#unspoken rules chapter 11 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lady-phasma · 7 months ago

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Happiness at the end of the world

Chapter 1 of ?

Daryl Dixon x OFC

Warnings: 18+ MDNI; this is really different than anything I have ever shared on Tumblr before - it's fluffy and has lots of feelings and quite a few warnings; Smut, Kinda Friends to Lovers, Bathing/Washing, Awkward Flirting, Not Canon Compliant, No PTSD in chapter 1 (mentions of past abuse in later chapters), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Demisexual Daryl Dixon, p in v sex, Fingering, Choking, ultra-Light Dom/sub

Summary a/n: Making friends in Alexandria is easier than on the road, which also means friendships can evolve and become something more if the connection is there. There's definitely a connection. Non-canon compliant because I don't ship him with Leah. (I think this is my longest fic, probably because this has been cooking for the full 11 years of TWD.) No beta. 9k words.

Daryl opened the door to the small “apartment” he lived in. Not really an apartment as much as the finished basement of one of the original surviving homes. Dog ran in first, pushing past his legs before the door could open fully. He watched as Dog started licking and nuzzling something on the couch. Dog wasn’t warning him but Daryl was always cautious and set his crossbow down gently as he closed the door and grabbed his knife from his belt all in one swift movement.

No one in Alexandria locked their doors, most of them probably didn’t have the keys to the houses anymore if they had ever had them at all. That meant that people didn’t trespass either. It was an unspoken rule made from mutual respect. Even in the faint light coming through the curtained garden windows he could tell this was a someone just not who. He started to relax a little but still held his knife as he turned on a lantern. Dog whined as the head on the couch turned and sniffed and groaned.

“Tha hell,” Daryl almost yelled it. “Dog, sit! What tha hell’re you doin’ here?” He stepped closer to the couch and sat on the coffee table. Eye level with Kristina as she sat up bleary-eyed and disheveled.

“Ya ain’t gotta yell,” she said as she rubbed her eyes open. Her short hair was sticking up all over on the side that had been on the pillow. “Anyway you’re the one that’s late.”

Daryl grunted and put the lantern on the coffee table. Kristina swung her feet onto the floor to make room on the couch for him.

“Ain’t late for nuthin’,” he grumbled as he stood up. He took his vest off and draped it over a chair followed by his belt and all the attachments. He even put his knife on the side table before sitting down on the couch.

“Well you’re late getting back is what I mean,” she said as he sat. “You were out on a run and gone longer than I thought. Find anything good?”

“Nah,” he answered. “Same as most days, ‘bout nuthin’ left here. Why’re ya here?”

“Because…” she let out a sleepy little yawn “you said that we should hang out today but then I remembered I don’t have a calendar and I don’t know what day it is so if you said Friday maybe it’s Monday and I’m the late one.” She chuckled a little at her own nonsense and that made Daryl scoff or grunt or whatever that noise was that he makes when something is slightly humorous.

She lifted her sock clad feet and a portion of blanket up onto the couch, almost in his lap but not quite. She tucked her cold toes between his leg and the couch cushion as she leaned back on the arm of the couch and looked at him.

“You had a hard day, huh?” she tried but he rarely took the bait. She was feeling him out, trying to get the sense of his mood.

Daryl shook his head just a tiny bit then shot her a side glance briefly before looking down at his hands again. He appeared to be missing the “armor” of having his pocket knife to clean his nails to avoid eye contact.

“We’ve been friends awhile,” she leaned up and hugged her knees. “Not as long as some but a while, right? So you should know by now I’m not asking as your therapist, hell I don’t even need full and complete sentences!” The half of his face she could see shifted into a slight grin at this. She desperately wanted to reach out and move the hair back from his face but they weren’t those friends.

“Yeah,” he spoke this more than grunted so that was progress.

Kristina really wanted to be more than friends with him but had never pushed him, would never. She was so curious about him. There was only so much you could learn about someone if they didn’t talk. She knew his relationship with Carol was particularly special because they had spent so many months living out there and they didn’t always need words to communicate. Trauma bonds will do that to people. She really wasn’t his therapist. She functioned as one in Alexandria for most people but never for him unless he asked. She didn’t want him to. She wanted him to need her for other things. She had been through a lot of shit when the world fell apart, made some unpleasant choices. She had survived. She didn’t want him to be her therapist either but she had shared some of the milder parts of her past with him as a kind of proof to him that she wasn’t soft or, rather, that being here hadn’t made her soft. She hadn’t told him everything but she probably would eventually, if he let her.

“Com’on, I have an idea, and don’t argue,” she said as she stood up. Stood up so quickly in fact that she startled Dog who had been nearly asleep next to the couch. “No whining either, just trust me.”

“I don’t whine,” he said, looking up at her and suppressing a bit of a grin. She smiled widely at him but let him win that one. She reached down and grabbed his hands and feigned pulling him up weakly. He conceded and stood up.

She led him by one hand through the small area he called a bedroom (truly an alcove with a mattress on the floor but whatever) and into the bathroom. She barely heard his “huh?” as they walked in. He was tired but he was also filthy. Alexandria’s electricity was mostly out but their cisterns kept water pressure pretty strong as long as everyone wasn’t opening their taps at the same time. She closed the toilet lid and pushed his shoulders down as a signal to sit. He actually didn’t argue.

First, Kristina plugged the tub drain, then she turned on the hot tap and ran the water over her inner wrist testing its temperature. She wasn’t optimistic but what was in the hot water tank had stayed pretty warm. Some of the solar electricity must be working during the day. She ran the water into the tub until it ran almost cold. Looking at the amount and scowling she turned around to look at Daryl and raised an eye brow. He was watching her intently. She blushed a little. He couldn’t read her mind thank god because she had only glanced at him to assess water displacement and how full the tub needed to be for comfort and at that moment thought about him without his clothes on. Naked Daryl, my, well that would be different. She shook her head and looked back at the tub.

The water was cooling off so she instructed him to “stay right there, just a sec” and bounded through to the kitchenette for a pan and a sterno can. When she returned to the bathroom she looked around and realized the best place for the sterno was on the toilet lid but Daryl was still where she had told him to stay.

“Ugh, what now?!” he grumbled.

“Get up! Laws of thermodynamics and all that means your water’s coolin’ off, so I’m going to do this and you get undressed,” she bossed at him while setting up her burner and pan.

“No, wha?” he blustered “Uhn-uh, nope.”

“Oh you big baby, just do it,” she teased, she made sure the teasing was evident in her tone. Once she had filled the pan with water and sat it over the flame she turned to see what she had expected: Daryl pressed so hard against the opposite wall that he might just sink into it, with all his clothes on.

Kristina giggled a very girlish giggle, something she rarely ever had occasion to do in her 30s but damn he was endearing. He looked up at her with those eyes and through his filthy hair and she couldn’t stop herself. Walking slowly as if toward a cornered wild animal she made the couple of steps to him. She slowly reached out her hand and put it on one of his, slid it around so they were palm to palm.

“Look, you don’t have to,” she soothed. “But the water is warm, I’ll add some more hot as fast as it heats so you don’t get cold. I won’t see anything you don’t want me to and anyway, when did you last bathe? That wasn’t in a creek?”

His grin was reply enough to that and was a very sincere grin. He nodded slightly and she let go of his hand.

She tested the water in the tub again, nodded to herself, and tested the water that had been heating while they talked and sucked in a sharp breath when she felt the hot water hit the tips of her fingers. She grabbed a towel to hold the pan’s handle and gradually mixed in the heated water with that in the tub. She filled the pan again from the sink. It probably wouldn’t take many more of these to make it comfortable. She waited, looking at the pan of water on the flame as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world because she didn’t dare turn around.

At first she had only heard the soft swooshes of shirt fabric as he began to get undressed. Then she had heard one boot, then the next, thump onto the tile floor. The next sounds were out of context so she could only imagine what was happening while staring at this incredibly interesting pan of water. She heard Daryl’s bare feet make a few steps on the floor and then a hand moved past her to grab a bath cloth off the rack.

“Scuse me,” he said very close to her ear. All of the muscles in her neck froze to keep her from pivoting to see how much progress he had made.

“Yeah, of course,” she replied. Except she kind of croaked the words out and had to clear her throat a bit. She decided to test the water.

“Shit! Okay well that’s hot enough.” she yelped. “So I need to pour this in and I can’t do it with my eyes closed so if you don’t want me to see something, whatever, cover it in 3… 2… 1….” She turned slowly looking mostly at the pan and the floor then the tub. But she knew she would look at him once she started pouring. Who wouldn’t?

