#those of you who have read racing on the thunder know what’s up

[musicalmoritz]

Butch Lesbian Natsuhiko

[ghoulbrain]

Happiness is a Warm Gun

18+ 4.5k ghoul x f!reader. predator/prey roleplay, lite bondage lite cnc into enthusiastic consent, heavy gun kink/play, pet names, clothed/naked sex, creampie, aftercare. ends tender bc i can't help myself. gif credit. written for my darling @luckytiggertalia, who asked for excessive gun kink and captor/captive. thank you! 🖤 written as a successor to Saddle Up, Sweetheart, but can be read as a stand-alone.

Being in a relationship with the world’s most notorious bounty hunter lands you in some strange situations, but none stranger than those you concoct for yourselves. You run, and the Ghoul hunts you.

The Ghoul is one of the fiercest bounty hunters in New California, yet regardless of how terrifyingly efficient he is, everyone knows he only takes on payouts worthy of his time. With his long shadow stretching out across the west, most hunters are reluctant to take on bounties over a certain threshold, lest they accidentally come between him and his quarry.

Which, at this moment, just so happens to be you.

You’ve made it to a Red Rocket truck stop just half a mile west of Junktown. What was once a glorified gas station in a world long-gone now serves as little more than a hollowed out shell providing shade for all manner of miscreants and creatures wandering the dusty wastes, still decorated in tiny reminders of life before the war.

Crouched down behind a counter, your back pressed to the grime painted wall beneath a window, you spot a heavily aged cardboard carton labeled Grey Tortious Famous Cigarettes wedged at the very back of the second shelf behind the counter. Clicking your tongue softly, you reach for it, using the barrel of your pistol to catch the corner of the box. Carefully–and quietly–you drag it close enough to grab.

Your hopes aren’t high, but–

Jackpot.

Smiling faintly, you extract a crumpled but still half-full pack of cigarettes from the carton. You glance around, eyes wandering until you spot the decrepit remains of some poor bastard collapsed against the far wall, still garbed in their threadbare signature Red Rocket uniform. With a slight nod, you fish a single cap out of a small pouch on your belt and slide it onto the shelf.

“Pleasure doing business,” you murmur to the corpse, tucking the cigarettes carefully into the pack strapped to your thigh.

A shrill whistle, the kind you’d call a dog with, snaps your attention back to the moment. You press your back tight against the wall, sucking in a sharp breath to hold.

“Alright, darlin’, y’little goose-chase is over,” the Ghoul calls into the lot. Your heart begins to race. He sounds close. “I’m man enough to admit y’outfoxed me back at the yard, that was clever. But’cha got nowhere to slip to now,” he says, voice gradually growing louder. It’s not long before you can hear the crunch of his boots in the gravel.

You screw your eyes shut, steeling yourself with a silent breath before opening them again. He’ll have to circle the building to get where you are. The crunch of his boots is louder with each step. If he keeps yapping, it’ll be even easier to track the moment he moves out of eyesight of the window you’re hiding under, and you’ll be able to creep out to get behind him. Your grip on your pistol flexes, finger poised off the trigger.

The footsteps outside grow quiet enough that you can no longer hear them over the thundering of your heart. He hasn’t said anything, but you give it an extra few seconds to be safe, holding your breath as you gingerly lift out of your crouch, careful to keep your head beneath the window frame, eyes on the door across from you. Even if he sees you, you’ll have time enough to–

You’re jerked backwards suddenly by your jacket, a scream yanked out of you as you’re pulled against the window, knocking into it.

“There y’are,” he says through his teeth, hauling you up to your feet. Fuck, he faked you out with his steps. He holds you against the window, the edge of it biting into your back, his fist curled tightly in the collar of your jacket. “Give it up, darlin’. Y’all mine now,” he coos, his voice a sinister rasp at your ear. 

Out of desperation, you drop your pistol and throw your arms up, slipping out of your jacket and stumbling forward onto your hands and knees. Your boots skid on the floor as you scramble to your feet, launching into a run. You look over your shoulder just in time to see him vaulting in through the window, scaring you into running faster.

Where you intend to run is a problem to be solved as you go.

Unfortunately for you, the Ghoul is a step ahead. Gunfire startles you halfway out of your skin, but it’s the sign that falls in your path that stops you in your tracks. You look up and see a woven cable swaying, frayed from where the crazy son of a bitch managed to shoot it clean apart. You gear up to bolt to the left, but it’s already too late. The tell-tale hiss of a rope whipping through the air is your only warning before the lasso tightens around your arms and sternum, one sharp yank pulling you off your feet and down onto your back.

The world spins. You let out a soft groan, moving to roll onto your side, but he keeps you from it with a hardy pull, gathering the rope in his hands as he walks to you.

The Ghoul lets out a low whistle, his shadow falling over you. “Close, but no cigar, sweetheart,” he drawls, crouching over you. 

Disoriented, you stare at his upside down face. He’s got his head tilted, lips parted in a crooked sneer of a smile. His eyes are dark enough that you can see yourself in them, glinting with predatory glee. You can’t hide the trill of excitement that runs through you over being looked at like that. He clicks his tongue.  

“N’aw, don’t you look plumb tuckered,” he says, voice laced with condescending sweetness. “No rest for the wicked, m’afraid,” he says, slipping his hands under your arms and hauling you up to your feet.

“You could’ve killed me,” you rasp, throat scorched by the dry desert air.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he deflects, amused. “Y’all in one piece, ‘ain’t’cha?” His breath is a warm tickle on your neck. With the rope tight across your sternum, arms pinned to your sides, he slides his gloved hand up your thigh, over your hip. His fingers tap along as he does, tickling your ribs, cupping your breast before sliding all the way up to your throat. 

The barest hint of his lips brushes the spot just behind your ear, the feeling so faint you could have made it up entirely. You shiver, pulling sharply away, but he pulls you right back in, the worn leather of his glove soft around your neck, his grip firm. 

“Mmhm, seem perfectly intact t’me,” he says, giving your throat a steadying squeeze. “No need t’put up a fight, angel. Y’comin’ with me either way.”

This time he presses his scarred lips properly to your skin, the feel of them warm and wet. Wanting. You swallow the lump in your throat, clench your thighs against the heat building between them. 

“Let go of me,” you say, fighting to put conviction in it. 

“No can do,” he says, his breath prickling goosebumps from your scalp to your thighs. “I’ve struck the motherlode with you.”

 The rope is tied low and tight enough that you can’t elbow him or shoulder your way free. Impulsively, you move to kick at his leg, but he outmaneuvers you, catching your kick with his boot and spinning you around so suddenly you gasp.

“Oohh, y’ve got fire,” he says, lips pulled thin in a devilish smile. “I’m gonna enjoy breakin’ you.” Something hard presses into your rib, and you don’t need to look down to know it’s the muzzle of his revolver. He draws the hammer back into place with a distinctive click. 

“Why don’t you be a good li’l captive and mosey on ahead?” He says, turning you until the gun is pressed into your lower back. You suppress a shudder. That’s when the world suddenly goes black, the press of the gun briefly vanishing while fabric is pulled tight over your eyes.

Wherever he’s taking you, he wants it to be a surprise.

The Ghoul walks you at gunpoint. He keeps the rope between you taut, the barrel of his gun pressed firmly to your back. The venture there is quiet, your gait tense with anticipation. A sick little thrill runs through you every time he yanks the rope or gives you a deep jab with his gun. There’s pleasure in his voice when he tells you, “Mind your step, sweetness.”

He knows precisely the effect he has on you, even if it took him time and a half to believe it.

His knuckles dig into your back as his fingers hook over the rope, holding it like a harness as you descend a flight of stairs. He catches you when you stumble on the last step, but it still startles you.

“A warning would have been nice,” you say, turning your head blindly, angling to try and get any glimpse of your surroundings from beneath the blindfold.

“Apologies,” he drawls, not sounding very sorry at all. He nudges you forward with his gun. “I like watchin’ you struggle.”

“Yeah, you make that very–” A hard tug on the rope cuts you off and stops you in your tracks. The rope comes loose after that, full circulation returning to your hands in a rush that makes them tingle. The Ghoul’s steps resonate in the room–it sounds large, mostly empty–as he walks away from you. You stay still for a hesitant moment, head jerking at the sound of something scraping across the floor towards you.

“Awwh, ain’t you sweet, waitin’ for permission,” he says, making you flush. You quickly reach up and pull the blindfold from your eyes, blinking to adjust to the dimly lit room. 

It looks like a cleared out storage facility of some kind, with cement support beams lined up in a row down the center of the room, the walls lined with ransacked steel shelving. There’s a wire frame bed braced against one of the beams, heaped haphazardly with some pillows and blankets. 

The Ghoul sits on a rusty wrought iron chair in front of you, staring up from beneath the wide brim of his hat. From his thigh, he has his revolver fixed on you. 

“Atta girl,” he says as the blindfold hits the ground. “Now take off the rest.”

The low resonance of his voice easily commands the room. You swallow the lump in your throat, glancing down the dark barrel of his gun. Biting your tongue to keep yourself from showing too much excitement, you hurriedly reach for your–

The gunshot is deafening in the echoing expanse of the room, drowning out your scream. Already high on your own anticipation, the shot of adrenaline that goes through you with the startle nearly knocks you off your feet. 

His gun smokes in the wake of the shot that narrowly missed your reaching hand.

“Slow,” he tells you, cocking the hammer once again with his thumb.

The pound of your heart is rivaled only by the aching throb between your thighs. Breathing shallowly, you keep your eyes trained on him as you–slowly, this time–reach for your belt, pouches shifting as you unbuckle it. You lay it carefully on the ground, mindful of the treasures you acquired at the gas station, before you kick off each boot.

His gaze is heavy on you all the while, eyes dark and attentive to your every move. Your focus is on the tip of his gun, how it subtly follows along with your hands. You peel each layer off without taking your eyes from him, a shiver moving through you once your hands touch bare skin, purposefully sliding them down your hips, your legs, and then moving them slowly back up as you stand back up, stepping out of the garments pooled on the floor.

He tilts his gun sideways and beckons you forward with it, tipping his head back, dark eyes tracking your every move as you approach him. One at a time, he spreads his legs. “On y’knees, darlin’.” You obey, sinking down–slowly, he told you slow–onto your knees between his legs, bringing yourself to eye level with his gun. The cement floor feels harsh against your bare skin.

“Y’got my gun dirty runnin’ me out into the wastes like that,” he chides, leaning forward, pressing his gun to your sternum. With agonizing slowness, he drags the muzzle up through the valley between your breasts, to the notch beneath your throat, pressing into it briefly. He continues up, the metal cool against your burning skin, though not by much. He hooks the barrel under your chin and tips your head back.

“Clean it for me,” he says, pushing it between your lips.

While you open your mouth too readily for the game at hand, he doesn’t protest. The taste of the gun is bitter and metallic, but what strikes you most is the black powder residue. It’s charred with a sharp tang. A moan escapes you for the way he pushes it deeper, forcing your lips wider apart.

“Don’t be shy. Give ‘er a good spit shine, sweetheart,” he encourages, pulling the gun back only to push it deeper yet. You comply, welcoming the slide of it deeper, pressing your tongue into the grooves on the underside, your eyes half-lidded and glazed with desire. “Good,” he says, voice rough with the effect you’re having on him.

Hands braced on your own bare thighs, your nails bite dull little crescents into your skin. The rock of your body is entirely subconscious, your eyelids fluttering. It’s easy to lose yourself to the work at hand, to luxuriate in the weight of his gaze on you while he uses you, fucking your mouth with the full barrel of his gun. He’s so committed to the fantasy, you can’t help but buy into it wholly.

By the time he pulls the gun away your chin is spit slick and your tongue is tingling where you’d been pressing it to the barrel. He gives an appreciative whistle while inspecting the wet shine of his gun. “That’s better,” he says, gaze sliding to you. He stands, grabbing a thick handful of your hair to haul you up to your feet with him. The noise you make is humiliating. Needy. His answering grin is wicked.

“Time t’oil it,” he says, voice frayed at the edges. He doesn’t let that trace of impatience impact his movements any. He walks you to the bed with that same loose devil-may-care swagger, assured that he has all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece. 

The mattress’ metal coils groan with your weight as he tosses you onto the bed, standing at the edge of it. The bed stands taller than most, bringing your pelvis parallel to his when you’re on your knees. He grabs your thigh and yanks your ass up into the air, smoothing his hand over the swell of it. He gives a sharp little slap to your rear that wrings a gasp out of you. The way he smooths his leather clad hand over the smarting spot afterwards almost feels like an apology, even if he’s really just admiring his handiwork.

“Spread,” he orders simply. You do so eagerly, widening the splay of your knees, folding your arms to rest your head on. “Look at you,” he breathes with genuine wonder, gripping your ass cheek and holding it firm while he inspects you. You can already feel what he’s looking at, how wet you are from his teasing. “Y’fuckin’ drippin’ for me.”

A shiver rolls through your whole body at the feel of his gun against your inner thigh sliding slowly upwards. Your hips give a reflexive little buck at the first touch of that warm barrel against your soaked cunt, your clit throbbing so hard it aches. “Don’t move,” he tells you. He sounds wrecked. He moves it back and forth, teasing your clit with just the muzzle of it before drawing back, and your thighs tremble with the effort to keep yourself still when all you want is to chase that precious relief.

The hiss of his zipper is the most thrilling noise you’ve ever heard. The gun disappears from between your thighs.

“Up,” he tells you, taking a rough hold of your shoulder and yanking you upright before you have the chance to comply. He holds you still while he lines himself up, the familiar thick head of his cock grinding through the wet slide of you, the length of him rubbing from taint to clit. “Y’made this big mess just from suckin’ down my gun? Christ alive, darlin’. You’re somethin’ else,” he says through his teeth. The ruin in his voice makes it feel like praise, and that feels good.

Almost as good as the slow burn of his cock pushing into you, the sound of it obscenely loud and wet. You tip your head back against his shoulder and reach back over your own, grabbing at his coat, holding onto him for dear life while he sinks deeper and deeper, pulling you back until your bare ass falls flush against him. Feeling his clothing against your bare body intensifies that intoxicating feeling of vulnerability. Never in your life has the thrill of danger been safe to explore.

Not until him.

He gives you no time to adjust, thrusting almost as soon as he’s bottomed out. 

“Fffuck,” you exhale, eyes screwed tightly shut. You start to lean forward, but he catches you by the throat, pinning you back against his chest at the same time he fires his gun, shocking your eyes wide open. Your body goes rigid, cunt seizing up so tightly around him he hisses out a breath.

“C’mon, little bunny,” he whispers in a vicious grit, pressing the still-warm muzzle firmly against your temple. “Bounce for me.” He cocks the hammer back, the smell of black powder filling your senses. 

You nod fervently, lifting up on your knees and using the mattress to bounce yourself on his cock, gravity bringing you down into every one of his hard thrusts. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, sighing his pleasure in strained little sounds. His hand slides down your throat to your chest, cupping your breast and squeezing, thumbing your nipple until you shudder.

“Close,” you moan, fist twisting in the fabric of his coat, your other hand clutching the wrist of the hand he’s fondling you with. “Please.”

His only response is to slide his hand down further, fingers slipping between your thighs. His middle finger finds your clit first, the friction making your hips jerk out of rhythm. He persists, fingering your clit in smooth circles while he fucks you hard.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot and wet on your neck. “All that fight’s gone now, ain’t it? Just a needy li’l thing beggin’ t’cum.” You’re so close you’re starting to shake, breath caught in your throat. “Go on, angel. Lemme hear how pretty you can beg.”

His fingers slow enough that your ascension falters. “Please!” You rasp immediately, squeezing his wrist, begging in every way you know how to. “Please, m’so close, please make me cum, please,” you plead, voice pitchy, your thoughts empty of everything but pleasure. He’s fucking you hard, chasing his own release just as fervently.  

Just like that his touch returns to full force, deftly working your clit until your pleasure crests and your pleas turn to cries. Your orgasm hits like an earthquake, a sudden eruption that renders you silent, your lips falling open on a noiseless scream. Your body locks up like a vice, euphoria turning your vision white and emptying your mind of all thought while pleasure cascades through you in hot liquid waves.

He doesn’t stop, though his thrusts slow. He fucks you deeply through your orgasm, savoring every quiver around his cock while he uses you. You don’t hear him come, but you feel it, the deep rush of heat that he empties into the core of you, his body going still against yours. Your whole body shudders and you exhale a broken little noise, dizzy from the magnitude of it all. Everything around you feels bleary, your vision fading in and out. For a moment, you feel as though you might float away from your body entirely, your consciousness barely holding on, but the feeling of him pressed against your back, holding you to him, grounds you.

He moves the gun from your temple and holsters it, adjusting his grip so that he can ease you down onto your stomach, slipping from between your legs. You pant hot puffs of air into the bedding, your vision blurry at the edges.

“Coop,” you call, signifying the end of your little game of pretend.

“M’right here,” he soothes, his bare hands upon you not a moment later. There’s a marked difference in the way he touches you now, a subtle tenderness that he’d forced out of his touch for the sake of play. You hadn’t realized how much you missed it until now, feeling it as if for the first time. 

He slides into bed next to you, having shed his gloves, coat and bandolier. You find the strength to slip an arm around him, clinging despite the tremble in your limbs. The next several seconds–moments, maybe hours, you can’t be sure–pass by in a haze of touch.

He kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips. He makes you aware of your entire body, grounding you with sweeping touches to every part of your body. It’s an intoxicating intimacy that leaves you feeling warm and drunk, still hungry for more.

 At some point Cooper gets the blanket over you, skirting his scarred fingers up and down your arm beneath it. The adrenaline crash that follows your orgasm is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, leaving you exhausted on a level beyond physical.

“Still with me?” Cooper asks after a time, fingertips tapping idle patterns on your skin as if to call you back to your body. “Mhm… Intense,” you say, the lone word slurred by your lazy tongue.

“Warned you,” he gives back, sounding nearly as ruined. His voice is deeper than usual, thoroughly frayed at the edges. It’s true, he had warned you that you were playing with fire. It’s unclear how much of that had been play, and how much was just him. Still, it had been… thrilling. Amazing. Everything you’d hoped it would be. 

“How ‘bout it, darlin’, do I scare you yet?” He asks, making it sound like an inevitability. He must believe it is.

You sigh a low hum, pretending to give the matter great thought. “Mmm… Mm-mm. Not one little bit,” you say, the words hardly legible.

“Shucks,” he says simply, feigning something like disappointment.

“Why’re you so determined to scare me off?” You ask, adjusting where your head lay on his shoulder so that you can look up at him. You’ve grown accustomed to his unique silhouette, but more than that, you’ve started to figure out what it is that makes him handsome. He’s got a wide chin and a fine jawline, and on the rare occasions you see it, a charming smile.

Much of it is in his eyes. They never fail to make your heart stutter.

“A saner question would be why you’re so determined t’stay,” he counters, those very eyes dropping to meet yours. You can’t help but smile, which–as per usual–catches him just a touch off guard.

“I got a thing for pretty men,” you say, caught up in your own musings.

His expression flattens. “Very funny,” he says, and you realize he thinks you’re mocking him.

“Hey, I mean it. I was just thinking about how handsome you are,” you say, reaching up to touch his jaw.

“There’s a specific kind’a philia for finding corpses handsome, y’know,” he says, though in his afterglow the words lack their usual sharp cynicism. They come to him more like habit than anything else.

“You’re not a corpse, Cooper,” you tell him firmly, cupping his cheek in your palm. “You don’t need to keep living like one.”

He considers you in silence for a long moment. With the back of his knuckles, he brushes your cheek. There it is again; that deep sadness that sometimes appears in his eyes when he looks at you. As if he’s mourning something.

“What?” You whisper. “Why do you–”

He kisses you, swallowing the words clean off your lips. He takes your face between his hands and kisses you, kisses you, kisses you through your meager protests until your lips move with his and you sink back down into the warmth of it. He grows progressively more relentless with it, stealing your breath until you’re forced to break away, turning your head for air.

“You can’t kiss your way out of every–”

“I know,” he interrupts you, lifting his head to level you with a hard stare. “I know, alright? But it’ll come on my terms, in my time, yeah?”

You stare, pinned by the weight in his expression. After a beat, you nod, feeling dazed by both the onslaught and his words. It’s the only time he’s acknowledged that there is something, which you suppose is progress. “Okay,” you say softly, and then again more firmly, “Okay.”

His expression softens, taking in the look of you before he kisses you again. You reciprocate, pressing into his lips with the weight of your conviction, willing him to feel how much you really do mean it. 

“Thank you for today,” you murmur, settling back down against him. “I never thought that I’d be able to… do something like that. And live,” you say, adding the last bit with a rueful smile. “I feel safe with you.”

You wait for some kind of dismissive or self-deprecating remark from him, or even a sly jab at you and your sanity, but neither come. You glance up and find him staring at you, thoughtful and–if your eyes don’t deceive you–a little sentimental.

“I don’t make promises,” he tells you, sounding resigned. “But for what it’s worth, I’d never want t’do somethin’ I thought might hurt you.”

“You’re sweet,” you say, that same sentimentality slipping into your own voice. If not a bit ominous.

“Not really,” he replies, adjusting against the bedding, his eyes falling shut. “Y’standards are just too low.”

You sigh, closing your eyes with an incredulous little smile. “Shut up.”

The two of you drift into comfortable silence, his fingers idly traipsing the contours of your body. It’s like he’s memorizing the feel of you, hyper-aware that these intimate moments together are stolen. You reciprocate, seeking out what bare skin you can with gentle brushes of your fingers. He’s never admitted as much, but you’ve long suspected he struggles with pain. He’s rarely ever unclothed, and sometimes you see him wince when he goes too long between hits of those vials.

Cooper started living on borrowed time long before he met you, but it doesn’t stop you from hoping that he might someday see something more permanent in you. With you.

In the meantime, you’ll make the most of every second.

[henry7931]

Dealing With My Bullies

Asher:

These three right here; Kyle, Chase, and Jordan have spent majority of my life bullying me. I’ve put with years of name calling, being pushed down, and even having my head put into a toilet.

And I thought I was done with them the second I wrapped up with high school. But unfortunately, everywhere I turn— those assholes are somewhere.

I’ve tried to ignore them, complained to our school, even tried fighting back but for some reason they have it out for me.

So I’m deciding to take a more drastic measure— magic. Well I assume it’s magic, i don’t even know if this is going to work but at this point I’m desperate!

I found this old book of spells inside of a weird book store. The price on it was pretty steep and even the owner of the store warned me to be careful with it.

As I got home and into my room, I looked through all of the different spells that were available for me to plot my revenge. I mean I could turn them all into toads but where’s the fun in that?

Nah! I want something that’s going to shift the dynamics a bit. I want to hear at least one of them give me an apology.

I kept turning through the book when my eye caught this one spell called; ‘Body Transferal.’

My heart started to race a bit as I read what all the spell does, I can literally swap bodies and become one of them. Thats it!

I laid back in bed thinking about which one of the three I wanted to swap bodies with…

You have Kyle who I really think is only pressured by the other two to participate.

Chase who has been terrible to me could work but he’s not the real leader of their crew.

That leaves me with Jordan, the one who started everything. That’s who I’ll become, I’ll swap with Jordan!

I open the book back up and read all of the necessary things to complete the swap.

‘A stormy night, a silver bowl, plant seeds, a portrait of Jordan, and both of our names written down on a piece of paper that’s burned into the bowl.’

I pull my phone out and check the weather… it’s forecasting a big storm… perfect!

I gather all of the necessary things to perform the spell which was pretty easy.

I waited until the time recommended for the spell right around midnight.

I gather everything and start reciting the spell… I follow each step as listed and begin to burn both of our names into the bowl.

Lighting strikes close and I can hear thunder booming in background as I say, “Transfer our souls! I, Asher White and Jordan Gibson!” Over and over again.

Then a loud boom of thunder hits and the power goes off for a second. I close my eyes tight waiting for the spell to kick in.

That’s when the power comes back on and I open my eyes. I turn to my bedroom mirror and see my disappointed face looking back at me.

I take the Spellbook and I chuck it out my window since I’m slightly frustrated it didn’t work.

It was worth a shot I guess, I figured I might as well go to bed and just forget that I even tried something so silly!

As I fall asleep… I start having this weird dream. In it I find myself floating and somehow hovering over my body.

I start floating more and more away from it until I’m outside…

I’m passing streets for miles and I have no control of where I’m going at all.

I get a house and I see this other glowing ball shaped like a person floating right pass me. I can barely see what I’m looking at since I was still moving so fast. Thats when I get a window and see a bedroom with a male body sleeping face down.

Before I can even get a full picture of who it is, I’m forced into him.

That’s when I wake up…

My head jolts up and I feel so groggy. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust and my brain to catch up after that dream.

Almost an entire minute goes by before I can really take in my surroundings. Thats when it hit me… this isn’t my room!

I flip over on the bed and look down at my legs. They’re more tan than mine and my feet are bigger. I wiggle the toes attached to me just to confirm I now control them.

My memory of last night creeps in and then I realize— the spell, it actually worked!

I quickly get out of bed and rush to the closest mirror I could find. That’s when I see what I already expected. Jordan’s reflection looking back at me.

I pull of all of his shirt and start giggling to myself.

I say aloud, “I’m Jordan Gibson”

But then something else sinks in, the freaking Spellbook! I tossed it out my window last night!

I rush through Jordan’s room and put on some of his clothes quickly.

I grab his car keys and head out the door.

As I’m driving down the road, I can’t help but continuously looking at myself in the mirror. You see one of the biggest things I hate about Jordan is my secret lust for him. Actually my real lust for a lot of the jocks that went to school with me.

But in this moment, I don’t feel that same anger anymore. All I can think about is how after I find this Spellbook, I’m going to enjoy exploring his body.

I get to my house and I see my parents drive off. As they pull away, I pull up to the front.

I run over directly under my window where I see the Spellbook lying in the bushes. I quickly grab it and run off.

Before I get into his car I look up at the window and to my surprise I see myself looking down.

I grin up at Jordan who now learning that I have control of his body.

I see my eyes get big and screams. I almost walk away but instead I look around my neighborhood to see no one’s around.

I pull Jordan’s pants down and start shaking his surprisingly huge dick in front of him while sticking his tongue out.

He’s fuming and shouting but I can’t hear him the glass. I see him rush from the window and I bolt it to his car with his flapping all over the place.

I pull his pants up and star his car. He’s at my front door and charging for me (which is funny seeing my body that angry.)

I pull away just in time and head back to his place. I reach down and fondle his big bulge all the home.

I knew he was going to come here and I really didn’t need him to make a scene.

So I had to think fast, pull out the spell book and dig through until I find a ‘love spell.’

I go into his kitchen and I find all of the necessary things for the spell.

He hasn’t arrived yet so I pull his shirt off and start exploring his body. I grab on to his dick again when I hear a loud knock at the door.

“Oh you’re going to really love yourself Jordan.”

“You better open up!!” I hear my former voice scream.

I grab my new magical potion and walk towards the door.

I let him in and as he begins to charge at me, I lift up the magical potion and toss it right at him.

I close the door and turn around to see my former dazed. His face goes from straight anger to looking almost goofy.

“Asher… you look soo sexy in my body,” he says to me.

“Oh do I?”

“Can I please touch it?”

“Well Jordan you’re going to need to prove yourself to me.”

“Anything for you!”

He gets on his knees and grabs on to his former hands.

“Anything?,” I say with a mischievous smirk.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Bestiary (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Your husband and you do not speak the same language. During your wedding night, you find out that High Valyrian and the Common Tongue pale when compared to the way your bodies allow you to communicate.

Warnings: Heavy smut, not much dialogue. P in V sex. First time.

A/N: Who would have thought the most enthusiastic consent I have ever written with Daemon would be in a fic with nearly no dialogue?

Being coached through your wedding vows is not a good omen for your marriage. At least, that is what your husband must think, by the thunderous look on his face. You fight the urge to scream at him that you have practiced for this moment and that you do not need to be coached through the vows. It would be no use. The two of you do not understand each other.

Everything is strange to you in Westeros, from the language to the wedding ceremony. They make you cut your lips and hand, in a procedure you do not enjoy. Your husband does the same. Your blood flows into a goblet, from which you will have to drink later on.

