through the club as muzak played an upbeat song, mocking the current situation. 

“Coward,” Erian said.

“Pathetic,” Thanos said. 

You were a coward. You were pathetic. You were responsible for your best friend dying. You heard someone calling your name but you were useless. You crawled with no destination in mind as Thanos’ boots thundered behind you.

Didn’t anyone see him? Didn’t anyone hear them? Was that why everyone was screaming? Thanos’ minions must be in the club terrorizing your staff and patrons. No one would ever want to come here again. 

A keening whine left you. You cried and cried but there was no one to help. Nothing to do but wait for Thanos to catch up to you and finish what he started on that ship. 

Hands gripped your arms and tried to pull. You still had no air to scream. You fought whoever it was, fought to get away. If it was Erian, you didn’t want to go with her. She was free now. She could escape. 

“Darling, Darling,” you heard.

You were flipped over. Loki’s face swam in your eyes and you reeled away from him. “Loki, look out!” You yelled. Thanos hovered behind him. Thanos approached and smiled, bringing his gauntlet across his chest. 

“No! No! No! Not him! Take me!” You yelled with a raw, singed throat. You fought with Loki, fought to climb to your knees. 

“Darling, gods,” Loki breathed. He tried to hug you or press you to his chest. You fought him. You fought him with what little remaining strength you had left. 

“Take me! Take me! Take me!” You said, over and over. A prayer to the ancestors in Valhalla. You could not enter like this. Not dying feebly on the ground unwilling to protect yourself. You didn’t care. You’d spend eternity in Hel if it meant that Loki was alive and safe and whole. 

One of the stones on his gauntlet glowed a bright purple. Your head felt like it was being squeezed like a watermelon. You yelled, voice rough from overuse and passed out to the sound of Loki calling your name.

Sound was the first to reach you. Soft murmuring that sounded like prayer roused you and you turned to the sound. If this was Hel, it was awfully cold. You made a noise. 

Gods, you hurt. All over. Your fingers especially.

“Darling,” you heard. 

Your mouth was dry. You smacked your lips trying to work up some saliva to clear it but it was still too scratchy and raw. “Cold,” you said.

A moment later, a blanket was draped over you. You sighed.

“Darling, open your eyes. Please.”

The only person who called you Darling was Loki. And he was safe on Midgard. If you heard his voice, that must mean he was dragged to Hel with you. Your consciousness swam to the surface, fighting to get to him. 

“Safe,” you mumbled. 

Loki gripped your hand and delicately kissed your fingers one by one. “Please,” he whispered.

You were trying. Your eyes were glued shut. You tried with all of your might and was able to crack one eye open. The crust in your eye pulled your eyelashes painfully but you persisted. 

Loki smiled softly. “Thank you, Mother,” he sighed against you. He leaned his head down towards your chest and rested his cheek against you. 

“What…”

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” he said. He lifted his head and scooted closer to you. He looked haggard. Haunted. His eyes were sunken in, ringed in dark purple ridges from lack of sleep. He grasped your hand in his, rubbing his thumb softly against your skin. He leaned down and kissed your thumb. 

You searched his eyes. “Hel?” You asked.

He grinned. “No. You’re alive. You’re alive,” he sighed, relief flooding his tone. 

You bobbed your head and it swam, roiled. You dry heaved and Loki shushed you, rubbing your hand. He told you not to move, that you were safe and sound in his office. 

Tears gathered in your eyes. “Club?” 

Loki used his other hand to gently wipe away your tears. “No one’s dead. The club stands. Figures you would be more worried about that than yourself,” he said. 

His voice was soothing, working to bring you more and more to the present. You looked down at your combined hands. He was pale and practically shaking. 

“Loki?” You rasped. 

“You fucking scared me, Darling,” he breathed against your hand. 

You licked your lips and groaned at how dry they were. What the hell happened? Sleep tugged at you however, your body too stiff and achy to deal with the present. 

“Sleep, Darling. I will be here when you wake,” he said.

“Mkay,” you mumbled. Sleep claiming you once more. 

The second time around, you were able to wake up with less difficulty. True to his word, Loki sat on the floor by his couch. His dark hair was disheveled and plastered all over his face. His suit was dusty and chalky as if he walked through plaster. 

He rested his cheek against the couch cushion, still holding your hand. This couldn’t have been comfortable for him. You watched him anyway before you woke him up. He looked like he needed sleep. 

You wanted to reach out and brush his hair from his face. Even the thought of moving hurt. Gods, you ached. 

As if Loki sensed your desire to move, he slowly blinked his eyes open. He smiled when his gaze connected with yours. 

“How are you feeling?” Loki asked.

“Like Hel spat me back out,” you croaked.

Loki laughed and kissed your hand. “Everyone is safe. The club is safe,” he said, already knowing the direction of your thoughts.

“What happened?” You asked.

Loki took a deep breath and told you about the fog that induced fear. Whatever you saw, whatever you heard, it was a hallucination. The fog affected everyone. Loki sent them home until further notice. Loki caught the shiver that ran through you at the mention of what you saw. Thanos was just an illusion? 

“I won’t ask what you saw. But you kept screaming for them to take you. What did you mean?” 

You took a deep breath and rolled your bottom lip between your teeth. “I didn’t want them to take you,” you said softly. You avoided looking at him. Loki scooted closer to you and gently raised your chin to look him in the eye.

“Hallucination or not, you will never, ever, trade your life for mine. Do you understand me?” Loki asked. His voice was gentle but his tone was harsh. His eyes pleaded with you, demanding that you understand him. 

“I can’t make that promise,” you said. Tears gathered in your eyes. When it came down to it, you would always choose him. It was stupid and girlish and you really ought to have more self-respect. “I love you too much to ever live without you.” 

Loki’s eyes widened a fraction. His nostrils flared. “You don’t know–”

“This isn’t because I almost died or got hurt. I’m telling you I love you because I do. You drive me up the fucking wall and sometimes I wanna murder you myself, but I know what I’m saying.” 

Loki placed soft lips to your hand and held that position for a long time. So long that you worried that he was trying to gather courage to tell you that he didn’t feel the same way. That these past five years were no more than a game to him. A cat playing with its favorite toy. 

Loki looked back up at you, eyes blazing. “I love you,” he said and called your name. “I love you and you’re mine. Always have been. Always will be.”

“You don’t have to say it–”

“I’m not saying it because you did. I’ve always been drawn to you, Darling. I prayed to Frigga, to…my mother. I prayed that if she let you wake up, if she let you return to me, then I would earn you. I would tell you anything you wanted to know, do anything you asked of me. Even if you asked me to leave you alone,” he said. 

“I shouldn’t have given you the ultimatum,” you said. 

“No, you were right to. I was a coward and selfish. I like the way you look at me. If I told you about Thor, I’d have to tell you all of it. And I can weather many things, Darling. Your pity is not one of them.” 

“Loki…”

“And I would rather you look at me with pity than never look at me at all.” He took a deep breath and smiled briefly. “I will tell you what happened with Thor.”

You licked your lips, at a loss. Your curiosity about it was winning against your need to assure him that you were not entitled to his secrets. You opened your mouth to tell him that; it was the right thing to do but he squeezed your hand. 

“Please. I have a vow to uphold and I want to.” 

You nodded. You weren’t going to stop him and you really were dying to know the story there. Why he snapped at you like that and looked at his brother as if he wanted to jump into the nearest black hole. 

“Thor and I didn’t leave Sakaar on the best of terms. We were always at each other’s throats growing up. Hundreds of years of resentment. I hated him when he was sent to Midgard. So pathetic. So weak. And he still managed to find happiness. It was like no matter what, the sun shined on Thor and left me it’s cold embrace.”

“We agreed to go our separate ways, in fact I tried to trick him one last time. Leave him there and escape. Make him suffer at least in some small way. For him to feel what it was like to be me for once: hopeless. We managed to leave together only to come home and deal with our sister. You know the rest.”

“Something changed with him after Thanos. He broke.” Loki shook his head as if he just realized that the word described Thor perfectly. After what you saw, you’d say it was accurate. Thor had always been loud and boisterous. The life of the party. He managed to make friends easily and make everyone feel included. He was bright. In your face.

When everyone’s eyes were drawn to him, your eyes were on Loki. On how his smile didn’t match his eyes. It seemed like the brighter Thor shone, the more Loki was forced to the shadows. Forced to move aside and make room. You knew what that was like. Your heart called out to him before he knew you existed, no matter what he said. 

Seeing Thor reduced to the town drunk, overweight, and likely depressed was horrible to watch from afar. Loki saw it up close. Felt like he had a hand in it. It hurt you to think that Loki had been carrying this by himself for so long.

“We settled here and I checked on Thor every week. But there’s too much bad blood between us. We fought, over and over. And he got worse and worse. I still show up, but Thor…let’s say it hasn’t gotten better these past five years. I wanted him to suffer but I never wanted him to break. Never. I never wished that.” 

“I believe you. But Loki, it doesn’t sound like you had anything to do with how he’s feeling now.”

“Don’t try to make me feel better about this. I’ve earned this guilt and I’ve got to make amends on my own,” he said. 