Daryl stood looking mostly at his feet but not cowering or shy like she had expected. It occurred to her that he probably bathed naked or just in his underwear out in the woods but there just wasn’t anyone to see him. So in this small room the only things that were modest were his gaze and using the bath cloth like a loin cloth. He was tan but also very dirty and she was pretty sure this one bath wouldn’t be enough but he could deal with that tomorrow.

“Okay, I think it’s ready for you but I’m going to heat at least one more pan,” she said far too quickly, almost making one word from them all and turned to the sink to refill it.

“Uh, thanks,” he said from behind her. Then the water in the tub made a sloshing sound and then another. There was some squeaking on porcelain, presumably his hands on the sides as he lowered himself in, and that mental image was actual the first one that consciously made her flush and feel the tug between her legs. She had thought Daryl sexy very, very many times and had probably had this normal, biological reaction to him many times, but this was different. This time was not brief or from her own imaginings. She took a deep breath and relished it.

Daryl sighed and then inhaled sharply. He went all the way under the water, coming up sputtering and smiling to himself a bit. She noticed the shampoo on a high shelf and, without looking, sat it near the tub so he could reach it.

“You good on soap?” she asked the pan of water.

“M’fine,” he said. “You don’t hafta keep starin at that water. I’m in now, won’t embarrass ya.”

Kristina looked over at him and the blush rose from her cheeks to her hairline. Shit, yup, Daryl was now Naked Daryl. She didn’t stare at any one place and after making eye contact briefly she put her gaze on the floor. Mostly out of respect. She decided she could sit on the bath mat and keep an eye on the heating water without feeling like an interloper. He didn’t tell her to leave and it didn’t occur to her to leave but there was more water heating so she’d stay until that pan was finished.

He sighed and leaned his head back, dipping his hair into the water again. She had seen some of his scars before but he still kept most of them out of view. She had a clear view of one on his chest she had only glimpsed before through an open shirt or when he changed quickly out of blood and dirt covered clothes. She desperately wanted to touch each of them. She equally didn’t want to get caught staring though she was pretty sure he already knew she was.

She tested the temp of the water on the sterno and it felt hot enough. Maybe he would ask her to leave and that would be that and she’d wait with Dog in the living room. She blew out the sterno flame and he opened his eyes, looking at her sideways without moving his head. Now the only light source was the small lantern. The sudden semi-darkness had surprised them both.

“Uh, do you want me to, um, or you can if you’d rather,” she stumbled through that question without finishing. “I don’t want to burn you. How’s the water?” She wanted to sew her mouth shut. Wow that was embarrassing.

“You can if ya want,” he answered as he closed his eyes. “I trust ya. Water’s good. Thanks again. Ya knew I’d just go to bed smellin like the woods.”

“Like the woods for starters and dead things and dirt and Dog. He needs a bath soon too!” she was able to tease unselfconsciously again in the dimmer light. She couldn’t see anything below the surface of the water, not that she was looking, but that made them both less tense it seemed. Like he were less naked.

Kristina turned to pick up the sterno can and take it and the pan to the kitchenette when she felt his hand lightly on her wrist.

“Don’t go,” he whispered without looking up.

She placed everything on the sink and went to sit on the bathmat again, this time she put her back against the tub wall, facing away from him, and hugged her knees to her chest. They sat in silence like that for some time. She really did cherish that he enjoyed silence. The world before had been so loud that it made her anxious. Now the sounds of walkers was almost constant depending on your location. Any silence when you were able to be unguarded was sacrosanct.

She heard the water sloshing gently behind her and smelled the mingled odor of the outdoors with the floral soap and smiled. He would definitely feel better and sleep better.

“Hey, could ya do one more a’ those?” he asked in a low whisper trying not to disturb their silence too much. Wordlessly she set everything up, lit the sterno, they both squinted at the extra light, and filled the pan. She sat back in her exact spot on the bath mat.

At first her brain lagged and didn’t know how her arm got wet. She felt the warm water on her upper arm before she felt his fingers. Then his fingers went up under her t-shirt sleeve and back down, up then down. So slowly that she almost shivered and she did make the smallest moan then clenched her jaw tight so no other sound could escape. He was so guarded against the world that touching someone seemed impossible. She had analyzed that from afar for a while now, not infrequently. But the part of her brain trained in analysis wasn’t in control at the moment. Right now she just wanted to feel this. When she leaned to check the water somehow, not intentionally on her part, his fingers grazed the side of her breast. She hitched in a small breath. She was pretty sure he had been looking at her and aimed that last touch.

The water was hot enough so she blew out the sterno and turned, still on her knees, with the pan ready to pour in the hot water. His blue eyes glinted in the dim light as he watched her. He was beautiful like that. Strong, lean, hair wet against his head, muscular arms on either side of the tub, amazingly unselfconscious. Just waiting on her. She nearly dropped the pan when he quirked up one corner of his mouth.

“Whasa matter with you?”he asked.

“Nuthin’,” she muttered. She started gently pouring the water into the tub and unconsciously glanced at him under the water. The bath cloth was strategically placed and she relaxed a little. Then she knelt next to the bath and swallowed hard.

“Well, I’ll let ya get on with it,” she told him. “You probably need two or three good scrubbin’s and your hair. Do you sleep in mud?!” Her hand was halfway to smooth back his hair before she realized it. She followed through and pushed a lock back from his cheek. He didn’t look at her.

“Nah,” he replied and cupped both his hands full of water and swept it over his head. He sunk down into the tub just a bit, knees poking out of the surface now. “An’ don’t go.” His eyes were closed as the water ran down his face.

“Okay,” Kristina replied. “So whatcha wanna do, talk?” She laughed a little and she noticed the corners of his mouth twitched up at that. She enjoyed teasing him because he knew his own idiosyncrasies and wasn’t embarrassed around her… most of the time.

Daryl started fiddling with the soap and cloth nervously and unproductively. He seemed to finally realize he was naked. He looked over at her watching him. It was a good thing his face was flushed from the warm water or she would see him blush.

“Lord, why am I even in here then?” she asked exasperatedly. She snatched the bottle of shampoo from the side of the tub, anxiety forcing her to do something. “Sit up.”

He did as he was told while she put some shampoo on her hands. She started out gently and then the absolute mess of his hair distracted her from her nerves. She had never washed a grown man’s hair before in her life and had not planned this but now that she was doing it she wondered a bit about why he was letting her. She had her suspicions about his experience with women and understood his shyness. But this felt out of character at the moment, out of character for both of them.

She scrubbed at the tangles and grumbled. “Dunk,” she commanded. He did. She added a bit more shampoo and massaged it in. From the corner of her eye she saw him start to actually use the bath cloth to clean his face, neck, arms. His arms. Her breath hitched a little at the sight of his bare biceps.

She rose up on her knees to get better leverage on this mess and her breast pressed into his shoulder. The water soaked through her t-shirt and bra. She tried to continue with the task at hand but both of them had frozen for a moment, keenly aware of the contact. She didn’t pull away. She decided to appear to ignore it, maybe it would be a signal to him. She took advantage of the accident and pressed a little more against him. He made a sound like quietly clearing his throat. She smiled to herself a little.

When she was satisfied that his hair was as clean as it would be this time she told him to rinse. She sat back on her heels as he sunk under the water and ran his fingers through his hair. He came up sputtering and immediately shook his head like a dog, spraying her and the bathroom with water. She laughed and instinctively shoved his shoulder.

“Hey! Not fair,” she played but her hand lingered a bit longer than intended.

Daryl scoffed, that small laugh of his. He leaned back and started working the soap in his hands. Still avoiding eye contact. What on earth is he thinking, she wondered. The longer this stretched out the more she began to feel things, things she wasn’t sure she was supposed to feel. She had always been bold with men but most weren’t as… as what? delicate? as he was. Timid might be the more accurate word. She couldn’t just grab him and drag him to his bed even if that’s ultimately what he was trying to get her to do. So she stood up and perched on the edge of the tub. She held out her hand. He looked up at her slowly from her hand, up her arm, to her face, questioning.

“Gimme,” she said. “Soap and cloth.” Neither of them broke eye contact as he put them in her hand. Their fingers grazed.

She had never done this before and felt a very awkward. She wasn’t judging him for wanting this, she could probably psychoanalyze why he wanted her to, but she was trying to enjoy it for him. If she was tense he would pick up on it. He was too perceptive not to.