It's barbaric. You suppose it must symbolize the joining of bloodlines in the crudest way.

At least Daemon kisses you at the end, a cold brush of his lips against yours that tells you he is still mad. He had probably felt betrayed, being forced into this arrangement you entered willingly.

If you had known he was that petty, you would have not shown your hand so fast. Your father had wanted dragons, which meant becoming part of House Targaryen. Daemon was the only one available for you to ensnare in your web.

As any good hunter, you had watched your prey first, taking notes of his behavior. Only an afternoon was needed to understand you started the race with a disadvantage. His eyes followed Princess Rhaenyra, Princess Rhaenys and her little daughter, but never lingered on other women.

While you might have lacked the silver hair, you did not lack the wits and charms necessary to be taken in consideration.

You had needed a few days to ready your song, but you had approached him not even a week later. He had been sitting in the library, so you had knocked on the table twice to draw his attention.

Daemon had lifted his eyes from the scroll he was reading, annoyed. He had a handsome face, decorated with age lines that only served to make him look more regal. He looked more the part of the King than his brother, a decaying corpse that you had heard had also acquired his own nubile bride.

Such was the fate of the daughters of powerful men. Sold to other powerful men, old enough to be their fathers, birthing them their own litter of sons and daughters. Sons that would grow up to become powerful men in their own right, daughters that would become pawns to establish dynasties. On and on it went.

Daemon had spoken then. His words were much harsher than those of the language you were used to, lacking the airy song of the languages similar to the one from the Rhoynar. You had not understood. You did not speak a lick of the Common Tongue.

No silver hair, no words, but plenty of resources. You had placed the book you had brought with you on the table, and looked at him.

His eyes had lit up with curiosity. He recognized the title. He spoke again, intrigued.

Despite his tone sounding much more auspicious, you had no other option than to shake your head and speak, with a tremulous voice.

“Bodmagho.” It's the only word you know, one that you have prepared especially for this. But just in case your pronunciation is not perfect, you open the book and mimic the gesture of passing the pages.

Daemon looks stunned. He says something else, still in the Common Tongue. You were able to tell from the intonation he was asking a question, but you didn't know what it was about.

“Bodmagho.” You repeated, stubbornly. You placed your book down and pointed to it.

Daemon sighed. He pointed to the chair. You sat, happy as a clam.

“Prince Daemon.” He pointed at himself. Then, to you. “Lady…?”

You told him your name. He nodded.

“Daor.” He shook his head. “No.”

You stared. He shook his head again. You understood that no, daor and shaking head meant the same.

“Daor. No.” You shook your head. Daemon squeezed your shoulder, a proud smile on his face.

Your father told you that afternoon that you were to be married to him. Just as you had made efforts to catch Daemon, your father had been setting his trap.

Daemon did not oppose, nor encourage the match, but he was angry at you. Angry that you knew before him and tried to charm him into doing your bidding.

Men like him, you learn, like to be the ones pulling the strings. They hate being treated like hounds, even if that is what they are.

You get no further lessons.

This is how you manage to get to your wedding feast only knowing two words. Teach and no. It makes you the most riveting company, and so, it's no wonder you are soon ushered into a chamber with your new husband.

You had not noticed before, but it is the first time you are alone with him since the morning at the library. To you, it had been a matter of no consequence. You had to marry a powerful man, one day. Your father decided it should be him because he wanted dragons. It was as simple as that.

As a rich man, your father had known rich men only get richer at times of unrest. And unrest was coming for the Seven Kingdoms. He could smell it in the air, hear it in the whispers of the common folk. Princess Rhaenyra wasn’t going to inherit without issue.

Your family moved here for that reason. An opportunity to get richer could not be dismissed. Your father had taken one look at the dragons and decided that they were the key to turning his legacy into an empire.

Giant war machines that could level castles in one afternoon. Raze a city to the ground in mere hours. Fire so hot it could melt stone. They could not be bought, you had to be a Targaryen to have them. It was only natural to turn into one, then.

Your children would get dragons. You would provide funds and as many children as you could, and House Targaryen the magic in their veins. Simple business transaction. But apparently, Daemon disagreed.

His face is thunderous. You can tell he is about to berate you. He starts talking, brows pinched together and an accusing finger pointed towards you.

Has he forgotten you do not speak his language? You step closer and poke his arm, hard.

It was the wrong choice. Daemon's face turns even more murderous. His lips twist into a snarl, teeth bared. His posture turns aggressive. He puffs up his chest, he advances on you. The Prince tries to intimidate you through his body language alone.

You are not a small woman. But you are young, and you do not train as much as he does. His looming over you feels menacing, and it reminds you once again of the fate his late wife was rumored to have suffered.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Daemon is forcing you to walk backwards, pushing your forehead and nose with his. You either move, or get a broken nose and a concussion.

Daemon is terrifying. You will not cross him again, you think to yourself. Only a fool goes around poking dragons with a stick. You feel your palms starting to sweat, a knot forming in your throat. You fight the urge to cry.

The back of your knees hits the mattress, and you fall into the furs with a small noise of surprise. Your husband does not lose any time. He gets right into your face, trying to intimidate you even more.

But if you hope to survive this marriage, to make it work as your father has requested, you can't bend. Daemon will never respect you if you do. He will see you as no more than a frightened girl, who will not disagree with him and serve for little beyond warming his bed. You are not that. You will build an empire, a dynasty out of his dragons and your wealth. The only thing you can do is persevere or break trying.

Daemon scowls at you. He notices the change in your eyes, the fight coming back to you.

“Daor.” You say, staring him down with all your might. It doesn't matter if you are lying down, and he is hovering over you, pinning you under him. You will triumph.

Daemon doesn't heed the warning. He starts tugging at the buttons of your bodice, tiny pearls sent flying all over the room. The gesture is as brutal as it is calculated. It is meant to remind you of your place, always under him from now on. Daemon has a right to your body, and he intends to exercise it as he sees fit. You are no more than an object, and if you cry or scream, it is not relevant.

Despite knowing why he is doing it, you can't avoid grimacing. He looks more beast than a man, snarling over you, ripping your clothes. It's a sight that would scare any woman, no matter how cold.

You look up at him. You give him your own little snarl. Daemon pauses. It's not the reaction he was expecting. He wanted you to cry. You would never give him the satisfaction.

It's a balancing act. You will have to bring him to heel, but soothe his pride in the next act, less he turns on you. Push away a man too much, and he will think you are disrespecting him. He will call you names, thinking you are the problem. Daemon feels entitled to you. You need to show him he is not, but that you are giving yourself to him. He needs to value you. The treasure to his dragon.

“Daor!” You say, firmly. You push him away. Whatever he anticipated, you giving him a fight wasn't something he was prepared for. It shows in the way he folds, stunned by your behavior. You give him hard little slaps to the chest, until you manage to get him off you.

Daemon's scowl turns more confused than angry. He looks at you as if you are a particularly challenging riddle to crack. He rightens his clothes and starts to retreat.

“Daor.” You repeat, grabbing at his shirt to keep him in place. You do not want him to leave.

Daemon wretches free from your grip on his arm. He mutters something, angered.

“Daor.” You use his trick against him, stepping right into his path and forcing him to back off. You use your body to make him advance backwards, toward the bed.

He sits on the edge of it, still scowling. You giggle, making Daemon madder still. You look at him with what you hope is a seductive expression and pull your bodice down.

“Bodmagho?” You ask him, as your dress pools around your feet, leaving you in a sheer shift. Daemon's eyes darken. His expression changes into an amused smile, and he gestures for you to come to him.

You do. You step closer and get on his lap. His hands envelop your waist, warm and calloused.

Then, the unexpected. Daemon grabs your hair and pulls, forcing your head back. You moan, pain and arousal mixing into an unknown emotion that makes the place between your legs slick.

You can feel his breath against your neck, making you shiver. His face comes closer, and closer. Daemon stares into your eyes, lips slightly parted. You mirror his expression, feeling as if you are being consumed by your lust.

He arches an eyebrow. Never been one to shy away from a challenge, you brush his lower lip with his thumb. Daemon parts his lips and sucks it in his mouth.

The shock must have shown on your face because he laughs, giving your thumb a playful bite. You squirm, instinct overpowering modesty, and roll your hips against his.

The two of you stare at each other. Closer, and closer, until his features blur, until two purple eyes turn into one. A dragon turned cyclops by the mere force of lust. There is hunger and want, and confusion. Both of you are so close that you are sharing the same air, the same breath. And Daemon pulls, and you are kissing, and you shake in his arms, feeling like how you think the gods must have felt when the cyclopes formed the lighting.

His hands go to greedily knead at your thighs, slipping under your shift. His palms feel rough against your skin, impatient. The shift rides up, up, up. You mewl against his mouth, desperately reaching for something unknown to you but that you know Daemon will help you reach.

You are restless as he pets you, biting at your mouth, hands sinking in his hair. You tug him towards your neck, knowing his kisses, scorching hot, would burn even sweeter along your nape and ears.

Daemon, though, has other plans. He pulls away and pecks you on the lips. “Vūjigon ” He says. He touches his mouth. “Vūjigon”

You kiss him, softly. “Vūjigon”

He pets your hair.

“Vūjigon.” And he points to his collarbones. You frown in confusion, thinking perhaps the word doesn't mean what you think it does. He sighs and leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the space between your collarbones.

“Vūjigon.” You perk up, and start kissing his shoulders. Your hands pull his shirt more open, letting you bite and lick more of his flesh. The urge to consume and be consumed is overpowering, making you desperate to touch him.

Daemon laughs. He pulls you upwards. Can't he see you are starving?

“Daor.” He says, when you try to go back to it. You give him your fiercest pout. Daemon tuts at you.

He squeezes one of your breasts, making you moan, before cruelly twisting the bud. You gasp, your nails digging on his naked shoulders.

“Shhh.” Daemon soothes you, his hand going to squeeze your breast tenderly once more. “Daor?”

You don't know how to tell him what you want, so you grab his hand and make him pinch the tender bud again. Daemon smiles. He kisses you, muttering something fervently on your lips.

He lays you down on the bed, despite your attempts to sit up. Daemon pins you down with a growl, hand on your chest.

You can't help it. No matter the warning, you squirm as if you were in pain. It certainly feels like it. There is some sort of hunger in your belly, making you want to rub your core against him. You can feel your shift starting to become wet right above your tailbone. Daemon has you so bothered you are dripping into the shift and the bed.

Daemon gives you another growl and leans down to bite your breast over the fabric of your shift. It's meant to be punishment, but you arch into it, gasping.

He laughs. He takes as much of it as it can fit in his mouth, sucking greedily. The noises are obscene. The sight must be, too. Your mouth, open, moaning yourself into a frenzy. Daemon, nipping, biting, sucking, like a man starved. Your shift with two giant wet spots, one at the chest and the other by your arse.

You moan, surprised at the feeling. You had never thought bodies could be used in such a way before. Nor had you hoped for him to please you so eagerly.

His lips close around your bud. His tongue twirls around it, lavishing it with attention. You grab at his hair, his nape, desperately trying to hold onto something. Daemon just sucks harder on your breast. You moan, and moan, and moan some more. Desperate little sounds, gathering in the air around a desperate girl.

He switches to your other breast. Your shift feels sticky on your skin, so you start trying to take it off. The task distracts you enough for his hand to find its way to your core, and you squeak at the first sensation of his fingers against it.

Daemon smiles against your skin. He presses a finger inside you, and you squeal some more. He lets go of your breast to better gaze into your overwhelmed face, seemingly getting an enjoyment out of it.

Another finger joins the first. You cry out. It stings a bit. Daemon shushes you, kissing your cheek. He rubs at something above your opening that makes you squirm in delight.

His other hand comes into your sight. Daemon makes a gesture, two fingers together, separating. You stare. He nuzzles you, his cheek against yours, before repeating it.

You nod with a pout.

He starts prying you open slowly, this time. Despite enjoying causing pain, it appears your cooperation has granted you privileges with Daemon. He understood the distress on your face, and read you correctly enough to know it was not going to go well if he kept going as he was.

Daemon rubs at your shoulders, soothingly. You understand you need to relax, and force your body to do so. He kisses you in reward, slow and sweet, coaxing you to him.

You nod again. Daemon moves back, settling himself by your side. He takes your shift away, pressing soft little kisses to each new inch of skin revealed.

The sudden removal of your last layer makes you shiver a little. Your skin is wet from his previous ministrations and rapidly cooling. You plaster yourself to him, seeking warmth.

He chuckles, grabbing your arse to move you slightly out of the way. You scowl, not sure why Daemon is doing so, until you realize he is taking off his breeches.

“Daemon.” You whisper, softly. There is a part of you that is already cringing at the promise of pain the loss of your maidenhead will bring.

“Daor?” He asks you, one of his hands petting your cunt. It makes you shiver.

“Bodmagho.” You grasp at his shoulders, steadying yourself. Daemon lines the two of you. You feel his member at your entrance, holding you open and threatening to spear you apart. It feels scorching against your skin.

He helps you impale yourself on his member. It's not pleasant at first. Property dictates that you should not let him see your discomfort. You should just bear it like a good wife and allow him to chase his pleasure unbothered.

But you know Daemon enjoys causing pain. He thrives on it. So you let your eyes fill with tears, and your face goes slack and overwhelmed.

He smiles. He licks your tears away, and mumbles something. You squeal, and it only excites him more.

“Bodamagho.” Daemon pinches the flesh on your hip, clearly calling you to focus. His hands move your pelvis back and forth, back and forth, until you are hissing in pleasure, your hands on his chest, doing the movement yourself.

“Vūjigon.” You demand, moving your hips just like he taught you. Daemon is too focused on aiding you bounce by thrusting upwards to pay attention to you. When he doesn't obey, you give a tug to his hair.

He snarls at you. You snarl back. So he grabs your wrists and pushes sideways, and suddenly, you are under him and Daemon is still thrusting into you.

You are desperate for closeness. You scrunch up your face and wrap your legs around his back. Daemon looks down at you, and bites your shoulder. He is not pleased with your perceived attempt to take control.

Realizing your mistake, you shake your head.

“Daor.” You rub at his back with your foot, gently. You hold him close, and nuzzle his neck, delighting in his scent. Never you had thought before you would enjoy the smell of sweat and some sort of aromatic oil, yet here you are. “Vūjigon.”

Daemon's expressions softens. He leans in and gives you a kiss. You make pleased, chirping noises, trying to show him that was precisely what you wanted.

He complies, releasing your hands. You enthusiastically hug him. It helps you anchor yourself against the unrelenting waves of pleasure.

His hands, now freed from yours, are everywhere. Twisting your buds, rubbing at your pearl, squeezing your waist. Daemon whispers nonsense in your ears, takes the lobe between his teeth. He aids you, tilting your hips with his hands, reaching deeper.

You heard a story once, about Westeros. A white hart was said to come to the greatest Kings alive. A magnificent beast, tall as a man, with skin made of the purest snow and antlers as long and imposing as the branches of an ancient tree. If a King encountered it, it was a good omen for his rule. It would be just and prosperous, blessed by the Gods.

What did they do with the hart? Keep it in Kingswood, perhaps? You had made the mistake of asking, once. You had been told that they used the best spear they had. That men held the hart down, and they gutted it from head to belly.

The perfect, regal beast, fur as pale as snow. The pristine white sheets under you. Blood tainting the white. What a way to go.

You understood then why they called it a small death. You were sweating, squealing like a beast being gutted, thighs trembling under Daemon's hands. It was too much and too little, and you felt yourself reaching it, yearning for it.

You did not care if you burned, moth to a flame, maiden to a dragon. Daemon seemed to realize it because his hand went to rub at your pearl, and he leaned in.

“….” He was talking, but it was in that strange language of his, and your ears were ringing, you felt about to explode. Your body responded to his tone, though. Gentle, loving, coaxing you over the edge with a scream so fierce you might as well have been one of those weeping women that appeared far north.

Daemon grinned at you. A fierce, proud expression, eyes crinkling in the corners. You pulled him into a kiss, and raked your nails down his back, feeling the skin yield like butter under your fingers. It spurred him on, and with a gasp and a bite to your shoulder, Daemon was shattering inside you.

He collapsed on top of you with a laugh. You smiled. Daemon pulled you to rest, back flush against his chest, and you understood each other better than those who spoke the same, common tongue, did.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 8: Demeter, Goddess Of The Harvest]

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

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

Word Count: 6.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Is it a story worth telling? I think so. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than watching raindrops slither down the cracked concrete walls until the prison guards come back to bloody us again.

Today I’m sending John McCain taps in the shape of the tale of Io. John has a hard time tapping back—they’re doing something to his shoulders, they’re destroying him—but he likes to listen. He’s getting it a lot worse than I am; perhaps even the North Vietnamese fear Aemond’s retribution if I die here. They should be afraid of him. He thinks he owns everything he touches, and he’ll snap bones to keep it.

So anyway, Io was a king’s daughter, a mortal who Zeus saw and wanted and took when her father kicked her out to avoid the god’s wrath. That’s easily half of Greek mythology, right? Zeus appears, irrevocably fucks up someone’s life, vanishes in a plume of clouds and thunder. He leaves human rubble behind him: ribs, nerves, disembodied hearts that leak blood from torn ventricles, minds broken in two. Zeus impregnated Io and then turned her into a cow to hide her from his wife Hera, ever-watchful, ever-vengeful, an aspiring mass murderess. When this disguise failed, Hera condemned Io to wander ceaselessly through the wilderness, tormented by the constant stinging of a gadfly. Eventually, Zeus returns Io to human form and she pops out a few bastard kids, as if Zeus needs any more of those. Then he ditches her and she marries some Egyptian dude. There are other details that I’ve forgotten. I don’t think John McCain will know the difference.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I acquired all this fabled trivia. I don’t seem like the type to lie around under trees reading folklore from religions that died thousands of years ago. You’re right, I’m not. But Aemond is. He would tell the stories, and Helaena would embroider scenes on quilts for us to burrow under in the winter, and I would dramatically act out the best parts (mostly murders), and Aegon would scribble comics in jagged black pen strokes. He has all these notebooks down in the basement filled with his new versions of ancient myths: Poseidon as a horny dolphin, Aphrodite as Marilyn Monroe.

Wait, I remember what I skipped. While Io was roaming across the globe, she bumped into Prometheus—chained to a rock for giving humans the gift of fire—and he cheered her up somehow. I guess meeting a guy who gets his liver continuously chewed out by a giant eagle would make me more appreciative of my circumstances too.

I have a lot of time to myself here in solitary confinement. My social circle is microscopic. I tap to John through the wall, I have dinner dates with Tessarion the rat. And I think about my family. They’re fucked up, but I miss them. I miss going to Monmouth Park with Fosco to bet on horse races, I miss getting hammered with Aegon while he sings Johnny Cash or Beatles songs. I miss my mother and Helaena and Criston. I even miss Aemond’s wife, though I only met her a few times before I deployed. She’s sharp, she’s hilarious. She’s mean as hell to Aegon, and sometimes he deserves it.

At first I wondered why Aemond hasn’t gotten me out yet, but I understand now. It sounds a lot better to have a brother being tortured as a prisoner of war than one who received a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It’s the kind of thing Aemond would consider. He understands which stories are worth telling.

I feel kind of bad for her. Aemond’s wife, I mean.

I don’t think she knows about Alys.

~~~~~~~~~~

On a chilly mid-September morning cloaked in fog, Mimi is laid to rest in the Targaryen family mausoleum at Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Most of the golden plaques already have names chiseled into them: Viserys and Alicent, Fosco and Helaena. Aegon will one day be interred beside his wife. You have a spot reserved next to Aemond. All of you have already lived and died and been entombed; all of this was predestined by the stars eons before you had blood or bones.

Ari’s vault—an unnaturally tiny drawer, less than half the size of anyone else’s—is located just above yours. You can’t stop staring at it. You can’t hear anything the bearded priest in his black robes is chanting. Then Cosmo squeezes your hand and you look down at him. Mimi’s other children are somber but seem to be coping well enough—they are used to being raised by consensus, they would probably be more affected if one of the nannies died—but Cosmo always wants to be near you. He gazes up with those vast, wet, murky blue eyes, so much like Aegon’s, and you offer him a sad, reassuring smile. Cosmo smiles back. And you think: Life goes on.

Alicent is sniffling noisily; it echoes off the walls of the mausoleum. Criston—a man with no plaque assigned to him—is trying to console her. Aegon is watching you from across the cold granite chamber, grim and red-eyed in his black suit, the first time you can remember seeing him in one since your wedding. He wears no small gold hoops, only a row of stitches in his right ear. He wants to say something, to do something, but he can’t. Aemond is beside you, a hand heavy on your waist but muttering something to Otto. Back in Omaha, Otto had spent a few hours alone with the medical examiner, and when the death certificate was issued it revealed that Mimi died of a heart defect, a perfectly blameless sort of misfortune, an innate impending disaster. And so that’s what the newspapers printed, and any gossip to the contrary is confined to salacious rumors, untrustworthy and unproven.

When the ceremony is over, journalists are waiting to scavenge for photos and quotes under the guise of expressing their sympathies. It’s a shameless display, though they at least have the decency to wait by the cemetery gates. Aemond and Otto go to meet them. Alicent, Criston, Helaena, and Fosco, protective of the children, keep them far away from the feeding frenzy, hungry-eyed reporters like sharks without fins. Ludwika is reapplying her lipstick. Aegon is smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to his oldest son, Orion, a stilted exchange that holds the promise of turning warm with time.

You sit on a stone bench and Cosmo curls up beside you, rests his head in your lap, dozes off as you thread your fingers through his wavy blonde hair. In the mist there are shadows of gravestones and trees that turn skeletal as they shed their leaves.

“He is okay?” Fosco says as he ambles over, meaning Cosmo. He has his hands in the pockets of his slim black trousers that stop at his ankles. His suit is velvet, his eyeglasses speckled with drizzle from the slate-grey sky.

“He’s alright. He’s resting. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” Fosco sighs mournfully. “I keep thinking someone is missing. We came into this family together, Mimi and I. We got married six months apart. I have never had to do this without her. And I know she had her problems, but she was different when she was younger. She always liked a party, that’s why she and Aegon got along so well at first. But she was so loud and so funny, always telling these long stories, and everyone in the room would be grinning as they waited for the good part. Viserys loved her. Otto loved her. And then she had all those children one after the other, and that was hard, and Aegon self-destructed when he was the mayor of Trenton, and that was worse, and she was supposed to fix him and she couldn’t, the harder she tried the farther he ran from her. She started drinking her Gimlets before dinner, and then after lunch, and by the time you showed up it was never ending. But that wasn’t who she really was. She was like a moon that got smaller and smaller until the only thing left was a sliver.”

This family breaks people. This family kills people. “We’ll make ossi dei morti for Mimi tonight. I’ll help you, and we can teach the kids.”

Fosco smiles, swipes a tear from beneath his glasses, squeezes your shoulder with one wiry hand. “I am very glad you are still here.”

“I’m not trying to race you to that mausoleum.”

Fosco laughs. And then he says as he spies Aegon approaching: “Um…I will go avoid the paparazzi somewhere else.”

“You don’t have to leave, Fosco.”

“It is no trouble. And I suspect you enjoy your very rare privacy.” Fosco gives you a knowing glace and then heads back to where Helaena, Alicent, and Criston are lingering with the rest of the children. Now Ludwika is fluffing her blonde curls with her French tips, a smoldering Camel cigarette tucked between two fingers.

Aegon comes to you through the mist, plops onto the bench, and looks fondly down at Cosmo—now fast asleep, his face smooth and peaceful—before he speaks. “I can’t grasp that she’s really gone. We barely spoke for years, but she was always there, you know? Christ, she deserved better than this. She could have been happy somewhere else.”

“Your children need you.” It’s not the first time you’ve said it, but it’s the first time he believes you. He nods, staring out into the fog. “They have to get away from this whole circus for a while. And you have to learn how to be a real parent.”

“I’ll have time to work on it. I’m staying here. I’ve already been informed.”

You are alarmed. “What? By who?”

“Aemond and Otto.” Aegon says. “When the rest of you fly west, my kids and I will be at Asteria.”

“They’re getting you off the campaign trail,” you realize.

“They’re putting me on house arrest.”

Not seeing Aegon, not being near him? How long can I stand that? “I’m sure you’re relieved. You hate the grandstanding and the media.”

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I have Fosco and Ludwika.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that they need to look out for you.”

“Aegon, I’ve been doing the political wife thing for over two years.”

“But it’s different now.”

He’s right, it is.

“You’ll call, won’t you?” he asks. “You’ll let me know how the trip is going, you’ll tell me if anything bad happens? Because I can always get on a plane and meet you wherever you are. Otto might pay someone to murder me, but I’d risk it.”

“Of course I’ll call.”

“Hey.” Gently, he turns your face so you can’t hide from him. “Will you be okay without me?”

I have to be. I don’t have a choice. Instead you reply: “I’ll miss the weed.”

The tension breaks and Aegon smiles, and then he pats your cheek twice with his open palm. “Behave yourself.” He waves Ludwika over, interrupting her meditative chain smoking.

“What, what?” Ludwika says. “Are we leaving soon? Yes, it is so sad what happened to Mimi, but us standing around in the rain won’t resurrect her. And I look terrible in black.”

“I can’t be there for the last leg of the campaign.” Aegon points to you. “I need you to pay attention and check in with her at least a few times a day.”

“This is a common request. I should get a degree in it so I can charge people.”

Aegon furrows his brow at her. “What are you talking about?”

Ludwika smirks as she puffs on her Camel. “You are not the first person to ask me to keep an eye on her.” She nods subtly towards Aemond, then sashays off to give a quote to the journalists.

~~~~~~~~~~

In San Diego, Aemond meets with residents of a new public housing complex to hear their concerns about neighborhood jobs and infrastructure. In San Jose, he visits labor activist Caesar Chavez—being treated for debilitating back pain at O’Connor Hospital—and expresses support for the ongoing boycott of all grapes produced in the state. In Sacramento, he attends a Jimi Hendrix concert and receives a standing ovation from the audience; the next day he joins high school students protesting for a more inclusive curriculum. In Oregon, he makes a speech at Portland State University acknowledging the tremendous cost of the Vietnam War—in money, in time, in blood—and pledges to begin dismantling U.S. involvement as soon as he is sworn into office in January. Aemond talks about hope and despair, the bleak reality and the American Dream, and he is so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t even notice when someone takes his cufflinks as souvenirs. His lack of concern for his own safety exasperates Criston, but Aemond can’t be convinced to increase his security or his distance. If he expects the disaffected masses to carry him to the White House, he has to be real to them.

“What if another Wallace supporter tries to shoot you?” Criston demands. “What if a Nixon stooge stabs you or a crowd tramples you?”

“No one can kill me,” Aemond says, grinning wryly. “I’m not supposed to die yet. I’m supposed to be the president. It is God’s will.” And how can anybody disagree when that appears to be so true?

The earth dies as you drive north, summer withering into autumn. That familiar brisk cuttingness reappears in the air. You shake thousands of hands, smile for countless photographs. Mothers and wives of dead soldiers sob into your shoulder as you embrace them; teenage girls ask how they can get a good man like Aemond. Only one thing is missing from his glorious pilgrimage: something he wants desperately, something he cannot have (though he’ll never know why), you conceiving his child in time to announce it before Election Day. Each morning you sneak a pill and every night you bite the bullet. As often as you can, you duck into Dairy Queens to order lemon-lime Mr. Mistys.

George Wallace is in the South, galvanizing segregationists and accepting the endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan. Richard Nixon is working his way across the Midwest. He has chosen a politically moderate Greek as a running mate, Spiro Agnew; this does not strike you as a coincidence. He even shares a name with Aegon’s second son.

Nixon promises “peace with honor” in Vietnam, which means no immediate end to the draft. He makes speeches about “states’ rights” and “law and order,” ambiguous euphemisms designed to attract Wallace’s white supremacists without alienating too many suburban moderates. He commiserates with those lamenting the proliferation of sex, drugs, and divorce. He says he will return the nation to a more moral time. You wonder what he means. You can’t think of any such refuge in the bloodletting, spine-crushing history of mankind.