You rubbed his hand in yours. “I don’t pity you, Loki. I’m proud of you.” 

Loki tilted his head, the question hovering in his blue eyes. You smiled at him. 

“It takes a brave person to admit what you did. And braver still to face it head on week after week,” you said.

Loki sighed and shook his head. “You continue to surprise me, Darling,” he said.

You took a deep breath. “Since we’re in a sharing mood…”

You told him about Erian. You told him that even in paradise you felt lonely. Abandoned. You had family but felt like the odd sheep out. Erian helped. She was the only one who didn’t judge you for your permanent state of melancholy. She didn’t try to fix it with parties, ale, or a man. You worked in the dye house, dyeing fabrics for the palace. 

The one vice you had was visiting the playhouse. Hearing and seeing magnificent plays by brilliant writers. You told him that you thought his play was hilarious. He smiled at that. 

You told him how you pushed Erian to go to the other side to be safe. You thought your side was going to get killed. Erian’s bright light deserved to keep going on, not your black mood. 

But you only pushed her to her death. You watched as you got your best friend killed. The only one who saw you. Loved you despite your mood swings. 

“Darling,” Loki said.

“Aht, aht. I can’t make you feel better about yours so you can’t make me feel better about mine. I’ve earned this guilt,” you said. 

Throwing his words back in his face made him roll his eyes and smile. He sighed and looked at you, content to just see you. Really see you. 

“We are two fools, you and I,” he said.

“Two fools trying,” you said and smiled.

“For a night of confessions, I have one more.” He took a deep breath. You rubbed his hand and looked at him. Whatever it was, you truly felt like you could get through it together. 

“I know who the saboteur is now.”

Masterlist | Chapter 11 | Interlude

[lya-dustin]

I sang of leaves of gold

chapter 3

cw: stress, pregnancy

“You should rest.” Her husband finds her staring out to the sea as if she could see beyond what Ulmo allows her to. Gil-galad embraced her from behind, kissing her shoulder and helping her relieve the pain at her lower back from the weight of her belly.

Something is wrong. Very wrong.

The Blight had receded only to return that same night stronger than before.

Erinti cannot feel Galadriel’s feä and yet, the maia feels the hairs at her nape rise in warning.

Then she feels it. At that very moment Galadriel refuses the sailor’s help and swims away from the ship. Galadriel had hesitated just as Eru called her home and resolved to follow her heart back to Middle Earth.

She never did lose hope for her child and husband to return home, she knew evil was resurfacing in Middle Earth once more, Erinti should have known better than to agree to have Galadriel sent to Aman.

It had been the best course then, and now Erinti fears they have brought upon their own doom.

“She looked back.” The red-haired woman shuts her eyes as the darkness grows stronger and slams itself against the girdle she placed on Lindon.

Soon enough she will not be able to stop it.

Soon enough the darkness may consume her.

The sudden withdrawal of orcs and creatures to the south and the greater one of the Blue Wizards falling prey to the darkness of the south and eschewing their purpose for personal gain had long hinted to something afoot, but Galadriel and her people had not uncovered anything. In truth, the Commander of the Southern Legions is looking into why the outlying watchtowers have not returned as ordered.

There were symptoms of something worse afoot, something they have yet to discover. The alleged orc mutiny after the Wrath hinted at a new overlord and yet there was not even a whisper in the Music to tell them who that new lord was.

Sauron had not been felt beyond a brief time in the north, his feä too weak to detect until she felt it and heard his new voice calling to her from a shipwreck.

Ulmo would keep him there even if it meant the death of the poor unsuspecting humans with him. A necessary cost, she can hear the Valar say. A cost Erinti would rather not pay, but will the Maia knows better than to interfere with the Song.

Everyone has their role, their place woven by it and all part of the same Song.

Her role in the song was to leave her child form and meet Gil-Galad and love him for the rest of their existence. To rule beside him as queen of the Noldor and tend to the Tree and be the mother to his children.

“He won’t return, if he does then Celebrimbor’s theory about the new ore the Silmaril splintered into is our only hope to banish him to the Void.” Gil-galad reminds her there is still hope, one so small and too dependent on the goodwill of Durin the III.

“What if the dwarves refuse us?” she asks, fearing what would happen if their last option failed. King Durin has never liked her husband’s candor nor the way he blamed During the Younger for any sort of mischief their foster son got up to with the dwarven prince.

His wife liked Erinti, everyone did, but alas the Queen of Khazad-Dûm had died twenty years ago and she is not supposed to travel in her condition. Their only way of knowing what went on inside the mountain was the sapling of the Great Tree that thrived inside of it with the love Prince Durin felt for his wife and children.

Elrond had been remiss in his friendship as he settled as Gil-Galad’s Herald these past years. Too many things to do, too many trees being destroyed to produce interminable stacks of paper on Gil-Galad’s writing desk. The poor boy was not even invited to the wedding nor invited to the ceremony for the children.

Erinti, usually the optimistic one of the two, has doubts of it’s success.

“It’s only been twenty years, the dwarves live long and Durin is a good friend, if a terrible influence, to our Elrond. He would defy his own father for him, and I do not believe the King would be so callous as to let an entire people, babes and children included, die.” The king assures her, pressing his lips to the top of her head as if to banish her fears with it.

Gil-galad would have as much luck with that as she does, tells him so through their bond.

“If he cannot?” she doesn’t wish to know, she already knows what the answer is and yet she cannot help but ask him again foolishly hoping it would be different.

“Then we must prepare.” Gil-galad tenses, his mind racing already with what must be done to keep Lindon and his kind from fading. “Perhaps it is Finnellach’s destiny to be born in the Undying Lands.”

Surrounded by all the loved ones they have lost; she can hear the unsaid words as if she thought them herself.

It was a blessing elven memory did not dim, for that is all that he has of his father and sister. He remembers Finduilas promising to visit him more often once Gwindor returned and his father making him promise to learn all he can from his mother’s kinsman, Círdan.

“Finnellach will be spoiled rotten before he is even born. Your sister will be touched to know she is the reason behind our son’s name.” She leans back against him, relishing the feeling of safety and warmth she only feels with him. “You are probably an uncle many times over now, perhaps even a great uncle.”

“I suppose it will not be so terrible to leave Middle Earth. It could be the All-father finally wishes for you to stop sharing your husband with the realm and for me to be with my family again.”

As much as she tries to ease the burden on his shoulders these past years, there is little Erinti can do about it, but she can feel his lips twitch up in a half-smile at the idea of it and thinks she can settle for that.

That night marks the first time she does not hear her brother calling out for her. For once her mind is silent with her own thoughts and the dreams of a happier life as just two more people in Aman.

She is happier than she has been as of late, even if it all fails the hope they have is enough to lift the Queen’s spirits and end the summer as they always have.

The harvest festivals had ended with the announcement of the begetting of their son and this year would begin with the birth of their prince. The midwifes who attend to her give her leave to go about her duties ensuring the summer ends as it should, and for a moment the matter of the tree is forgotten.

It is all well, Gil-Galad even smiles and takes a moment to spend it away from his duties and spend the evening with her again.

It all comes crashing down when that evening brings forth the falling of the first leaf as the rot eats away the tree.

Finnellach will be the last prince of the Noldor born in Middle Earth.

[santaeofficial]

A Bountiful Autumn Harvest

The warmth of summertime may be on the way out, but Autumn's clear sun and cool breezes are bringing gifts of their own. It's harvest season, and fields of fruit and vegetables across Santae have been extra productive!

William and Melina have been hard at work harvesting the fruits of the season. Their shops, William's Orchard Stand and Mirage Grove Vegetables, are now stocking some brand-new varieties of fruit and vegetable!

Stop by soon to sample their delicious wares for yourself and taste the bounty of Autumn!

New Gifts From The Toymaker

Have you done any favors for the Terrible Toymaker recently? There's new magic in the air in the Shadow Veil Pass -- magic the Toymaker is willing to share with you, in exchange for your help.

In exchange for completing her quests, the Toymaker will now sometimes award you Arcane Fae clothing! These garments are enchanted with the dark, whimsical magic of the fae. Your HA will be able to take flight on shimmering wings and cast enchantments with a scepter that gleams with wisps of arcane energy. The violet-and-silver armor perfectly captures the spirit of the shadows and fog that conceal the Shadow Veil Pass.

To obtain these enchanted items for yourself, all you need to do is assist the Toymaker in her quest to repair and refurbish lost toys!

Berry Bounty At The Great Tree

William and Melina aren't the only ones reporting a special bounty of produce this harvest season! Flora, too, has news to share:

After hearing about Silvershade's recent surprise discovery of the Peachbloom, Flora went to go examine the Great Berry Tree. It was a little unusual for anything to be blooming at this time of year; Even though it was obvious that the Peachbloom was no ordinary berry or flower, Flora still wanted to go see for herself if any strange magic was afoot at the Tree.

When she arrived, she found the Tree as healthy and beautiful as ever! The Autumn breeze gently rustled through the countless leaves and berries on the Tree's branches. Flora's practiced eye quickly scanned the Berry Tree for anything amiss. No more unusual Minimals -- not today, at least -- but what was that?