Kristina wet the cloth and her hands in the water next to his legs, extra careful not to touch him. She tried to exhale as quietly as possible. She slid closer to the end of the tub and positioned herself almost behind him. She pressed her fingertips on his shoulders, indicating she wanted him to lean forward. He did but he kind of crumpled and drew his knees up and rested his arms and head on them. She really had never seen all of his scars and tattoos. He kept them hidden. She gently started washing the back of his neck, then she realized she would actually have to scrub. She was honestly embarrassed, more than he was it seemed.

Her mind was racing as she washed down his shoulders and back. All these thoughts and at the forefront was the idea that he knew exactly how uncomfortable this made her. Dixon could be that manipulative? Nah. she argued with herself. She scrubbed a bit too hard over a recent bruise and he pulled away and hissed air through his teeth.

“Sorry, shit,” she said and laid her bare palm on the bruise. He softened a bit with that but didn’t speak. She slowly finished what she could reach and then pulled back on his shoulder for him to lean back. She rinsed and re-soaped the cloth and decided to be a little bold, test his intentions a bit. His eyes were closed so she started on his neck and down his shoulder, bicep, to the water’s surface. She retraced her path and then moved the cloth slowly down his chest. His eyes fluttered but he didn’t move. She wanted to feel the hair and the scars on him with her bare hand but it was too soon to drop this ridiculous pretense.

She leaned across to reach his other shoulder deliberately pressing her breasts against him. He did move a little then. A kind of shrug, not to move away but to reciprocate. She wiped the cloth down his other arm and then slowly sat back up. She cleared her throat a bit more loudly than she intended. In the silence of the bathroom it almost echoed.

Daryl opened his eyes and looked at her. She just couldn’t put her hands under the water. She panicked and dropped the cloth. She stood up, didn’t quite run from the room but almost. She was out so quickly that she left the door open behind her. She leaned against the wall in his bedroom and exhaled, shaking all over. Nope, I did not just do that, she thought. She had. She had fled. Whatever he was doing, on purpose or not, was too much for her. She heard the drain start in from the bathroom. A few more noises and then Daryl was in the doorway, the towel wrapped low on his hips.

“Thas how it is, huh?” he had a great poker face.

“Mmmm,” was the best she could muster in front of his defined muscles. She felt herself shake her head side to side without meaning to. God how she wanted to start babbling and explaining and deflecting but also not do those things and just let this play out how he wanted.

He walked toward her. So big and silent. He could look menacing if he tried but his face was always kind to her. His hair was tousled and in his eyes again. Unph. She almost made that sound out loud. Instead she tucked her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down. His eyes caught on that movement while he took the few steps to her. She could feel the heat coming off him, he was so close to her. He smelled wonderful, not entirely clean as she suspected. She could smell him.

There was no way he was doing this, being the opposite of shy with her. He looked down at the wet spots on her shirt. He started to touch her hand but only hovered next to it then let his drop to his side. He started talking, mumbling, toward the floor.

“Dunno, it’s dumb,” he said. “Jus wanted to see if you would, ya know, do somethin.”

Wow he was so uncomfortable even after trying to seem otherwise that she ached for him and the courage he must have dug up from deep inside. Very slowly she thought she understood how he could see something incredibly awkward as an opening. Realization dawning, she smiled up at him. She would not laugh because she didn’t want to risk him ever thinking that she was laughing at him. She had to pause to choose her next words and actions carefully. He wasn’t confident enough to overtly take control but wanted it, wanted her to give in, meet him more than halfway.

“Yes, Daryl,” she almost whispered. She brushed a wet lock of hair back from his forehead and trailed her fingers down his jaw. She liked that he didn’t shave. “Yes, I would do anything but only with your consent. Probably, I’d do some things I didn’t want to,” she tipped her head in the direction of the bathroom, hopefully indicating that had been awkward for her.

“Yeah?” he almost growled, the single syllable rumbling in his chest.

“Sure,” she let her fingers move to his lips and she thought she had finally lost her mind. “Sure, just as long as I know it’s what you want.” He pulled away but not in a way that made her regret her honesty.

“Yer prolly doin that head shrinkin’ thing,” he said dubiously, inspecting her eyes for any reaction, any tale-tale sign that she would lie to him.

“Never!” she said a bit louder than she planned. “I couldn’t anyway,” she winked at him. “You’re a completely open book.” He almost laughed at this, almost. Kristina was relieved that he was great at picking up on her sarcasm.

They stood silently for nearly too long, it was almost uncomfortable. Finally Daryl took a step back. He held the towel at his waist and started to walk toward the living room. She was pretty sure he was going to put clothes on and she would miss this window, this giant window with a neon sign flashing “entrance” above it, and she’d be damned if she would miss that.

“Wait,” she grabbed the wrist of his free hand and he stopped. He didn’t turn toward to her, just froze. She stepped up behind him. Still wishing not to rush things and probably failing, she lightly touched his shoulder, a scar. He winced. She traced her finger down his spine to the top of the towel. She flattened her palm on his hip and pulled their bodies together. He was quite a bit taller than her so her head was exactly level with the space between his shoulder blades. She watched them flex, he was now holding the towel with both hands. She continued to slide her palm around him, to his stomach. He stiffened as she placed her other hand there as well and pressed her entire body into him. She hugged him tightly, waiting, hoping he would breathe and start to relax. She felt the rumble against her cheek as he sighed or moaned or whatever that sound was. He shifted and placed a hand on top of hers.

She didn’t know how long they stood there but it seemed neither of them was in a hurry to move. She did though. She gently pulled her hands back, trailed her fingers along his back in the direction she was walking, summoning him. She stood in front of the mattress on the floor and waited for him to turn around. When he did, when she knew he was watching, she started to lift her t-shirt over her head but he nearly pounced to stop her. He grabbed her hand while only her stomach was bared. He tightened the towel around his waist and hesitantly grabbed the hem of her shirt, sliding it up and off. He dropped it on the floor. His hands hovered momentarily and then he slid them down her bare arms.

Daryl stepped so close to her that they were nearly touching again. He tipped her chin up to him with his fingers. She looked at him and parted her lips slightly. He leaned down as if to kiss her but stopped with their mouths only millimeters apart. He licked his lips but still seemed unable to make up his mind. Then, suddenly, he was kissing her. Lips pressed hard together against teeth. Inexpertly but lovely. She kissed him back, desperate, but not opening her mouth further, letting him lead. She felt his tongue against her lips and the surprise ran down her spine to her clit. She encouraged him with her own. God how she wanted to press against him, hurry him.

He put a hand on the back of her head and twisted his fingers in her short hair as best he could. He didn’t pull her into him but tugged, almost pulled on her hair. He groaned into her mouth. She pushed her tongue past his lips, exploring his tongue, his mouth. She placed her hands on either side of his face hoping to help him relax his clenched jaw. It almost worked. Until it didn’t. He overthought everything and this touch startled him enough to pull back from their kiss.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I, uh, I don’t know if I can…” he trailed off. He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. She enjoyed this for a few moments, the closeness, breathing each other in.

“That’s okay,” she said in a near whisper. “Com’on, sit down.” She sat on the mattress and leaned her bare back against the cold wall. She shivered. He slumped down next to her and the towel slipped a little, showing one of his thighs more than he might have wanted if he had noticed. She turned to look at him, not stopping herself from smoothing his hair back just a bit. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him but she was pretty sure that was not what he wanted.

She pressed the side of her body up against him completely. She let her fingers slide over the back of his hand and then rest on it.

“Hey…” she whispered. When he looked at her she kissed his cheek, jaw, then his bottom lip. Using her hand to guide him she lifted his and set it gently on her breast. Her bra was still damp and her nipple was hard against his palm. He made the best sounds, this one between a grunt and a groan, and she was positive he had no idea how sexy he was when he did that. She pressed the back of his hand lightly until his fingers flexed. She arched her back. He turned toward her more fully and started to explore, edging his finger tips under the edges of her bra.

Kristina made all of her movements slow and deliberate, contorting her arms behind herself to flick open her bra. She nudged the straps down and he took the hint. His breath was warm on her chest but her nipples ached they were so hard. He sat up, leaned down, and slowly put his lips on one nipple then carefully licked at it. Her moans encouraged him. He sucked her nipple into his mouth. He caressed and kissed and licked with singular focus, adjusting based on the noises he drew from her.