A kindergarten teacher tells you in Olympia, Washington, her eyes alight with reverence usually reserved for heroes, saints, gods: “People are voting for Aemond, but they’re voting for you too.”

And you find yourself thinking as a thousand miles roll by beyond the glass of limousine windows: How many people will I condemn if I don’t help Aemond win? How many lives is mine worth?

~~~~~~~~~~

The Hotel Sorrento in Seattle insists on giving you and Aemond the honeymoon suite: a retreat from the breakneck campaign, a romantic oasis for the future president and first lady…according to half the country, anyway. You are in the impractically large pink bathtub, surrounded by snowy dunes of bubbles. The wall to your right is a mirror, foggy around the edges; just a few yards to your left is the king-sized bed. In the top drawer of your nightstand is the card Aegon gave you in July. You aren’t sure where Aemond is, and you don’t especially care. You are relieved to be alone.

There’s a passion-red phone built into the rim of the tub, conveniently located for sudden room service revelations, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, steak and lobster. You have a different idea. It’s 7:15 p.m. here, so after 10 on the East Coast. On the steam-slick keypad, you dial the number for the main house at Asteria.

Eudoxia picks up and demands gruffly: “Geiá sou? Ti?”

“Hi, Doxie. Is Aegon around?”

“Where else would he be? Making himself useful somehow? Killing communists, driving a rocket to the moon? No. He is a burden as always.”

“Please be nice to him. His wife just died.”

“And so he cannot put his empty cups in the sink?” Without waiting for a reply, she sets the handset down on the kitchen counter with a clunk. There is distant, muffled shouting in Greek; she seems to back and forth with somebody. Then Eudoxia returns. “Antio sas,” she says, and hangs up just as a phone elsewhere in the house is lifted from its cradle.

Aegon answers with something halfway between a groan and a yawn. “Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey!” You can hear it riding the wire like electricity: a rustling as he sits up, a fresh clarity in his skull. His voice is deep, hushed, still husky with sleep. “What’s up, little Io? Any interesting happenings to report from your neighborhood of the solar system?”

“I just left a riveting tea party. Apple cinnamon scones and smoked salmon sandwiches. We talked about what kind of couches I should get for the White House and I wanted to kill myself. Are the kids okay?”

He’s smiling; you can tell. “They’re alright. I could have used you this afternoon. I was trying to help Spiro with his math homework. Trying, not succeeding.”

“Well he’s in middle school and thus beyond your skill.”

“How’s Jupiter?”

You know who he means. “I don’t want to talk about Aemond.”

“Okay.” Aegon says, curious. “So what should we talk about?”

A few seconds tick by, silent and perilous. “Where are you right now?”

“In my lair. Like a beast.”

“Alone?”

A transitory pause. “At the moment.”

“On the shag carpet or your futon?”

Now he’s very intrigued. “Futon. Why?”

“I just want a visual.” Beneath the water, your free hand is resting on the velvety inside of your thigh.

“Where are you?” Aegon asks.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Maybe I want a visual too.”

You chuckle, peeking over at yourself in the mirror. Your skin is dewy with steam; stray wisps of hair stick to your face. “I’m in a gigantic pink bathtub. It’s ridiculous, it’s shaped like a heart and everything. They have a phone installed right here in case I find myself in desperate need of filet mignon.”

“Oh.” And then he hesitates, like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. “Big enough for two?”

“More like five. You should get a tub like this for your basement, it would delight the campaign staffers.”

“My basement’s been pretty empty recently.”

Softly, vulnerably, glass offered for him to shatter: “You aren’t seeing other girls?”

“Nah, babe. I want something they can’t give me.”

You picture him, messy hair falling over his forehead, drowsy eyes that gleam with clandestine wisdom. You can smell the smoke and rum that bleeds from his skin. “I wish you were here.”

“In Seattle?”

“No. Right here.”

Aegon exhales shakily, swallows, takes a few seconds to collect himself. “How’s the water?”

“Extremely hot and full of bubbles.”

“So I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“No,” you say, baiting him.

“But I could touch you.”

“You already have.”

“Not enough,” he murmurs. “Nowhere close to enough.”

“Do you remember what I felt like?”

“Oh God,” he whispers, and you envision him closing his eyes, rubbing his face with the open palm of his left hand. “Yeah. Of course I do. I can’t get it out of my head. But I’ve been trying not to…you know…it felt wrong to think about you that way unless you were cool with it. Like I was betraying your trust or taking advantage of you or something.”

“No, I want you to think about me.”

You can hear Aegon moving around on the green futon, repositioning himself, yanking down a zipper. When he speaks again, his breathing is quick and jagged. “Where’s your other hand, huh?”

“Under the water,” you reply coyly.

“You bitch,” he says, laughing. “I miss you so fucking much. The house isn’t right without you in it. You belong here, you belong where I am.”

Beneath the veil of bubbles and steam, there is no scar on your belly, no infidelity, no campaign, no distance of almost 3,000 miles separating you and Aegon. Your fingers slip between your legs, finding slickness the water can’t wash away. It’s a familiar sensation, though you haven’t felt it in a while: rising steadily until you hit a plateau like a jet reaching cruising altitude. From here, it will either glide along smoothly until it dies out, or eventually turn sharp and painful. “Tell me about you,” you pant.

He can hear it in your voice, a needful surrender that sets him on fire. He can’t believe this is happening; he never wants it to end. “I mean, I’m…I’m insanely hard.”

“Stroke yourself, imagine it’s me. I wish it could be me.”

“Oh fuck,” Aegon whimpers. “Okay, okay…I want you. I want you with my fingers, I want you with my tongue, I want you to beg for it, and then…”

Impossibly, incomparably, your own pleasure is climbing faster than you can reconcile yourself to it, no longer a hunger but a violent aching, a crushing gravity you can’t fight against, a ship being dragged to the floor of the ocean. What’s happening? When will it end? You moan into the phone, amazed yet petrified. You can’t get enough air; it feels like drowning, like dying.

“I need to see you,” Aegon says. He’s close to the climax that you know men experience, he has to be; he’s gasping. “I need to be with you, let me give you what you want.”

“I want you to finish inside me.”

“Io…babe…oh my God, you’re gonna kill me…”

There are sounds out in the front room of the suite: a lock clicking, footsteps, keys and a wallet tossed onto the kitchenette counter. You’re so consumed you almost don’t notice. Aemond is back. Aemond is back!! And every ion of your ascending euphoria evaporates. “Gotta go, bye.”

“Wait—!”

You hang up just as Aemond is opening the bedroom door. He walks in—immaculately tailored dark blue suit, polished black leather shoes trampling soft pink carpet—and turns to you. He has already taken his glass eye out and put on his eyepatch. Vaguely, fleetingly, you wonder where he’s been. His gaze darts to the red phone, your fingerprints in the condensation. “Who were you talking to?”

“My parents.”

If Aemond doubts this, he doesn’t show it. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bathtub, peers down at you with an omniscient metallic glint in his eye. He’s always been less a man than a force of nature. “I know this year has been hell.”

You envision Persephone being stolen by Hades, Orpheus searching for his dead wife Eurydice, Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx. “You haven’t made it easier.”

There’s a flash of something in his scarred face, blazing and instantaneous like lightning, and then it fades. He reaches out to touch your hair, swept up and neatly bound with clips and pins. “We can’t forget everything we’ve accomplished together,” Aemond says. “I still need you. You’re my Aphrodite.”

He’s going to tell you to get out of the tub, to lie down on the bed, to open yourself so he can fill you. You distract him, forestalling the inevitable. Each morning Prometheus dreads the return of the eagle that pecks out his liver; as every summer ends Demeter mourns the loss of Persephone. “Any luck with Nixon?”

Aemond sighs, furious, brooding. “He still won’t agree to a debate. Wallace is onboard, he’s rabid for it, he’d show up if we held it in the fucking asteroid belt, any opportunity to spew his idiocy. But not Nixon.”

“Because he knows standing on the same stage as you can only hurt him. People thought he looked bad in 1960, can you imagine now? Television has gotten so much clearer. They’ll be able to count his sweat drops from their living room couches.”

“So how do I get him to do it?”

You look up at Aemond. It’s not a hypothetical question; he’s really asking for advice.

“I have to debate Nixon,” Aemond insists. “It’s close in the polls, which means it will be even closer on Election Day. I’ll underperform whatever is projected, my coalition is less likely to show up when it counts. College kids, hippies, transients. That’s just a fact. But the old people vote. The suburban housewives vote. Nixon’s resting on his political experience and accusations that I’m a communist, an agent of chaos. But I could slaughter him in an hour on ABC.”

You think of the mutilated Vietnam veterans waving their signs and screaming at LBJ from the other side of the wrought-iron gates of the White House. “Challenge him in public. Say that the American people deserve to see the candidates debate, and do it where everyone can hear you.”

“What if Nixon still refuses?”

“Then you call him a coward. You say he must have something to hide. You ask how he’s supposed to square up with the Russians and the Chinese if he can’t even face you.”

Aemond grins admiringly. “You’re vicious.” And he lifts your hand from the rim of the tub so he can kiss your knuckles. Once you licked up drops of his approval like Tantalus, cursed with eternal thirst. Now it is poison that turns your veins black.

“If there’s a debate, everyone should go,” you say, seized by sudden inspiration. “We should have a united front, including Aegon. It can be his return to the public eye. A month will have passed since the funeral, the timing is right. He can pose for a few photos with the kids to show the nation that they’re doing well and distract from any lingering rumors about Mimi.”

Aemond isn’t grinning anymore. He’s studying you with his cold blue gaze; no, he’s trying to intimidate you, to overpower you. “Otto and I will decide what to do with him.”

“He’s a Targaryen. He should be with the rest of us.”

Aemond stands and motions for you to follow, a snap of his wrist like a man calling a dog. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

Panic, tension, an iron sinking in your belly. The water is only lukewarm now, but you don’t want to leave it. “I’m not done yet.”

“Yes you are.”

There’s nothing else to say. Legally, a wife’s flesh is one with her husband’s. You slip as you step out of the bathtub, and Aemond grabs your forearm. Not like he’s helping you; like you’re something he owns.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two knocks, swift and forceful. “Hey, it’s me. You ready? Everyone else is downstairs in the lobby waiting for the limos.”

You hurry to open the door, almost twisting your ankle as you stumble in your heels. They’re an inch higher than what you’re used to. Aemond chose them, and your dress too, and your sapphire teardrop earrings, and the silver chains around your wrist and throat, and your future and your past, and your life itself. It’s mid-October, and the night of what will almost certainly be the sole presidential debate of 1968. Aemond’s retinue is staying at the Hotel Saint Louis. It’s harvest time, the fields beyond the city being reaped of their soybeans, wheat, corn, cotton, and rice, the beef cattle culled in mechanical underworlds. Aegon’s flight must have just landed.

As soon as he sees you his eyes drop, wide and bewitched, ensnared everywhere except your face. You say: “Can you help me zip this, please?”

He blinks a few times, then shakes it off. “Sorry, what?”

“The zipper’s stuck. I need you to get it.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He steps into the suite and stands behind you. The gown is a vivid blue like the Greek flag, gorgeous and shimmering but a size too small. It wasn’t tight a week ago, but now it is, and you aren’t pregnant just always gaining and losing weight in new places, first the baby and then the pill, and it wouldn’t bother you if Aemond didn’t seem so confounded by it. Aegon says as he tugs at the zipper: “I don’t think it’s gonna fit, babe.”

“It has to fit.”

“Even if I miraculously get this closed, you won’t be able to breathe.”

“Do whatever you have to. Just…just…” You push every last molecule of air out of your lungs, suck in your belly, and you hear the triumphant squeal of the zipper. “Yes!” Oh, but Aegon was right: you really can’t breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“You’re not gonna last the whole debate in that. You’ll be sweating more than Nixon.”

“I’m fine.”

“Io…”

“I’m fine. Come on.” You snatch your matching purse off the coffee table by the couch, check your makeup one last time, and hobble in your heels as you walk with Aegon out into the hallway.

At the Kiel Auditorium a few blocks away, the Targaryen children—Aegon’s five and Helaena’s three—are presented for photographs before being escorted back to the hotel by the nannies. And even in the few weeks that have passed since you last saw Aegon’s kids, there have been extraordinary changes. They talk to their father, and he talks back, and he ruffles their hair and rests his hands on their shoulders and asks them about what they’re learning from their private tutors. Cosmo tackles you before he leaves—a powerful bear hug, though he can only reach your legs—and he says he hopes you’re coming home to Asteria soon.

“Me too, kiddo,” Aegon tells him, and then smiles at you; but above his gleam of teeth his cloudy blue eyes, like the Atlantic in a storm, are gloomy and troubled.

As the audience takes their seats and the journalists are poised to capture the best images and quotes of the night, the three candidates and their wives (minus Wallace’s dear departed Lurleen) meet briefly backstage to exchange the perfunctory well-wishes. Pat Nixon is introverted and bookish, though she tries to hide it; but Aemond reels her in like swordfish until her eyes are filled with him. George Wallace gets one glimpse of your venomous glare and escapes, claiming to need one last trip to the restroom before the debate begins. But Richard Nixon beckons you to accompany him to a quiet, discrete corner of the room.

“I tried to call,” he says. He’s a remarkably normal man: medium height, receding dark hair, rough voice, weathered skin, not a god but a mortal, and—you have the impression—more aware of his flaws than his fiercest critics will ever be. “But no one at that damned beach house would ever put me through to you.”

You aren’t sure what he means. “Oh?”

“I never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was for your loss in July, Mrs. Targaryen,” Nixon says with unglamorous, plain, genuine compassion. “Pat and I, when we heard, we wept for you. We truly did. And for your husband to be clear across the country…I can’t even imagine. It must have been awful for you. A parent never gets over something like that. It stays with you like a scar.”

“It does,” you say softly.

“I lost two brothers. Arthur died when he was seven, tuberculosis killed Harold in his twenties. God, it just about destroyed my mother. You’re a remarkable woman. You’re lightning in a bottle for Aemond, do you know that? You’re like one of those Kennedy gals, but even better. More personable than Jackie. More intelligent than Ethel…although, to be frank, who wouldn’t be? And you’re not afflicted with any ghastly vices like Ted’s wife Joan. What would Aemond do without you? He’d lose, that’s what he’d do.”

Nixon’s smart, but he’s wounded. He’s capable, but he’s so desperate to prove it. Power could ruin a man like this. “You’re very kind, sir. You did some great work under Eisenhower. Self-made like my father was, a devotee of the American Dream. I believe you have an important role to play in this country…” You smirk, a bit mischievously. “Just not as the president.”

Nixon chortles. “No matter what happens tonight, rest assured that I hate Reagan more than I could ever dislike your husband,” he says, meaning the Republican governor of his home state of California. “You know that bastard tried to primary me?”

“Actors don’t belong in politics.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nixon says, and then bids you farewell as the lights turn blinding and the curtain begins to rise.

As soon as the adrenaline begins to fade, all you can think about is that you can’t breathe. You take your seat in the audience between Aegon and Ludwika, who won’t stop making jabs about Nixon: “He looks like a troll,” “He looks like a sasquatch,” “Do you think Pat makes him wear a  Creature from the Black Lagoon mask in bed so she is not so repulsed by him?” The most you can offer is an occasional distracted nod in response.

“You alright?” Aegon whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look alright.”

“I’m great.”

“Sure,” he says, and he acts like he’s teasing, but there’s something tremendously sad underneath. He can’t save you from this. He can’t save you from anything. What must that feel like?

On the debate stage—broadcast to a national audience—Aemond performs brilliantly. Nixon salvages what could have been a bloodbath with a handful of clever retorts that Aemond pretends not to be rattled by. The real loser of the night is Wallace, who is brutally attacked by them both: Nixon because Wallace is commandeering some of his voting bloc, and Aemond because of his near-assassination back in May. After an hour, the contest concludes and the candidates descend to the main floor to pose for photos and get lassoed into brief interviews with various journalists. Everyone in Aemond’s entourage besides you and Aegon flock to his side. By now you’re gasping in shallow gulps, close to tears and in agony from your ribs to your wobbling feet.

“I told you,” Aegon says. And then: “Come on. We’ll take the first limo back.”

In the front room of your hotel suite—one yellowish end table lamp glowing dimly, the rest of the space like twilight—Aegon wrestles with the zipper as you struggle for every breath, trying not to pass out. “Ow,” you whine. “Oh fuck, this was so stupid…”

“Don’t let him make you wear shit you don’t want to wear.”

“I have to do what he says, Aegon.”

“He doesn’t own you.”

“Legally, he does.”

He’s tugging futilely at the jammed zipper. “Are you planning on using this again?”

“I believe that would be wistful thinking.”

“You probably look better out of it anyway.” He grabs his Zippo lighter from the pocket of his emerald green suit jacket and flicks it to life. “Don’t move, okay?”

“Okay.”

“At all.”

“Got it.”

You can feel heat, intense but not painful. Aegon has pulled the edge of the fabric as far away as he can from your skin and is singeing it until it turns black and charred and brittle. Then he tucks the lighter back into his pocket and with both hands rips your dress down to the small of your back. Cool air rushes to meet the ridge of your spine; goosebumps prickle all over. Aegon is marveling at you; you can see it when you glance over your shoulder at him. Then he lays a palm against your bare skin, leans into you, inhales everything you’ve ever been: smoke and sex and starlight, strategies, shadows, secrets.

The others will be pouring into the hallway from the elevator any minute. Aemond. Aemond could find us.

“We can’t,” you whisper, hating yourself for it.

Aegon kisses the nape of your neck—so slow, so kind—and then goes to the doorway. You wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He’s looking at you as you hold up the ruined gown so it covers your belly and your chest. You gaze back helplessly, wanting him, needing him, a moon chained to another world’s gravity.

We can’t, we can’t, we can’t.

“I’m so sorry,” you say.

And only then does Aegon vanish.

[talesofesther]

what once was mine | ch 7

Loki x Reader

Series Summary: When watching what once was supposed to be the rest of his life, in an empty room in the TVA, Loki sees someone he can't recognize; a girl who's all tenderness and loose smiles, and most importantly, she was smiling at him.

A/N: I apologize in advance lol.

Masterlist | Read ch 6 here

Your feet buried in the sand, just inches from the gentle waves crashing to shore. You could smell the salt in the air, feel it on your skin as the wind carried droplets of water until it reached you. The sun kissed the horizon of the ocean beside you, painting the waves in streaks golden.

This was possibly your favorite thing about New Asgard, the ocean.

Or, second favorite, you thought, as you squeezed the hand holding your own.

"And Thor wouldn't listen to me, of course," Loki continued the story, his feet burying in the sand just as yours did. One of his hands interlocked with yours, the other holding his shoes. "Not until the whole tent came crashing down on him."

You giggled, the soft wind carried your laughter and messed up your hair, "Thor never was the brightest at learning our 'contraptions', as he would call them."

"No, I guess not," Loki mused, a smile of his own lingering on his lips.

You looked up at him then, watching as the fading sunlight reflected against his bright eyes and shaped the curves of his smile. You'd never tire of the sight, of him by your side.

"You should come with us next time," Loki suggested, apparently just as lost in you as you were in him.

"Camping?" You raised a brow.

Loki nodded, stopping in his tracks. He dropped his shoes to the sand without a second thought, so he could take hold of both your hands. "You'd make it better."

His voice, however, began to sound far away. You frowned, looking around as the golden sunlight seeped away, making room for a grey and stormy sky. The wind picked up speed, cutting into your skin like needles. The sea, once calm and serene, now raged and thundered against the shoreline.

"You always do." Suddenly, Loki's voice was nothing but an echo.

You didn't have time to hold him tighter before his hands were snatched away from yours.

Stumbling forward, you tried running after him, but the sand began to swallow your feet. Panic settled into your chest and got your heart racing.

You looked up, but you shouldn't have.

His eyes were bloodshot, his feet held off the ground as he struggled against the bruising grip on his neck. When Loki looked into your eyes, tears were running down both your cheeks. Blood trailed down his mouth as he choked for a breath. "Run," it was a plea, so quiet and weak past his lips.

The last thing you heard was a sickening crack.

You woke up with a scream lingering on your lips, sitting up on your bed and already clawing at your chest for the air that you desperately needed yet couldn't get a hold of. You didn't know if you were sobbing or coughing, perhaps a bit of both.

The tears were non-stop, dripping down your chin and dampening the collar of your pajama shirt. You threw the covers away from your body, feeling trapped on your skin. Burying your head on your trembling hands, you did your best to try and catch your breath.

It had been a while since you've had a nightmare this haunting.

─── ·❆· ───

You felt numb. The day began and you couldn't feel anything besides the emptiness in your chest. Foolishly, you had thought you'd finally outgrew the bad memories, the grief. You wondered if you ever would.

As you walked through the hallways of the TVA, you thought back to yesterday; to the rain, the northern lights, and him. He who had those same dark curls, those same bright eyes, and alabaster skin that you saw in your dreams and nightmares. Each day it became harder and harder to believe the lie you insisted on telling yourself.

As if on cue, you heard the stomping of someone running to catch up with you.

"Good morning," Loki greeted, just a tad out of breath as he fell into step beside you.

You closed your eyes for a moment after hearing his voice. Gulping down the lump in your throat, you nodded without looking at him. "Morning."

Loki noticed, he felt the shift in the mood, heard it in your tone. You know he did, because he hesitated. "Um-" He tried to start; you could perfectly picture his eyes being unable to find a place to focus even if you weren't looking.

"I've been thinking," he tried again, and you could hear the tentative smile on his words, "For the next time you manage to borrow Mobius' tempad, I- I have a place I would like to show you, if you'd like."

There were tears brimming in your eyes. You weren't sure why. Maybe because this was such a Loki way for him to try and ask you out. Maybe because you could feel your heart melting for him as it found its home again after being in the cold for so long, and that terrified you.

"Yeah…" You cursed under your breath when your voice came out broken and strained. You cleared your throat. "I don't know when he'll let me borrow it again, so," you shrugged, quickening your steps, "I guess we'll see."

Loki fell behind just for the time it took for him to mull over your words. It didn't take much effort for him to match your pace again. "Yes, of course."

The sadness dripping from his voice made your heart clench. You didn't want to hurt him. But you didn't want to hurt yourself either.

Finally reaching your desk in your secluded nook of the library, you immediately busied yourself with threading over the fresh stack of documents resting on top of it. Pointedly avoiding Loki's concerned look.

"I can help you with those," Loki suggested, already reaching for a spare chair.

"You really don't have to," You tried to sound as nonchalant as possible, turning on your table lamp.

"I want to," he told you with that softness reserved for you only. "We can finish it twice as fast and maybe stop for tea-"

"Loki, stop!" You suddenly snapped, finally turning to look at him. "Can you just leave me alone for one goddamn second?" You hadn't meant for your voice to come out as harsh as it did.

Loki lowered his head so you weren't able to see the pang of hurt in his eyes. His hand went limp as he slowly let go of the chair. Still, he took a step closer to you and asked; "Are you alright? Did something happen?"

Of course he would be able to tell. Of course he'd put your pain above his own.

You surrendered the facade with a sigh, and a single tear rolled down your cheek. "I keep seeing…" It was difficult to think of it, let alone say it. You closed your eyes. "The day I lost him, I- I keep seeing it over and over. Even after all this time."

You had gotten better, for a while, keeping busy in the TVA had somewhat helped. But you knew you only buried the feeling, never dealt with it. And then Loki—this Loki, the one who would be yours—found his way to you, and everything crumbled again. Those bright eyes of his were still the same you've always known, after all; and between the memories you had together that only you had lived, and the way his soul tangled with yours as if they never parted, you didn't know what to feel.

Your chin wobbled and a sob fell past your lips. "And I just want it to stop hurting… I just him back."

Seeing you like this, it hurt. Loki took half a step closer to you, his glassy eyes gauging every twitch of your muscles. If you told him to leave, he would, even if it's the last thing he wanted. Your pain pierced his soul like an arrow, tearing and making it bleed. More than anything, he found himself only wanting you to be okay.

No names were needed. Loki knew, just from the way you were adamantly refusing to look at him; he knew you were talking about… him.

Carefully, testing tentative waters, Loki reached for one of your hands. He held his breath when you tensed as his skin touched yours. His fingers closed gingerly around your wrist and he pulled your hand up with a gentleness he didn't know he was capable of.

You let him. You weren't sure why, but you did.

Loki brought your hand to rest above his chest, flat against his beating heart, and held it there, with his own hand still grasping yours tightly. He hesitated. He was afraid, he realized. Afraid of losing you.

Only when Loki opened his lips to speak, did he taste his own tears that had fallen. "I'm here." It was nothing but a breath. "I promise. I'm here." He tried, it was all he could give you; himself.

You clutched the fabric of his shirt, fingers shaking. You leaned your forehead against his shoulder as another sob escaped you. As the waves pulled you under.

In a place out of time, time stood still. For a precious second, only you and him existed.

You looked up after what felt like an eternity, your lips hovering as you struggled to hold his gaze. "But you're not him." The half smile that stretched the tear tracks on your cheeks held nothing but sorrow.

As if ripping apart a piece of his soul, Loki reluctantly let go of your hand. "What is it you have against me?" He whispered, pleaded.

You'd never seen him this vulnerable. His ocean eyes glimmered under the dim artificial lights of the library, eyebrows pulled softly together in what looked more like loss than confusion.

"And what is it you have with me?" You found yourself whispering back, just as desperate. "For you, we never met." Your voice broke and then dripped with frustration, "You have nothing to lose. So what is it that you want from me?"

It was selfish to put the blame on him, just because he brought back the same warmth you've been missing for so long. But you were hurting, and broken things tend to have sharp edges.

Loki's lips hovered open and he shifted his gaze down, almost as if ashamed. He held the silence for a beat longer. "I guess I just…" He stopped, and forced himself to look into your eyes. "I saw how much you loved your Loki… I think I was jealous, and I was selfish, for wanting the same thing he was lucky enough to have." His smile was that of someone who knew when he'd lost. "You."

All emotion drained from your face. It felt like a bucket of icy water being dropped on top of you.

Had Loki actually fallen in love with you?

For a moment you wondered if, in every reality and every lifetime, you were destined to fall for each other. As the universe's own twisted version of soulmates.

You would've laughed at such a sweet thought, if it hadn't just made your heartbeat skyrocket. Because deep down, you knew you'd fallen for him as well. Again. As you always knew you would.

In every lifetime. As you promised you would.

And it terrified you, because what if you were destined to fall, yet also destined to lose?

"I'm sorry," you breathed, tasting the salt of your tears on your lips. You took staggered steps away from Loki. "I'm sorry, I- I can't."

I'm sorry, I don't know if I can pick myself back up if I ever lose you again. So I'd rather not have you at all.

"Please, I-" Loki started, yet he didn't know what he was pleading for.

But you shook your head vehemently. "I need," your voice stumbled, "I'm sorry- I just need a moment alone."

You turned around then, walking away and taking Loki's heart with you. His eyes refused to watch you leave again, luckily he had tears to blur the memory.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Read ch 8 here

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[wannabehockeygf]

calgary - matthew tkachuk

part of the think later fic series

“I’m drunk, oh wow,

All my habits came back around.”

***

this has two parts!

part 2

***

request: “could you do calgary with matty tkachuk?? maybe something fluffy, and him being overprotective?”

summary: an attempt to relive your highschool glory days turns into a night of drunken confessions.

word count: 7k

pairing: matthew tkachuk x fem!reader

warnings: alcohol, unnamed pills

notes:

- ty for requesting! fun to write! keep ‘em coming <3

- ^ you guys already knew your girl had to go all out for her hometown, because calgary natives fuck it up the best!

- the plot is basically the lyrics of the song

- some friends to lovers because it makes me feel so lonely and I have to make y’all suffer too

- not super proof read

***

At some point in every Calgary native’s life, those wild, reckless nights of stumbling down Stephen Avenue after too many shots morph into something that feels suspiciously like maturity—like finding yourself sipping ritzy, overpriced cocktails on Seventeenth at six-something pm, wondering when your life turned into a scene from a yuppie rom-com.

The moment you realized this was your new reality, you spiraled. The “Oh my god, I’m so old, I can’t have fun anymore” pit of despair opened up beneath you, and you were falling fast. You had your shit together—no, scratch that, you have your shit together. You’re a bona fide adult. But still, you can’t help but yearn for the glory days of sneaking into clubs with a fake ID at fifteen, batting your lashes at some guy named Jason in a cowboy hat just to get him to buy you a drink.

But then, just as you’re about to spiral further, you remember tonight’s mission. Matthew, one of your closest friends, is back in town. The guy is practically a legend in your life—a hockey player sent off to South Florida but always makes his way back to Calgary for Stampede. You met him in the most random way—some Tinder date with a different Flames prospect gone awry. Who could have guessed that a failed date would lead to one of the most solid friendships of your life?

Matthew is that rare breed of guy—fun, charming, and completely non-threatening in the “someone’s gonna catch feelings” department. At least, that’s what you’ve always told yourself. But let’s be honest, there’s something about him that’s always felt…different. You’ve sworn up and down that, it’s not you, that you’re just friends, but there’s always that little nagging thought in the back of your mind. Could there be more? Should there be more?

Nah, you shake it off. Tonight isn’t about overthinking. Tonight is about channeling your inner fifteen-year-old, if only for a few hours. You’re on a mission to relive the glory days, and Matthew—well, he’s the perfect partner in crime.