One low-hanging branch was heavy with unusual fruit. There were even more new berries Flora had never seen before! Flora decided to go inspect the Shadow Berry Tree for the possibility of new berries as well and there were indeed two new berries she had never seen before!

Visit Gathering to see the Great Berry Tree and the Shadow Berry Tree's newest bounty for yourself!

Even More Refreshed Art! More of our oldest items have received a fresh new look. We hope you continue to enjoy seeing brand-new art for even more of your favorite items across Santae!

FAQs Now Available Across Santae!

We're excited to announce that FAQ sections have been added throughout the Santae! Whether you're exploring new features, navigating quests, or just curious about how things work, these FAQs are here to make your journey easier. Each section of the site now has detailed answers to common questions, so you can spend less time searching for information and more time enjoying your adventures.

[doriansredroses]

I wrote this during a session in my writing club and finally finished it! I hope you all enjoy!

The Hollow Woods

Moonlight settled upon the earthen floor, lights dancing between the trees, dripping of silver and gold. Twelve figures shimmered ethereally, twirling a complex routine. No one knows what occurred within the Hollow Woods, all that was known was hardly anyone ever lived to tell the tale. 

King Thomas sat in his royal chambers with his advisors John, Benjamin, Robert, and Roger by his side. “We have to do something about these missing citizens,” said Roger, “your people are dropping like flies.” Thomas could hardly look his advisors in the eyes, averting his gaze. 

“I know,” he said softly, “I know everyone is disappearing these days. I don’t know what to do.” The room’s volume decrescendoed into silence, the king fidgeting with his ruffled sleeves. His fingers ran through his auburn waves, nervous with every movement. His kingdom was most certainly crumbling and he was determined to get to the bottom of the mysterious disappearances. “I will send out the Captain of the Guards tonight to scope out the woods’ parameters.” 

“That is a positively great idea!” exclaimed the court jester Richard as he threw open the door. He had a knack for driving everyone mad. The group of five glared at him. 

“This is not the time to be making jokes!” John raged. “There is something sinister afoot and we must stop it!” Richard missed the memo. 

“It absolutely is! It would be hollow of you not to do so.” 

“Shut up!” yelled Robert. “Get out!” 

“Leave before I throw you in the dungeons,” Thomas ordered delicately, his blue eyes flaring. 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Richard stammered before fleeing the room. 

“I may be a prankster,” began Benjamin, “but I would not mind if our jester went missing.” 

“I would not either,” said John.

“Nor I,” Robert uttered. 

“Kindly leave,” the king commanded, “I must retire for the night.” 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The four men gently shut the doors to his chambers, leaving him utterly alone. He reclined back into his plush desk chair and sighed. If only he could decipher what force was stealing his people. He pulled out his sleek spruce violin and prepared his silky bow, tucking his instrument under his chin. The first note floated through the dusky air, a melodious symphony. 

A voice crept into his mind, a sleepiness drifting over him, a hazy dream. 

Join me in the land of silver and gold, 

A world where you will never grow old, 

Where you may play your violin, 

And our music begins… 

A musical voice, a woman’s, beckoned him. Grasping the neck of his prized possession, he stood up in a monotonous trance, his eyes a glassy oblivion. The voice hummed to him, lilting, lyrical lines of impassioned promises, his logic far too gone. Glissading through the hallways of the castle, Thomas blindly followed the voice, unable to break from his stupor. An impish chuckle wafted through the nearby walls, shouts of exasperation accompanying the laughter, the jester. He paused. “Hold on,” his voice announced from two rooms down, “I have a terrible feeling.” He poked his head out the doorway and caught a glimpse of the king’s shadowy figure just out of reach. “Your…Your Majesty? Where are you going?” Of course, King Thomas was unable to reply, lost in his reverie of entrancement. “Your Majesty?!” 

Richard stealthy pursued Thomas, determined to grab his attention. The king hummed under his breath, the same melody that possessed his mind. Led outside into the night by this strange bewitchment, he moved towards the woods, bound by magic. Richard was close behind, calling for him frantically and attempting to get the attention of the palace guards, but no one came. 

The trees thickened, the moonlight a slit through the darkness. Richard tumbled over a tree root with a thud and a grunt that should have snapped someone back to reality, but the spell had the king in a chokehold. As Richard stood, Thomas was gone, no trace of him left. 

Now you’ve come to the land of silver and gold, 

A secret that can never be told. 

We dance at twilight, 

And struggle with all your might, 

But there is no escape forevermore. 

The woman who’d been speaking to him materialized from wisps of moonlight, her hair as dark as the night sky with silver streaks dotting like the stars. “I am Willow, the queen of these woods, the Queen of the Night, the Faeries, and now you are mine.” Wisps surrounded Thomas, eleven other women appearing, all ethereally beautiful. The glow in his eyes faltered, snapping him out of his trance. “Welcome to my court. We shall dance forevermore.” Willow extended her moon-white hand and took the king’s. “I have stolen many from your kingdom, luring them here, and now I’ve finally caught the king, the oh-so handsome king. There’s no escape now, my love.” King Thomas let out a scream of horror, calling out for someone to help him, but it was too late. Nothing could save him now. Queen Willow pressed her lips against his and his eyes shimmered golden as he melted into blissful oblivion. The fear had left him, leaving a blank emotion behind, peaceful. The Faerie Queen’s court pulled out their golden and silver instruments, performing a delightful and haunting melody. Thomas grasped Willow’s hand, whisked into a dance.

Richard had heard the king’s scream and came darting towards the sound immediately. “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” he cried out. “I am coming!” He bolted through the maze of trees, catching the sight of the enchanted glow from the Queen of the Night’s court. Richard hid behind the nearest tree and observed. The King had changed drastically, his skin glimmering like the stars and moon, his eyes a bewitched gold, but worst of all, his ears had a slight and dainty point at the tip, the ears of the fae. He waltzed with the Faerie Queen with a smile upon his face. Richard stifled a scream. There was no hope. All the court jester could do was to alert the guards and the king’s royal advisors. Then, Thomas turned. 

“Oh, Richard! How nice to see you! Do you mind joining us?” His voice was musically sweet, sickeningly sweet like sap. Richard screamed and fled. 

“Guards! Guards!” he shrieked once he returned to the castle. “The King! The King! Kidnapped by the Faeries! Oh help! Help me! We have to save him! To save the kingdom! The Faerie Queen stole him away! She’s behind the kidnappings here! Oh help!” The Captain, George Whittbane rolled his eyes. 

“Enough with the pranks. We have all had enough. The King is in his chambers.” Richard begged him to listen, claimed he’d seen Thomas bewitched and transformed into one of the fae. To no avail, he failed at convincing the captain. Tears trickled down Richard’s cheeks. 

“I failed you, Your Majesty. I am so sorry…” 

No one believed Richard that King Thomas had been kidnapped, but soon people were wary that he hadn’t been seen in weeks. John was appointed the regent until their king returned and Richard was merely ostracized more for his so-called “mischievous” nature. Then, one night, Richard was sitting forlornly in one of the gardens, completely alone. Moonlit wisps tickled him. He flinched. “What on earth?” Before him stood Thomas, King of the Faeries, with a sinister grin upon his face. 

“Well, if it isn’t Richard! I’ve come to whisk you away. We need a court jester on our new court.” 

“New c-court? W-what do you mean?” Richard stammered fearfully. 

“I finally found a wife.” The Faerie King snapped his fingers. “Follow me willingly or we’ll have to do it the hard way.” Richard shuddered. This was nothing like how Thomas once was. The shyness, the softness, everything was replaced by a malevolent force. 

“No. No. No! Guards!” Thomas was quick to shut him up, dragging him into the night, never to be seen again, except to steal the mortals away.         

Please also check out my short story collection on Quotev that features this as well.

Tagging @fetchmearum420 @xxiamtiebrousxx @mysteryofvampires @quirkyautisticwriter because I know you guys would like this.

[eriquin]

The Prophetic D&D Game

I'm going to try something new and post bits on tumblr instead of straight to ao3. We'll see how far I get. Tagging @2btheanswertothequestion because she was interested.

Now with Part 2

“All right, Hellfire club, listen up. I’ve got a new campaign for you,” Eddie said as he swept into the room. He’d arrived late and looked harried.

“Yeah, duh,” Gareth said. “We spent all of last week making characters for your Cult of Vecna run.”

“No, not that.” Eddie shoved at the character sheets in front of them all. “Put those away, this is something different.”

“What the hell?” Jeff asked. “If we’re not playing Cult of Vecna then why did you give Grant so much shit on Monday about missing it?”

“Bup-bup-bup!” Eddie said, putting one hand in front of Jeff’s face as the other dropped a lumpy canvas bag onto the table. “I didn’t know on Monday what I know now. He’s still a dipshit for missing Hellfire but that just means he doesn’t get to participate in my newest bout of brilliance.”

The three youngest Hellfire members glanced at each other nervously. “Uh, what’s going on?” Dustin asked cautiously. “What are we playing instead?”

Eddie straightened up and drew a folder from his bag. “Gentlemen! I have been struck by inspiration. This new run came to me in a dream, and I spent the past two days developing it—”

“This is why you skipped?” Gareth crossed his arms. “Dude, you’re going to fail again!”