Then he knelt and pulled her under him. It was strained and awkward at first. Her legs were curled under her, he held her up with a hand on her back while the other kneaded her breast. She sighed and pushed against his mouth. His hands were rough and strong. The feeling of his scruffy beard on her bare chest sent electricity through her entire body. He was perfect and a quick study. She tested putting her hands on his sides, smoothing them up his back, wrapping her arms around them to pull him closer. As she did this he started to lay her back on the bed. She straightened her legs out under him. She became acutely aware that her jeans were still on and he was mostly naked. He moved his hand from her back and cupped both of her breasts in his hands. His sharp, ragged breaths made her hips rise. She was pinned by him as he straddled her, holding her in place with his thighs. She squeezed her eyes shut harder not allowing herself to find out if his towel was still holding on for dear life. That would ruin this moment of focusing only on Daryl’s mouth and hands.

He felt her hips move and her back arch. He split his attention between her breast and finding his way to the waistband of her jeans. One handed he unbuttoned them and ripped open the zipper. She gasped a little and dug her fingers into his back. She wanted him to do everything at once, anything he decided to do next was fine by her. He slowly let her nipple slide from his lips. He began kissing her collarbones, her neck, her jaw, and then, finally her mouth. She opened her eyes to find his were open as he watched and decoded every her every move and expression. She felt his fingertips under the elastic of her panties and stayed as still as possible, kissing him harder, brushing her tongue over his lips.

She was so wet. She probably had been since he first undressed in the bathroom. He moaned into their kiss as his fingers slid between her folds and over her clit. He was learning, exploring, and taking his time. He moved his other hand to the bed beside her head to support his weight and get a better angle. He drug his finger through her wetness and up onto her belly. He started to sit up, ending the slow, delicious kiss and she lifted her head trying to keep their lips together as long as possible. His large, strong hand pushed her back, actually shoved her, onto the mattress. Her eyes went wide.

When he gripped the waist of both her jeans and panties she had to look down. He was pulling them down while he worked his way to the foot of the bed. Miraculously the towel was still on his hips but only barely. She could see how hard he was. He was basically naked and when he slipped her pants off her feet he also dropped his towel on the floor. This is happening, she thought. Holy shit. Before any more thoughts could form he was spreading her legs, opening them by her ankles. He looked at every part of her with such intensity that she wasn’t at all surprised when he kissed her calves. Then he started his way up placing kissed behind her knee, on her thigh, on the inside of her thigh. He smoothed a hand up over her hip bone and rested it firmly on her belly as he kissed the sensitive skin in the crease of her hip. It was clear he wasn’t going straight to her pussy. Her eyes were fixed on him and as soon as he was within reach she put her hands in his hair.

Daryl’s eyes shot up at her, his mouth still on her hip. For just a second he seemed to being making a decision. Then he lifted his head and grabbed her wrists, one in each of his hands. He slammed them down on the bed firmly. Message received. She pressed them down to indicate she understood. He almost smiled as he dipped his head to place more kisses on her belly and just below her breasts. Her hips moved and tilted and his hands stopped them as well, fingers digging in hard against her hip bones. She moaned. So this is it, she thought, this is what he was afraid of?

He roughly forced her legs wider apart, careful not to put his thigh where they both wanted it. He leaned over her, his knees holding her thighs open, the cool air on her pussy making her tremble. Okay not just the air. His hands were on either side of her head now. How badly she wanted to put her hands on his arms, feel his muscles, touch every part of him. He looked down at her, almost drowsily, and the groaning purring rumble started in his chest again. He kissed her fiercely, briefly.

“This good?” he asked because he had to. Not because she needed him to but he needed assurance, guidance.

“Mmmhmmm,” she mewled and her body reflexively arched and tried to roll her hips against him.

“No,” he said tonelessly. She stopped.

“This ain’t the time to say this,” he started. He licked his lips and closed his eyes, gathering courage. “But I ain’t never, I mean, well, shit.” He blushed. She started to lift her hands to comfort him, sooth him, and let them fall back to her sides. So she just tilted her head slightly and smiled.

“S’okay,” she whispered. She felt like it would be disobeying too soon if she were to touch him so she had to find the words. She licked her lips and looked directly in his eyes. “Take your time, tell me what you want, show me, we do it how you need to, kay?”

Daryl answered by sliding a hand down her body, without breaking eye contact, and slipping a finger through her wetness again. She let out a small breath and he smiled just a bit. She swallowed hard.

“May I?” she nervously asked.

He grunted assent. So she carefully slid a hand over his, lining her fingers up with his. He groaned and closed his eyes, concentrating. She used her fingers to guide him, first circling her clit then dipping lower. She gently pressed his finger into her and sighed. She slid her hand to his wrist and pushed. It had the desired effect and his finger moved deeper into her. The sounds he made were always guttural, sincere, almost feral. Maybe he had never even had his fingers in a woman. This thought made her cunt ache and she clinched around him.

“Another,” she begged.

He obliged, slipping a second finger inside her. Her hips twitched toward him. His entire body started to move as he began to fuck her with his fingers. They seemed to become aware, for the first time, of his dick pressed between them. She struggled not to push her hips down on his fingers. She wanted him to fill her and she didn’t know if he could read the signs. She spread her legs wider and moaned, almost begging wordlessly. He obliged and slid a second finger in. Certain that it was not possible for him to being enjoying this as much as she was, Kristina flushed when she opened her eyes to see him watching her. That intense focus aimed at her. Like tracking an animal, he was reading every sign available to him. He bit his bottom lip. His eyes moved over her arms by her sides, her chest rising and falling, her hips rolling, the place where their skin touched at the hip.

He ground his palm into her clit and pulled his fingers almost completely out. Then, very nearly roughly, he pushed three fingers into her. He bit his lower lip. He was using only a fraction of his strength but watching his arm working to make her feel this good made her want to grab onto it, claw and scratch at him. He really was paying close attention and curled his fingers slightly inside her. Her cunt clenched tight on him and she balled the sheets of the bed in her fists. She didn’t recognize the sounds that came out of her mouth but some of them resembled his name. Then his thumb pressed on her clit. He didn’t move it, only increased the pressure.

“Oh god Daryl,” she gasped. “I’m going to come.” She couldn’t fill her lungs with air.

He put his mouth close enough to her ear that she almost felt his lips move. “No.”

She couldn’t contain a deep groan but it wasn’t protesting, it was resignation and she tried with all of her focus to relax her grip on his fingers. She squeezed her eyes shut. She felt the mattress dip with his weight as he pressed up to be right above her, on top of her. His dick nudged at her belly and he hissed sharply. He had moved his weight to his knees to free his other hand. With it her gripped her jaw, under her chin and lifted it up. She was learning him as quickly as he was learning her. She opened her eyes. She was supposed to be looking at him, not escaping the sensations. His thumb was harder on her clit, he had more leverage with this angle. He leaned in and kissed her. This time forcing her lips apart with his tongue. He was hurried and desperate and hungry. She gave in and made room for him.

She wasn’t completely sure she had ever allowed anyone to control her like this. She was excited, thrilled, by it. The release of control, no longer making decisions, but mostly allowing him to take pleasure from her… that was flattering for lack of a better word. It made her feel sexy and uninhibited. In the past few years there hadn’t been time for those feelings. Every moment of life was filled with decisions and nothing remotely sexy. She wanted to relax and enjoy this but she was so close and it had been a while since anyone had given her an orgasm other than herself. And this was giving, if he ever allowed it this would be a helluva gift.

At almost the same moment that he pulled his mouth from hers he removed his fingers. The sudden emptiness made her gasp. He actually smiled. Still kneeling and holding her face he placed his fingers on her mouth. He inhaled deeply in an almost crude way, smelling her. He started to slowly part her lips, encouraging her to do what he wanted. She did. With her inhibitions nearly forgotten she started sucking his fingers, doing whatever this enigmatic man asked. Whatever pleased him. If she took the time to really think about it she might panic, think this was too different from some core part of her. She wasn’t going to do that. Instead she sucked his fingers deep into her throat, wanting only to pull those sounds from him. Or to finally make him grind into her, give her the friction she needed.

He took his fingers away and briefly kissed her. Then he mumbled something into her mouth.

“Huh?” she was barely able to focus. He released her chin and propped himself up, one hand on either side of her head again, and leaned in close.

“Ya want it?” he growled. She wasn’t entirely sure it was a question but she moaned and nodded emphatically.