The pulsating bass of the club thunders through your veins, the kind of beat that makes your heart race and your feet move, even if you didn’t want them to. But you do. Oh, do you ever. You’re dancing like you’re possessed, limbs flailing in a way that’s somewhere between “I just got electrocuted” and “I’ve been training for this moment my entire life.” You’re definitely more of a mosh pit person than a rhythmic dancer, but tonight, it’s all about the vibe, not the technique.

The lights are flashing wildly, casting everyone in an array of colors—red, blue, green, pink. It feels like you’re inside a kaleidoscope, everything spinning and twirling and making your head buzz in the most exhilarating way. The crowd is a sweaty mess of bodies, a hotbed of random hookups and questionable dance moves, but you’re right there in the middle of it, soaking it all in like the club’s ambiance is your life source.

“Another one?” someone yells over the music, thrusting a shot glass in your face. You don’t even see who it is, but hey, free alcohol is free alcohol. You down it in one go, the burn of the tequila (or is it vodka? Who even knows at this point) sliding down your throat and settling warmly in your belly.

You’re officially shitfaced. You can’t even remember how many shots you’ve had, but counting stopped being a priority after the third one. Or maybe it was the fourth. Whatever. You’re having fun—so much fun that you’ve completely lost track of time. How long have you been here? Is it still tonight? Did you miss Matthew’s arrival?

No, you tell yourself. There’s no way you could miss him. Matthew Tkachuk is not the kind of person who goes unnoticed, even in a crowded club like this. He’s the kind of guy who walks into a room and makes heads turn, who laughs so loudly you can hear him over any DJ set. You’d know if he was here.

Still, a small part of your brain—a part that isn’t totally soaked in alcohol—reminds you of tonight’s mission. You try to channel your inner teenager, that reckless, carefree girl who did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. And right now, what you want is to dance. And maybe make out with someone. Or eat a greasy cheeseburger. The list is long, okay?

It’s in this haze of euphoria that you notice him—a man with a slicked-back ponytail that’s trying too hard to be edgy but just comes off as greasy. He slides up next to you, his cologne almost as overpowering as his confidence. You give him a half-hearted smile, not really paying attention, too busy reveling in your own carefree abandon.

“Hey,” he shouts over the music, leaning in too close, his breath warm against your ear. “You want something to really get the night going?”

You blink, trying to focus on his words through the fog of alcohol. His hand is outstretched, palm up, and there, sitting innocuously in the center, are two little pills. Your mind stumbles, trying to catch up with the situation. Pills? Like, drugs? The room seems to tilt slightly, the strobe lights throwing everything into sharp, disorienting relief.

The room seems to spin faster as you stare down at the tiny pills in the man's hand. They look so innocent, like candy, but you know better. Your brain, soaked in alcohol and barely clinging to reality, tries to do the math. Pills equal bad. Very bad. But you're also floating on a cloud of recklessness, and there's a small voice in your head whispering that maybe, just maybe, these little white ovals could make the night even crazier.

You can't quite decide if that's what you want or if you're just drunk enough to think it's what you want. Your vision blurs, the man’s face morphing into a smudge of colors and cologne. He leans in closer, his greasy ponytail brushing your cheek like a wet mop. “Come on,” he urges, his voice slicing through the booming bass, “just one, for old time’s sake.”

Old times? You’re pretty sure you’ve never seen this guy in your life. But then again, you’re also pretty sure you saw a unicorn prancing through the dance floor five minutes ago, so who knows what’s real at this point?

Just as you're about to reach for the pills—because why not?—you feel a hand grip your arm, firm and unmistakable. You whirl around, nearly losing your balance, and there he is: Matthew Tkachuk, your knight in a tight-fitting black tee that clings to his shoulders like a second skin. Even in your drunken haze, you can tell he’s pissed. Like, really pissed.

You’d seen him mad before, like that time when someone cut him off on the Deerfoot trail and he laid on the horn for so long that you thought it would get stuck that way—or, that one time when a ref made a call that had him throwing his helmet at the glass, shattering it. This feels so different, especially since he just got here.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Matthew’s voice is like a thunderclap over the music, his eyes narrowing at the greasy-haired guy who suddenly looks a lot less confident. There’s something about Matthew when he’s angry—a fierce, protective energy that’s as magnetic as it is intimidating. He’s not the tallest guy in the room, but he doesn’t need to be. He’s Matthew Tkachuk, for god’s sake.

You blink, trying to process the scene. This isn’t the carefree, dancing-like-you’re-on-fire vibe you were going for. This is… something else entirely. The man with the pills tries to pull a sneer, but it’s more of a grimace. “Hey, man, just offering her a good time,” he slurs, attempting to puff up his chest in a way that’s more pathetic than threatening.

Matthew’s grip on your arm tightens, and you can feel the tension radiating off him like a furnace. “Yeah, well, she’s not interested,” he snaps, stepping between you and the guy, effectively cutting off your view of the man’s greasy face.

And for a moment, you’re glad. You’re glad Matthew’s here, glad he’s taking charge, glad he’s keeping you from making a possibly life-altering mistake. But then, that little rebellious streak in you flares up. Who is he to tell you what to do? You’re a grown-ass woman, a bona fide adult, remember? You don’t need a babysitter.

You yank your arm out of Matthew’s grasp, wobbling slightly as you do so. “I can handle myself,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. It sounds stronger in your head, but the words come out slurred and weak. Matthew’s eyes flicker with something—concern, frustration, maybe a mix of both.

“Yeah, it sure looks like it,” he says dryly, and even in your intoxicated state, you can catch the sarcasm. You want to snap back, say something witty and sharp, but your brain is moving in slow motion, and the words get tangled in your throat.

The greasy-haired guy takes a step back, clearly not wanting to get into it with Matthew. “Whatever, man. Just trying to help,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Who even are you, anyway?”

Matthew steps forward, blocking your view of Ponytail Guy entirely. The energy in the air shifts from fun and carefree to something sharp and heavy. The club’s lights seem harsher now, flashing in sync with the tension bubbling between them. Matthew is all broad shoulders and clenched fists, the muscles in his neck taut like he’s seconds away from doing something reckless.

And as for you? You’re swaying slightly, blinking like you’re trying to remember where you are—or maybe why you’re here in the first place. The tequila haze is doing you no favors, and all you can focus on is how intensely Matthew is glaring at Ponytail Guy. It’s like watching a lion size up a gazelle, except you’re the one caught in the crossfire.

“Who am I?” Matthew’s voice drops, low and dangerous, a tone you’ve only ever heard him use when talking about losing a game he should’ve won. “I’m the guy who’s about to ruin your night if you don’t get the hell away from her.”

Oh, god. Oh, no. You can already feel this heading toward disaster, but your reaction time is slower than usual. The alcohol has turned your brain into mush, and you’re having a hard time deciding whether you’re more turned on by Matthew’s sudden intensity or mortified by the scene unfolding in front of you.

Ponytail Guy, to his credit (or lack thereof), doesn’t back down. “Relax, man,” he sneers, taking a step forward like he’s trying to prove something. “She’s not your property.”

It’s a bold move, considering the sheer size difference between him and Matthew. And judging by the dark look in Matthew’s eyes, you’re not sure this is going to end well for Mr. Ponytail.

You should probably intervene. You should definitely say something, do something to diffuse the tension before Matthew decks this guy in the middle of the club. But you’re still trying to figure out why the room keeps spinning, and why your feet feel like they’re glued to the floor.

“I’m not anyone’s property,” you slur, finally finding your voice. It’s not as commanding as you intended—it’s more of a drunken mumble, but hey, you’re trying. Matthew glances back at you, his expression softening for a split second before snapping back to hardened fury as he turns toward the guy again.

The guy doesn’t seem to take the hint. “She said she can handle herself,” he repeats, puffing out his chest like some budget version of an alpha male. “Why don’t you back off?”

There’s a pause, and for a split second, you think maybe—just maybe—Matthew’s going to back down, let it go, and this whole thing will blow over without anyone throwing hands.

But then, Matthew steps forward, closing the gap between him and the guy with a terrifying calm. “Listen carefully,” he says, his voice so low you can barely hear it over the pulsing music. “If you don’t walk away in the next five seconds, I’m going to make sure you regret ever coming here.”

Okay. Yep. This is escalating.

Your drunken mind is slow to react, but you know one thing for sure—this is not going to end well if it keeps going. You need to say something, anything to stop this from turning into a full-blown fight in the middle of the club.

“Matty, come on,” you say, stumbling a little as you step forward, reaching out to grab his arm. Your fingers barely graze his sleeve before you lose your balance and fall right into him. Smooth. So smooth. “Let’s just—let’s just go get a drink or… or something.”

Matthew catches you with ease, his hand steady on your waist as he looks down at you. “You’re drunk,” he mutters, his voice softer now. “You don’t need more drinks.”

You blink up at him, trying to focus on his face, but everything’s a little fuzzy. He’s so close—close enough that you can smell his cologne, a mix of something woodsy and clean, like he just stepped out of a forest after a fresh rain. God, why does he always smell so good?

“I’m not that drunk,” you protest weakly, even though you totally are. The tequila haze is thick, clouding your judgment, and you’re still thinking about those little pills in Ponytail Guy’s hand. It would be so easy to take one. Just one. You’d feel amazing, right? Invincible, even.

But Matthew’s grip tightens slightly on your waist, grounding you. “Let’s get out of here,” he says firmly, his eyes flicking back toward Ponytail Guy, who’s still lingering like a bad smell. “Before I do something stupid.”

Ponytail Guy seems to get the message this time. He mutters something under his breath—something about how you’re not worth the trouble—and slinks off into the crowd, disappearing in a sea of bodies and strobe lights.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The room still feels like it’s spinning, and your head is buzzing, but you’re suddenly grateful that Matthew’s here. Even if he’s being overprotective, even if you’re still mad that he’s acting like your personal bodyguard.

Matthew keeps his arm around your waist as he leads you out of the club, guiding you through the sweaty, writhing crowd. The cool night air hits you like a splash of cold water when you step outside, and you sway slightly, your legs feeling like jelly beneath you. The bass from the club still thrums in your chest, an echo of the chaos inside, but out here, the world feels quieter, slower.

“Okay, you’re definitely done for the night,” Matthew mutters, more to himself than to you, as he helps you toward a bench near the entrance. You plop down, the wooden slats cool against the backs of your legs. Your head tilts back, and you look up at the sky, where the city lights drown out most of the stars. The world is spinning, a slow, lazy carousel, and you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself.

Matthew kneels in front of you, his hands firm on your knees as he tries to get your attention. “Hey,” he says softly, and even in your drunken haze, you can feel the concern radiating off him. “You okay?”

You open your eyes and blink down at him, the edges of his face blurring slightly as you struggle to focus. He looks so serious, so worried, and it tugs at something deep inside you. You don’t want him to worry. Matthew’s supposed to be your fun, carefree partner in crime, not your babysitter.

“I’m fine,” you slur, trying to wave him off, but your hand misses the mark and flops uselessly against his shoulder. “Just… spinning. Everything’s spinning.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” he replies dryly, his brow furrowing as he studies you. “Let’s get you home.”

Home. The word sounds nice, comforting, but also distant. Like it’s miles away instead of just a short walk. You lean forward, resting your forehead against Matthew’s chest, and he stiffens for a moment before wrapping his arms around you, holding you steady.

His heartbeat is strong and steady against your ear, a comforting rhythm that contrasts with the chaotic whirl in your head. He smells so good, like fresh pine and clean linen, and you take a deep breath, trying to anchor yourself to him, to the solidness of his presence.

“You’re so nice, Matty,” you mumble into his chest, your voice muffled by his shirt. “Like, really nice. And hot. Why are you so hot?”

You feel his chest rumble with a quiet laugh, but there’s a tension in the way he holds you, like he’s trying to keep his composure. “You’re drunk,” he says gently, one hand coming up to stroke your hair. “Let’s focus on getting you home, okay?”

You tilt your head up to look at him, your eyes wide and earnest. “No, seriously. You’re like… you’re like a hot lumberjack or something. All rugged and… and strong.”

Matthew’s lips twitch into a smile, but his eyes are still filled with that soft concern. “I think you’re mixing me up with someone else. I’m not that rugged.”

“You are,” you insist, your fingers fumbling to grip his shirt. The fabric is soft under your fingertips, and you run your hand down his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath. “You’re… you’re like… if a grizzly bear was also a teddy bear.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “That makes no sense.”

“It does,” you argue, though your voice is thick and sluggish. “’Cause you’re big and strong, but also… also soft and warm. Like, I just wanna hug you forever.”

You press yourself closer to him, your face nuzzling into the crook of his neck. His skin is warm, and you can feel the faint prickle of stubble against your cheek. It sends a shiver down your spine, and you sigh contentedly, your body relaxing into him.

“Come on,” Matthew says, his voice a little strained now as he tries to coax you to your feet. “Let’s get you home.”

But you don’t want to move. You’re too comfortable here, wrapped up in his scent, his warmth. It’s like being swaddled in a blanket made of pure safety and affection. Why would you want to leave that?

“Nooo,” you whine, your arms tightening around his neck. “Wanna stay here. With you.”

Matthew sighs, though there’s a hint of a smile in his voice. “You can stay with me, but let’s at least get you up.”

He stands, pulling you up with him, and you stagger slightly, your legs unsteady. He keeps a firm grip on you, one arm around your waist as he starts guiding you down the street. The city is a blur of neon lights and passing cars, and you lean heavily into him, your head lolling against his shoulder.

“Okay, but do you know how hot you are?” you ask, your voice soft and dreamy. “Like, I’m pretty sure you’re the hottest guy in Calgary. And Miami, or… wherever it is you’re playing now.”

“You’re definitely drunk,” he says, though there’s a faint blush creeping up his neck. “And talking nonsense.”

“I’m not,” you insist, pouting up at him. “You’re so sexy. And nice. And I bet you’re really good at kissing.”

Matthew clears his throat, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. “Let’s not talk about that right now.”

“Why not?” you press, your eyes half-lidded as you gaze up at him. “’Cause I bet you’re amazing at it. Like… like you know exactly what to do with your hands and your tongue and…” Your voice trails off into a giggle as you try to imagine it, but your thoughts are too jumbled to form a clear picture.

Matthew doesn’t respond, his jaw clenched as he focuses on getting you down the street. You don’t notice the tension in his shoulders, too lost in your drunken haze to pick up on the way he’s fighting to keep his composure. All you can think about is how close he is, how solid and warm he feels next to you.

Matthew unlocks the door to your apartment with one hand, the other still holding you steady against his side. The hallway is dim, the faint hum of the city outside seeping through the walls, and the familiar smell of your home—clean linen and a hint of vanilla—greets you as you step inside. But you’re too lost in the comforting haze of alcohol and the warmth of Matthew’s body to notice much else.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” you mumble, your words slurring together as you nuzzle closer to his neck. “Like, really amazing. And hot. So, so fucking hot.”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your cheek as he guides you through the living room and toward your bedroom. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned that a few times,” he says, but there’s a tightness in his voice, like he’s trying to keep his emotions in check.

Your head spins as you lean heavily into him, your body swaying with the remnants of the alcohol coursing through your system. The room seems to tilt slightly, and you cling to Matthew, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

He helps you sit on the edge of your bed, kneeling down in front of you as he starts to untie the laces of your shoes. The motion is gentle, almost tender, and you watch him through half-lidded eyes, your vision blurry and unfocused. But even in your drunken haze, you can see the concentration on his face, the way his brows knit together as he works to loosen the knots.

“You’re… you’re the best, Matty,” you mumble, your voice thick with affection. Your words come out slurred, but the sentiment behind them is clear. “So good to me. Always so good.”

Matthew lets out a soft chuckle, but there’s something strained in the sound, like he’s trying to hold back a flood of emotions. “Just trying to make sure you don’t sleep in your shoes,” he says, his voice low and calm as he pulls off your first sneaker, setting it aside before moving on to the next.

Your head lolls to the side as you watch him, your gaze tracing the lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, the way his lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks. He’s so close, so solid and warm, and you feel an overwhelming surge of affection well up inside you. It’s like a tidal wave, crashing over you and drowning out everything else.

“You’re too good to me,” you murmur, your fingers trailing down the side of his face, clumsily brushing against the stubble on his cheek. The texture sends a shiver through you, a spark of electricity that ignites something deep in your chest. “I don’t deserve you, Matty.”

Matthew’s hands still for a moment, the laces of your shoe halfway undone. He looks up at you, his expression soft but serious, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your heart squeeze. “You deserve the world,” he says quietly, his voice almost a whisper, as if he’s afraid of saying it too loud. “And more.”

Your chest tightens at his words, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the fog in your mind. It’s like he’s seeing right through you, straight to the core of who you are, and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying. You’re not used to being seen like this, not used to someone looking at you with such raw, unfiltered care.

He keeps moving, finishing with your shoes and gently lifting your legs onto the bed, his touch careful and precise. He doesn’t respond to your words, but there’s a tenderness in his actions that speaks louder than any reply. He’s taking care of you, making sure you’re comfortable, and that’s all you can ask for right now.

“Let’s get you ready for bed,” he says softly, his voice soothing as he reaches for the hem of your shirt. “You’ll feel better in the morning, I promise.”

You let him lift the fabric over your head, your arms limp and uncooperative, but he’s patient, guiding you through the motions with practiced ease. You’re left in your underwear, feeling oddly vulnerable but also safe in his presence. There’s no judgment in his eyes, no discomfort—just pure, unadulterated care.

He’s trying to focus, to keep things as platonic as possible, but your touch, your words—they’re making it difficult. His hands tremble slightly as he reaches for your pajamas, and you can’t help but notice the way his breath hitches when your fingers brush against his.

“Matty, you’re so warm,” you mumble, your voice thick and slurred. You cling to his arm, burying your face in the crook of his elbow. “And soft. Like… like a big, comfy pillow.”

His chuckle is soft, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s trying to keep himself from reacting too much. “That’s a new one,” he says, his voice a little strained as he helps you into your pajamas. “Never been compared to a pillow before.”

You giggle, your fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt as you try to pull him closer. “But you are! So warm and nice. And you smell so good…”

He’s trying so hard to keep things light, but your words are cutting through his defenses, making him acutely aware of every little touch, every breath you take. He knows you’re drunk, knows you won’t remember half of this in the morning, but that doesn’t stop the way his heart clenches in his chest at your every compliment.

“Let’s get you into bed, okay?” he says softly, brushing your hair back from your face with gentle fingers. “You need to sleep this off.”

But you’re not ready to sleep, not yet. There’s too much you want to say, too much you’ve been keeping bottled up. The alcohol has loosened your tongue, and you find yourself blurting out things you’d never have the courage to say otherwise.

“I love this shirt,” you mumble, nuzzling into the fabric as he helps you pull it over your head. “Smells like you. No matter how much I wash it, always smells like you…”

He freezes, his hands stilling on your shoulders as your words sink in. “What do you mean?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blink up at him, your vision blurry but your heart full of unspoken emotions. “It’s yours,” you admit, your words tumbling out in a rush. “I took it before you moved away. Couldn’t… couldn’t stand the thought of not having you with me, so I… I took it.”

The room feels like it’s holding its breath, the air thick with the weight of your confession. Matthew’s grip on your shoulders tightens slightly, his eyes searching yours for any sign that you’re joking, but all he sees is the raw honesty in your gaze.

“Yeah, it is,” he says, his voice rough. “I thought I lost it.”

His hands tighten on your shoulders, a grounding touch as he steadies himself. He can’t dwell on that now, not with you looking at him like that—soft, bleary-eyed, and so heartbreakingly vulnerable.

“Come on,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing as he helps you finish pulling the shirt over your head. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Your arms flop uselessly as he tugs the shirt down, your drunken limbs not cooperating, but Matthew’s hands are steady, guiding you with a gentleness that makes your heart swell.

“Matty…” you mumble, your voice trailing off as he helps you stand, one arm wrapped securely around your waist. The world tilts slightly, and you grip his shirt, your fingers curling into the soft fabric as you try to steady yourself.

“I’ve got you,” he reassures, his voice a steady murmur against your ear. He’s so close, so solid, and you can feel the warmth radiating off him in waves, soothing the edges of your spinning thoughts.

He leads you to the bathroom, each step slow and careful as he supports your weight. The cool tiles under your bare feet send a shiver up your spine, and you lean more heavily into him, your head lolling against his shoulder. His scent wraps around you like a blanket, and you close your eyes, savoring the comfort of his presence.

Matthew lifts you up onto the counter with ease, standing between your legs. His fingers brush your cheek, tilting your face up so you can meet his gaze, and even through the fog in your mind, you can see the worry etched in the lines of his face.

“I’m just going to help you clean up, okay?” he says softly, his thumb stroking your cheek in a soothing rhythm. “Then you can get some sleep.”

You nod, the motion making your head spin, but you don’t care. All you want is to be close to him, to feel his hands on you, gentle and caring. You let your eyes flutter closed as he reaches for a makeup wipe, the cool cloth sliding over your skin as he carefully removes the remnants of the night. “God, why do you even wear all this gunk anyway?” he mutters, more to himself than anything.

Matthew’s fingers move with such tenderness, tracing over your skin with the makeup wipe, and you can’t help but giggle softly as the cool cloth sweeps across your cheek. The sensation is oddly comforting, like he’s erasing more than just makeup—he’s wiping away the stress, the insecurities, the fear that’s been knotted in your chest for far too long.

You blink up at him, watching through half-lidded eyes as his brows furrow in concentration. His touch is so delicate, so reverent, like you’re something fragile that he needs to take care of. The thought makes warmth bloom in your chest, spreading through your veins until it tingles in your fingertips. You can’t resist reaching out, your hand finding his on your face, and you let your thumb rub along the edge of his wrist. The soft, steady thrum of his pulse under your fingertips makes you sigh, content and drowsy.

"You're so... nice," you slur, even though you’ve said it about a million times tonight. "Like, really nice. And strong. And... you smell good."

Matthew doesn’t say anything, just hums softly in acknowledgment as he moves on to brushing your teeth. He grabs your toothbrush, carefully squeezing the toothpaste onto it like he’s done this a thousand times before. The bristles hit your teeth, and you wrinkle your nose, the minty taste sharp against your tongue. You attempt to brush, but your hand is wobbly, barely cooperating, and soon enough, Matthew’s hand covers yours, guiding the motion in slow, methodical circles.

You close your eyes, letting him take over, and your mind drifts again, this time to all the little things you’ve never said, all the feelings you’ve buried because they’re too big, too scary to voice. But now, with him here, being so sweet and careful, the words come tumbling out before you can stop them.

“I think about you all the time, you know,” you confess, your voice muffled by the toothbrush still in your mouth. “Like, all the time. It’s... it’s stupid. But I do.”

He pauses, his hand stilling for just a moment, and you blink up at him, your gaze fuzzy but earnest. His eyes meet yours, and even through the haze of alcohol, you can see the way his expression softens, something tender and raw flickering across his face.

“I know,” he says quietly, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place. “I think about you too.”

The admission settles over you like a warm blanket, comforting and soft, and you can’t help the dopey smile that stretches across your face. “Good,” you mumble, your words slurring together as the toothbrush is finally taken from your mouth. “’Cause I’m crazy about you, Matty. Like, really crazy. Like... I wanna marry you, crazy.”

Matthew’s breath catches in his throat as your words hang in the air, the room suddenly feeling too small, too warm, like the very walls are leaning in to listen. “I wanna marry you, crazy,” you’ve just said, and the words are like a punch to his gut—equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

He forces himself to focus, to stay grounded in the moment, because you’re here, drunk and vulnerable, and he can’t afford to lose his head, even if his heart is racing like it’s trying to break free from his chest.

You’re still smiling up at him, your eyes droopy but sparkling with the kind of affection that only comes when the alcohol strips away every last ounce of inhibition. He can’t help but smile back, his heart squeezing at how utterly adorable you look, all soft and pliant, just a little messy around the edges.

“Marry me, huh?” he teases, trying to keep his voice light as he puts away the toothbrush and reaches for the hairbrush. “Didn’t know you were planning on proposing tonight.”

You giggle, a sound so sweet it sends a shiver down his spine. “Mmmm, maybe…” you mumble, swaying slightly as you lean forward, your hands finding purchase on his chest. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and you let out a contented sigh. “You’d say yes, right? You… you love me, right?”

The question is so simple, so innocent, and yet it carries the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. Matthew swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, and he’s thankful you’re too drunk to notice the way his hands tremble slightly as he starts to brush your hair.

He feels like his heart might burst from the sheer force of how much he adores you, and he has to blink back the sudden sting of tears that threaten to well up. You’re so open, so honest in this state, and it’s both a blessing and a curse. He doesn’t deserve this—doesn’t deserve you—but God, he wants you so badly it hurts.

The brush catches on a small tangle, and you whimper, the sound so pitiful that it pulls him out of his thoughts. “Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs, quickly working the knot out with his fingers before continuing. He can feel you relaxing more and more with each stroke, your body leaning into his as if you’re trying to meld into him.

You’re so beautiful to him, even like this—especially like this. Hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy from the alcohol. You’re vulnerable, open in a way that makes Matthew’s throat tighten. He’s never seen you like this, not really, and he’s terrified that if he blinks, you’ll disappear, or worse, that this version of you will be gone by morning.

He’s trying so hard to keep things platonic, to not let his feelings slip through, but every brush of your fingers against his skin, every slurred word of affection, makes it harder to keep the walls up.

His thumb brushes against your cheek again, and he can’t help but smile at the way you nuzzle into his hand, like a cat seeking warmth. “You’re gonna feel so embarrassed in the morning,” he murmurs, voice low and fond. “But you’re lucky I’m such a good friend, huh?”

You pout, your bottom lip jutting out in a way that makes his chest tighten. “I’m not embarrassed,” you say, words slurred but insistent. “I’m just being honest. You’re amazing, Matty. The best friend ever.”

He chuckles, a soft sound that rumbles in his chest, and he can’t help but shake his head. “Yeah, well, I try,” he says lightly, though his heart is heavy. “Let’s get you to bed, alright?”

You whine, a soft sound that tugs at his heartstrings. “Don’t wanna sleep yet,” you mumble, your hands fisting in his shirt. “Wanna stay with you. Wanna… talk.”

Matthew sighs, but it’s more fond exasperation than anything else. “You can talk to me all you want tomorrow,” he says gently. “Right now, you need to rest.”

But you’re not having it. Your grip on his shirt tightens, and you look up at him with those big, glassy eyes that make his resolve waver. “Please, Matty,” you whisper, voice so soft and pleading it makes his heart clench painfully. “Just… stay with me a little longer. Please?”

And damn it, how can he say no to that? How can he say no to you, when you’re looking at him like that, like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded in the spinning world around you?

“Alright,” he relents, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just for a little bit, okay? Then you really need to sleep.”

You nod eagerly, a bright smile spreading across your face, and he can’t help but mirror it, his own smile soft and adoring. He guides you back to the bed, helping you sit down gently, and you tug him down beside you, your hands still clutching his shirt like a lifeline.

You can feel the world spinning in slow, lazy circles as you nuzzle into Matthew’s shoulder, your hands weaving through his messy curls. They’re soft and unruly, just like you imagined. You’ve always wanted to do this, to run your fingers through his hair and tell him he looks like some sort of Disney prince that got lost on his way to a ball.

“I love your hair,” you mumble into his shoulder, your words slurring slightly as the alcohol works its magic. “’S..so fluffy, like a… like a golden retriever.”

Matthew laughs, the sound vibrating against your cheek where it rests on his shoulder, and you smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at the sound. You’ve always loved his laugh—how it’s deep and rich, like dark chocolate, and makes your heart do weird, fluttery things that you’re definitely not thinking about right now. Nope, not at all.

“You’re crazy,” he says, but there’s no bite to his words. If anything, he sounds amused, fond even, like he’s secretly enjoying this, watching you unravel and spill your guts like you’re auditioning for some tragic role in a romance movie.

You let out a contented sigh, your fingers still tangled in his hair as you turn your head slightly to look up at him. He’s so close, his face just inches from yours, and you can see every detail—the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, the way his lips quirk up at the corners, and that stupid little dimple that only shows up when he’s genuinely smiling. It’s not fair how pretty he is. It’s not fair that he gets to be your best friend and also make your heart do that weird, fluttery thing you’re definitely not thinking about.