Eddie gasped with dramatic offense and clasped his hand to his heart. “Just for that, Gareth, you pick your character last!” 

Gareth rolled his eyes. “Oh, you made the characters, too? Christ, you’re such a dictator.” 

“No more backtalk from you,” Eddie said. He flailed in Gareth’s direction with the folder but didn’t hit him. He sighed and grabbed the edge of his throne to pull it closer to the table. “And I didn’t make all the details of the characters. I just started them out. You can pick what they look like and all that jazz.” He opened the folder and took out a stack of papers to pass around.

Mike, sitting just to his left, took the stack from him. “Joe the human fighter? With a spiked club for a weapon? Huh. His charisma’s awful high, isn’t it?” 

“Just share them with the group, Wheeler,” Eddie said. “I’m going to make you all roll to see who picks first, except for Gare-bear here because he’s judgemental.” 

Mike put the stack in the middle of the table and they each picked up a character to read over. The group was quiet for a minute as they read through the pages. Lucas spoke up first. “So what kind of story is it?” he asked.

“I’m glad you asked, Sinclair,” Eddie said. He stood up and started to circle the table. “A terrible tragedy has rocked your little castle town. There’s been a grisly murder, and there’s something almost ritualistic about it. The guards have someone they suspect, but this group of intrepid adventures has information about what really happened. They know that the guards won’t believe them, and they have to act fast if they want to prevent more deaths.”

“So, it’s a murder mystery?” Dustin asked. “That sounds awesome.”

Eddie grinned down at him as he stretched his arms out over the backs of Lucas and Jeff’s chairs. “It is, and it isn’t. There’s definitely something sinister and supernatural afoot.” 

“Wait. Half of these characters are chicks,” Mike said with a sneer. 

“As is half of the population, Wheeler,” Eddie said. He looked completely unimpressed with Mike’s attitude. “What’s your point?”

“There’s only three guys to pick from, and there’s five of us. Do you really expect us to play as girls?” 

Eddie gave him another deadpan look before turning to Gareth. “Gare-bear, you’re no longer picking last. Wheeler is.” 

“Hey!” Mike yelled.

“Ha!” Gareth pointed at him and grinned. “I will admit that this sounds intriguing. You haven’t answered the question about how long we’ll be playing this, though.” 

Eddie scratched his head as he walked back to his throne. “I think it’s probably only a session or two? Depends on what you guys do with it.” He steepled his fingers and peered at his players. “So, are you all in?”

There were some shrugs and a round of silent communication around the table. “I still want to play Cult of Vecna,” Jeff said, “but I didn’t really want to start it without Grant. So yeah, I’m in.” 

“I love murder mysteries, so I’m definitely in,” Dustin said. 

Lucas nodded enthusiastically while Mike let out a very put-upon sigh and threw up his hands as he conceded that it sounded okay. True to form, Eddie made each of them roll to see who went first for picking a character. He snatched up Mike’s die before it landed and tutted at him. “I wasn’t kidding about you picking last, Wheeler.” 

“Aww, come on,” Mike said. “I don’t want to play a girl.”

Lucas had rolled the highest number. He shook his head at Mike. “To be honest, I don’t want to see Mike play a girl either,” he said. “It would probably be offensive.” 

“Point made, Sinclair,” Eddie said. “Who are you picking?”

Lucas grinned and reached across the table for one of the character sheets. “Sadie the thief,” he said. 

“Really? Not going to be a fighter this time?” Dustin asked. 

“Nah, Sadie looked cool. Kind of reminds me of someone, you know?” He picked up the character sheet and set it in front of him. 

“Dusty-buns!” Eddie said cheerfully.

“One time,” Dustin muttered. “You heard my mom call me that one time...”

“You’re up next. Who are you picking?” 

“I’m gonna go for the thief,” Dustin said. “Gaten the halfling. He sounds cool.” 

“I thought you’d like him,” Eddie said. He stood up and leaned over the table to watch as Jeff flipped through the four remaining characters. “What are you thinking, Jeffster?”

Jeff hummed to himself. “It’s an investigation, right? I think I’ll go with Caleb. It says he’s a junior member of the town guard... Could be useful.” 

“Excellent choice, Jeffinald. How about you, Gare-bear? We are down to three options.”

Gareth stood up so he could take a better look at the three remaining character sheets. “Did you write one up for Grant, too? Even though he wouldn’t be here?”

“No, these are just the ones I needed for the story,” Eddie said. “I actually have a seventh PC that will be introduced later in the story, if you all make it that far. If Grant wants, he can join us.” 

“Fascinating,” Gareth said. “What do you think, all? Should I pick the fighter and make Mike speak in a falsetto for the rest of the campaign?” 

Dustin rolled his eyes. “He’s going to be insufferable if you do.” 

“Hey, I’m right here!” Mike said. 

“Yeah, and he’s already insufferable,” Lucas added.

“You guys are just—”

“Well just for that!” Gareth said loudly, slapping his hand down on the table. The freshmen jumped in place. He grinned at their reaction. “I, frankly, have no problem playing a lady. I will be Maya, the lovely magic user. Both her and Natalia seem more interesting than the fighter.” He slid the last two character sheets across the table to Mike.

Everyone turned to watch him evaluate the options. “Wait, Natalia’s an elven cleric? I thought elves couldn’t be clerics.”

“DM’s discretion,” Eddie said. “A lot of those class and ability restrictions are a load of crap. Do we really think elves aren’t in tune with the gods? That’s just dumb.”

“Yeah, you know we have some house rules,” Jeff said. 

Mike as he read the sheets some more. “Wait, these two used to be married?” 

“Engaged,” Eddie said. “Separated because Natalia was too devoted to her career. But maybe there’s something to be rekindled there?” 

Mike let out a noise of disgust. “Ugh, I don’t want to play any romance in D&D. Come on.” He sighed and picked up both character sheets. “What happens to the one I don’t pick? Do they still appear in the story?”

“Yeah, they’ll be an NPC. I’ll voice them and everything.” Eddie smirked. “So make good choices, because you’ll be dealing with the repercussions either way.” 

Back and forth, Mike’s eyes darted between the two characters. “I can’t decide!” he whined. “They’re both good fighters. Natalia is smarter and has spells, but Joe is stronger and has cooler gear.”

“Jesus, just pick so we can get playing,” Dustin muttered. He was already filling in description details for his character. 

Jeff rapped his knuckles on the table to get Mike’s attention. “If you really can’t pick, just flip a coin.”

“Okay, fine!” Mike said, throwing his hands in the air. He picked up his twenty-sided die and tapped the character sheet for Natalia. “High,” he said. Then he tapped the one for Joe. “Low.” He rolled.

It landed on an eight.

“And through the power of random probability, Mike Wheeler will not be questioning his gender identity tonight,” Eddie said as Mike handed him back Natalia’s character sheet. 

“Oh, this means we have no healer,” Gareth said with a frown. “Well, at least Mike’s fighter is a front-liner and will probably die first.” 

“And mine,” Jeff said. “I’m a fighter, too.”

“You have higher dex,” Gareth said. “Get a bow, stand behind Joe the brutal over there, and let him take the hits.” 

“So are we ready to play?” Dustin asked, sounding impatient. 

“Almost, almost,” Eddie said with a broad smile that generally meant he had something planned. “Everyone familiar with their characters? Generally happy with them? Or at least comfortable?” He got a round of nodding heads and noises of agreement. His smile turned a little bit wicked as he said, “Great. Here are the real character sheets, and all their secrets. It’ll be up to you if you want to share them.”

[darklydeliciousdesires]

London Will Burn - Chapter Twelve.

Look at me go! I updated on time for once, haha! Happy Friday, besties. Hope you all have a wonderful weekend <3

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven

Tag list - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed

Words - 4,180

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Minors DNI.

“Sorry mate! Christ, the traffic was absolute murder! They’ve completely closed off the bloody main road outside my offices and... Oh, hot waiters. Hello!” 

In times of tension, Rin knew she could always trust in her old friend Carly for a little light relief, literally veering off mid-sentence to appreciate the appearance of the wait staff there at San Carlo, where they were meeting for a long overdue catchup dinner.  

With their beloved Rashida now living over in Chicago, it was just the two of them, their friendship fully re-bonded since Rin’s return from Africa. Not that geographical distance had diminished the love or closeness between the two lifelong friends whatsoever.  

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s fucking mayhem out there! Come here, give me a smooch,” Rin assured her, kissing her cheek as they embraced. “I only got here on time because I was in Chelsea for a meeting this afternoon.” Carly took her seat, thanking Rin when she dutifully poured her a glass of wine. “Anyway, why are you eyeing up waiters? Not loved up with twat waffles, still?” 

No, it was fair to say that Rin had never really liked Carly’s long-term boyfriend, Mathias. Not after their visit to Kenya, when he’s gotten absolutely smashed, resulting in him thinking he could square up to Sokoro, a decision that had landed him in a world of regret. Being dangled by his ankles over the top of the stairs within the lodge by the pissed off Kenyan until he’d apologised had sobered him up nicely, though. 