Daryl straightened, placed a hard, heavy hand on her belly, and stared at her pussy for a moment. He wrapped his hand around his dick and began to slowly stroke. She couldn’t look away but watching made her ache. She realized his hand was on her stomach to keep her still so he could watch. He pressed harder when she started squirm and push her hips toward him.

“Uhn-uh,” he said without looking at her.

He was actually expertly rubbing the head of his dick against her clit. His sighs were deeper now. He slid his hand from her belly to her hip, nearly to her ass, and guided her to tilt and lift her hips how he wanted her. She felt exposed. Now embarrassment washed over her. Her legs were spread wide, her hips raised, and all for him, only him. So he could look at her. She could follow through and trust this or she could stop. She didn’t want to stop. She was amazed at how exciting this humiliation was, wanted to let her mind examine how much he intended to humiliate her. She was relieved when he guided her ass to rest on his thighs, her calves were trembling from the position.

Once she had relaxed and trusted him with her weight his hand went back to her belly. He stroked her clit with his thumb while also holding her down. She let out a small huff when she realized what he was doing. That made him glance up at her face. His head still tilted down but his eyes studying her behind his loose, messy hair. She wanted to pout, put on a show for him, antagonize him, but thought maybe that would come later, if they ever did this again. Instead she mouthed please and he lowered his gaze again.

His dick nudged at her pussy, sliding in just a bit but it was enough that she completely understood why he was holding her still. He’s really never done this?! her mind yelled. He pulled back almost punishing her for trying to rush. Then he started to slowly, excruciatingly slowly, slide into her. He released his grip on his dick and pushed into her until their hips met. He found her hips with his hands and pulled her closer. She didn’t know if he could go any deeper but she wanted it. Wanted all of him in her. She didn’t want this delicious slowness to end but she desperately needed him to move. Her hands pulled at the sheets using anything she could to stay still like he wanted. His eyes flicked up when he saw the movement but she didn’t notice. Her eyes were shut tightly trying to center herself.

“Kristina,” he said. A flat toneless word the way he said it but it had more meaning behind it than she had ever heard. She moaned and looked at him. He wanted needed? her to watch, to be present. He withdrew and using her hips as leverage pushed back in. He intended for her to feel every inch of his dick but was taking it slow for himself. Out nearly completely, back in tapping lightly against her cervix. This sudden, unexpected resistance was the first thing to elicit an involuntary reaction: “shit” he hissed, drawing out the word. She had always enjoyed it when her cervix was involved in sex, if it wasn’t hard pressure it was pleasant but this, this was mind altering. His exploration, his excitement combined with her inability to move and control the fucking made every sensation heightened.

Daryl was definitely exploring. He repeated the action. Out, in, pressure on her cervix. His fingers were going to leave bruises on her hips and she didn’t care. He increased his speed, shortening his strokes, lifting both of them just a little each time. His eyes had barely left the place where he disappeared inside her cunt but now he looked up to watch her breasts sway with his efforts. He leaned forward, unintentionally pushing in farther than he had yet, and ran his hands up her sides. She was liquid, pliant, and let him move her like a doll. He scooped her up with his arms under hers, hands gripping her shoulders for leverage. She was no longer in control of any part of her body and instinctively wrapped her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. She had enough presence of mind to think he is so strong before letting her head fall into the crook of his neck. She was panting with the speed of his thrusts.

He had lifted her off the bed and into his lap and she felt small and dizzy and wonderful. There was no space between them, no room for him to pull out with each thrust. Her clit rubbed against the coarse hair on his lower belly. She couldn’t stop the rolling of her hips, clenching and unclenching around him. He kissed her neck, sometimes scraping his teeth over her skin, not quite biting. His lips brushed against her ear. One hand moved up her neck and into her hair, then back to her shoulder, lower to her ass. He was exploring, touching every part of her. She felt like he was touching her everywhere at once, inside and out.

When his hand snaked between them and his rough fingers found her nipple she started to beg and plead and warn “I’m going to come, please Daryl, oh god please.”

He breathed against her as his fingers dug into her shoulder, finding more purchase and bringing them closer together when she was sure there had been no more room. His other hand still rolling and pinching her nipple. They were both moving faster now. No difference between them, in perfect rhythm, and she noticed more than felt her fingernails dig into his back.

“Mmhmm,” he grunted. “I want ya to.”

An incoherent stream of ohfuckDarylohfuckfuck poured out of her mouth, head flung back, body arched toward him. She clamped her legs tight against his sides as her orgasm spread from her center. His arms moved to encircle her and press her breasts against his chest. She moaned with this new sensation. Groaned actually. It was going to be too much soon.

And then it was too much. His breath hitched in his chest and she felt him tense nearly every muscle in his body. His groan started deep in his chest. She wanted to feel that vibrate through her so she sat up straighter and ground her hips down onto his dick. He buried his face between her breasts and she tangled her hands in his hair.

“I’m gonna…” he tried to say through clenched teeth. “Ah baby I’m comin’. Fuck. Fu…” He crushed his face against her chest. She felt his hips jerk a few times then become still, felt his dick spasm inside her, and now she felt she could sooth and reassure without permission. She stroked his sweat-dampened hair, kissed the top of his head, and ran her hands down his neck and back. Then her hands found his face and turned it up to hers and she kissed him. Hard and rough and deep. She forced his mouth open with her tongue. He kissed her back and as he did her grabbed her ass with both hands and lifted her up. He laid her back on the bed. She untangled her limbs from him. Then he slowly pulled out. She felt his cum trickle out, hot and more than a little satisfying.

He sank down heavily on the bed next to her. Half on his side, he laid an arm across her stomach and curled his fingers over her arm. She snuggled against his chest, still feeling small and safe but now also calm and quiet. Peaceful. With her eyes half-closed she languidly traced a scar on his arm.

“So that’s it huh?” he said quietly. She felt him smile as he kissed the top of her head.

“Well, when you put it like that,” she teased and giggled. She kissed his chest, pressed as much of her body against his as possible. “Yeah, that’s it, exactly it.”

Chapter 2

#daryl dixon #virgin!daryl x ofc #virgin!daryl #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixion smut #daryl dixon x ofc #the walking dead daryl #daryl smut #x ofc #twd fanfiction #twd daryl #demisexual daryl

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pxnsneverland · 6 months ago

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Something Immortal | Biker!Austin Butler x OC (part 7)

plot summary: In the gritty underbelly of a city ruled by werewolf biker gangs, Austin Butler reigned supreme as the ruthless leader of his pack. A man of unwavering ferocity, he lied, killed, and stole without remorse, living by a code of violence that defined his kind. Yet, even Austin harbored a secret weakness – his childhood friend Bonnie Barlow, the one woman he had loved in silence for years. Bonnie's father had once been part of Austin's gang, but after his death, she fled the treacherous world of the werewolves, unable to stomach the endless cycle of crime and brutality. For five years, she remained a fugitive from her own nature, until a fateful night when her life took an irreversible turn. Freshly released from a two-year prison stint, Austin returned to his pack, reveling in the debauchery of their den. But his revelry was cut short by a frantic call from Bonnie, pleading for his aid. Rushing to her side, he uncovered a grim truth – in a desperate act of self-defense against her abusive boyfriend, Bonnie had taken a life, awakening the dormant werewolf within her. As the next full moon loomed, she would undergo her first agonizing transformation, a fate she had always dreaded. Defying the pack's ruthless code, Austin sheltered Bonnie, guiding her through the excruciating metamorphosis that tore through her body each lunar cycle. In the depths of her torment, their bond rekindled, blossoming into a love they had long suppressed. Nights of shared laughter and reminiscence gave way to stolen moments of tenderness, their connection deepening with every passing moon. Yet, their newfound bliss was a fragile thing, forever threatened by the harsh realities that governed their world. For Bonnie was branded a deserter, her very existence a betrayal in the eyes of the pack. If Austin's treachery was uncovered, retribution would be swift and merciless.

pairings: biker!austin butler x oc

word count: 2838

warnings/notes: blood, murder, pain

Chapter 7: The Breaking Chains

Austin stood motionless as the shelter door slammed shut, the echo reverberating through the concrete walls. Victor's smirk and knowing words clung to him like the chill of the night air.

"He knows," Austin thought, jaw clenched. The secret he had fought so hard to protect now lay exposed under Victor's cunning gaze.

Bonnie's snarls permeated the tense silence, her wolf form still straining against the chains. Austin's eyes lingered on her a moment longer, taking in the wild fury that had replaced the gentle empathy he loved. She would come back to him, he knew this - but for now the beast ruled her mind.