“Why are you so pretty?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not fair. You should be illegal.”

Matthew’s eyes widen slightly, and you can see the faintest hint of pink creeping up his neck. “Pretty?” he repeats, his voice a little strained, like he’s not sure if you’re serious or just really, really drunk. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me pretty before.”

“Well, they should,” you insist, your fingers curling tighter in his hair as if to emphasize your point. “You’re like… like a prince or something. A really hot prince who’s also really nice and sweet and—”

Matthew clears his throat, his face turning a deeper shade of red, and you giggle, the sound light and airy. You don’t know why he’s so embarrassed. It’s not like you’re saying anything that isn’t true. He is pretty. And nice. And sweet. And also really, really hot, which you’re definitely not thinking about right now. Nope, not at all.

“Okay, okay,” he says, cutting you off before you can go on another drunken tangent. “I think that’s enough compliments for one night.”

You pout, your bottom lip jutting out in a way that you know drives him crazy because he’s always telling you to stop doing it. “But I’m not done,” you protest, your voice whiny and petulant. “You’re… you’re the best, Matty. The best friend ever. And I just… I just love you so much.”

The words are out before you can stop them, and you immediately feel a flush creeping up your cheeks, hot and mortifying. Did you really just say that? Did you really just blurt out your deepest, darkest secret like it’s no big deal? God, you’re an idiot. A drunk, stupid idiot who can’t keep her mouth shut.

Matthew is silent, his gaze soft as he watches you, and you can feel your heart racing in your chest, the thump-thump-thump almost deafening in the quiet room. You want to crawl under a rock and die, or maybe just pass out and pretend this never happened. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

But before you can make your escape, Matthew reaches up, his hand gently cupping your cheek as he tilts your head up to look at him. His thumb brushes against your skin, soft and warm, and you shiver at the touch, your breath catching in your throat.

“I love you too,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know that, right? You’re my best friend, and I… I care about you a lot.”

You blink up at him, your vision swimming slightly as you try to process his words. He loves you. He cares about you. But… does he love you like you love him? Does he feel that weird, fluttery thing in his chest when you’re around, or is that just a you problem?

Before you can ask, Matthew is guiding you back down onto the bed, his touch gentle as he tucks you in, pulling the covers up around your shoulders. You’re too tired to protest, your eyelids suddenly feeling heavy, and you let out a soft sigh, your head sinking into the pillow.

“Sleep, okay?” Matthew murmurs, his hand brushing a stray piece of hair out of your face. “We can talk more in the morning.”

You want to argue, to tell him that you’re not done, that there’s so much more you need to say, but your body has other plans, and before you know it, you’re drifting off, the sound of Matthew’s steady breathing lulling you to sleep.

As you drift off, you can feel his hand resting on your head, his thumb brushing softly against your temple. The last thing you hear before sleep pulls you under is his voice, quiet and filled with something you can’t quite place.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, crazy girl,” he whispers, and then everything fades into darkness, his touch the only thing anchoring you to the world.

[a-case-of-attachment]

So in Hell’s Greatest Dad, Lucifer tells Charlie that ‘with a punch of a pentagram’ and ‘usually I charge a sacrificial lamb’ when he’s offering to help her with the hotel and it got me thinking. Surely he must have had people sacrifice things in his honour or for favours before right? So….what if when something is sacrificed to him it ends up down in Hell?

It works like some sort of inter dimensional postal service. Lucifer will just be doing whatever then a portal will open up above him full of weird oil slick coloured clouds and lightening cracking across the endless sky with the boom of thunder not far behind. Out of the portal flies a cherub sized faun wearing a shirt, waistcoat and bow tie brandishing a clipboard that’s got the contract attached to it. All the important things will be on there like who’s doing the sacrificing, what they are sacrificing and what they want in exchange for it. Lucifer can either accept the sacrifice and sign the document, giving the sinner what they want or just straight up refuse to sign, decline the sacrifice and instead have it sent off to purgatory.

The problem is that Lucifer is so jaded that he doesn’t even bother reading the contracts any more. Sinners all want the same thing anyway, fame, fortune, revenge, so what’s the point even bothering to look these days? It’s not like he gets that many sacrifices in his name anymore and when he does it’s mostly just lambs and goats, the occasional dog or guinea pig and a cat that one time. He often just gives them to people as pets, it’s how Charlie had gotten razzle and dazzle.

But you know, people are deranged and over the centuries there have been a handful of human souls that come his way. Lucifer never accepts those, often get angry that people actually think killing someone would make him happy. Shocker, it doesn’t. All it did was prove that humans really are just the worst, a race of violent psychopaths hellbent on causing as much pain and destruction as they can. Yes Lucifer felt bad that these people had died and for nothing but he wasn’t about to reward some lowlife scumbag for taking another’s life so unfortunately that meant the sacrificed soul was purgatory bound. It wasn’t ideal but it also wasn’t permanent. At least there they would get the chance to move onto heaven eventually and not be stuck in this infernal nightmare for all of eternity.

So no, Lucifer didn’t do human sacrifices. Except, well, maybe he did.

It was an accident! Lucifer had been distracted, him and Charlie having a slight disagreement about the hotel and her expectations when it came to heaven. He hadn’t meant to upset her but she needed to realise that very few angels would be as open to the idea of redemption as he or Emily had been. It had been just about the time Lucifer had been urging Charlie to proceed with caution when it came to Heaven that a portal opens above him, a little faun flying out, clipboard already in hand and looking down at Lucifer through the spectacles perched on its nose.

Lucifer had attempted to ignore the blasted thing but it just flys around his head, brandishing the clip board and tapping impatiently at its wristwatch until Lucifer finally had enough and snatches the board off him, quickly flipping to the back and signing it before shoving it back at the startled faun. It just huffs at him, jotting something down before tearing off a sheet and giving it back to Lucifer only to disappear back into the portal. Lucifer doesn’t look at the contract he just signed, not caring what shallow and self serving thing the mortal had asked for. He goes back to Charlie, continuing to urge to not trust heaven so easily, all the while holding his arms out expectantly to catch whatever animal is going to drop out of the portal.

Lucifers expecting a lamb or a goat, heavyish for a human but nothing for him, except he gets something much larger and heavier, the shock of it knocking Lucifer to the ground. His first thought is some wretched mortal had sacrificed a cow or horse, either to lazy to find the usual offering or thinking the bigger the sacrifice the better the reward. Either way Lucifer is already regretting his choice to grant their wish, no clue what he is supposed to do with a cow other than send it down to a farm on wrath. Grumbling Lucifer sits up slightly, tugging at his hat that had been pushed down over his eyes but when he mages to pull his hat off Lucifer realises it’s so much worse than a cow.

There’s a person on his lap. A very human person sprawled across his lap and legs, their weight pinning him to the floor. You are dressed all in a white, the fabric almost see through though the top part was stained red with blood. Lucifer can’t look past your chest, the demonic sigils carved there still oozing blood. When he does manage to look up it’s to fined wide fear filled eyes staring back at him. The two of you just stare at one another, Lucifer feeling more and more panicked as the seconds drag on whilst you look close to passing out.

The whole room is silent and Lucifer just knows that they are all staring at the two of you, just as shocked as him and waiting for one of you to do something. Charlie is the first one to make a move, slowly creeping across the room to lay a hand on your shoulder. She probably meant to be a reassuring gesture but it’s a mistake nonetheless. It startled you, causing you to fall from Lucifers lap and giving you the first real view of the room and the rest of its inhabitants. Things go about as well as you would think.

You start screaming, Charlie panics as she tries to calm you down but only makes it worse, Angel dust offers you a drink that gets knocked out his hand and ends up all over Husk and Alastor offers to silence you permanently. Needless to say that none of what they are doing helps calm you down or make you feel any less afraid and all Lucifer does is sit there, staring down at the smear of red on his white pants and struggling to wrap his head around what in the hell is happening because he couldn’t have just accepted a human soul as payment. He’s never done that before, never, and yet there you are, cowering in the corner like a frightened animal, eyes franticly darting around as you look for some form of escape.

It’s that look of pure terror that gets Lucifer up and moving, handing off his hat and cane to Charlie as he gets everyone to back up and give you some space. He approached you slowly, hands held up in front of him to show you he meant no harm and keeping his voice soft and calm as he tells you that no one’s going to hurt you, that your safe here with them. He makes sure to leave a little bit of space between you when he stops, sinking down into a crouch so he’s eye level though you won’t look at him for long, eyes darting around at even the slightest movement. You’re still bleeding, the sigil for his name looking the deepest. It makes Lucifer feel sick, that someone could do this to you and claim that it’s in his honour. He found no honour in an act like this, only hate and disgust, igniting a strong desire inside him to hunt down those responsible and show them the same kindness they had you.

It takes a good few minutes of Lucifer talking at you before he gets any form of response. He introduces himself, tells you once more that he isn’t going to hurt you and that he just wants to help and maybe even clean up those markings so they don’t get infected. It’s slow going but eventually you give him a slight nod, uncurling from where you had been trying to make yourself as small as possible so he can get a better look at the ugly mess of cuts on your chest. He startled you when he conjures water and a cloth, Lucifer apologising as you bang into the wall behind you in an attempt to get away from the sudden action. He does get you to calm down though, at least enough for him to clean away the blood and apply bandages.

These wounds will not disappear like the injuries the now resident of Hell would sustain, their origin in magic and acting as a physical sign of your binding to him. But Lucifer vows to look after them and you, after all this is all his fault and though he knows that Charlie would care for you if he was to up and leave he can’t bring himself to do so. It’s his responsibility to look after you, you are his after all and isn’t that just a horrific twisted little thought. Lucifer wants to cry, to beg your forgiveness because unless he was to gift your soul to another you were bound to him from now until eternity, forced to obey his every request regardless of what you wanted. He can’t cry though, not when you already are, silent tears rolling down your cheeks and dripping off your chin onto his hand and arm as he cleans away the blood. So he fights back the tears, completely focused on his task and trying to be as gentle as he possibly can be.

When he’s done and the now ruined rag and pink water are vanished away with the wave of his hand Lucifer doesn’t know what else to do other than offer you a safe space of your own and a comfortable bed to sleep in so he does exactly that. You look terrified when he asks if you would like to go to bed, eyes dropping down to just below his belt. Lucifer might actually be sick when he realises what you are scared is going to happen and he can’t get the words out quick enough to reassure you that he means to sleep and that you will be the only person in the room. His obvious horror at the implication seems to reassure you and you give him a small nod.

You use the wall to support you getting up but as soon as you go to take a step forward your legs buckle and Lucifer has to lurch forward to grab hold of you before you can hit the floor. Your to weak, wether that be from the shock or the blood loss Lucifer doesn’t know, possibly both, but what he does know is you are not going to make it up the several flights of stairs on your own.

He asks before picking you up, waiting for you to give him a nod of agreement before he slips one hand behind your back and the other behind your knees. It’s nothing for him to pick you up but it had you squeaking in surprise, flinging your arms around his neck and pulling yourself tighter against him. Lucifer can’t help laugh softly, assuring you that he was stronger than he looked and that he wouldn’t drop you. You don’t seem to buy it though, your hold around his neck tightening as you hide your head against his shoulder. He can’t blame you for being scared, Licifer looks like a strong breeze would send him stumbling but he supposes that’s one of the perks of being an angel, he’s stronger than he looks.

It’s only when he turns around that Lucifer realises the rooms completely empty except for the two of you. He doesn’t know when everyone else disappeared but he’s grateful for it, not sure how you would have reacted to a room full of weird looking people staring at you. He talks to you the whole time up to your room, telling you where he was taking you and a little about the hotel and it’s residents, though he mostly tell you about Charlie and Vaggie, the only other people he trusts to look after you correctly if he wasn’t around. Lucifer picks a room for you on the same floor as him though a couple of doors down in an attempt to keep you close and also give you some probably much needed distance. He sets you down on the bed, tells you where everything is including his room, just in case you need him before he comes back to check the bandages in a few hours. He does conjure you some sleep clothes though, making sure they were the softest and most comfortable thing you have ever worn. He wants you to be comfortable, to actually feel safe after what you have been through and though he knows the simple kindness he has showing you will not erase that it will hopefully show you that despite what you may have heard Lucifer isn’t all that bad.

Lucifer hates himself just a little bit more after what he does next, crouching down to look you in the eye and telling you that you can’t leave the hotel room unless he comes to get you or you are going to his room and nowhere else. Normally it would just be words but you are bound to Lucifer now and even you don’t want to you will have no choice but to obey him. You stiffen, nodding your head slightly but still you don’t say a word, not even when he bids you good night. He doesn’t even get the door half way closed before he hears you start to cry. He wants to go back, to take you in his arms and apologise for what has been done to you whilst reassuring you that life here will not be as bad as you think. He doesn’t though, wanting to give you time to greave and mourn the loss of your life.

He doesn’t even make it two steps down the corridor before it all really hits him and Lucifer crumbles, sinking to the floor and pressing his hand against his mouth in an attempt to muffle his own sobs. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, or how he’s even meant to care for you correctly. Animals were easy, simple to please, humans not so much. Plus Lucifer owned you, he would have to be extremely carful of what he said because even an offhanded comment would be taken as a command and you could end up getting seriously hurt.

It’s too much, Lucifer not equipped to deal with such responsibility but he has no choice, he has to. This is all his fault after all and he couldn’t abandon you in your hour of need. No he would figure this all out, tend to your wounds and help you adjust to life here in hell. He would help you find a place to call home, maybe at the hotel helping with the sinners or maybe something down in one of the other rings. Just somewhere you could feel truly safe and at ease. Whatever you wanted Lucifer would make it yours, giving you as much a slice of paradise as he can. How else would he atone for his mistake?

[justjams2003]

Fast Pace-6

I do apologize to everyone who has been waiting so so long for this. I was shadowbanned and didn't want to upload anything while, because then you guys can't read it :(. But now, you guys can!

Summary: You're a hard-working Chef in Paris and after a freak accident run-in with Carlos Sainz, your life makes a 180. Let's just say with a certain agreement, you get your bills paid and in return stand in as Carlos' girlfriend for the press. But will you be able to handle the pressure and ensure the lines don't blur?

Pairing: Sugar Daddy!Carlos Sainz x Sugar Baby!Reader

Warnings: I've aged up Carlos, he is 33 in this fic. Smoking, smut, sexual themes, age difference, manipulation, control, slight obsession, the word 'daddy', tell me if I missed any

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics and @s-silk

Taglist: @httpjeonlicious, @f1lov3r, @messersandmesses, @hollie911, @oriconde08 @thehufflepuffavenger1 @fanboyluvr @thatgirlmj @whyamireadingthis @oriconde08 @depressedriches @roseseraj @skepvids @sain55wifey @distinguishedvoidlady @amatswimming @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @lazybot @dark-night-sky-99 @formula1mount @fangirl-dot-com @saintslewis

Word count: 2,9k

Masterlist

Part 5~Part 7

A loud thunder crack causes a few people in the restaurant's head to snap up to the sky. Including my dear Y/N. Is she scared of thunder? Caco did not tell me this.  

Usually, my mind would immediately worry about the race. How will the rain affect the car? How will the rain affect the track? How the rain affect my driving? Not now, ever since saw her for the first-time racing has been at the far back of my mind. If Caco or any of the Ferrari team knew this, they’d want to get rid of her as soon as possible. But if she has to leave so do I.  

Her big brown eyes look up to me with concern and it just makes me want to wrap her up in my arms and never let go. Now, I worry about her getting wet. She might get sick or slip and fall. I did not bring an umbrella. I bring up my phone and go to dial the driver, but I’m interrupted before I can make the call.  

“What are you doing?” Those delicate brows of hers pull together while she asks me. “I’m calling a driver.” We haven’t finished eating, barely halfway through the meal but I’d kick myself if she develops a cold so soon in my care. There is a twinkle in her eyes and a smile pulls at her cheeks. “Why would you do that?” I can’t help but want to know what she is thinking.  

“I don’t want you to get sick, querida.” I lean forward, wanting to take her hand and caress it, but I’m not sure if she’ll allow me yet. A small laugh, a gentle one, she’s clearly amused with me, escapes her lips. “I’m sure a little rain won’t hurt. I’m not made of sugar.” She shrugs and can’t imagine that someone has such little care for their well-being. Especially someone as valuable as her.  

Consistently, my brow raises. “Care to explain the medical bills I paid then?” Her cheeks light up and her eyes drag down to her shoes again. Now that her hair is down, she insists on hiding behind it. But when her eyes meet me again, she seems to beg for me to forget about it. How could I ever forget anything about her? “In any case, for me you are made candy floss.”  

“You know, that reminds me of a poem. The author of it unknown, some people accredit it to Shakespear but clearly, they did not pay attention in English class if they think that. The true poet is unknown, but some consider it to be Qyazzirah Syeikh Ariffin. He says that you love the rain, but you open your umbrella. You love the sun but hide in the shade. It goes on but later he says that he fears what it means to be loved.”  

Her words are so captivating, and her mind is something that I’d get lost in. The words she speaks, to me it’s like listening to a professor. One who has studied years to know exactly what they are saying. If she was my teacher, I’d get 100%, because I’d cling to her every word. If I could have her talking forever, I’d make sure I will live forever so that I may hear every word.  

“How do you know this?” I ask, needing her to say more. She gives the cutest shrug. “It was between cooking or teaching English. I thought I’d make more money cooking and my parents wanted me to choose something more stable.” My blood boils thinking her parents wouldn’t support her true dream. How could they not see the beauty I see?  

“But do you like it? The cheffing I mean.” She seems to think for a moment, biting her lip. If she does it, one more time I wonder if I’ll have control. But I must, I can’t scare her off. I can’t bear to lose her. And I won’t. Not of my own doing and not by anybody else’s. I’ll give her the world and make sure no one can give her anything else or take anything from her.  

“Um... I did, at the beginning. When I could move to the centre of France, Paris. When I got to be independent, but it soon turned out to be more than I bargained for. I quickly got sick, because I wasn’t eating well. My mind wanders and it would take my mother calling for me to realise I hadn’t eaten. And then I fell behind on the bills. The stress made me smoke more which made me sicker.” Ah I see.  

The big world just got too much for my baby. She’s too small to know how to care for herself. I see now why she needs me so. Her mind wanders to a fantasy world. She wants to be someone big and important. And paramount people don’t have to worry about those small things like what to eat and drinking enough water.  

“Are you feeling any withdrawals yet? I know it was a bit thing to ask but you must know that I just want you to be as healthy as possible. So that you can enjoy all the things in life I want to give you.” She gives a coy smile and shakes her head. “No, it’s the least I can do for all you’ve done so far. I thought I’d be stuck with that debt for the rest of my life.”  

She rolls her eyes just thinking about it. I could see the moment the money was transferred that her shoulders got lighter, and her smile got brighter. I won’t let another thing in the world affect her like this. Nothing will ever again sit on her shoulders. “If you feel even slightly off tell me immediately.” She nods, hiding her face again.  

It irritates me, I want to see her as much as I can. I reach up and tuck her hair behind her ear. I’ll have to get her some hair accessories, just to make sure she doesn’t hide from me anymore.  

Because I can get her anything. She has me to provide for her and make sure that she stays in the most pristine condition. Now she can go of in her fantasy world and I’ll stay on earth to make her bubble doesn’t burst. “So, you don’t want to work as a cook anymore?” I need to ask, and I need to know exactly what her dreams consist of so that I may make it a reality.  

Again, she bites her lip, and I can feel my trousers grow tight. How on earth has she been roaming this earth? How are people not fighting tooth and nail to be in my position? “I think I’d much prefer something...slower. Less stressful, you know? I’d like to cook, yes, but rather at home or maybe even have my own show!”  

The excitement twinkles in her eyes again and I must know more. “When I was younger, my mother would teach me how to cook and I’d always imagine that I'm on a program. We’d watch master chef and I’d always imagine being Christina Tosi or Amandine Chaignot. But even then more than anything I wanted to be involved in fashion. In any shape or form. Even if I had to cook to the models.”  

She laughs, ever so slightly and I can see the memories flash behind her eyes. Then it will be so. Then suddenly we can both hear a slight pitter patter fall on the roof top. Her eyes instantly snap right over my shoulder. Watching as the pavement turn from concrete grey to cloudy grey.  

“As I was saying before. If it rains I am not afraid to get wet. If it snows I will not be afraid of the cold. And if I ever fall in love I hope I treat it the same.” I can’t help but lean in closer. I can’t help myself. In every sense I need to be as close as possible to her. Even if, for now, I don’t know if she wants me to be as near as I want to be.  

But when she looks up at me with those big doe eyes, my actions become uncontrolable. Her gaze makes me feel like a prescious jewel being discovered for the first time. Even if it is her who is Painite, rarer than Diamonds, rarer than Emeralds. Her hands are just too resistable, her skin too soft. I take her hand in mine, but refuse to look anywhere but her hypnotic eyes.  

I bring her knuckles to my lips and place a slow, gentle kiss. “You promise?” Her fair cheeks turn a rosy pink colour. She bites her lips and it takes everything in me not to kiss her. “I can’t make any promoses, Carlos. Emotions aren’t to be controlled or guarenteed. They are free and wild and only earned.”  

“Then I will earn your heart.”  

My heart breaks that I had to leave her, but my personal trainer had been blowing up my phone. I know he’s right. I know I have to keep my body up to standard for the racing. Even then, my mind is still with her. I had let her play in the rain after our late lunch. I could see in her eyes that she so badly wanted to play.  

I told her that I’ll buy her everything all over again just to see her happy. Just to see her enjoy herself I’d let her rip the entire hotel appart. This did make her smile and it melted my heart. I didn’t care for the people staring, or the people taking pictures. All I see is the twinkle in her eyes and those cheeks become round with a wide smile.  

When I left her, her nose and cheeks were rosy pink and she was cold to the touch. I told her to take a shower and bundle up. I was honestly struggling to keep my head straight while gyming. The thought of the water fallings over those soft curves of hers makes me hot and heavy. It makes me adrenaline go crazy and my mind fuzzy. My trainer said I hit a new PR on the weights.  

I had been gone for at least an hour or two, but the sun had long since set. The girls I’d been with before, yes they were kind, yes they were sweet, but they just weren’t her. It was the moment I set my eyes on her in that restuarant, I knew I had to have her. They feared the public eye, they wanted nothing to do with the most important parts of my life. She craves it, she’s there whenever I need her.  

I found her curled up on the couch. She’d taken the extra cushions and comforters and build herself a bed there. The blankets are all the way up to her nose. She’s curled into a little ball. Taking up as little space as possible. My heart flutters and my cock goes hard. I need a shower.  

Why would she do that? Hadn’t I told her to sleep on the bed? Why does she insist on defying me when all I do is for her betterment? Terco como siempre. I prepare the bed, making sure there isn’t a single then wrong. I pick her up bridal style, up close I can hear the very light snores. She doesn’t wake, however, she cuddles up closer to me. And when I tuck her in nice and close and can’t help but notice how innocent she looks with her new pj’s.  

She clings to my shirt when I lay her down, in her subconscious she needs me as much as I need her. More than the money, more than the fame, more than the job. She wants me, she needs me. I am nothing without her and I must make sure that I will never loose her.  

After the shower, she’d thrown the duvet off to the side. She’d spread out across the bed and her shirt had ridden up right under her breast. And suddenly I need a cold shower again. Her skin is soft, like a freshly hatched dove. Her skin the same colour too and I can’t but want her to get more sun.  

My hands move without control again. Her delicate curves are like a magnet to my body. I make sure to be as soft and slow as I can, to not make a noise. Just slightly hovering above her small body. My lips make contact with the arch of her collarbone, just small gentle kisses. I do not make a sound, but she sure does. Smalls whimpers and whines escape her lips.  

Mi pequeña wants this. Still deep in sleep, but her hands grab for me. Yearn for me, like I do to her. Just soft, almost ticklish kisses on her collar. Worshipping her like I so badly want to. But, for now, I won’t take it any further. Call it but a goodnight kiss. I slept on the couch, otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to control myself.  

“Dulce niña, what happened here? Did you hurt yourself while I was gone?” Carlos’ hands come up to your neck. You instantly notice how his hands are big enough to wrap around your entire neck, you’re sure. Your brows intertwine, you know what he’s talking about. You tried curling your hair, to look good if there are cameras, but clearly you need more practice.  

His brows furrow and concern fill his eyes. The look in his eyes is the same as last night, in your dreams. You can remember his big stromg arms taking holding you. Of those storming eyes commanding you to scream his name. If he found out about these filthy dreams you had, you’d sink into the ground of embarresment. He’s a classy guy who hasn’t asked for anything more than a smile, now you’re the one thinking of his skin on yours.  

 Not only that but you woke up in the bed this morning, even after going to bed on the couch. You and your girls had been talking for longer than you’d realised, likely falling asleep while on the phone call. They’d been just as excited as you were about the whole day. Both of them swooning and wishing their partners would do and say what he does.  

You heard him coming back while you were getting ready. “No, no, don’t start with that mister.” You say, jabbing him in his chest. He’s sweaty and had clearly just come back from the gym. It’s already 07:30. His eyebrows furrow together. “I told you that I’d sleep on the couch. You are a very important person and need your full rest.”  

A smirk forms on his face and it only makes you more annoyed. He crosses his arms and leans back, clearly done listening. “You already take care of me, give me a chance to take care of you. Relationships are 50/50. Even the more...unconventoinal ones.” You can’t help but hold onto his shirt, really wanting to drive the point home. “I agree, you tell me what you want and I give it to you. 50/50.”  

You fold your arms together and roll your eyes. “Vous êtes impossible.” Something compared to a growl escapes his throat. He pulls you close to him by the hips. “I like it when you talk French to me.” Then his hand grazes your collar again. “Now tell me, what happened.” Concern is etched into his eyes and his touch is as gently as can be.  

You shrug, “I wanted to curl my hair, but I haven’t used the curling iron in a few years...” He looks confronted with your words. “If you know you can’t use it, why risk hurting yourself.” He tucks a strand of now wavy hair behind your ear. You shrug and look up at him, “I wanted to impress you.” He lets out a loud laugh and takes your face in his hands.  

“You’re too cute. What’d I do to have someone like you share a hotel room with me?” His eyes look and it makes you feel so warm inside. “You paid me,” your answer is blunt but the truth. You’re still not entirely sure where you stand in this strange relationship. He laughs just like before, “That reminds me, I got you something.”  

He then opens his gym bag and then pulls out a handfull of things. He hands them to you and you can see it’s a bunch of hair accesories. A gold headband, a gold claw clip and some scrunchies of various colours. You furrow your brows at him and he ecplains himself by taking the headband and carefully guiding it across your hair. “I don’t like how you hide from me. This should make sure that you can’t anymore.” Your cheeks go pink, he noticed.  

“Can I ask you a really strange question?” You’re not sure why now you decided to ask the question that’s been forming in your bind. It just slipped out and when he looks at you like that you don’t have much control anymore. “Always.” He smiles, still fixing your hair.  “Do I have to call you daddy?”  

His hand stops and his eyes meet yours. He forms a slight grin and then pulls your closer by the shoulders. He bends down low and then whispers in your ear. “Only when you want something.”  

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[randomfandomlov3]

Butterfly Kisses

Mob!Bucky x Fem!reader

Warnings: Violence, angst, swearing, mentions of parental deaths, mentions of torture, fluff, no Y/N use, Mob, Fear of thunderstorms mentioned. Let me know if I missed any.

Notes: This was my first attempt at a mob universe. Thank you so much for reading! <3 I ended this in a kind of weird spot, but I have no inspiration for what to do next so if you want more or have any ideas I would love to hear them.

Word Count ~ 7,783

She knew she had a bad feeling about going out today. Why didn't she trust her gut? Oh right, she has anxiety most of the time, that's why. That storm was not what she had planned for when she went out today, even if she had no choice, needing to go to her appointment. She took a deep breath trying to calm her racing heart.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" She glanced up at the ruggedly handsome stranger who just got on the bus.