“You will be pleased to hear that the man known only as twat waffles to you is no longer in my life. Yeeted him about four weeks ago. I’ll say it, you were right.”  

Rin beamed. “I always am.” Well, not always. The events of the previous week were still burning in her gut, being shamed in the way she had been by Sean and his superior powers of deduction. “No but honestly, honey. I’m glad because you can do so much better than him!” 

“In this instance, you are correct. I can and I will, with that waiter over there with the blonde hair if I have my way.” She paused, raising her glass in his direction. He was at the table in seconds. 

“Good evening, ladies. Are we ready to order?” 

Oh, he was so sweet, absolutely none the wiser to the fact there was a bona fide man eater about to chomp down upon him. “Not yet, love. I was just appreciating the fact that you happen to be the most gorgeous man within the restaurant, so cheers to you.” 

He pinked at the cheeks, nodding while attempting to bite back his grin. “Well, when you need me, feel free to appreciate me again.”  

Rin chuckled, shaking her head. “We'll take some focaccia and olives to nibble while we decide, please.” 

He made a quick note on his iPad, smiling widely. “Certainly.” Scampering away, Rin fixed her friend with a look of pure mirth. 

“You’re terrible, Muriel.” 

Her assessment had Carly in hysterics, reciting their favourite line from the nineteen nineties cult classic film, Muriel’s wedding. They’d always said it to one another when there was mischief afoot. “I am, this much is true. So, how’s everything? How’s work, and my beautiful goddaughter?” 

“Tiger is perfect, as usual. As for work... hm.”  

Inclining her head, she took a sip of wine and thanking the waiter when he brought over the required pre-dinner nibbles. She winked again and of course, he blushed furiously. “Oh? I sense a story there. Does it have anything to do with her dad? How’s all of that going, by the way?” Of course, Carly had been made privy to it all. She’d known right from the start, after all.  

She ground her teeth before forcing a somewhat terse smile to her face. “I gave him a black eye last week.”  

Some things truly never changed, Carly making a motion with her hand that she should elaborate. “The tea requires spilling, Miss C.” 

And so, Rin did. She spared certain details over her work (although of course, Carly well knew she was a hardened criminal, Rin never gave away enough that could implicate her at any point in the future, just in case) but managed to sum it all up in a way that gave the story without all of the nuanced ins and outs of it.  

“Right, so he potentially saved you from making a big mistake with the Per...” she began, eyes scanning around before leaning in close to whisper, “the PM, shall we say, and you gave him hell for it?”  

“He embarrassed me in front of my associates, and took great pleasure in doing so,” she spoke, picking up another small cube of focaccia and dunking it into the balsamic vinegar bowl. “I don’t take kindly to that.” 

A taste of one’s own medicine was always the bitterest, Carly couldn’t help but note. “Yet you do exactly the same with him at any given opportunity.”  

Rin frowned. “I’m sorry, who’s side are you on here, exactly?” 

“Yours, always yours, love,” she was quick to interject, “but sweet, from what you’ve told me about him, if you bite at him, he’ll do exactly the same back. You two, you’re much too similar for your own good. Something I believe you once said about you both, didn’t you?” 

The focaccia was chewed upon with mild fury. “He doesn’t deserve to ever have one over on me. Not after what he did. I want him to suffer. His punishment will be prolonged, mark my words.” 

God, she was so hardheaded, especially when it came to Sean. Carly looked a little pensive, picking up her wine. “Do you want to know what I think about that? The complete, unfiltered truth?” 

Her lips thinned, eventually nodding. “I suppose an outside perspective couldn’t hurt.”  

“Okay.” She took a breath and another sip of Sauvignon Blanc for courage, placing her glass back down again softly.  

“You’ve already punished him enough, Rin. You deprived him of a relationship with his daughter for six years, and you came back and took an empire he was planning to preside over out from under him, and then made him effectively run his own company for you, on your terms. Trust me, from what you’ve told me about Sean, you’ve hit him twice where it hurts with big strikes. Family and business are what means everything to him, and you hold all the power over both. Prolonging that, well, as far as I can see, mate, all that does is cause problems for you.” 

“How?” 

“Your business deals should be running smoothly, and if you continue to hold him in contempt, they simply won’t. Risky really, when taken into consideration just what you do. Then of course, for Tiger. In fact, mostly for Tiger. Trying to repeatedly cut her father down for a mistake he made seven years ago will only hurt you and her in the end. Has he ever offered you an apology for his actions?” 

She lifted her chin, remembering it, when he told her of his lament. “He has. I have to give him that.” 

Carly reached for her arm, squeezing softly. “Well, then. There you go. You have to stop figuratively yeeting him right in the gonads for it at point or another, or behaving like this is only lowering you to his level, or former level, I don’t know. I can’t speak for him, but I can speak for your character. You’re better than this.” 

If anyone was going to give her the truth, it was Carly. It was a truth she did need to hear, too, before the battleground that was her relationship – or lack thereof – with the father of her child became even bloodier than it already was. “Why are you bloody laughing? I’m trying to talk seriously for once in my flippin’ life! You could at least appreciate my attempt to be sage!” 

“I am,” Rin chuckled, covering her hand with hers where it still rested upon her arm. “It’s just you still can’t help but be funny through it. Yeeting him in the gonads, oh god.” She descended there, laughing richly, even wiping a few tears from her eyes, it had entertained her so much.  

“And at the fucking risk of getting my head bitten off, well, maybe it’s because you still lust after what’s hanging directly above the gonads that you’re getting yourself so bent out of shape over him.” 

Immediately, she sat a little more upright, her laughter stalled. “Order me the burrata salad to start and then the salmon penne. I’m going for a cigarette.” 

“Avoidance tactics,” Carly chimed as Rin rose from her seat, discreetly offering her middle finger in salute.  

“Bugger off.” 

“Filthy habit,” she further teased, Rin mouthing that she was a knob, her clearly entertained friend giggling as she picked up her wine. “This could all be so much simpler for you if you weren’t so much like your dad.” she muttered, sipping the buttery smooth Sauvignon while looking down at the menu to make her choice.  

They had a lovely night together, parting ways at just gone 10pm, Carly heading home and Rin calling a car to do the same. After stopping at a Tesco Express to purchase a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, though, home was not where she ended up.  

Sean was coming to the end of a five-mile treadmill run when the buzzer sounded through his penthouse, slowing the machine to walk before climbing off, his bare chest glistening with sweat. 

“Yes?” he spoke into the intercom, seeing the woman upon the screen turn to reveal her face to the front entrance camera.  

“Can we talk?” 

She had a nerve, turning up out of the blue at 10:35pm. “That depends on whether I’m going to get lambasted all over again for trying to do the fucking right thing, Catherine.” 

“You aren’t. Promise.” She knew she needed to give a little, Carly’s words hitting home with her a little. He buzzed her in, Rin moving to the lift, hitting the button for the penthouse. As it glided in ascent, she spoke sternly to herself, her internal monologue advising that she needed to keep calm and talk things through with him, apologise for her pride getting in the way the week before, that she was doing this for the greater good of business continuing to run smoothy, and for her daughter to have a father in her life. One who truly did want to be there.  

All of her steely composure flew straight out the window when he opened the door to her, though, when her eyes nearly fell out of her head for seeing him there, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, his navy joggers so low slung she could almost see his... 

“Well, don’t you look resplendent in Dolce and Gabbana,” he spoke, raising an eyebrow.  

She cocked her head, swallowing hard. “How did you know this is D&G?” 

He took a moment, his eyes roaming her slender curves. “I have an eye for quality.” The scent of her perfume wafted under his nose, spellbinding, those orchid notes reminding him how it felt to have his senses flooded by it, his eyes meeting hers.  

Her body moved, yet her feet planted, her mouth agape as her chest and cheeks flushed, overcome by the sight of him like that, her throat drying. No. Not now. She willed her brain to take the reins away from the jockey that was her desire, steer her right, but she failed. It was too strong, charging away down a path she swore never to encroach upon again, moving in a second to press her mouth to his, his arms immediately locking around her as he kissed her back with all the heat of a thousand suns.  

Now they were in trouble.  

Flattened against the door, he pinned her there as they gave in to the torrent, his hands smoothing over her body, reaching to ruck her dress up around her waist, both panting furiously as their tongues rolled in an erotic dance, Sean grasping her thong and tearing it from her in one swift yank. It sent a flood to where she ached for him, her legs wrapping around him as he lifted her, pulling his joggers down just enough to free his cock and plunge it into her fully. 

Lord, how she’d missed the feel of being split wide around him, kissing him in utter frenzy. It was mindless, feral sex, their need for one another rampant and unhinged, her body banging against the thick, black door as he fucked out every single wave of desire, longing and, if he was honest, utter contempt he held for her, his fingers dug in hard beneath her thighs.  

It sizzled through her, each sparking pulse, tiny fireworks set to burn within her blood, crying out as he filled her again and again, his teeth at her neck scintillating, hanging onto him for dear life. It felt like he was attempting to fuck her right through the door, the pace barbaric, smouldering, everything she needed and had craved in the years they’d been parted.  