With a reserved exhale, Austin turned to face Victor. His piercing eyes narrowed, ice-blue shards that cut through the dim lighting. This was an unforeseen complication, one he'd have to handle with care.

Victor's lips curled into a grotesque mimicry of a smile, his eyes alight with the kind of manic glee that sent shivers down one's spine. He circled around Austin like a shark scenting blood in the water, relishing the power he now wielded with the knowledge of a secret so destructive it could topple the alpha from his throne.

"Never thought I'd see the day," Victor taunted, his voice laced with venomous delight. "The great Austin Butler brought to his knees by a ghost. Oh, I almost wished Bonnie had stayed dead—or at least kept herself hidden away in whatever grave she crawled out of."

Austin's jaw clenched tight enough to crush stone, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The air between them crackled with tension, an invisible current charged by the looming full moon and the weight of unsaid threats.

"Careful, Viper," Austin growled lowly, the threat evident in his voice, though his words remained unspoken. "Some secrets are best left buried."

"Or what?" Victor stepped closer, his sneer deepening. "You'll unleash the big bad wolf? Please."

He danced just outside of Austin's reach, every word a sharpened dagger meant to provoke, to pierce through the cracks in Austin's carefully constructed armor.

"Bonnie Barlow, alive..." Victor mused aloud as if savoring the taste of each syllable. "The deserter, the weak link, your—what shall we call her? Your Achilles' heel?"

"Watch your mouth," Austin warned, his tone a low rumble of brewing storm clouds, a prelude to the violence he was capable of unleashing.

"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" Victor’s eyes gleamed with malice. "This is rich, really. Little Bonnie, back from the dead, and here you are, ready to throw it all away for her. What would the pack say?"

"Enough," Austin snapped, struggling to rein in the fury that threatened to spill over.

"Or you'll what, Austin?" Victor prodded, stepping dangerously close, within striking distance. "Lose control? Is she worth that much to you?"

"More than you could ever understand," Austin hissed, the muscles along his jaw working furiously. His piercing eyes, usually so steady and commanding, now blazed with an intensity that could set the world ablaze.

Victor's laughter sliced through the tension, a discordant note that spoke volumes of his disdain. "Is that supposed to scare me? Come on, Alpha. Show me what you're made of."

"Remember this moment," Austin said, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of an unsheathed sword. "It'll be your last mistake."

The lunar brilliance seemed to ignite an inner fire within him, casting a wild light in his eyes that danced like flames licking at dry timber. With each breath, Austin's chest heaved, betraying the effort it took to keep the beast within at bay.

"Listen to me very carefully," Austin began, his voice low and deadly, the words slipping between clenched teeth. "You will bury what you think you know deep down. Bury it so far it never claws its way out."

Victor, unfazed by the palpable danger emanating from Austin, cocked his head to the side, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He leaned in, feigning a conspiratorial whisper. "Or what, Austin? You'll tear me apart? Right here, right now?"

Austin's hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening as if they were stones meant for crushing. His body vibrated with suppressed rage, the call of the moon exacerbating his struggle for control.

"Always the protector," Victor sneered, undeterred by Austin's looming threat. "But let's ponder this, shall we? Is a deserter worth the throne of the Alpha?"

"Enough!" Austin's voice thundered, echoing off the walls, a clear warning of the tempest gathering force within him. "Your life hangs by a thread. And I won't hesitate to sever it."

Bonnie's body thrashed violently, her wolf form a blur of sinew and fury. The chains that bound her rattled against the concrete wall with each ferocious jerk, the metal links screeching in protest. Neither Austin nor Victor noticed the subtle give in the ancient stone, the way fine dust whispered to the floor with each movement, portending the imminent rupture of her restraints.

"Even if I wanted to," Austin said, the words ripping from his throat like the snarl of an animal cornered, "I couldn't abandon her." His gaze never left Victor, but the intensity of his declaration seemed to stretch, to reach beyond the confrontation and envelop Bonnie in a silent vow.

Victor paused, his eyes flicking between Austin's rigid stance and Bonnie's frenetic struggle. "Your mate?" he echoed, the notion so incredulous it drew a half-laugh from him, a sound devoid of any true humor. "You bind yourself to a deserter, and you expect me to believe she is your destined other half?"

The muscle in Austin's jaw ticked as he suppressed the urge to lunge, his voice low and edged with ice. "Believe what you will, Victor. Cross me on this, and you'll find yourself prey to consequences you can't begin to fathom."

"Consequences," Victor scoffed, yet there was a glint of something sharp and calculating in his eyes. "I suppose we all have our chains to bear, don't we, Alpha? Or should I say, former Alpha?"

Austin's hands clenched, but his posture remained controlled, a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He could feel the pull of the full moon coursing through his veins, urging him towards violence, but it was the bond—the unyielding connection to Bonnie—that held him rooted in place.

In the background, the metal clink of the chains grew more erratic, more desperate. The wall shuddered with Bonnie's relentless attempts at freedom, the cracks around the anchor points widening, nearly imperceptible to the human eye, but a silent testament to the inevitable.

Victor's laughter echoed through the cavernous space, each chortle a sharp jab at Austin's resolve. "You cling to fairytales, Butler? I would've expected more from you."

Austin's piercing eyes began to shimmer with an otherworldly light, a clear sign of his barely contained fury. "Think whatever you like," Austin growled, his voice laced with a dangerous promise. "Lay a finger on her, and I swear, Victor, your end will come at my hands."

The air around them seemed to crackle with tension, the unseen energy of the supernatural world colliding with the gritty reality of their human forms. Bonnie's whimpers blended with the sound of weakening metal, a haunting melody to the standoff unfolding before her.

Victor's smirk was a slashed canvas of hubris, carved across his face as he squared his stance. "So be it," he hissed, the words slithering out like a challenge long-awaited. Muscles coiled beneath his skin, he launched himself at Austin, a viper striking in lethal silence.

But fate, it seemed, had a taste for irony. Just as Victor's shadow loomed over Austin, poised to eclipse him in combat, an audible snap cracked through the tension-laden air. Metal links once bound to stone now surrendered to ferocity incarnate. Bonnie, her form a blur of primal instinct, surged forward with a force that spelled retribution.

The impact was a symphony of snarls and flesh, a dance macabre choreographed by the wild heart of a wolf scorned. Bonnie, driven by raw survival, became the storm, the embodiment of nature's unchecked wrath as she collided with Victor. Her jaws found their mark again and again, the symphony reaching its crescendo as Victor's calculated bravado crumbled into cries lost within the cacophony of the struggle.

Austin stood, the alpha within him stirring, witnessing the untamed justice that unfolded before his eyes. Bonnie's ferocity was a testament to her strength, and yet in every movement, every desperate thrash from Victor, Austin saw the unspoken bond that tethered him to her—a bond that defied the very logic of their brutal world.

The scent of blood and fury filled the air as Bonnie, a tempest of fangs and claws, unleashed the full measure of her newly awakened power. Victor's taunts were silenced by the guttural snarls ripping from her throat, each snap of her jaws a sentence of retribution upon his flesh.

Victor's voice was shrill with panic, his words gurgling through the torrent of his own blood. He thrashed beneath her, his attempts at defense pitiful against the onslaught. Bonnie’s teeth, like daggers honed by nature's hand, sank deep into the sinew of Victor's arm, tearing through muscle and bone with the ease of a hot knife through butter. A symphony of cracks and wet rends accompanied the visceral chorus as she bit down again, her primal instincts dictating the dance of death. Victor's screams became a ragged litany of pain, the sound of his agony mingling with the thud of his body against the unforgiving ground. His fingers clawed at the floor, seeking purchase, seeking escape, but there was none to be found.

"Bonnie, enough!" Austin's command cut through the frenzy, but it was the thunderous growl that followed which stilled the bloodbath. It was a growl that spoke of ancient authority, that resonated with the primordial essence of the alpha wolf.

In an instant, the dynamics of power shifted. Bonnie's ears flattened against her skull, a whine escaping her as she backed away, eyes downcast. She slunk to the corner, her form shrinking under the weight of Austin's dominance. Her once ferocious energy now tempered, subdued by the spectral chain of hierarchy stronger than any forged by man.

Austin stood over Victor, breaths coming in heavy torrents, the beast within him pacing behind the bars of his human restraint. And though the alpha had roared, it was silence that fell upon the scene—a silence punctuated only by the labored breaths of the living and the soft whimpers of the subdued.