"I don't mind," she whispered, making sure she was as close to the window as she could get. He sat next to her, careful not to press up against her.

He was used to hearing people's heart rates Increase in his presence, but the way her arms were wrapped around her body before he had even spoken to her, told him that something else was bothering her. That was confirmed when a loud crack of thunder happened and thinking it was her arm, she dug her nails into the skin. He felt the sting as the skin of his arm broke under one of her nails, the only people he had ever seen this terrified were those who were receiving fate from his hands. This pain however was nothing compared to what he has experienced previously.

She then looked down, and her mouth dropped, she just drew blood from the stranger who decided to sit beside her. "Oh my God, I am so sorry. I can't believe I did that. I should have a bandage in here somewhere." She started to dig through her bag.

"Don't worry about it. It doesn't even hurt."

She pulled out the only band-aid she could find, a cutesy kid's one with butterflies. "I don't want it to get infected, not that I am dirty, but you know." Carefully dabbing it with a Kleenex before sticking the bandage to his arm gently. No one had ever cared for him like this, even when his doctor bandaged his wounds. Reaching the final stop for this bus they both got off. She headed straight towards her destination horrified by what she had just done to the poor stranger, he on the other hand stared at her for a minute before unrolling his sleeves.

After her appointment with the doctor, she exited the building staring at her phone to check bus times. Not paying attention to where she was walking, she ran face first into a wall of muscle, that when she went to fall, caught her. Of course, it had to be him.

“I am once again so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention, because I wanted to make sure that my bus wouldn’t leave before I got there.” She rambled out, while he stared at her with an amused look on his face.

“Don’t worry about it, but this…” he gestured between them. “Might have made you miss your bus, but how about I give you a ride, it’s the least I could do for a beauty like you.” She shook her head in protest.

“It’s fine, I will just wait to catch the next one, but thank you for your offer.” She blushed at his compliment.

“Fine, at least let me give you my phone number in case you ever need anything, and I mean anything butterfly.” He pulled her phone out of her hand to enter his contact and double-check that this beauty wasn’t already taken. When she got her phone back, he gave her a wink and went on his way.

‘Dragonfly’ and underneath in the details he had written, “Bucky Barnes, but I’ll be your dragonfly if you’ll be my butterfly.” Her heart picked up again, but this time for something pleasant. She knew that the chances of seeing him again, though, were rather low. Luckily, the bus had been running late and she had managed to catch it, but there must have been something scary on the way, based on the fear on the driver’s face. The whole ride home she thought about the handsome stranger whom she assaulted twice and still had given her his number.

She tried to use the thoughts of him to block out the sounds of thunder outside the window. As she walked through the rain from the bus stop, she thought she saw someone watching her. Probably just paranoid, it was not likely that anyone would be watching her, she was nothing special. She went into her apartment and tried to forget about her anxieties of the day and relax.

He didn’t usually come to this part of town as both leaders know it is off limits, as it is where the daycares are. Children didn’t need to be a part of this life when they couldn’t even care for themselves. However he wanted to make sure that she was safe because he had not seen her in any of the businesses on his side before, he definitely would have remembered her. He did feel a little bit like a creep when he caught himself watching her play with the children in the yard of one of the daycares.

“I thought we had agreed this area was off-limits to both of us. Are you so greedy that you are willing to put these innocent children in danger?” Tony Stark the other leader in the city, quipped. Neither of them liked to share, but they knew at least right now that was what was best for everyone, and it was a big enough city that the only time they had to see each other was at their set-up meetings. “One of my men told me that this isn’t your first time in this area recently. I won’t let you claim it as your own. Or is it that there is something here that has caught your eye?” He pondered when he saw Bucky staring.

“Boss, what are we doing here? You have never shown interest in this area, for the safety of the next generation,” Sam whispered in Bucky’s ear, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Nothing, I just came to check for some things that aren’t sold anywhere on my side.” Bucky brushed the weird looks from his competitor off and headed towards the store. Inside he found exactly what he was looking for.

“Buck? Why are you getting a box of butterfly patterned band-aids?” Steve asked chuckling at the childish look of the box that his friend and boss was holding. The look that Bucky gave him wiped that off his face. He had never seen a look quite like this in the many years that he had known Bucky.

He couldn’t explain why, but having one on him, comforted him in ways that he had never felt before. They felt like how he imagined butterfly kisses would feel. It felt like he had found a missing part of himself, but why would someone like her ever choose someone like him? The only reason he could think of was out of fear, but he didn’t want that, if she didn’t want to be his or a part of his life, he would not scare her into it.

Then his phone rang.

On the way home from her shift at the daycare she was exhausted, but that uneasy feeling she had been experiencing the past few days was even more intense today. She knew that there were two main mobs within the city, but she had never encountered either, thankfully, and she learned from her current boss that they don’t control the middle for the safety of the children at the daycares. The feeling of being watched only got stronger the closer she got to home. Before she entered the apartment building, she looked up and saw a silhouette from within her apartment, but no one else has a key to her apartment, apart from the building manager who is a little old lady, and the silhouette was definitely too big to be her. Her first instinct was to duck into the nearby shop and call someone. But who? She just recently moved here, so her friends all lived hours away, and she didn’t have any family left. The kind stranger’s words rung through her mind, “I mean anything, Butterfly.”

She went into the bathroom, pulled out her phone and dialed the one person who might be able to help her. Her hands trembled in fear that he wasn’t serious.

“Hello, who is this?” His voice cut through the phone roughly.

“Mr. Barnes…” she tried to steady her voice to get the words out, but fear kept them tight in her throat.

“Butterfly? Is that you? Are you okay?” He had a surprised and panicked tone to his voice.

“Yeah, it’s me. Umm… I didn’t know who else to call. There is someone in my apartment, and I am scared to go in. I am currently in the store next door. I’m sorry, you are probably busy, I should have just called the police,” she rambled out, when she heard him curse on the other end.

“Butterfly, do not apologize, give me the address I will be right there.” He tried to hide the anger in his tone. She gave him the address of her apartment building and the name of the store she was hiding in.

“Where are you going Boss? Should we come too?” Sam and Steve watched as he climbed on his motorcycle.

“Follow in a car just in case you are needed.” His tone is harsh, so they know something serious is going on.

She browsed the shelves of the convenience store trying to calm her racing mind when the front doors opened and in walked Bucky. Her mind started to race at the look on his face. “I’m sorry, I disturbed you with something like this. I just really didn’t know who else to call.” She stared at her feet not wanting to look into his eyes.

His gloved hands held her cheeks so that she would look at him. “You do not need to apologize. I was serious when I said to call me for anything. You, butterfly, could never be a disruption to my day.” Her cheeks burned under his touch, and she nodded like he wanted. “Now, can we go check out your apartment together?" He saw her whole body tense. “Don’t worry, I will keep you safe.”

“Okay.” She exhaled and walked outside looking over her shoulder to make sure he is still with her. Taking a deep breath she got into the elevator and pressed her floor.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked trying to make small talk and calm her down a little.

“I hit the 3 month mark a few days ago.” She answered with a sigh. The elevator dinged open and one of the doors just down the hallway looked smashed in.

Bucky pulled out his phone and shot a text to his boys. He kept her distracted long enough that Sam and Steve could join them. “These are my friends, Sam Wilson, and Steve Rogers. They are going to help just in case the intruder is still in there.” She nodded, shaking each of their hands and introducing herself. Bucky leaned down to her ear, “Oh, so that’s the butterfly’s name.” She blushed at the feeling of his breath on her face. Steve and Sam led the way with Bucky keeping his eyes around her to make sure there was no one else lurking.

“It’s a mess, but the coast is clear. No one is inside. But I don’t think it is a safe idea for her to stay here for a little while.” Steve turned to her. “Do you have somewhere else you can stay?” She shook her head, about to say that she would just stay in a hotel.

“She will stay at my place. I have more than enough rooms, and she will be safe there. Butterfly go pack a bag and make sure you bring anything important, just in case someone tries this again.” Bucky said with determination, surprising everyone else. She gave a small nod before heading into her destroyed apartment.

“Boss, do you really think that it is smart for her to stay at the house, what if she gets snoopy?” Steve asked concerned about what his friend is thinking.

“If you can tell me somewhere she would be safer I’ll listen, but I know what I am doing.” Bucky entered her apartment to look at the extent of the damage caused. “This doesn’t look like how Tony’s men would do a job, but they must have been in a hurry.”

“Do you know why he would target her, especially when she lives within the neutral zone?” Sam questioned keeping guard at the door.

“She was at the daycare when we were talking. I think he caught me looking at her.” Bucky stated going to find where she was. She was standing at the entrance of her bedroom which had been absolutely destroyed, with a horrified look on her face. She slowly walked over to what used to be a crystal butterfly, she cradled the pieces in her hands and cried. “Butterfly, I can get you a new one of those, I promise it will be okay.” She aggressively shook her head.

“No, you can’t. No one can, well except my parents who are both dead now. This was what I had left of them.” Bucky’s heart broke as his girl sobbed her heart out in front of him. He carefully wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. For once in his life he was at a loss for words. She put the pieces into a small bag inside her bag. Then she got up and continued to try to pack. Grabbing a stuffed bear in a suit, she turned to Bucky, “I guess I was also given this by them when I was born, but that crystal has always had a deeper meaning.” Her bag is bursting by the time she is done.

“Was anything important missing?” Sam asked her carefully, but she just shook her head. The men led her out, Sam took her bag, and Steve stayed to deal with the police since he had the best luck with them.

Bucky led her over to his motorcycle and put the helmet on her head. “Safety first. Make sure to hold on tight.” She held on to him as tight as she could, making Bucky smirk. He didn’t like that she might have been afraid, but he did like that she found him comforting.

“Woah, is this where you live?” She expressed her impressment of the large home. She had seen one like this before when she was young, but even now they were impressive. He smiled at her amazement, as Sam and Steve pulled up in the car. Bucky got her bag out and led her into the house and up to what would be her room for the next while. It was almost the size of her whole apartment, and it had its own en suite bathroom.

“It’s getting late, have you eaten?” She nodded looking around her room. “Okay, get some rest, you could use it after a day like today. If you need anything feel free to text me,” he said, letting her get settled in for the night.

She fell asleep with a smile on her face. She woke up the next morning to a text on her phone. “Let me know when you are up, butterfly, so I can show you around.” Her heart fluttered at his hospitality, and a part of her hoped that it wasn’t all a façade.

“Good morning.” Is all she sent once she got dressed and ready.

“Morning, Butterfly. Sleep well?” Almost instantly she got a reply. A soft smile graced her face as she thought about him waiting for her to get up. Just as she was about to reply, there was a knock at the door. She opened the door to find Bucky standing on the other side, in a sharp black suit. “Shall we go to breakfast?” He asked with his usual charismatic smile.

“Sure, and by the way I slept well. How did you sleep?” She walked beside him as he went down towards his private dining room.

“Better, knowing you were safe.” He held open the door for her, allowing her to see the full breakfast spread that had been laid out. As they ate Bucky explained that he had a very important meeting today, so she was free to wander most of the house, but he would be busy. Once they finished, he showed her around a little bit and pointed out his office, which if the door is closed meant that he is busy.

He dropped her off at her room and gave her the number of Sam, so that if she couldn’t find something she could ask him instead. However, if it was an emergency, she was still to contact Bucky himself, but only in an absolute emergency.

Tony walked into Bucky’s office with his main man, leaving the others to help train the newbie. “Where’s Wilson? Isn’t he always here?” There was a mocking tone to his voice.

“It’s just Rogers with me today, but I could ask you that as well.” Bucky snarked back. This meeting was originally scheduled to talk about a deal of technology from Tony’s side. “Why did your men target an apartment in the off-limits zone?” He didn’t hold back any accusations.

“I didn’t order anything; how do I know that you didn’t do it and are trying to cover your tracks,” Tony remarked disliking the accusations. As Bucky went to respond his phone rang, and there were very few people whose calls would go through. Seeing that it was her calling he took a minute to step away to answer the call before coming back in a worse mood than he was before.

While wandering around the house, looking for the library she was told was somewhere, someone she had never met came up to her. “What are you doing in here?” He asked with a bite in his tone quickly grabbing her before she could move. She was gagged so that she could not speak or do anything. He pulled out his phone and texted his boss about the intruder who would be put in the basement for him to deal with after the meeting.

Her hands were bound with rope that he grabbed from a table in the basement, but she still managed to sneak her phone out of her pocket once he left. She did the one thing she was told to, but also told not to. She called Bucky.

“Is this an emergency?” He asked sounding annoyed.

“Well…” she mumbled out through the gag.

“I told you not to call me if it wasn’t an emergency. I need you to stop being a disruption, I let you stay here, and all that I asked in return was to not be bothered during meetings. I just hope that you didn’t ruin this.” He then hung up on her. She felt the tears welling in her eyes, even though she was used to being unwanted.

“Hey, Sam, do you think you could help me out?” She phoned him once she calmed down. He agreed and she explained what happened the best she could behind the gag in her mouth.

“I’m really sorry that happened. Bucky informed everyone that he had a guest staying over but I guess that dude didn’t read the message.” Sam led her out of the basement and back to her room.

“Thank you,” she whispered closing herself in her room, to start packing. Her bag was packed just as quickly as she unpacked it, and she decided that the best course of action was to leave through her window. She knows when she is no longer welcome in a place and Bucky had made it crystal clear. She had forgotten one thing in her big hurry, the broken pieces of crystal.

“Fuck.” That’s all that went through Bucky’s mind at the end of the meeting. Between Stark, having yelled at her, and this supposed intruder that he had to deal with, he was drained. First, he needed to get out his frustration, so dealing with the intruder was the first task on his list. His anger billowed beneath the surface. “If she hadn’t interrupted, Stark wouldn’t have had a chance to think up a story.” He mumbled as he headed down into the basement. Horror filled his expression, when he got down there and the room was empty, and looked untouched, which means one of two things; either he was lied to, or one of his men released the intruder.

“Hey, Boss, how did the meeting go?” Sam asked as he picked up the phone.

Bucky growled into the phone, “Do you know what happened with the intruder? Did someone release them?”

Sam was taken aback by the aggression that his boss was showing, he rarely got this mad, especially towards his men. “Umm, yeah, I let her out.”

He didn’t even get to finish before Bucky snapped. “Why the fuck would you do that Sam? Did you not think I already had enough on my plate?”

Confusion filled Sam as he tried to figure out how to explain. “She called me and explained the situation. If you had wanted her down there, why didn’t you inform me, instead of telling me to help show her around?”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone. “Wait, who was the intruder?” Sam explained that one of the other men put her down in the basement. His butterfly. Had that been why she was calling him; she had sounded muffled. Guilt began to curdle in his stomach. “Where did she go after?” He tried to calm his racing mind.

“She went back to her room; it was probably a scary experience for her. She was fighting back tears when I found her.” Swallowing down bile, Bucky thanked Sam before hanging up the phone. She hadn’t wanted to bother him, because she wasn’t physically in an emergency, but she had been mentally. But all he did was yell at her.

He didn’t know what he was going to say when he got to her room, but he needed to apologize. When he got there, he saw that the door was already open, but she wasn’t inside. None of her stuff was inside either. But there was something on the desk in the corner. And the window was open. He walked over to the desk and saw the bag of broken crystal and a note that sat in the middle of the desk.

“I’m sorry that I caused so many problems for you, Mr. Barnes, and I hope I didn’t ruin your meeting. Next time you bring a girl into your space, maybe make sure everyone knows that she is supposed to be there. Maybe we will meet again one day, but it would probably be best to try to avoid that. I will be out of the city in a few days, as to not cause you or Mr. Stark any problems. You will always be a dragonfly to me. You became a big point of change in my life, but it is only my beginning.

Signed, Butterfly.”

A few days. That was all he had to find her, and to beg her not to leave. How was he supposed to make this better? Had he already pushed her too far away? One of his men was excellent at fixing broken items, maybe that would be a starting place. He gathered the bag and went to make some phone calls.

She sat in the hotel room that she had rented for a few nights, and she tried to calm her mind and stop crying. She was used to not being able to stay somewhere too long, but she thought maybe she had found a place that she would have actually been welcome. A mob boss allowing her into his home, without knowing much about her. She got her hopes up, but she shouldn’t have. She knew better than that.

The phone that she was struggling to throw out, kept ringing on her nightstand. Showing his same caller id every ring. She couldn’t bring herself to answer because she couldn’t handle if he got anymore mad at her. What if he had wanted her to be tied up in the basement? She had been through torture before, but nothing hurt as bad as the thought of her dragonfly, being the one to break her.

A knock on her door pulled her out of her thoughts, as she fiddled with the business card that Tony Stark had left at her apartment between her visits there. She tucked the card away and got up to open the door.

“Ah, I finally found you. I was sent here to find you, because we found out that there is a very important missing document that belongs to them now. It had to have been you because you are the only one who would have had access while your parents were alive.” His words hit her like a truck. He must have been the one who trashed her apartment. As he pulled rope out of the bag on his shoulder, she just shook her head.

“I never took any documents, but I will come with you willingly, if I get my job back. I can even try to help find said document.” She said as she gathered her things including the phone, she shouldn’t have taken with her.

“I cannot promise that they will agree to any of that, but I will take you to my boss. But if we find out that you were lying to us, you know what will happen.” She rolled her eyes as she agreed to go with the stranger back to where she lived for the first 15 years of her life.

“She won’t answer her phone!” Bucky growled when Sam and Steve entered the room. “Do either of you have good news for me?” They both just shook their heads.

“She had been staying at a hotel nearby, but she apparently just left, with some man. But the worker was able to catch the man’s license plate number, it is a rental car from near the airport. We asked them who rented it, and they told us that the name that was given was an alias, HYDRA. We haven’t figured out what it means yet, but I think we are close.” Sam gave a run down of the events of the last few hours.

“So you’re telling me that she left in a random man’s car, and he took her to the airport?” Steve nodded confirming Bucky’s fears. He got up and grabbed his phone to call the airport to ground all the flights, there was only one slight flaw with his plan, the community airport was in Stark’s territory.

“Barnes, why did you threaten my airport? You have your personal one, I thought we discussed this.” Stark’s voice rang through Bucky’s car as he sped toward the airport.

“I can fill you in on details later, I just need the flights grounded for now. I fear there is a danger on one of the flights.” Bucky sounded panicked which was unusual especially when talking to his competitor.

“Fine, you’ve intrigued me, I will ground the flights, but it will cost you. We can meet up to discuss price after.” Tony hangs up to ground the flights, but it wouldn’t make a difference, their flight had already left.

It had been a month since she left, Bucky hadn’t been able to sleep properly since then. His search for her hadn’t stopped, and he held onto hope that he would find her and that she would be okay when he did. Fear filled his nights with thoughts about her having been kidnapped or hurt by the mystery man.

It was late by the time she made it to the city. She was in a bind, and she knew coming here would be a mistake, but this was the closest place that she knew she could hide. Staying here long though was out of the question, especially when she had those men on her back. What she hadn’t known was that the important document had been stored inside her teddy bear, she had found it when she tried to sew a hole that occurred from its travels. She had been away from her home for over ten years, but she never noticed the deed of ownership for her city, was in her teddy bear this whole time. She knew she had been destined to take over for her parents, but she never truly knew if that was what she wanted.

Tony Stark had been filled in on Bucky’s search for his butterfly when the sleepless nights started to get to him. Sleep deprivation can cause people to do strange things, and for Bucky that was ask for help, from his competitor, nonetheless. So when his phone rang with an unknown number, he answered it.

She introduced herself, and then said words that Tony never expected to come from her. “I need help, hiding from someone. I will only be in the city a few days, but he will probably come looking for me after I am gone. His name is Brock Rumlow.”

Tony shocked himself by breathing a sigh of relief, at the fact that she wasn’t hiding from Barnes. “I can help.” He gave her his address and then they hung up as she started to head over.

“Barnes.” Tony called Bucky, hearing him groan when he picked up the phone.

“What Stark? What do you want at 3 in the morning?” Bucky put his clothes on knowing he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep.

“You will never guess who just called me. Butterfly is in the city and needs help hiding from a man named, Brock Rumlow. If you want to have a chance to talk to her, I would suggest coming over as soon as possible.” The gasp that left Bucky’s mouth almost made Stark laugh, but he knew if it was Pepper in her place, he would react the same way, that Bucky is.

Time felt like it was going in slow motion and fast forward at the same time as Bucky flew down the streets on his motorbike, to Stark’s mansion. He pulled up to the front gates, and they opened for him so he parked near the front door but not to close, so that if she saw it, wouldn’t run away. Just then the front door opened to reveal his butterfly looking confused.

“Tony, there is no paper out here, and anyway why would they deliver at this time of the night.” As she turned to go back in, she caught a glimpse of Bucky standing staring at her. Tony had done this on purpose, of course he had. Her eyes dropped to her feet as he approached.

He could feel all her muscles tense before she relaxed into his embrace. He had missed her so much that he didn’t care that they were standing in the front yard of his competition. When he finally let her go, she gave him a small smile before heading back inside. He followed, wanting, no needing, to talk to her.

“If you two want to talk, your temporary room, would be the most private place.” Stark’s mansion was pretty much the opposite of Bucky’s. High tech and modern, compared to Bucky’s old-fashioned style. They often mocked each other for it, but right now all Bucky cared about was his butterfly. She nodded as she led Bucky up the stairs to the room she would be staying in for a little while, while she gathered her bearings. The first thing that caught his eye, was a crystal dragonfly she had sitting on the desk.

 “I’m sorry I was an ass for yelling at you. Sam explained the situation. I have been searching for you since the day you left. Where have you been all this time?” Bucky rambled out sitting on her bed.

“I was working, I knew I had overstayed my welcome in this city, so I went onto the next place. I accidently made someone very dangerous mad, so I just need to lay low and collect myself for a few days and then I will be on my way.” She walked over to look out the window.

“Is there anything I can say to change your mind? I don’t want you to leave again. I found a home in you; you have brought me more peace than I have felt in a long time.” Bucky pleaded trying to hold himself together. He was staring at the ground, so he didn’t notice her walk over to where he was sitting to join him.

“Why would you want me to stay all I do is cause problems?”  She tried to get him to look at her. When their eyes met, she saw raw pain in his beautiful blue eyes.

“I was a jerk for making you believe that, you are the one who actually helps me, the one thing that brought me peace. Please, I promise I can keep you safe.”  He grabbed a hold of her hands to try and get his desperation across.

“You weren’t the first person to tell me that, and well you probably won’t be the last.” She sighed leaning into his touch.

“I will if I have any say about it. Please give me a chance. If nothing else come stay with me, while you lay low.” She gave him a smile as he pleaded with her. He pulled her into her arms when she gave him a small nod. Tony smiled as he watched the interaction, he said it would be the most private, but not completely private, that was still his competition. “I couldn’t help but notice the crystal dragonfly on the desk, where did you get it?”

She looked at the dragonfly on the desk and smiled. “I bought it from the same place that my parents got me my butterfly. It represents the change that has come to my life due to a handsome stranger, and while I wasn’t sure if I would ever see him again, he reminded me of what my destiny is.” Her head pressed deeper into his chest out of comfort.

“And what, pray tell, is your destiny, Butterfly?” He asked leaning down to look her in the eyes.

“To lead. I was born to be a leader, and I was always a symbol of hope, for both my parents and the people they led.” She kept her response vague. Her heart pounded in her chest as he stroked her spine.

“My Butterfly, you are destined for great things, and I hope I can be by your side throughout it all.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head surprising her.

Very quietly she whispered into his chest, “I’d love that.” He just barely picked it up, his heart soaring at her words. He held her even closer to his chest, and then the door opened.

“Okay, love birds, I’m not offended that you would rather stay with him, and if you need anything from me, I will be happy to help, but please take all this lovey-doveyness back to your place Barnes,” Tony said as he leaned against the doorframe. Butterfly buried her face into Bucky’s chest out of embarrassment, causing him to laugh. Boy had she missed his laugh.

“Thank you, Stark. For taking care of, helping me find, and letting me know that my girl was in town. I am very grateful for your help.” Bucky stood to shake his hand.

“Yeah, yeah, just promise I get an invite to the wedding.” Tony joked as he shook Bucky’s hand. Giving Bucky one last wink, he left to let Butterfly pack.

“Butterfly, you left something behind when you were here last time,” Bucky mentioned as he carried her bag up to the room, she was staying in.

Holding up the imperfect crystal butterfly he said, “I had my man make sure that we could tell that it wasn’t perfect because I didn’t want you to feel like I was trying to erase that or that I had just found a new one.”

Her eyes filled with tears as she reached out to grab the butterfly. “It’s perfect thank you so much.”

He was so happy that she loved it, and he silently vowed to do anything it took to see her that way. After having carefully set it down on the desk she gave him a big hug, pressing her lips to his chest in the process.

“Can we talk about this dude who is coming for you? Because I can take care of him, but don’t ask how you don’t want to know.” Bucky asked as they sat down for dinner the next day.

She just shook her head. “Fine, I will share the details but, I only want to explain it once so can we set up a meeting with Mr. Stark.”

That confused Bucky, why did she feel that Stark also had to be there? “Butterfly, I promise you, I and my men can handle him just fine.”

“I know, you think that, but the only way to take him and his mob down for good would be to work with Mr. Stark because Rumlow has years of passed down knowledge on me.” She said pacing the room and surprising Bucky with the use of the word mob.

“How long have you known I was a part of the mob, Butterfly?” She just smirked at his question.

“Since you came to my apartment that day, one you were armed, and two Steve and Sam are some of your men rather than your friends. I also recognized the crest that you each were wearing. It was easy to figure out from there that the other mob boss in this city is Mr. Stark, but the one thing that I was never able to figure out is why you two are willing to split a city, but not work together.” She cut herself off there so that she could wait for Stark to arrive. Knowing how tough Bucky liked to be, she knew he would not call Tony over unless his life depended on it, so she took matters into her own hands and texted him to come.

“Umm, boss? You didn’t inform us that Stark was coming by today, is everything okay?” Sam asked entering the room with Steve. Bucky went to answer but Butterfly was faster.

“He didn’t know, but no everything is not okay, but I will explain it to you all at once. Let’s go to Bucky’s office.” She led the way to the office greeting Stark on the way. Butterfly sat down in Bucky’s chair and motioned for the others to take a seat on the other side of the dark wooden desk.

“What is going on, Butterfly? How did you make his mob angry?” Bucky asked utterly confused by her vagueness.

“Since when does your girl know about the mob? And that Rumlow dude, has one?” Tony Stark was trying to catch up, but he wasn’t the only one who was lost.

“No, he is just a mobster part of the mob that calls themselves HYDRA, they however used to be called SHIELD before being corrupted.” They stared at her with blank expressions on their faces. She knew she had lost them.

“Butterfly, a mob can’t be corrupted, it can be taken over, but I don’t think there is a way to corrupt something that does organized crime.” Bucky inserted confused as to what she meant, thinking that maybe she used the wrong word.