It shimmered through them both, the crest of an almighty wave they rode until it crashed, washing over them entirely, Rin feeling completely mindless as she swam to the surface of her pleasure, desire glimmering down her spine. That was the moment her brain engaged, her breathless body pinned by his, their tightened muscles slackening as the divinity ebbed away. 

Oh, god. Damn him. Damn him for being so fucking irresistible.  

He was the first to speak, finally sobering from his orgasm enough to form words. “Please don’t tell me we’ve just possibly given Tiger a sibling.” 

“We haven’t,” she panted, “IUD.” 

“Oh, thank Christ.” He finally looked at her, withdrawing and placing her down, his mouth twitching a little. “So, you wanted to talk?” 

“I did,” she confirmed, rearranging her dress, looking away. Easily, she could have throttled herself for her actions, hiding her face in her hands for a moment, dying a little. “For fucks sake! We’re such a mess.”  

He raised an eyebrow, pulling his joggers and boxers back up again. “That we are, Catherine.” He paused, watching her run her hands over her hair, still looking desperately uncomfortable. “We could become less messy, though. Perhaps if we ceased the urge to needle at one another quite so much as we do.”  

“Are you truly admitting to the fact that you do?” she asked, Sean feeling his blood flicker in annoyance. 

“I am, yes. Because somebody who continues to fucking punish me for the mistakes of my past bloody deserves it. Know that for my part, it is only in retaliation,” he told her, walking over to his kitchen, Butch there in his bed, absolutely none the wiser to her arrival and subsequent pounding against the front door.  

She pulled the bottle from her bag, nodding towards him. “It’s because you enjoy the fight, Sean. Don’t pretend that isn’t how it is.”  

God. The Woman was insufferable. He turned to her, his nostrils flaring. “Stop it. If I can put my ego aside here and admit my transgressions, then so can you. You know full well you hold your power over me like a fucking sword of Damocles, in both business and with Tiger whenever the opportunity arises. Now, admit that, or get the fuck out. I’m going for a shower; I suggest you take the time I’m gone to consider that. Glasses are above the sink cupboard.” 

She knew she had to, he was right, but god, it wasn’t easy. They were both just too similar, too – to use an analogy she herself had many times before – cut from the exact same cloth. Except this time, deep down Rin knew that Sean was right, and she loathed him for it all the more.  

Life would be made exponentially easier for her if she simply ceased her desire to punish him, to realise that Carly was right. She had struck back against him more than evenly. The playing field was entirely equal once more.  

Just last week she’d heard Ed Dumani offer peace towards Sean, and regardless of the fact he hadn’t been ready to accept, she knew that a clean slate was exactly what had to happen between her and the father of her child, so that ultimately that precious little girl didn’t suffer because of her parent’s rampant toxicity.  

“I almost expected you to have done a runner.” His words pulled her from her thoughts, a freshly showered Sean entering the kitchen again, going to the cupboard himself to retrieve the glasses she’d been preoccupied from fetching. “I perhaps couldn’t blame you if you had.”  

He poured two large measures, Rin thanking him as he slid hers across the black marble worktop, knocking it back in one. He followed suit. “Come on, it’s fucking cold in here and the lounge is warm.” They walked back out again, Butch still sleeping on with a series of deep snores, taking a seat upon the long, L shaped grey sofa, Sean refilling their glasses. “So, what did you come here with the intention of saying?” 

Taking a breath, she closed her eyes for a second, seeing Tiger there in her mind’s eye. It forced her to take a lasso to her pride and give it several tethering yanks. “I want to apologise for my part in us continuing to have friction. It isn’t conducive to us healthily co-parenting Tiger, no matter how much I dislike you at times. I need to be better for my daughter.”  

He snorted softly, sipping his drink. “At times? Catherine, you despise me near enough constantly.”  

“Do you truly blame me for that?”  

“Yes, I fucking do when you’ve had seven bloody years to get over it!” he spoke tersely. “I apologised to you, and it was sincere. I regret what I did to you, every fucking day I regret it, but god above, woman! You have to take your fucking boot off my bloody neck at some point.” She looked accepting of his words, albeit that acceptance bitter, Sean continuing in her silence. “I lost everything, went through hell after my father died, attempted to claw it back only to have you take it all again and only give it on your terms. Terms I have complied with.” 

“But Sean...” 

“No, for fucks sake, there isn’t a fucking but here! Stop fucking punishing me. If you want me to cease resenting you, then you have to stop making me sorry for something I already regret! I am doing everything in my power to prove worthiness, to prove most importantly that I can and will be a fit father for Tiger, but as soon as you perceive me to have any kind of upper hand, you fucking use her against me, like you did with the Persians!” 

Her ire ramped in an instant. “You fucking enjoyed that, making me look small!” 

“I didn’t want Bahram Forouhandeh to fucking kill you! I was looking out for you, you ignorant, insufferable woman!” His eyes were wide, exasperated as he scoffed, sinking his whiskey. “And yes, maybe I did derive a little joy from cutting you down, but bloody hell, Rin! Like you don’t do exactly the same to me at every fucking opportunity!” 

“I just apologised, and you’re throwing it at me all over again!” 

“Because you need to have it thrown at you all over a-bloody-gain to recognise what you’re doing to me!” He took a moment, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest, trying to calm down from the anger that had all too sharply risen. “Your father was exactly the same. On his terms or not at all. You? You’re better than that, and I am one of the very few people in your life who not only sees that, but isn’t too afraid of you to tell you either.” 

Neither was Carly, and it wasn’t lost on her, how his statements more or less matched those of her oldest friend. She’d always taken pride in the fact people likened her to her father, but truly never dawned in her until right then that perhaps it wasn’t always a complimentary likeness.  

Bolting back her drink, she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Sean.” They were words that did not come easily, feeling bitter, like ashes in her mouth.  

Standing, he picked up the bottle, moving to seat himself at her side, topping up her empty glass. “Finally. Now I only have to await a little sincerity in your actions going forward, and maybe my fucking blood pressure might lower a tad.” 

Lifting the glass to her lips, she took a sip, nodding. “What would like first, then, for me to show this sincerity?” 

“A blowjob wouldn’t go amiss.” He expected the light slap he received to the chest. “Well, you did ask.” 

“And you just shagged the shit out of me against the front door not ten minutes ago!” 

He smirked, his eyebrows twitching. “I never claimed not to he insatiable.” 

Rolling her eyes, she rested her head back against the comfy sofa, biting her lip. He certainly never had, as a mere few minutes against the door had reminded her, should she have forgotten. “No, you definitely didn’t. I’m still not putting your cock in my mouth, though.” 

“Spoil sport.” The conversation moved away from their dalliance into the verboten, talking instead about of work and life, and then of Tiger when they were over half a bottle into the whiskey.  

“I know I say how perfect she is, the bias of being her mum, and she’s always so well-mannered when we meet up with you,” Rin began, her words peppered by giggles. 

“Apart from when we took her on the Harry Potter tour and she had a meltdown mid-way round,” he interrupted with, remembering the squealing well.  

“Yes, apart from that.” She paused again, looking pained. “You fucking have a habit of doing this to me, interrupting and making me forget what I was about to say!” 

He snickered, flicking the side of her glass. “No, darling. That’s called alcohol.”  

“Anyway, as I was saying…” 

“As you were saying.” 

God, how he knew how to wind her up, even when he was being playful rather than deliberately devious. “Be quiet, or I’ll black your other eye.” 

“You bloody won’t,” he warned, “look at it, still purple.” It was, too, just a smidgen marking the skin violet around the socket.  

“As I was saying, she isn’t the perfect, Tiger. She’s going through a phase of saying things she definitely shouldn’t at the moment. She called the window cleaner a dickhead the other day because he appeared suddenly and startled her.” 

Predictably, Sean cracked up hard. “The profanity apple has not fallen far from the tree, I see.” 

She laughed, cringing a little. “No, it certainly hasn’t. That child had bionic hearing, and stealth mode. I never know when she’s going to sneak up on me and overhear my vulgar mouth. Bastard shoes was another recent one, when she couldn’t get her little Timberland boots on because she hadn’t loosened the laces. Sokoro nearly pissed himself laughing at her.”  

“When do you plan on telling her who I am?” he then asked, Rin feeling a little pit inside for the question, no matter how gently delivered.  

“Soon, I think. Before our next meeting. She needs to know.”  

He smiled. “Good plan.”  

What was also a good plan to them that night was working their way through the rest of the Johnnie Walker, Rin feeling the effects strongly, not having much memory of the night. Upon waking the following morning, she certainly had no remembrance over how she’d ended up in Sean’s bed, her sober, slightly hungover self feeling a little flicker of panic. 

They hadn’t... nope. Her underwear was still on, she felt after checking, her shuffling around stirring the body at her side.  

“Morning,” he yawned, propping himself up. “I hope you don’t mind, but if you’d slept on the sofa you’d have only awoken to Butch trying to sit on your head, so I brought you in here.”  

“You have more than one bedroom though, no?”  

He might have been half asleep, but he heard the tease in her tones clearly. “I do, but the beds aren’t made up and I was too pissed to wrestle with a fucking duvet cover, so yes. Here you are.” 