Austin's chest heaved, the rush of the fight still surging through his veins as he fought to cage the alpha wolf within. His nostrils flared, taking in the coppery scent of blood that now painted the derelict shelter with its grim strokes. The air was thick with it, a visceral reminder of the violence that had just unfolded.

"Bonnie," Austin's voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the ragged gasps that filled the room. He dared not look at her yet, not until he had fully reined in the beast clawing beneath his skin, begging for further release.

A shudder rippled through him, a final struggle before the beast acquiesced, retreating into the recesses of his soul. With every fiber of his being pulsating from the exertion, Austin turned slowly, his gaze falling upon the ruin that lay before him.

The sight that greeted him was grotesque—a tableau of carnage. Victor's body, or what remained of it, was a mangled mess of torn flesh and exposed bone. The once slicked-back hair was now plastered with blood, the silver tongue silenced forever amidst the garish red.

"Damn you, Vic," Austin muttered under his breath, a complex swirl of emotions churning within him—anger, sorrow, regret. He knew this moment would leave a permanent scar on the fabric of the pack, an indelible mark on his own soul.

"Should have listened," he continued, speaking to the lifeless form as if expecting some semblance of a response. "Should've known better than to corner a wolf."

He took a step closer, his boots sticking slightly to the pooling blood beneath him. Victor's eyes were vacant, a stark contrast to the maniacal glint they'd held just moments ago—a glint that had sealed his fate.

"Could've been different, brother," Austin said, the words catching in his throat. It was a title he had once bestowed upon Victor, one of kinship within the ranks of their kind. But that bond had been severed, cleaved apart by greed and ambition.

He turned away, unable to stomach the sight any longer. The silence seemed to swallow him whole, leaving a bitter aftertaste of the chaos that had reigned. This was the harsh law of their world—the unforgiving nature of pack life where only the strongest survived.

The stillness of the bomb shelter was oppressive, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos that had reigned moments before. Austin's breath came out in heavy gusts as he turned back to Bonnie, her delicate form lying crumpled on the cold concrete floor. Moonlight streamed through the narrow windows, casting an ethereal glow over her body, revealing the crimson stains marring her hands and mouth—the damning evidence of her violent passage into their world.

"Bonnie," Austin murmured, his voice a low rumble filled with a cocktail of emotions. He knelt beside her, his large, calloused fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her peaceful face. The sight of her like this—so vulnerable yet so inherently powerful—sent a twinge of protectiveness coursing through him.

He reached out, hesitating for just a fraction of a second, before gently scooping her into his arms. The warmth of her against his chest stirred something deep within him, but it was quickly overshadowed by the weight of the responsibility now resting on his broad shoulders.

Austin's jaw clenched at the thought of dealing with the fallout. Victor's ambition had been his downfall, but the consequences were now Austin's to bear. He'd have to move fast, cover the tracks, make the death look like another casualty of the gang wars that ravaged the streets above. But first, there was the matter of Bonnie and the truth she would have to face when she awoke.

"Can't hide this from you, Bon. Not this," he whispered, though he knew she couldn't hear him. His heart twisted at the thought of her eyes—those deep pools of innocence—looking up at him in horror when she realized what her claws had done. The confession loomed over him like a specter, a truth too gruesome for words, yet one that could not be kept in shadows forever.

"Should've protected you better," he continued, his voice thick with regret. The burden of leadership weighed heavily upon him; the knowledge that he had allowed her to be thrust into this dark reality pained him more than any physical wound ever could.

With a last lingering look at Victor's body, Austin adjusted Bonnie's light frame in his arms and moved toward the exit. The shelter, once a place of safety, now felt like a tomb—one he was all too eager to leave behind. As he stepped out into the night, the cool air hit his face, and he steeled himself for the journey ahead. There were miles to cover before they reached the sanctuary of his cabin—a place where he could shield her, if only for a little while, from the monstrous truth of her new existence.

His eyes roved over her features, searching for the girl he knew before the beast had awakened within her. She seemed peaceful now, a deceptive tranquility that belied the violence of her transformation. He allowed himself a small, pained smile. The torment that had racked her body, causing bones to break and reforge, was finally at an end. She was light in his arms, her head lolling against his chest as if seeking the comfort she was unconscious of needing.

The forest stood sentinel around him, an audience to the drama that unfolded under its watchful boughs. Austin moved with purpose, each step carrying Bonnie further from the horrors of her first transformation and closer to the sanctuary of his cabin.

"Sleep now, Bonnie," he promised into the silence, "I've got you."

The woods opened up to a narrow trail, the path familiar under his feet even in the dead of night. His cabin, hidden from prying eyes, awaited them—a haven where he could tend to her needs and postpone the inevitable revelations of dawn.

"Everything's gonna be alright," he spoke again, not sure if the words were meant more for her or for himself. The weight of her in his arms was nothing compared to the burden of the secret he harbored, but for now, he focused on the rhythm of his stride, the feel of her breathing, and the promise of safety found only within the walls he called home.

Stay tuned for part 8!! Click HERE to view!

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mylo-space · 2 days ago

Text

Welcome to Your Future

Summary: After a ritual goes awry, MK finds a memory-impaired Macaque in his dojo. Macaque, confused and more than a little overwhelmed by the changes, seeks out the one person he finds most familiar in the hopes that he can get some answers. And Wukong, faced with a Macaque unburdened by their millennia of rivalry, realizes there are some pretty complicated emotions resurfacing, and he's not sure he can bury them a second time.

Completed on Ao3: 2024-06-24 Word Count: 81,428 Chapters: 11

Chapter 1: Lost Memories, Found Names >> Chapter 2

If MK were to have any fatal flaw at all, it would probably be that he was a tad more trusting than he should be, considering he was in a position to make a lot of very powerful enemies. On the bright side, his optimism usually convinced people not to kill him. In the year or so since receiving the Monkey King’s powers, most of the people who’d attacked him, usually for some revenge plot or another, ended up becoming allies. Some of them had even become good friends.

Others became mentors.

MK considered himself a very enthusiastic student, and Macaque was by no means a reluctant mentor, but their lessons typically weren’t very substantial. They mostly just hung out, and Macaque occasionally offered up some advice, but it was an unspoken rule that the physical training got left to Monkey King.

It wasn’t that MK didn’t trust Macaque to do some combat training with him, it just brought up a lot of memories that they’d both rather forget. That, and MK had a sneaking suspicion that he still reminded Macaque of Monkey King. Which seemed to be a pretty common problem among most of the people Monkey King used to call his friends.

So, they didn’t do much training, but Macaque was still content to call himself MK’s mentor, if only because it annoyed Monkey King to no end. And MK was content to let him, only because he knew Monkey King wasn’t actually as annoyed by it as he pretended to be.

Truthfully, neither one of them seemed to hate each other nearly as much as their bantering would suggest. MK never got an answer about it, no matter how much he asked, but he’d learned that immortals were just strange that way. They had all the time in the world to work out their issues, and refused.

He considered asking Macaque again, maybe in a slightly roundabout way. Macaque generally saw through that kind of thing, but it never stopped MK from trying. And, maybe, MK mused as he pulled up to his co-mentor’s dojo, recent events might encourage the reserved Mystic Monkey to open up.

Long shot, probably. But MK was optimistic.

MK knocked on Macaque’s door, humming a jingle he’d heard from a commercial on TV while he waited. He’d finished delivering noodles for the day, and figured it wouldn’t hurt stopping in a little earlier than usual for his ‘training’ with Macaque.

After a few moments of no answer, MK knocked again. “Hey, Macaque!” he called. “Open up, man, I know you can hear me!”

It crossed his mind briefly that maybe Macaque was just out roaming the city. MK had shown up a couple hours early, it was possible Macaque would show if he waited around long enough. Only odd thing about it was that Macaque didn’t usually just ‘roam the city’, or roam much of anywhere, for that matter. It wasn’t the first time MK had shown up early, and Macaque was always home.

“Hey, uh-” MK knocked on the door, deliberate and loud, “Macaque? You’re kinda weirding me out here, so… I’m just gonna open the door, if that’s cool.”

The door creaked as it opened, and MK was met with a poorly lit room. Not that Macaque’s dojo was particularly bright on any given day, which was sometimes a nice change from the glaring, neon city, but it was especially dim. MK tried to convince himself that it wasn’t as concerning as the fluttering in his chest insisted it was.