“I used the right word, but I guess I should explain everything from the very beginning.” She adjusted herself so she was sitting on the edge of the chair to appear more serious. “My parents were mob bosses together. They loved each other more than anyone I had ever met, and while they didn’t want to put their child at risk, they were willing to give up everything in order to have a child. It turned out that they struggled with serious fertility issues due to my mother having been tortured as a young child, by her parents' enemy. After years of treatment and trying, my mother finally became pregnant. However it was at one of the worst times possible, there was no way for them to give up the mob at that time because they were in the middle of a war.”

The shock that covered everyone’s faces made her smile; she knew more than they imagined. “Luckily, my mother was never one who did fieldwork, she was the strategist. I’m told that when I was born the war ended, and my parents, knew that I was destined to become a leader one day. I was given that crystal butterfly, for the nickname my parents had given to me when I was born, because I was a symbol of hope for my parents, for the future. Later when I was revealed to the community, I became a symbol of hope for them as well. I should explain something about my parents. They were absolutely ruthless when it came to anyone who tried to hurt me. They were surprisingly kind to the community, and they could be quite mean to their enemies. The community didn’t fear them, but they respected and relied on them.” She fiddled with the papers sitting on Bucky’s desk, while the others processed what she had told them so far.

“They sound like great people,” Steve added trying to ease some tension in the room.

“Yeah, they were the best. So I was kept a secret for my own safety for the first 9 ish years of my life, but I was also trained in self-defence just in case I needed it. I grew up surrounded by my parents’ people, and a few of them had children of their own that they would allow me to hang out with. But never in public. I’ll be honest, I rarely ever went in public, and even less with my parents. However I do remember one day I was out with my parents, we were driving somewhere when I was 15. I was relaxed in the backseat, while my father drove. They rarely ever drove, and I still sometimes wonder, if we hadn’t would one of them be alive, or would I be dead.” She had to look away, because the look of sadness in Bucky’s eyes, almost had her in tears.

“It was a thunderstorm that day. I remember as a loud crack of thunder happened, a bullet was shot and killed both my father and mother, causing the car to crash. I always assume that they thought the crash would have killed me. That’s why they didn’t aim a bullet for the back seat. I was not in great shape when I got out, but I was alive, and due to my training in patching up wounds, having worked with our mob doctor, for years, I was able to make it back home to pack a bag. I had tossed it out the window of my bedroom, and was getting ready to climb out, when I was taken down to the basement to be tortured until I promised to sign over the mob, or what the man I once knew as a friendly face hoped for instead, I died.”

Bucky stood up upon hearing this unable to hide his rage anymore. But he realized that is why she had been so terrified when they first met. “If you don’t mind me asking, why were you afraid of your apartment that day if you had been through all of this, Butterfly?” He asked curious to know her mind.

“Well, I was worried it was a local mob boss wanting to collect some money as protection, because as I learned from my travels, after I escaped the torture, while he wasn’t looking, making a deal leads to my identity being discovered and well, I could never stay somewhere people knew who I was because this isn’t some small new mob I’m dealing with. And he has years of knowledge about me, and my weaknesses, especially since most of them were present when I was training. So the thought of being found was not ideal. But when Rumlow came to my hotel room, after the incident, he said that his boss was willing to forget me escaping, if I gave him the document he needed, in order for him to have any sway with the other mobs. It was the deed to the part of the city my parents owned. When I was born, they put it inside my teddy bear, so that even if I tried to leave this life, I would take their legacy with me. I found it while I was sewing the bear back up in my old bedroom, but Rumlow caught me reading the document. So I shoved it into my bag and fled.” She exhaled trying to make sure she included all the details.

“The only place that I knew I would be able to hide in for a little while that was close enough was here, but I know they will be following me, so if I am not going to live the rest of my life on the run, I am going to need both of your help.” She sunk back into the chair from worry, and the mental exhaustion those memories created.

Nobody said anything at first, and she started to worry that they wouldn’t help her. She felt two strong arms pick her up and sit down with her in his lap. “Butterfly, I am so sorry that you had to go through all that, of course, we will help you. Right Stark?” Bucky gave a pointed look to Tony.

“Of course, you have become one of us, and we protect our own, even if she happens to be fraternizing with the competition.” Stark loved to joke even in times like this, which a lot of people said wouldn’t make a good boss, but he is one of the best.

[animasola86]

Throw me into the Tempest: Ch.2

Notes: This is still dedicated to @sallowslady 💛

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!reader (Hufflepuff)

Genre: Drama/Angst/Fluff // Words: 6.2k // [Read on AO3]

Synopsis: Your best friend is a sweetheart and you would do anything to protect her. Yet when you get to know her boyfriend, there is little you can do against those feelings he invokes in you.

[ ← Chapter 1 ] -- [ ↓ Chapter 2 ]

You hadn't planned to fall in love with your best friend's boyfriend – and you certainly hadn't planned on ending up in a cabin on the beach with him during a roaring thunderstorm. But here you were.

After that first unexpected, yet highly desired kiss, you had made your way to the cabin, both of you soaked and cold and shivering as the heavy rain showed no mercy, the raging winds dragged at your clothes and hair, and thunder and lightning guided your way to the tiny stone house right next to the cliff. You had your arm around Sebastian's waist and he held you close to his body, his warmth the only thing keeping you sane during the raging tempest. Though it wasn't just the weather that kept you on your toes.

There was turmoil within your mind, guilt and regret fought in a fierce battle against your own needs and wishes, and there was no way to tell who had the upper hand. It was a constant conflict and it only halted once you reached the cabin, stepped inside, and when Sebastian closed the door behind you, shutting out the storm, your own mind went silent as well as you met his dark gaze.

You'd shared those gazes before over the last weeks, whenever you would find yourself on either side of your best friend Adelaide, yet you never knew he would be as conflicted as you were about the situation. But that kiss just now had spoken volumes. And the way he now looked at you made your legs tremble even more as you stood, cold and shivering, in the tiny cabin, surrounded by the green glow of one of Ignatia Wildsmith's Floo flames.

You were both out of breath, both deep in thought over whatever was happening between you. It was when the stone face would suddenly speak that you came back to reality for a little bit.

“Quite the weather we're having, isn't it?” the enchanted bust quipped happily and you both stared at Ignatia Wildsmith with wide eyes.

While your heart was pounding inside your chest and you felt that the guilt and shock of potentially being discovered was winning your internal battle for the moment, it was Sebastian who walked towards the Floo flame, raised his wand and muttered: “Silencio.” You saw the stone face's mouth move and her eyes widen, but no more words came from her. He then unclasped his drenched robes and hung them right over the bust, possibly to dry them out, but equally keeping the nosy witch from interrupting you again – and witnessing what would possibly be happening next.

When he turned back to you, he started unbuttoning his soaked green blazer. “You should get out of those clothes or you'll really catch a cold,” he told you casually, even though you heard the undertone of his low voice. The implications.

Yet you had no idea what to do. You were frozen to the spot, your mind racing, your heart beating even faster, and all you could do was watch him undress in front of you. Before he got rid of his shirt though, he walked towards you, and without any warning he grabbed your face once more and pressed his lips to yours. You were too shocked to react properly, too shocked or stunned or rendered unable to do anything under the intensity of his kiss.

So you stopped fighting against it. Because who were you kidding? You had imagined this since the day you had first met him and even though it had turned out that he was the boyfriend of your best friend, you had never been able to shut out those thoughts entirely. In the haze of your mind you also told yourself that it had been him who had made the first step. He had kissed you first. It wasn't your fault. It was a lame excuse, yet frankly, you couldn't care less in this very moment.

And so you raised your hands and grabbed the back of his head and deepened the kiss, finally indulging in those fantasies that had kept you awake at night for quite a while now. You felt his hands on the front of your robes, and while your tongue moved against his, your robes were slipping off your shoulders before his fingers fidgeted with your tie and then the buttons of your blazer.

You ended up stumbling through the tiny cabin, leaving a trail of drenched clothes as he rid you of your blazer, vest and tie, before you came to sit on the rather uncomfortable camp bed in the corner, him with his shirt wide open and yours half-way undone, his hands all over your back, cold clammy fingers slipping past the hem of your shirt, causing you to shiver deeply, while your hands dug into his wet locks as you kept kissing each other as if nothing else mattered.

There really was nothing holding you back any more when you clambered onto his lap, straddling him with your skirt riding up dangerously, while you kept your mouth glued to his, the heat of the moment too overwhelming to notice anything else. Your head was blissfully empty as his hands moved down your lower back and along the curves of your rear until they practically vanished beneath the thick fabric, pushing your skirt up even more as he caressed your thighs through the thin layer of your undergarments.

Your chest rose and fell quickly, brushing against his with every frantic breath as your fingers scraped over his scalp. You felt light-headed and barely registered the surrounding noises of the storm any more, you didn't even flinch when thunder cracked in the distance, all you felt were his lips on yours, his tongue invading your mouth, his warm breath doing its best to keep the cold at bay.

Sebastian, however, seemed still more attentive than you, because suddenly he let go of your thighs, grabbed your shoulders and spun you around, before he harshly pulled his lips away from you and stood up, his fingers darting to the front of his unbuttoned shirt.

Only then did you notice the cold air drafting into the cabin and the door that had been ripped wide open. In the doorway stood a tall, dark man, and when you realized it was Solomon Sallow, you froze and felt the coldest shiver yet running down your spine. You stood as well and gathered your clothes, pressing them frantically to your chest, while you tried to calm your heart.

The man didn't say a single word, just threw his dark gazes around, and while you were busy putting on your drenched clothes and trying to pretend that absolutely nothing had happened, you heard a cry of relief before you saw a tiny girl entering the cabin, her blonde hair stuck to her forehead as she made her way towards Sebastian, who had indeed managed to button his shirt and caught Adelaide with wide eyes as she threw herself at him.

“I was so worried,” she wailed and pushed her face into his chest, while he hugged her back hesitantly, his gaze slowly moving towards you. You swallowed hard and looked away, continuing to get dressed again. You could blame the storm for the sorry state of your hair and your flushed face, and the cold for the shaking of your limbs, but your swollen lips and breathlessness would be harder to explain. Luckily your best friend didn't pay you any attention as she lay in the arms of her boyfriend.

“You should head back to Hogwarts now,” you heard the gruff voice of Solomon as he grabbed Sebastian's robes off the face of the Floo lady with two fingers. Luckily he didn't notice her moving, but silenced lips, or simply didn't care much about it.

You realized then that he certainly knew what had been going on, yet you were glad he was too stoic to talk about it. Which didn't make it any better though. You felt awful, the knot inside your stomach clenched painfully, even more so when you looked over to where Sebastian was still holding sobbing Adelaide, who must have been worried out of her mind when you hadn't returned with him to the cottage.

She was too innocent for her own good and too oblivious to notice the gaze you exchanged with the Slytherin boy. As you felt your own tears rising behind your lashes, you looked away and turned towards the Floo flame. “I'll see you at school,” you told them as you grabbed the Floo powder. You didn't wait for any reaction or reply, you just threw the powder into the flame, stated your destination and then stepped into the green flames engulfing you.

The travel was as gut-wrenching as your guilt, and as you returned to your common room that night, you made a beeline for the bathroom, soaked in the tub for longer than was necessary and tried but failed to forget about those truly unforgettable lips. When you went to your dorm room afterwards, Lenora and Poppy were already asleep, and when you spotted Adelaide getting ready for bed, you couldn't even face her when you slipped into your pyjamas and then under the covers, faking a sneeze to make it more believable that you were unable to talk to her that night.

The next day you still couldn't look into her round face, even though you tried your best to play along, blaming your puffy eyes and sore throat on the weather you had found yourself in yesterday, when in reality you had spent most of the night crying your eyes out, trying to cope with what had happened and what you had done. It got even worse when you walked to class with her and suddenly saw Sebastian in front of you. You felt your heart breaking all over again when she would hug him and laugh with him and he would behave as if absolutely nothing had happened.

He didn't even acknowledge your presence most of the time. You felt the cold stab of jealousy all day long, having to witness those two together in class and out of it. Not that it would have mattered to either of them, but you excused yourself when they were heading to the library and decided to wallow in your sorrow on your own time, or rather under the blanket of your bed. Which you did for a while, before you finally managed to push through and focus on school work. Or so you hoped.

And because fate was a cruel mistress, as soon as you reached Central Hall, you saw the blonde Hufflepuff and the Slytherin boy leaving the library, sharing a goodbye kiss and then departing into opposite directions. You hid behind a statue and let Adelaide pass you by unnoticed, before you'd had it and went straight after Sebastian. You caught up with him on his way to his common room.

“Sebastian!” you called to him and you saw him stiffen before he turned around and faced you. “Can we talk?”

He motioned you to follow him down a smaller corridor and once you did and you came to stand in front of him, you felt your heart beating faster and the knot in your stomach tightening. He just raised his eyebrows questioningly, letting you lead the talk you so desperately needed to conduct.

You inhaled deeply. “What we did –” you started and looked up at him, feeling new tears burning inside your eyes. “What we almost did –”

“Yes, almost,” he chimed in and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Nothing happened. No harm done.”

“No harm done?” you repeated shrilly, glaring at him, feeling your insides convulse in a mixture of rage and disappointment. “We kissed!” you whisper-yelled. “And you felt me up...”

“So?” he asked, his voice a tad too neutral for your liking.

“So? You have a girlfriend!” you hissed, your voice shaking badly. “Who happens to be my best friend! And... and you're my friend too... and now we –”

“Stop!” he said firmly and dropped his arms, looking at you darkly. “Nothing happened,” he repeated. “Stop stressing about it. Let's just... forget about it, okay?”

Your mouth fell open at that, while your heart shattered into a million pieces. You didn't know what you had expected of this talk, but certainly not this. Feeling your lips trembling, in the bad way, you swallowed hard and when the first tear rolled down your cheek, you quickly wiped it away, averting your gaze. “I don't know if I can...” you whispered, staring at the ground.

“You'll have to,” he said coldly, only making it worse. “We'll have to. You were right, I have a girlfriend and she doesn't deserve this. It was... a mistake.”

You heard his words and they cut through your already shattered heart without mercy, immediately numbing you. Without blinking, without looking at him one more time, you turned around and walked away, slowly, as if in a trance, your breaths forcibly deep, as you clenched your hands into fists and an icy shiver rushed through your limbs.

Forcing yourself not to think about it any more, you somehow made it back to the Hufflepuff common room, your body shaking from the emotions trying to burst free. Yet as soon as you saw your bed and the blanket you wanted to hide under, you realized that you couldn't do that. If you allowed yourself to wallow in your pain, it would only make it so much worse.

So you turned around yet again and went straight to the Clock Tower. It was dark and no member of Crossed Wands was to be seen, so you had all the training dummies to yourself. The pendulum moved lazily back and forth, making the air vibrate eerily in its wake, as you pelted the enchanted dummies with all the spells you knew, slow at first, then more and more enraged, until you were screaming your spells and the force of your unhinged magic would shatter everything around you.

You had no idea for how long you did this, but when all the dummies were lying shattered on the floor in front of you, smashed and dismembered and broken into tiny pieces, you fell to your knees, breathless and exhausted, sweat on your forehead. Your wand hand was shaking badly, and when the first tears came streaming down your face, you just let them flow until they dropped off your chin and onto the stone floor beneath you.

Crying quietly at first, you soon let your rage and sorrow get the better of you and wallowed loudly, your voice echoing off the high walls, sounding like the wails of a banshee. As you let it all out, you found yourself breathing heavily, feeling numb and completely spent, but strangely enough also a little bit relieved. Leaning back on your arms, you looked up at the darkness of the Clock Tower above you and inhaled deeply, calming down with every beating of your slowly recovering heart.

It wasn't fully recovering, but the shattered pieces tentatively moved closer together again as you realized how silly and pathetic it was to cry over a boy like this. It had been a nice kiss, a nice moment being so close to him, but that was about it. It was not worth all those tears you had shed and the anger and the guilt you were feeling. You had to move on, somehow, resume your friendship with Adelaide and ignore the boy at her side. You just had to. There was no other way.

And so you forced yourself onwards, back to your common room, into your bed, hoping to start the next day as if nothing had happened. Luckily you had enough school work and extra assignments to keep you busy and talking with Adelaide became easier and easier as the day went on. You did your best to avoid any contact with Sebastian whatsoever and forced yourself to simply ignore him now. It was better that way.

Yet as oblivious and innocent as the blonde Hufflepuff was, she quickly picked up on the fact that her boyfriend and her best friend weren't talking any more. It was rather conspicuous now that you thought about it. At first you tried to convince her that she was seeing things, telling her you were just too busy with school work and those extra assignments, and luckily you were indeed also quite involved with helping Professor Fig unravel the ancient magic mystery, so whenever she would invite you to spend time with her and Sebastian, you excused yourself quickly.

Another week or two passed and you maintained your friendship with Adelaide, merely thanks to your seating and sleeping arrangement, the only times you had her all to yourself, away from the doe-eyed boy that you told yourself to ignore during the day, yet come night you would still often think and dream about him. Because you just couldn't help it after all.

You simply couldn't forget the way he had kissed you in that storm, all those raw emotions, the longing and hunger and desperation, the need and the comfort, and the more you thought about it, the less painful his words afterwards became because you deliberately chose to push them far away as if he'd never even said them.

Somehow you were able to look at him again, at least in those moments you thought you were alone and no one, not even him, would notice your stares. Whenever you would sit with Adelaide and he would join you, you'd give him a short nod and tried to be civil, yet as you still couldn't quite control your emotions or the blush of your cheeks, you avoided making eye contact when your best friend was around.

Halloween came, and after the splendid feast, the fifth-years decided to continue the festivities in your common room, because you had the most food around and also because most Hufflepuffs wouldn't be caught dead in the hallways after curfew.

So you found yourself surrounded by a bunch of Gryffindors: Natty, Leander and Garreth, the latter had even brought some of his brews to the party most were a little reluctant to try. Then there were a bunch of Ravenclaws, Everett, Andrew, Samantha and even Amit, who was more focused on the cats of the common room than socialising though. And amongst all your classmates, only one Slytherin was present, because apparently the snakes had their own party in the dungeons and most of them seemed to prefer their own house's company.

Most, except one brunet who sat next to Adelaide, trying to focus on the ghost story Arthur was telling, while his brown eyes wandered over to where you were sitting on more than one occasion. You tried to ignore Sebastian as best as you could, forcing conversations with Natty or Samantha, but you still felt your cheeks blush deeply under the permanent stares from across the room.

When it got late, most of your classmates were invited to stay in the dormitories for the night, because as much as most Hufflepuffs wouldn't be caught dead outside during curfew, they didn't want their friends to get into trouble for them either, so all the fifth-years found a place amongst the couches or lying on the floor next to their classmates' beds.

Adelaide had fallen asleep on a couch near the fireplace, with you sitting in front of it, staring into the flames, while her boyfriend sat next to her sleeping form, holding her feet.

“We should take her to bed,” you heard him say quietly, the first words you exchanged that night. You didn't look at him, but nodded, knowing that the couch might look cosy, but was nothing compared to one's own bed.

You stood and stretched, a deep sigh escaping you, and when you turned to the couch, you noticed Sebastian staring at you, his jaw set, but his eyes blazing. You blinked and quickly focused on your sleeping best friend. Before you could do anything, he had scooped her up into his arms and was about to walk towards the stairs leading to your dormitory, before he stopped and turned his head to you.

“I won't be able to get up there, right?” he remarked.

“Of course not,” you replied and stood next to him, unable to not look at his profile – or the way his muscles moved under the sleeves of his jumper. “Let me take her.”

“You sure you can handle it?”

You scoffed, drawing your wand. “I am sure,” you declared and used the Levitation charm to gently lift her from his arms. “I'm a witch, remember? Stop underestimating me!” You didn't know why you said that, but it slipped out nonetheless.

“I never did,” he replied, watching you closely.

You threw him a heated gaze, feeling all the emotions bubble up all over again, but before it could get any worse, you turned to the stairs. “I'll take it from here. Good night, Sebastian.”

He didn't say anything when you started climbing the stairs, levitating your best friend in front of you. Your breath quickened, not from the exertion, but from how he failed to respond, how he just stood there at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. You tried to ignore the aching of your heart and quickly made your way to your room.

Inside you found a few more snoring girls than usual. After you brought Adelaide to her bed, you noticed that yours was taken by Natty and Samantha was lying in a pile of blankets next to Lenora's bed, all of the girls were sound asleep. Sighing quietly, you opted to find a couch downstairs.

When you returned to the common room, you stopped in your tracks as you saw the figure pacing in front of the exit. There was no one else around, the boys seemed to have retreated to their dormitory as well. For a moment you didn't know what to do. It was just you and Sebastian now, alone for the first time since he broke your heart.

Feeling it thundering away in your chest now, slightly fixed, but still damaged, you inhaled deeply and decided to ignore him further as you headed straight for the secret room next to the fireplace where you knew a very comfy armchair was waiting to be slept in. But as soon as you entered the small space, ready to burrow yourself in for the night, a hand grabbed the hidden door and suddenly another body pressed in behind you.

You spun around with a gasp and looked up at Sebastian, who slowly pulled the door shut behind him. “What are you doing?” you breathed, feeling his body heat radiating off him as he stood very close to you.

“Fixing a mistake,” he said quietly, his low voice vibrating through your body.

You frowned at the word and felt your insides clenching up. “Which one?” you asked pointedly, trying to hold his gaze, with all the heat rushing into your cheeks.

He gave you a half-hearted smirk. “Good question, the list is rather long, eh?”

Scoffing at him, you turned away and towards the armchair behind you. Yet you didn't sit down. The room felt cramped now and you could barely breathe through the scent of baked goods and sweets lingering in the air.

“Listen, I know you're hurting... and I'm sorry...” you heard him say behind you as you focused on a plate of cupcakes, mindlessly poking at the colourful icing. You stopped with your index finger deep inside the soft cream coating.

“I'm not hurting!” you protested without looking at him.

“Come on, I've seen the state of the Crossed Wands dummies, I know that was you. Lucan was devastated by the way...”

“Well, I hate being called a mistake...” you muttered under your breath. “I had to let it out...”

“You are not a mistake,” he whispered and you felt him walking closer. “What we did was.”

You spun around then, staring at him, cream dripping from your finger as you pointed it at his chest. “So you still think so? Then why are you here?” you spat at him, unable to keep your voice down.

“How we handled it was a mistake, how... I handled it,” he clarified quietly, looking down at you with warm eyes. “I don't regret the kiss...” he added under his breath as he looked at your finger for a moment.

You glared at him, your expression slowly softening. “But you said it was wrong...”

“You said we shouldn't be doing this to Addy,” he corrected. “And I agreed because I thought you meant it.” He tilted his head. “But you never meant it, did you?”

You felt your cheeks burning up even more, your breaths slightly more shallow as your heart was flooded with all those emotions. The urge to touch him was as strong as the urge to flee. You were conflicted all over again.

He watched you patiently, his eyes wandering over your face. “Well, do you?” he asked after a long moment of heated silence.

Inhaling deeply, you squared your shoulders, dropping your hand to your side. “What about you?” you threw his question back at him. “Since you only seemed to have agreed with me for my sake, what do you really think? Are you okay with doing this to Addy?”

“Doing what exactly?” he teased in a whisper and took a step closer to you, towering over you, his hand brushing against yours as he moved his fingers over your sticky fingertip. You felt your heart beating even faster.

“Repeating a mistake...” you whispered.

“I'm okay with it,” he then said and raised his free hand to caress your cheek with the back of his finger. “Are you?”

You swallowed hard. The anger and remorse and doubts and turmoil that had settled in your gut over the last weeks seemed to slowly fade away, no, not slowly, it was all gone the moment he leaned closer to you, the moment his eyes bored into yours, the moment his hand cupped your cheek and pulled you towards him.

“I...” you started, your lips parted and trembling, your mind suddenly fuzzy. The thick air of the room got to you, or maybe it was his hot breath on your lips that made your head spin. “Sebastian... we...”

“Yes, we,” he repeated, his nose nuzzling against yours as he leaned even closer. “There is something between us, I know you feel it too. I was trying to ignore it, for Adelaide's sake, but...” You watched him, holding your breath as you listened intently. “You know, I like her, I really do, she helped me a lot over the last months, she was there, she listened, but when I met you... there was a different kind of connection.”

You felt a shiver running down your spine as he raised his other hand to push a strand of your hair behind your ear before both of his hands held your face, his own so close you could count every single freckle on it. But you only stared into his brown eyes, lost in their warmth, with his words sinking deep into your soul.

“Every time I see you, I want to hold you, touch you, feel you close,” he whispered, his low voice sending goosebumps down your skin. “I want to taste you again... I want to forget everything with you...”

A soft gasp escaped your throat as you took a shuddering breath. You saw the corner of his mouth twitching upwards slightly. His confession left you speechless, you had no idea what to think, how to handle this, how to move on. You wanted all of it too, but the image of your best friend was still etched in the back of your mind.

“Tell me you want it too,” he said quietly as he tilted his head slightly, his thumbs caressing your cheeks.

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and stared at him. “Tell me you won't push me away again,” you whispered hoarsely.

“I never pushed you away,” he replied. “And I never will. I'm all in,” he added and you could feel the warmth of his tongue as he licked his lips. “I am all in, if you are as well.”

For a short moment, you closed your eyes and thought about it, but whatever your mind came up with was silenced and suppressed by the desire clawing at your heart. As your eyes fluttered open again, a jerk rushed through your body and in the same motion, your lips moved against his, finally connecting.

When your hands found the front of his jumper, he had already replied the sudden gesture and pressed his mouth to yours with a loud exhale, his hands guiding your face with a tight grip as he kissed you back with fervour.

“I... I'm in...” you breathed against his lips as you leaned back slightly to catch your breath. His eyes sparkled in the dim light of the room before you felt him smiling against you.

Soon you had forgotten all your previous hardships, all your doubts. Any guilt or other conflicting emotion was pushed aside quickly, to be burrowed under the ever-growing need to be close to Sebastian.

You found yourself stumbling through the small room, knocking over piles of books and almost causing a giant stack of plates to crash. Hands and limbs entangled, you managed to make it to the armchair, your lips still glued to his, your fingers digging into his jumper as his dug into your hair. The air around you got even stuffier as your heavy breaths mingled.

When he let himself fall into the chair and quickly pulled you onto his lap, giving you the tiniest moment to catch your breath, his dark eyes met yours, but there was no more doubt between you, no feelings keeping you away from each other. Leaning against him, you grabbed the back of his neck and pressed your lips to his and continued where you left off.

For the longest time all you did was kiss him, like you had imagined so many sleepless nights before, shifting on his thighs, feeling his body heat through your woollen tights, his hands eager to explore your body in search of any inch of skin beneath your various layers of clothes. When his fingers eventually slipped past the hem of your jumper and right down the waistband of your skirt, you let out a soft gasp and leaned away slightly to look at him, your lips swollen and tingling, your breaths as heavy as his.

His long fingers teased at your soft skin, resting on your lower back, dangerously close to the groove between your bum cheeks. You had no idea how he had managed to slip his hand past all those layers of fabric, yet the feeling of his warm skin on yours caused you to shiver deeply, and frankly it concerned you a little.

“Should I stop?” he asked quietly, his voice hoarse and lower than usual, the sound vibrating in your ear deliciously.

You shook your head. “No, just...” you started, biting your trembling lip. “Promise me you won't tell me this was a mistake tomorrow.”

He watched you closely, red spots dancing on his freckled cheeks. “I promise,” he said. “If you promise me the same. No doubts, okay? We're in this together now...”

“Are we?”