The warmth of him, the bright of his blue eyes, the scent of his skin. No. Not again. 

“Here I am.” She looked down for a second, feeling a hand reach beneath her chin, Sean shifting closer, his heart quickening as she looked up from beneath her long, full eyelashes at him.  

That time, he was the instigator of the kiss they fell into, his body moving to cover hers. 

Now they were in trouble. 

[ckret2]

Ayyy I have the same "every configuration is it's own gender class" headcanon, but I love the extra curveball modifier of "non Euclidean" (plus "I am very secure in my gender but it would take more time and patience than my immediate acquaintance or I can spare at a convenient moment so you get the rundown" is what goes through my noggin when there is pronoun shenaniganry afoot. You may call me miss if there's snow because I become Miss Chief and that's it)

... Wait, how does gender transition work for shapes? Do you paint your sides and call it a Day... OH MY GOD WAS THE CROMATIST MOVEMENT FLATLAND STONEWALL???

I saw a post a few days ago that boiled down to "queer people will tell cishet people 'I'm trans' or 'I'm a lesbian' or whatever but will tell other queer people 'I'm an aromantic bisexual butch demi girl' in the same way that people from small towns tell people from other states that they're actually from the nearest big city: because unless you also live in that area, nobody's gonna know the name of the small town you're actually from."

And that's how shapes explaining Shape Genders to aliens works: just give 'em the simple version, they wouldn't understand the rest. (And also how shapes explaining Shape Genders to extremely cis shapes works; but like, for billions of years Bill has been hanging out with less than two dozen shapes, they know everything there is to know about each other, this isn't relevant to him anymore.)

In the worldbuilding I'm doing, colors were never illegal, so there was never a chromatist movement. In Flatland colors were illegal because the author was writing a satire about Victorian-era social classes and public panic about the visible markers of class becoming muddled; and I'm not writing satire about the Victorian era, so that's not an element I've kept in. But yeah, careful contouring with colors is like using makeup to make your face's bone structure look different and is an option they could have used to alter their appearances, in a post some months ago I compared it to drag king/queen makeup.

I don't know what else would have been involved in transition because frankly that's just not an aspect of the worldbuilding that's interesting to me lmao. For the story I'm telling, the important questions are "what beliefs about gender does Bill (the only shape we'll see much of in the story) still carry in his head a trillion years later" and "how does our main character Bill conceptualize his own identity & how does that affect how he interacts with the world?" I'm not terribly interested in developing the exact mechanics of transitioning available in an eons-extinct civilization we'll only see in dreams and flashbacks.

[blorbologist]

How would being ruidusborn affect Percy's relationships with his siblings, dyou think? And in turn, his grief and survivor's guilt over what happens to them?

... oh dear.

So. First of all - I think that Ruidusborn!Percy would be a lot more isolated due to his powers. There's both the social stigma that comes with it, isolating him from peers for being unlucky, cursed from birth - but also the fact that, just... do you really want your know-it-all brother to know everything about you? He has six siblings - I doubt a young Percy would extend the same grace to his siblings he does to VM, because he has a pronounced little shit instinct and would delight in Knowing shit he isn't supposed to and potentially holding it over his siblings' heads. He might perceive himself as being closer to them, because he knows all their secrets and such, but I suspect he might spend even more time in the workshop as a child. Percy likely knows perfectly well how to keep his powers in check, at least to a degree, and not snoop on his siblings too intentionally after some spat or another actually hurts his feelings/makes him realize just how invasive this feels for others, but - again. If he realizes he's genuinely made his siblings uncomfortable, he might just go hide in the workshop both to avoid the situation and make a gift to make it right. TLDR, young Percy would still greatly love his family, and maybe feel even more strongly attached to them - but this might be counterbalanced by his siblings and parents being less attached to him.

(Maybe Cass might still be fond of him, a cool big brother who can read her mind, by virtue of being the youngest and Percy being enough years older that she hopefully does not experience the worst of him taking advantage of mind reading, unlike her siblings who dealt with him ratting them out, beating them to their ideas and otherwise being a bit of a lil shithead. Julius and Vesper might feel more protective of him, as their little cursed brother, but would likewise probably be more distant given he's less a sibling and more a responsibility :C)

(Hm! I could see Frederick and/or Johanna keeping him discreetly nearby when dealing with nobles/family they don't necessarily trust, as a sort of lie detector. Situations where Percy isn't actually part of the event, and is kept away from the worst of the crowds, but uses his abilities to listen in and keep his parents informed. Say they bring these important guests into a parlor of somesort. Good gods would that inflate his ego.)

On the other hand, we see with Imogen that being in crowds can be downright distressing for a Ruidusborn with telepathy, so Percy might be excused from social events often (both for his sake and that of the guests). Yet another reason to spend more time in his workshop - which is why I can still easily see Percy being a Gunslinger in this AU and not leaning into full Sorcerer like Imogen. He's tinkering just as much if not more, so he definitely has those skills from all this time spent alone in his workshop. Hell - if I go with my idea of making him albino (so the white hair is tied to him being Ruidusborn, not to Trauma) it might be better to keep him inside regardless, due to being so sensitive to sunlight. (I bet the bastard invents sunglasses.)

Can you see where I'm going with this? I hope you can:

Percy wouldn't have been at the dinner with the Briarwoods.

The de Rolos don't distrust the Briarwoods - they're having dinner with their entire family there! But all his siblings, and his parents, and the servants, and the guards, and the guests would be a lot for Percy, and he's likely fairly used to eating supper on his own anyways.

Perhaps he knew something was afoot. Perhaps a day or two before he caught a guard thinking terrible things, and informed his parents, and the man was hung and it was thought the treason was routed. He saved his family, he could rest easy.

He shouldn't have.

(Unfortunate for him that Anders is his tutor. That Anders knew well about his powers, and clearly could have informed the Briarwoods of this as well as minding himself accordingly. Of course Percy wouldn't pry into his tutor's thoughts. Of course he wouldn't know that, had he attended dinner, he wouldn't be able to glean anything from the Briarwoods, that they'd offer these fancy magic items from Wildemount for the de Rolo's poor, cursed boy. Of course he doesn't know he'd almost have been happy, before it started.)

(And in the dungeon, he gets to feel the minds of each of his family members be snuffed out. Ripley makes sure he's close enough for that.)

[celestemagnoliathewriter]

well now that ao3 is down for maintenance how would all of you like a snippet of Supernova?

This takes place around chapter 50 (?). At this point in the story, Dora has learned that Ted is her father and she is meeting his mother for the first time. Elsie Tonks, Ted's mother, is beyond thrilled to be meeting her granddaughter. Snippet under the cut! Enjoy :)

“Here she is! My granddaughter!” 

A silver-haired woman with big spectacles, a flowery dress, and a crisp apron came out of the back room and engulfed Dora in a bone-crushing hug. 

“Oh, how grand it is to have a grandchild!” she said, standing back after a moment and taking Dora’s cheeks in her hands. “Look at you! What a beautiful young woman you are! To think I’ve lost all these years with you—but we’ll make up for lost time in no time, won’t we, dear?” 

“O-okay,” Dora stammered, taken aback by the Muggle woman’s enthusiasm, assuming she had to be Ted’s mother, Elsie. 

“Mum, take it easy—”

“No, you take it easy, Edward Tonks! This is my one and only granddaughter! You don’t get to meet your grandbaby for the first time every day, you know!” Elsie looked Dora up and down and tsked in a way that reminded her of her mother. “You’re looking peaky. Come with me, I’ll give you something to eat.” 

“I’m not hung—”

“Just go,” Ted said quietly. “She doesn’t like to hear ‘no.’” He gently patted her shoulder and guided her through the doorway on the other side of the narrow staircase. There Dora found a round table with three mismatched chairs, and just beyond it, a narrow kitchen with pink cupboards and black-and-white flooring. 

“I’ll be right there, dears!” Elsie called. “Sit down and make yourselves comfortable!”

Dora sat in an oversized yellow chair. She couldn’t settle her eyes on anything in particular; a vase of wildflowers sat in the middle of the table, its bright blooms drooping over the edge of the vase. Countless objects were hung on the walls around her. Some were paintings, others photographs, and yet others were made of cloth. Embroidered pictures of animals, houses, and flowers filled the crevices between pictures and paintings, and behind them the wall was papered with something neon. Dora wasn’t sure if it was because of how crammed it was, but Elsie’s house looked even smaller than Ted and Millie’s.

“Baked them just this morning!” 

Elsie interrupted Dora’s activity and put a plate of chocolatey biscuits in front of her and Ted. She bustled back to the kitchen and returned with mugs and a kettle. Ted flicked his wand at one of the cupboards and a tin of teabags came zooming out. It landed just as Elsie turned around to look for it. 

“Edward,” she said sternly. “Warn your mother before you go on with your tricks.” She turned to Dora with a toothy grin. “Sweetheart, don’t let him be too hard on you. He was just terrible about magic during his summers. Almost got kicked out of Hogwarts, he did!” 

“It was one time,” Ted said, rolling his eyes. “One warning. That hardly counts as expulsion.” 

Elsie put her hands on her hips but sat down in a cobalt blue chair. Instead of turning to Ted to finish her conversation with him, the woman turned to Dora.

“Eat, sweetheart,” she said, pushing the plate of biscuits at Dora. “We all know Millie’s a decent cook but she likes experimenting with those American concoctions.” Elsie pressed her lips together with a slight frown. “What you need is meat and potatoes, the kind of food that’ll stick to your ribs, not that namby-pamby gelatin loaf that’s all the rage these days.” 

Dora peered over the wildflowers at Ted, her eyes wide and begging to take her away. She could sew her own Muggle clothes for all she cared. Spending one more minute with the overbearing woman would kill her, and she wasn’t convinced that there wasn’t something afoot with the chocolatey biscuits in front of her. But, to her dismay, Ted didn’t understand the message (her mother would have) and instead he smiled encouragingly and gave her two thumbs-up. 

“Go on, baby, have a biscuit,” Elsie repeated. “My Ted told me about how you and your mother grew up. You can eat as much as you like. There are no hidden messages, no ulterior motives.”

The walls felt like they were closing in on Dora, but she took a biscuit from the top of the pile to placate the Tonkses. She took a small bite, surprised by the still-gooey chocolate within. The unexpected mmm that flowed from her lips earned her an even brighter grin from Elsie.

[tanoraqui]

WIP [checks date] Monday, idk I'm a madman, I just wanted to share this:

Nearing the crest of the mountain, Fingon came at last upon his foe. 

From Curufin’s words and the view of the field below, he’d known a little of what to expect—the same monstrous golden snake he’d faced with his cousins nigh on 200 years ago, which had burnt half the western fields before they’d put it to flight. He’d been as tall as an elf and half that again as wide, and the length of one of Ulmo’s pettier serpents. They’d chased him away with a full mounted troop of persistent, fearless longbow archers, harrying him as he fled.

The beast he faced now was as tall as two elves and twice that in width, measurable in his full mouth of sharp teeth, fire lurking hungrily behind them. He was bigger than any sea serpent Fingon had ever seen. His gaze was dark, clever and cruel, and a terrible sense of inevitable defeat settled on Fingon’s shoulders (for this, too, Morgoth had crafted into his dragons: their melody in the Music carried notes of triumph, such that for foes with ears to hear it, every battle came half-lost). 

Against this, Fingon had a squad of ten afoot, armed for close, quiet combat.

Glaurung glared at him through slitted eyes. His breath in the air tasted of darkness, defeat and despair.

“You again.” He breathed noxious smoke with his hiss.

Fingon returned a bright, confident grin. “Me again!” 

He raised his sword (likely to do nothing against those thick scales) and charged

[thundercrackfic]

Processing GO S2

It’s been two nights of poor sleep after watching Good Omens season 2. I have so many FEELINGS. I’m overwhelmed and emotionally exhausted. It’s wild and even a little embarrassing to have so strong a reaction, but here we are. 

I wrote about my feelings below, and through the writing, I convinced myself that for my own mental health, I shouldn’t rewatch right away. I’m not leaving the fandom or anything -- despite these feelings, which I hope are temporary, I still love Good Omens and its wonderful, thoughtful, remarkably queer fans! I live here now! -- but I can’t handle watching again yet.

Spoilers below.

Being a scientist, I’m finding it useful to sort my feelings into categories and try to address each category individually.

First of all, I’m just SAD. Aziraphale and Crowley are my emotional support characters and the end of Season 2 left them in a very bad place: separated, isolated, miserable, and threatened with annihilation. While I understand the structure of trilogies and I have faith that the sequel that Gaiman and Pratchett plotted will reunite them, no such sequel has been greenlit, and the SAG-AFTRA strike and studio intransigence mean we won’t find out whether and when Amazon will actually produce a third season for the foreseeable future. So Aziraphale and Crowley are sad and I’m sad. I want to rewatch but I’m worried I’ll get even sadder. Since I have depression, this is actually a health risk to me.

I’m also angry, because the viewers were not given crucial information necessary to understand Aziraphale’s final decision. Yes, I understand what it means that this is the second act of a three-act story, but I’m still saying that this act’s story was incomplete. My main complaint is that we do not actually see Aziraphale’s full conversation with the Metatron, we only see what he reports to Crowley with lots of agitated hand-wringing. I love Aziraphale, but he is NOT a reliable narrator. The cut away from the conversation to Aziraphale’s proposition to Crowley, followed by the Metatron coming in and asking “how did he take it?” makes me certain that there are shenanigans afoot. Aziraphale is, at the very least, not telling the whole truth to Crowley, is lying about some part of that conversation either by omission or outright. For which I am sure he has good reasons, and I’m sure at least some of the reasons being discussed in endless metas will eventually be revealed as true, or close to true, when the third act comes out. But for now, we can’t know. Without witnessing the full conversation, I can’t possibly understand Aziraphale’s terrible choice, and I don’t have any hope of understanding Aziraphale’s motivation until such time as Gaiman tells the rest of this unfinished story. (Yes, I know Gaiman said he’d tell the story even if no third season is produced, and that promise is some comfort; but in the meantime we are in limbo.) I’m sure there are lots of clues and hints we’ll all pick out with rewatches, but it’s as if Season 1 ended with Crowley in Hell facing the bathtub and Aziraphale in Heaven walking toward hellfire. Sure, in hindsight the clues at the body swap are evident, but we couldn’t have known what canonically happened and there would have been lots of other theories and scenarios. Imagine having had to wait four years to find out whether and how they survived their trials? My anger won’t be salved by watching again.

There are things I disliked about Season 2 that, in my opinion, seem to contradict the story/character development as presented in Season 1. The big one is what I saw as a power imbalance between Crowley and Aziraphale that I didn’t see in Season 1. Not just the Throne?Dominion?Archangel? Crowley thing. Aziraphale was always slow, stubborn, in willful denial of things he didn’t want to look at, and Crowley always coaxing and tempting Aziraphale into change, yes. But in Season 1 Aziraphale also was a vast storehouse of wisdom who solved puzzles that 400 years of Devices couldn’t, and rules-lawyered Gabriel and Beelzebub into confusion (with Crowley not leading, just cheerleading) at the airbase. In Season 2 Aziraphale just seemed dim compared to Crowley on every dimension, not an equal party to their relationship at all. Aziraphale’s adorable in both seasons, but in this season he seemed infantilized in relation to Crowley, and not in a cute/funny (Jimbriel) way. While both he and Crowley had their idiot moments, Aziraphale’s weren’t balanced with brilliant moments, I felt. Like, his moral quandary in Edinburgh seemed far too simple to be so late in his character development, and both in history and in the present Crowley came across as professorial or even paternal in relation to him, which is a huge squick for me. Maybe this impression of power imbalance isn’t correct, and will change on rewatch. I hope so.

There are things I disliked about Season 2 that originate in conflicts with my own headcanons and/or story preferences. This, at least, is something I can work on, trying to recognize the stuff in my head that I couldn’t reasonably expect Season 2 to produce (or not produce) for me. For example, I really do not like all the hints at Crowley having been, and remaining, an especially powerful entity. I liked thinking of them as having equal unimportance, totally substitutible for each other despite their different “sides,” exemplified by the Arrangement, how easily they performed each other’s jobs. Reflecting now, I can admit that even in Season 1 Crowley clearly had a different status to Aziraphale -- he was chosen to deliver the Antichrist, after all, and demonstrated powers that Aziraphale didn’t (stopping time, sensing whether or not others were watching). So I should be able to reconcile that, with time. I also personally hate it when character conflict results from disastrously poor communication. This one, I recognize, is especially unfair to the source material, because it’s true that for all their conversation, they canonically aren’t great at telling each other anything important. (The most common theme of my comments on fanfic is “TALK TO EACH OTHER YOU WALNUTS!”) Even so, I’m still struggling with some of the character decisions this season because I don’t feel like they demonstrate the growth that especially Aziraphale underwent across Season 1. Other things that bugged me were Aziraphale’s gluttony scene (I’ve imagined 1001 scenarios for Aziraphale’s first taste of gross matter, and none of them featured anything like him gorging like a hyena on blackened ox ribs), and I was disappointed not to see more fluidity in Crowley’s gender presentation. All that stuff has to do with my own expectations, so I should be able to compartmentalize those and be at peace with Season 2 canon, with time.

I would like to watch again. I think it probably hurt my understanding of the story to have binged the six episodes in three days rather than watching them one a week. I didn’t really want to watch them that fast, but I felt pressured to watch quickly so I could participate in discussion with fandom friends. I’ve heard from some friends who had initially negative reactions that they’ve warmed up to it on rewatch, with a clearer understanding of the story that was being told. I want to rewatch and experience that. But the sadness and anger I’ll feel about the end of the season and the impossibility of my understanding it won’t go away on rewatch, I’m afraid. Not until the third act’s story arc is revealed along with the obscured elements of the second act’s story. And I’m not in a good enough place emotionally to willingly invite more sadness and anger into my head.

So I guess I’ve talked myself into not rewatching for a while, which itself makes me sad. But it’s what I need to do.

I love all you queers. To the world. 🍷