Sebastian tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. “I believe we are, you said so!” he replied, sounding almost a little hurt.

You gave him a soft chuckle, your finger tracing the line of his jaw. “I said so and I mean it, I do! I promise!” you clarified and leaned closer to press a soft kiss to his warm cheek. “I've wanted this for so long... long before I knew you were Addy's –”

“Don't say it!” he warned, his free hand moving up to cover your mouth. “I'll talk to her. I'll end it. I –”

You grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand down. “No! Don't tell her!”

He stared at you. “You'd rather go behind her back? Keep this all a secret?”

“I don't want to hurt her,” you whispered, lowering your gaze as you shifted on his lap. “I... I know what a broken heart feels like. I don't want her to feel the same...”

His hand grabbed your chin and made you look at him. “And doing this behind her back is better? She'll get hurt either way! We should tell her sooner than later, otherwise it'll only get worse,” he said darkly, his brown eyes boring into yours.

“I don't want to lose her...” you muttered, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

He gave you a sigh and a sympathetic look. “I'm afraid that is no longer up to you...” he whispered. “Perhaps, if you're honest with her, she'll remain your friend, but –”

Your turn to sigh deeply. “I really can't have both? I mean, I'm sharing a dorm with her! I need to get along with her –”

“So be honest with her!”

“Have you met girls before in your life, Sebastian? I grew up with three female cousins and we got along great, we would have died for each other, but as soon as two of them started to like the same boy, they had turned into furies and couldn't decide soon enough who to throw off a cliff first! Girls can be ravenous creatures when boys get involved, believe me. They'd throw me out of the dorm room immediately! And I can't sleep in this chair for the rest of my education!”

He raised an eyebrow as he listened to you. “That's quite the pickle you found yourself in, huh?” he commented. “You want to go back on our agreement then?” he offered with a frown, slowly retrieving his hand from under your skirt.

You grabbed his wrist and stopped him. “No. I want this,” you said firmly. “But... I need time to think about what to tell Adelaide. Please.”

“So you expect me to keep up the facade of being her boyfriend? You'd be okay with that?” He watched you closely.

You inhaled deeply and nodded. “I have to be, and I will be, because I know that I... can do the same things with you, maybe even more,” you whispered, licking your lips. “I mean, from what I've seen, your relationship was rather tame, wasn't it?”

He snorted. “Addy is a very sheltered girl, yes,” he replied with a smirk. “You not so much, eh?”

You poked his chest playfully. “Perhaps that is why you like me?” you teased, before leaning back, your eyes a little wider. “You do like me, right?”

Sebastian barked a laugh that was almost a little too loud for the quiet room. “I have my hand on your bum, I think I do, yes,” he whispered and winked at you, his fingers slipping down the curve of your body once more.

You blushed deeply and shook your head in a mixture of indignation and embarrassment, but also slightly amused. “So you won't tell her until I'm ready to tell her then?” you asked quietly. He nodded.

“I'm a Slytherin, I'm good at keeping secrets,” he told you with a smile.

“Well, I'm a Hufflepuff and I suck at being a loyal friend, so there's that,” you sighed. You felt his free hand on your cheek, his thumb rubbing against your skin.

“You have other redeeming qualities, love,” he said quietly. You scoffed at that and looked away, your eyes wandering through the small room.

With a sudden chuckle you leaned away from him a little to grab one of the cupcakes off a nearby table. “You're right, I love food, that counts for something, right?” you said with a smirk and brought the pastry to your lips, your eyes on him as you let your tongue swipe over the icing.

He watched you with his eyes darkening immediately, and before you knew it, he leaned in and took a big bite of the small cake, his mouth covered in cream and crumbs. But as you laughed at him, he quickly grabbed the back of your neck and brought your mouth to his, sharing his stolen bite with you. You gasped and giggled, showering his face with frantic pecks until the last crumb was gone, before you deepened the kiss, tasting the rest of the sweet in his mouth.

You breathed loudly against each other, quickly lost in the sensation of the other's lips once more, and when the half-eaten cupcake fell from your hand, you couldn't care less. Maybe you didn't love food as much as you thought, maybe you liked kissing boys more, especially the forbidden kind.

[ ← Chapter 1 ] -- [ → Chapter 3 ]

End notes: Two snogging scenes in one chapter because the last one was just a teaser. I believe we are past the awkward introduction phase and now the smut can commence, I hope.

So I do feel bad for poor little Adelaide, I gotta admit, so much gaslighting and betrayal, she deserves better! But we need the drama! And it had to be her. Sorry.

@sallowslady (and anyone who'd like to contribute): I'd love some suggestions for future drama, like close run-ins, awkward snogging locations, how to deal with Adelaide, etc. - please? :D

MASTERLIST - AO3

[xandytheghostface]

my headcanon about habit n evan, hear out mee

he is pansexual fr, where there is a hole, he has a goal (in my native language it is "those who ignore holes are city hall", I don't know if you understand)

HE WATCHES SOUTH PARK

he is definitely Damian from SP

he has already tried to pierce his ears and so incredible as it may seem: IT DIDN'T WORK

his love language is physical touch and quality time

he loves horror films and spends nights just judging the special effects of films/series

he often uses Kyle's swearing vocabulary in SP for obvious reasons , and his jokes are like Cartman, lmao

he hates waking up early, even though he doesn't even sleep, when Evan's body passes out, he has to sleep for two days (?) and he usually wakes up in the morning, he hates the mornings

he likes old bands, beatles and Freddie Mercury

he plays FNAF, his favorite animatronic is Bonnie

he has no way with children and always scares anyone who makes too much noise.

he judges those who like alex g/mitski, because evan listens to it all the time and the habit just gets fed up LIKE "BRO, DON'T YOU HAVE OTHER SONGS TO LISTEN TO?"

he watches hello kitty & my little pony

he LOVES scaring others and playing pranks

he is a discord user (this is a joke

he has pointy canine fangs

he thinks it's stupid but his favorite flowers are purple hydrangeas

his latest taste is phonks

different from habit, evan is a morning person

(if habit is not in possession) evan is always awake for five to seven hours in the morning

he is a light sleeper, but due to lack of rest and insomnia, he began to sleep extremely heavily

his muscle memory is to protect Jeff, despite Habit being much stronger than his will.

he is so lana del rey, billie eilish n melanie martinez coded

he is afraid of insects, especially cockroaches

In elementary school, he was the kind of nerd who was too studious but also the one who kept interrupting classes because he talked too much to his friends

your favorite season is autumn

he is aromantic, doesn't care about gender, what matters for him is the reciprocity of love in a relationship and daily communication

he has daddy issues and isn't that fond of alcohol.

he loves sharks

he has red hairs on the back of his neck

his favorite animal is cats, regardless of color/race

he may be agnostic or catholic

he is afraid of thunder

his preference for white chocolate is clear

he loves Annabelle films

he has practiced volleyball

he started school early due to his parents' strictness and reads TOO quickly

bro has astigmatism but didn't take it seriously and doesn't like glasses

in his childhood he had asthma

he tries as much as he can to stay physically healthy

It's 4:24 am and I'm insomnia, someone help me, my arms totally hurt 😭💔

[wh0refornikolailantsov]

Prompt: “And in the dark I can hear your heartbeat. I tried to find the sound... But then it stopped.”

Song: Cosmic Love - F&tM

For Tolya x Reader pls!!

Like A Drum - Tolya Yul Bataar

Content Warnings: War. Canon Compliant Threat, Violence And Mentions/Illusions To/Concepts Of Death. Not Beta/Proof Read.

When things get bad, when things get hopeless and overwhelming, and the fight feels one short breath away from being lost, there is one thing Tolya can always do, one thing he has always done. He can search out familiar heartbeats.

He can find something he knows, find someone he knows and loves and use that to keep moving, even when moving feels impossible, when moving feels futile. He can keep fighting.

In times of great despair, searching out for something known to hold onto, to fight for, to get back to, it has kept Tolya alive. There have been times in the war when it felt like the outcome was fixed, unchangeable, and not in their favour. It felt like Saints had laid down plans that meant Tolya would never see it out the other side. And yet, that familiar drumbeat, that so well known sound of life, from Tamar, Nikolai, you, had saved him more than once.

He listens close, the darkness of the tunnels around him help for the sound, but they worsen his anxiety, making his own heartbeat harder to control. He tries not to think about the closed spaces, the tight corners and passageways, all the things that bring his claustrophobia up. But he can feel his pulse raising in his neck, as much from the location as from the fighting.

He pulls in a deep breath, if he had time, if he had a better angle or more of a handle on this situation he would be able to calm himself, recite poems and verse back to himself until he felt like he was back in control. But there's no time for that, not with everything going so monumentally wrong. So he tries to drown out the sound of his own heart, searching all the distance and all the space around him for someone who sounds like home.

After a moment, Tamar's heartbeat can be heard, she's above ground, she found a way out of the tunnels, and is fighting ruthlessly against those who move against her. She's got a better handle on her situation than Tolya does currently, and things are getting worse, catching his breath he can hear the beating hearts of more soldiers coming his way.

Moving towards Tamar is more dangerous, he tightens the grip he has on his sword, ready to take on the next person to swing for him.

Tolya manages to get further towards higher ground before he has to stop again. When he stops he doesn't wait, he searches into the darkness, and amongst the chaos, he hears it, loud and clear, your heartbeat amongst the mess. The darkness making it clear as it thumps against your chest, rapid and unrelenting, Tolya knows how much it must be hurting, begging for rest, begging for a moment of peace, but you just keep moving, you have to.

And now, he must find you. That keeps him moving, forward, against the current of those who mean to bring him down, he keeps fighting and moving, and searching.

Then, it's gone. Like a candle blown out, one moment it was bright light of a beat, just out of reach, then nothing, and Tolya is alone in the dark. He reaches out in it, searching for you, trying to figure out where he lost you, what new track you are on, but he cannot find anything. He feels his own heartbeat starting to race up again, thundering against his chest like a storm, but he keeps looking.

He doesn't even notice he made it back into the day light, he doesn't notice Tamar pulling him aside, he cannot hear the sound of his sisters voice asking him over and over, "Tolya? What happened?"

There is no sound at all but his own heartbeat in his ears, long after the fighting stops, not until in the silence he catches it, a little far down but near where the horizon is bleeding into the land. Your heartbeat, exhausted, but there.

He moves so fast, faster than he knew he could, with more strength than his legs had the right to carry him. You manage a smile as you see him, despite the exhaustion, despite the wound on your temple and the pain in your ribs, you're smiling even as he hugs you, too tight against your bruising and broken bones.

“And in the dark I can hear your heartbeat. I tried to find the sound... But then it stopped.” He is talking and you can just about make out the words over your own pain. He sees your wincing and senses your pain more than his own. "You're hurt."

"So are you," you note, touching an open wound on his arm, still wet with blood.

"Not important right now," he says. You give him a look, despite your fatigue and your pain, and he smiles back at you.

"Always as important, always," you remind him.

"Both of you," Tamar clicks her fingers at you both, "we are getting you fixed up."

"I can," Tolya starts, moving to help you. You swat his hand away with a smile.

"You're exhausted," you tell him, "let someone else fix things for once, you fought enough for one day."

"We fight for what matters most," he reminds you. You can hear his heartbeat, like it was your gift, as it calms the longer he holds you up, close. You had not even noticed he was doing it, supporting you so you did not fall under the pressure of the aftermath, how like Tolya... you couldn't help but think.

"So do not argue with me, this is not a fight you will win Tolya," you say, moving towards Tamar, knowing Tolya will walk beside you, not truly letting you go. He doesn't know how.

[dranna]

Comfort in the dark

AO3 / Commissions / Links /

Includes: POV Lucius, which halfway through will be POV Severus, hurt/comfort, breakdown, feeling of dread and death, fluff at the end, not beta read, let me know if I left something out

Thank you for the request @tea-and-magic , I’m sorry it took so long ~

a/n: I saw the movies long ago and I don’t like the books (mainly because they are pov harry, sorry :’) ). I apologise if some things doesn’t make sense canon wise. So I’m certainly making things up here lmao ^^’

@giosnape thank you for the short and info filled summery of the books 😂🫶

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Dark times we live in.”

As everyone’s been saying.

Recently Fear’s been silently sitting,

On Unmarked souls and Servants,

Creeping in homes and jolly feasts,

Choking their voices away.

With Fear came Darkness and Cold,

Spreading like snow,

Covering the Warmth and Sun,

Suffocating the blooming flowers of Trust.

Lucius was breathing in

The chilly night air,

Which he thought could never feel again,

The Dark Lord had risen to full fame,

Freeing his slaves from their graves.

The Dark Lord—

He Who Shall Not Be Named,

Holding all dread above heads,

How to have the courage to look,

Into those icy snake-eyes that ruin?

Lucius was thinking while he froze,

Onto the spot he was looking at the Moon.

Terror constrained his heart,

It’s long nails leaving wounds and alarm.

He looked at the Moon again,

As if begging for calmness.

She was the only light source that night,

Not even her Starts visible on the sky,

She gave off a chilly yet comforting light,

Blinking at Lucius from above.

I can’t stay here,

They will find me and—

No, this can’t happen.

He would torture me and mock,

With those reptile eyes and high pitched voice.

I can’t go home—

Home?

I don’t even have my mansion anymore,

It’s part of His kingdom for a while now.

His mind raced as he started to walk,

He didn’t know where or why,

His legs carried him silently towards a house.

Yes it’s His,

Like Everything,

One snowy touch and it’s belongs to him.

And Narcissa and my Draco?!

Are you alright?

Where are you?

Has he started to work his ‘arts’ on you too?

I hav—need to help you,

But I can’t!

He started to sob,

While his lonely steps echoed in the dark.

I can’t I can’t I can’t,

I can’t go back!

To see Him and feel His presence!

Goosebumps ran through his body,

While he felt coldness flowing through him.

“I ca-an’t”

The word breaking through his lips,

He felt freezing and desperate,

Sinking to his knees and stare,

Into the void he was in.

Tears started to flow down his white cheeks,

Growing bigger every minute.

His mind was slow and foggy,

Showing him only pictures of Him,

His thoughts couldn’t sail away,

From His thundering storm,

Locking Lucius under icy water.

He felt the numbing feeling in his bones,

But acting against it was impossible.

“Lucius!?”

A new voice entered his mind,

Which sounded familiar,

It was slow and deep,

Mixed with disbelief.

Lucius lifted his gaze and saw,

A man with crooked nose,

A shocked expression on his usually grumpy face,

Shiny dark hair melting into the darkness.

He looks.. I know him,

But I’m so tired I can’t think..

“Malfoy? Malfoy can you hear me?

What on earth are you doing here?!”

He sounded agitated and hused,

Looking over his shoulders as he knelt besides the blond one.

He shook Lucius’ shoulders gently,

But the other man was so far off,

He couldn’t feel anything.

“I-I’m so s-scared.”

A tormented whisper left the crying man,

Which made him sob harder again,

The crooked nosed professor stood up,

Taking away his warmth.

Gently, long, skilled fingers lifted the kneeling man,

Holding up in slim arms.

Lucius didn’t register what was going on,

He only felt friendly arms holding him close to a chest,

Carrying him to god knows where.

He must have fallen asleep or lose conscience,

Because he woke up in a bed,

However it wasn’t his,

He was in a tiny room,

Filled with the smell of herbs and books,

The walls were covered with books, plants and notes,

Making him feel safe somehow.

It was a messy room,

But organised,

Everything had its place,

Left out or tucked away.

Next to the bed was a fireplace,

Omitting heat and light,

Illuminating a thin figure,

Sitting on the only chair,

Reading next to the bed.

You could’ve mistaken his calm and collected,

But the line of his mouth betrayed him.

“Severus?”

Immediately to his name,

He moved towards the lying man,

Sitting beside him on the bed.

Severus’ face mirrored worry,

Both for his lovers’ health and because of Him.

“How do you feel?”

“I.. I feel nothing.”

To this reply Snape’s heart broke in half,

Oh dear Lucius,

Who was always so confident and cocky,

Now a shell of his beautiful glory,

All of his shining light is dead,

I can’t even find a sparkle there.

And it’s all because of Him!

He is the destroyer of everything.

He killed Her..

No, not thinking of it now,

I won’t let Lucius’ fire burn out too!

After decided this in this head,

He took of his shoes and climbed in the bed,

He covered him and his lover with is only blanket,

Hugging him tight,

While placing kisses on his head.

“Everyone will be alright,

I promise.”

It was stupid of him to promise such things,

When he had no power above anything,

He was just a floating leaf,

On the muddy stream,

Going where he flowed against his will.

But he couldn’t do anything else to release the other’s pain,

So he continued whispering reassuring words into his ear.

With every word and gentle kiss,

Lucius started to relax,

He sank deeper and deeper into the the others’ presence,

Breathing in his unmistakable herby smell.

They stayed there the whole night,

Listening to the fire and each other’s heart,

The icy fingers ceased to stop,

Warm entrance took away their place.

And they just stayed and stayed entwined to one another,

Drifting into peaceful dreams.

“Thank you Severus.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for reading ~

My writing requests still open

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Made for Him II

Warnings: this fic includes dark content including rape/noncon, blood and gore, violence, death, grief, and other potential triggering elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Peter finds himself alone after the loss of those around him, so he decides to find a cure to his grief.

Characters: Peter Parker

Note: I hope you enjoy the second part...

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.

Love you all like Garfield loves lasagna. Take care. 💖

The Creator

Peter was bad at giving up. His persistence was both an asset and a flaw, praised by some and bemoaned by others. After hours watching the body, watching another loss, he shut down the machines and left her. He was too disheartened to clean up. The thought of disposing of her made him sick. 

It should have worked. Why didn't it work? 

He chewed his lip as he climbed up the stairs and closed the hatch, the heavy bang barely registered in his ears. He just couldn't figure out where he'd went wrong. Her neural receptors were alight with activity and the synapses were sparking wildly, her heart kept a steady beat and her breath rose and misted in the cold air. But she just wouldn't wake up.

She was a shell. Just like Tony's stupid suits. There was no life there, only spent energy and wasted time.

Peter took off his helmet and plunked it on the counter. The Italian humidity was not so bad as before but his hair curled damply around his face from so long in his suit. He glanced out the arched window and stared at the sky, a dimming greyish violet. A storm was brewing and would help ease the thickness that lingered.

He finished stripping away the heavy equipment, the gloves were tinted from her blood and the interior smelled of his sweat. He kicked it into the corner and swore. He would have to try again but he didn't know if he had the heart for it. He was so very tired and so very lonely.

He opened the fridge out of habit but had no appetite. He let it close and turned with a snarl and threw his fist into the stone wall of the villa. It cracked and a large chunk shattered onto the floor. He didn't feel the pain, he never felt the physical damage but he felt everything in his soul.

That was something he could not manufacture. Likely, what he was missing, but how could he infuse a living form with that mystic enigma. He laughed at himself sourly. He was deluded into thinking science fiction could ever be reality. Maybe he was mad, maybe he'd finally gone over the edge. It was a startling moment of self-reflection fractured by the sudden sharp crackle of lightning. 

He went down the hall and looked down the coast at the dark waters. The sky had quickly turned black as the storm moved in. Suddenly his vision lit up as lightning roared down and fizzled across the waves. The ebb and flow crashed loudly as the winds began to burgeon and bellow. 

Peter watched, transfixed by the violence, as thunder rumbled through the clouds as the air broke and he felt a rare coolness crawl over his skin, the hair standing on his arms and neck. Boom, boom, crack! The tempo beat wildly as he was swept up in the terror.

Thump, thump, thump… At first, he thought it was the thunder but it was hollow and much closer. The sudden muffled crash of metal made his heart skip. His feet moved on their own as he raced back to the kitchen and flung open the hatch.

There was movement from below, clattering, clinking, an odd groan. His steps hammered down and he hopped over the last few stairs.

The tray of instruments was overturned, the air still frigid and still. The metal table was bare but for the crisscrossed tubes that led to the other side. He rounded it as his ears itched and his throat lumped.

She was there, shivering and yanking on the wires hooked to her. Her face was contorted with confusion and fear, but most significantly, she was awake. She was alive!

Her eyes flicked up from her struggle and rounded as she saw him. She gave a strangled groan and clumsily wriggled away from him but not far as she was caught up in the tubes. He raised his hands as he neared, plaintively as if coaxing an animal.

"Hey, I'm not going to hurt you?" He cooed.

She thrashed out as he got close and he caught her arms. They were warm and strong as she wrestled with him. He squeezed her wrists until she stilled and he cautiously let go of one. He felt along her hand and took out the IV. She didn't resist as she was awestruck at his actions.

He glanced up and found her watching his hands. He continued to detach her and took the sensor from her chest. She was naked still but unaffected by it. He removed the ring from her head and she grabbed him suddenly.

She raised his arm beside hers and looked between them. He watched the horror swell behind her eyes and she shrieked as she let him go. She searched her body and her wails got louder as she felt the stitches he placed on her, like spiderwebs holding her together.

"It's okay," he said, "please--"

He reached out and she swatted him away. She pinched a stitch and tugged, whining as blood began to bead from the incision. He tore her hand away and grabbed the other.

"No! No!" He hissed, "don't do that."

She stared at him and her forehead wrinkled. The air rushed from his lungs as he realised she couldn't understand him. He had little hope of her retaining memories of her former life, he'd counted on it, but she didn't seem to understand anything at all.

"Come on," he stood and pulled on her until she did the same. She was unsteady and stumbled against him. She clung to him and he basked in the feel of it. "Here."

He picked her up and she cried out in surprise. He cradled her against him and headed for the steep stairs. He climbed treacherously and when he got to top, she babbled at her new surroundings. 

He took her through the kitchen and into the front room. He placed her down on the sofa and watched how she felt the cushions and pressed them with her fingers.

"Please, stay," he said as he backed away and showed her his palms, "stay."

He pointed to the couch as she batted her lashes dumbly. He slowly inched to the door and watched her as she craned to see him. He repeated his order and gesture and quickly flitted away.

He raced upstairs to the closet he filled in expectation. He took out a dress without looking and came back down. He heard whining as thunder hammered down and shook the villa. He found her under the table, hiding from the cacophony. 

He set the dress over the arm of the couch and went to her. He drew her out from beneath the table and guided her back to the couch, she flinched and exclaimed every time the windows flashed or the sky boomed. He calmed her by rubbing her arms and she looked at him curiously. 

He was frozen by her gaze. Slowly she lifted her hand and touched his cheek. Her gangly fingertips dragged along his jaw then she spread her hand over his face entirely. She pulled back and felt her own face and sobbed. He caught her hands and hushed her. He put them in her lap and reached for the dress.

He helped her poke her arms through the cap sleeves and got her head through the top. He pushed the fabric down and stood to help her up so the skirt hung down to just above her knees. He smiled. She looked wonderful.

The thunder quaked around them and she whimpered and fell against him. She latched onto him as she trembled and he brought his arms around her. He rocked her until she calmed, though she still winced at every noise.

He sat her down again and held her. She fidgeted restlessly as the storm lulled and only the patter of rain remained. He dared to let her go and took the thin woven blanket from over the back of the couch. He swathed it around her shoulders and she clutched the edges thankfully and played with the fringe like a child.

He stood and she let out a sharp breath. He paused and caressed her bare head. She watched him as he slowly pulled away, keeping his eyes on her as he went to grab his tablet from the shelf. He went back to her and sat as he unfolded the case and propped it up.

He scrolled through his files and selected a video. His collection was not vast but carefully curated. He wanted her to be happy so he kept to a particular genre.

She leaned forward and gaped at the tablet, her nose almost touching his hand. He chuckled softly as the credits began to roll and Audrey Hepburn's name flashed below Gregory Peck's. He sat back and drew her to him against the cushion and fixed the blanket around her. 

She slapped his arm but he realised it was unintentionally gruff. She felt his sleeve and pressed her thumb to the muscle beneath. He let her explore across his chest and she grabbed his chin, once more looking him over. He took her hand and twined his fingers through hers.

"Alright," he said and nodded to the tablet, "watch."

Her eyes flicked to the screen and she blinked at the images of other people. She squeaked and pointed at it then waved her hand in excitement. He smiled as she leaned forward again, gaze intent on the scene playing before her.

He was happy because he knew she would never leave. She couldn't. She needed him. Besides, he doubted she'd even have the thought. He was her creator, she belonged with him. Belonged to him

[waltwhitmansbeard]

If you're still taking the trust building prompts, may I request 16. Consoling Hugs?

Possibly set in MFL the first time Keyleth cried infront of Vax? I remember a long long time ago there was a wave of asks on it and how it was such a hard but important moment for her

16. consoling hugs read these first! finally writing the night vax goes to keyleth, wowowow i can't believe i've never written this before!!

turned my water into wine #34

Fire. Everywhere she looks, flames lick up buildings, walls, carts. The air turns to ash in her lungs, and she is choking. She stumbles forward, blind in the smoke, deafened by the screaming. The world is on fire. Pyrah looks different when it is ablaze. It is somehow bigger and smaller, stretching out and crumbling in. She would shout for help, if her voice didn't come out a gasping wheeze. All around, flesh turns to charcoal, and as a wall of flame ten, twenty, fifty feet high bears down on her, she knows her flesh is next.

Keyleth awakens with a yelp, the dark around her startling after the brilliant orange of where she's just been. She can't see, can't breathe, and the panic only intensifies when the door to her chamber slams open, the muted light from the hall flooding in as a shadow appears in the doorway. A blade reflects the candlelight from the sconces, and Keyleth jolts at the sight of it, preparing to scream—

"Your Highness, are you well?"

It's Vax. That's his voice. Yes, of course, she cried out. She stares at him, the details of his face beginning to come into focus as her eyes adjust, and she sees the worry, the eyes darting around in search of a threat.

And now she just feels foolish. A nightmare, that's all, and she has her guard responding as if an assassin has materialized in the middle of the room. She sucks in a shaky breath, but it does little to still her thundering heart. When she lets it out, a whimper escapes, unbidden, and then she is crying, silly girl that she is. She buries her face in her hands, legs pulling up close to her chest, and sobs.

What must he think of her, this poor man hired to keep her alive, who will likely someday have to call her sovereign? What must he make of her tears, of her shaking shoulders, of her curled form in the dark? Surely he imagines her to be ridiculous, pathetic, hysterical. She can just see his face turning red, embarrassed at the sight of such overwrought emotion, the door inching closed behind him as he resumes his post, wide-eyed and awkward.

But then there are arms, strong and secure, wrapping around her, pulling in her close to a chest that smells of leather and night. She startles a bit, not expecting the touch, but it doesn't take more than a moment for her to realize who is holding her. She turns into Vax's chest and continues to cry, half-ashamed, half-relieved. She curls a hand into the edge of his armor, clinging to him as if he were driftwood in a shipwreck, and she lets the terror and stress of this nightmare, of this war, soak into the leather.

She can hear him, some quiet murmuring above her head, and even though she can't make out many of the words through the din of her own sobs, just the sound of his voice, low and warm like a dying fire, eases the racing of her heart. She feels something in her hair, and it takes a few moments to realize, oh, those are his lips, pressing gentle kisses into the crown of her head.

She is safe. For the first time since this war began, since her father hired on these guards, since the news of the attack on Pyrah reached this castle, she feels truly, properly safe. It is ridiculous, of course; she is no more safe now that she had been ten minutes ago, in the dead of sleep; if anything, she is more at risk, with her door wide open and the man meant to be guarding it wrapped around her instead of interposed between her and danger. And yet. When she breathes in, when she smells him so close in dark, when she hears the drumming of his heart beneath his breastplate, this endless moment is the greatest comfort she's known in a long, long time.

It is not until her crying subsides and she regains control of her breath that she realizes how untoward this entire situation is. She has fallen to pieces in front of her guard, and in return, he has shown her far more tenderness than would ever be appropriate. She straightens herself up, wipes at her soaking eyes, and looks at him. He regards her with a concern that tightens her belly and catches her breath in her throat.

"Thank you, Vax'ildan," she whispers, her voice hoarse. "I am...sorry for the imposition."

His eyes are dark, their pupils wide. "It is no imposition, Your Highness. I..." If that sentence has an ending, he does not share it with her. Instead, he releases his arms from around her, and Keyleth is instantly cold. "Shall I return to my post?"

The word no is snatched back before it can leave her tongue. "Yes. That is...yes. Of course."

He steps back from the edge of her bed, ducks his head in a bow. He strides off toward the door and begins to pull it closed behind him as he exits. Before it is fully shut, she calls out, "Vax'ildan?"

He pauses, turns back. "Yes, Your Highness?"

Why did she stop him? What does she have to say? "Thank you."

He nods, the ghost of a smile on the corners of his mouth. Then he pulls the door closed, and Keyleth is swathed in darkness once more. As she lays her head back onto her pillow, she knows that sleep will not return to her easily, but not because of the lingering fear of nightmares—no, there is a new feeling now, a bubbling anticipation, for what she does not know. She lays there in the dark, eyes open and searching for something she cannot see until the first rays of dawn peek through the curtains to herald the new day.