Pulling out his staff, MK tentatively closed the door behind him and walked through Macaque’s dojo. “Hello?” he said loudly, a reluctant shout. “You in here, Macaque?” A noise caught him off guard, a strangled gasp escaping him as he moved to press himself against the nearest wall.

He had half a mind to be embarrassed. The noise was hardly a threatening sounding thing, just the wisp of magic, a glimmer of power. It would have been nearly indiscernible anywhere else, but in Macaque’s near silent dojo, it may as well have been an explosion. It’d always been quiet at Macaque’s place, which was kind of impressive, considering it stood in the middle of a bustling city.

Fortunately, the quiet energy was familiar. After a few steadying breaths, MK recognized Macaque’s magic hovering in the air. He hadn’t quite figured out how that worked, sensing other people’s magic, but he assumed it was another weird 'Mystic Monkey’ thing that he’d have to learn. Just when he’d thought he’d gotten things down, there was always something new.

In any case, the magic was warm. Not as warm as Monkey King’s, a near constant heat buried under stone skin, embers in the aftermath of a fire, eager to relight. Macaque’s magic was a subtle warmth, a patch of grass warmed by sunlight, a heat soothed by shade and a cool breeze.

It took a moment of searching, but he traced the magic to a room near the back of Macaque’s dojo. The door was left slightly ajar, and a light spilled through the crack. “Macaque?” MK said quietly, pushing open the door. “Macaque, are you…” He trailed off at the sight of Macaque sitting in the room, cross-legged with his hands on his knees, eyes closed and face passive.

MK, thinking perhaps Macaque was just meditating, knocked on the open door to get his attention. It almost looked like Monkey King’s transcendental meditation, but the magic around him looked different. Macaque didn’t glow like Monkey King had, there was just a steady swirl of soft blue around his head, two streams of magic that flowed in steady circles around his ears.

When knocking didn’t snap Macaque out of whatever was happening, MK walked into the room. “What kind of meditation is this?” he asked aloud, not bothering to wait for an answer as he gingerly poked Macaque’s arm with his staff. “Hey, Macaque,” he sang quietly, as though trying to wake a child from their nap. “Wakey, wakey.”

Macaque’s tail flicked, which MK took as a good sign, and moved to shake his shoulder. The magic stuttered, the flow breaking apart a bit, and Macaque’s face scrunched in discomfort.

“Macaque?” MK took a step back as the magic began to flicker, expanding and contracting erratically. It crackled, until the steady streams were jagged bolts of energy. “Macaque!” MK tried, abandoning the staff to grab Macaque by both shoulders and shake him.

The magic around Macaque didn’t feel threatening, but the whispers hadn’t seemed so dangerous, either, until the Lady Bone Demon had overtaken some of the strongest fighters he knew. She’d stolen away his mentor and his best friend, shards of ice wreaking havoc in the city, destroying the world. And even Azure had seemed harmless, until he wasn’t, until he’d revealed his true intentions, until he’d almost dissolved the universe to achieve his goals, so maybe MK had been wrong to assume that the magic surrounding Macaque was innocuous.

“Macaque!” MK demanded. He had been certain Macaque was past trying to hurt him to get to Monkey King, things had been relatively peaceful for a few months, but now there was frostbite in his ears and shadows on the walls, and his heart raced with the possibility that maybe Macaque’s need for a fight hadn’t been satiated, after all. ”Wake up!”

At that, Macaque’s eyes snapped open, inhaling sharply as though pulled from underwater. MK had just a breath to be relieved, until he saw Macaque’s violet irises. The magic turned one vicious circle around the shadow before surging outward, a ring of energy knocking MK back into the wall behind him.

MK scrabbled to grab his staff and staggered to his feet on unsteady legs, his vision blurred from the impact. He blinked against light that surrounded Macaque, watching warily until it faded. “Okay,” he breathed, “this is probably fine, uh-” He cleared his throat, his gaze finally focusing on the crumpled form of Macaque. “Are you okay? Macaque?”

All Macaque gave in response was a groan, pushing himself up off the ground and shaking his head. Purple wisps dissipated as he stood, looking just as unsteady as MK. “What’s happening?” he finally managed, turning to MK with confusion etched into his features. “How did you…” His gaze drifted to MK’s staff, “Why do you have-”

“Macaque?” MK said slowly, “Is everything okay? We were- we had training today, remember?”

“Training?” Macaque asked, looking bewildered, which was not an expression MK was used to seeing. “Kid, I don’t even… who are you?”

MK blanched at that. “Who- what the donk are you talking about?” he asked. “Is this a joke?” He lowered the staff to the ground, setting his free hand disapprovingly on his hip. “We need to work on your sense of humor, man. I’m fine with you scheming and pulling pranks and- you know, being a general menace, but giving me a heart attack does not give off the ‘cool mentor’ vibes you think it does.”

Macaque blinked at MK like he’d spoken a different language. “Okay, well… that didn’t make any sense,” he said. “So, I’m gonna ask this again,” he lifted his hands placatingly, “and I need you to stick with me on this.” His gaze flicked around the room. “Who are you, and–while I’m asking questions–where am I?” Eyes narrowing on the staff, Macaque added, “And, uh… how did you get that?”

Uneasiness settled in MK’s chest at the questions. Macaque’s voice lacked the playful lilt it usually had when he teased MK, and the confusion on his face was so genuine, so much more vulnerable than the shadow would allow under normal circumstances. “You’re freaking me out,” MK said.

“I’m standing in a room I’ve never seen before with a kid I’ve never met,” Macaque replied shortly. “Not to mention you’re holding a staff that doesn’t belong to you.” MK flinched back at the clipped tone, and Macaque seemed to realize how sharp his voice was, because he took a step back, face softening. “Look, I- you seem like a nice kid, and I don’t want to hurt you if I don’t have to.” He gestured to the staff. “But I need to know why you have that.”

MK hesitated for a moment. “I’m… okay, let’s start over.” He shrank the staff and tucked it away, startling Macaque, as though he hadn’t expected MK to actually be able to wield the weapon. “My name is MK,” he started. “I’m the Monkey King’s successor, and I-”

“Successor?” Macaque interrupted incredulously.

“Uh… well, that’s- that is what I said, yeah.”

Macaque let out a startled laugh. “How long has Wukong had a student? He should have told me that he was-” His smile faltered. “He should’ve… he would have told me if he had a student.” He studied MK carefully. “And your clothes look strange.”

Looking down in surprise, MK tugged at his jacket, inspecting the white shirt underneath. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“What was I doing when you came in?”

MK turned to check the back of his jacket. “No, seriously, what’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Hey, kiddo,” Macaque insisted, “I really need you to focus, okay?”

“Right!” MK straightened, nodding quickly. “Right, sorry, totally focused. What’s the question? Hit me with it.” Macaque opened his mouth to answer, just as it occurred to MK that he’d already asked the question. “Oh, yeah! So, uh- I don’t really know what you were doing in here?” he said. “Some kind of magic ritual thingie, maybe. It kinda looked like you were meditating?”

Macaque frowned. “Meditating?” He gestured to the sides of his head. “There wasn’t any magic going on up here, was there?”

“There was, yeah,” MK told him. “I didn’t know what was happening, and I panicked, so I just…” he shrugged helplessly, “I tried to wake you up.” Dread pooled in his stomach, hoping that his decision hadn’t just irreversibly messed something up. “Why? Was that- is that bad? Did I do a bad?”

Inhaling sharply through his teeth, Macaque replied, “Maybe? I don’t know, honestly, I just… well, I’ve never had this problem before.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Ah, Wukong is going to kill me when he finds out.”

MK scowled. “That’s not funny, dude.”

His reprimand was met with a confused tilt of Macaque’s head. “What isn’t?” His focus flitted away before MK could answer, looking around the room curiously. “Wait, where are we again?”

“This is your place,” MK replied. “Well, it’s a room in your place.” He waved for Macaque to follow him. “Come on, maybe seeing your stuff will, uh… I don’t know, jog your memory or something.” Macaque cautiously followed him out of the room and into the dim dojo. “Forgot how dark it was in here, one second,” he moved to the lightswitch on the wall, “lemme just get this-”

Macaque made a noise of surprise as the dojo’s overhead lights kicked on. They weren’t terribly bright, but the shadow recoiled from them all the same. “What is that?” He reached up gingerly, hand hovering around a lightbulb like it might burn him. “Did you do this? Doesn’t look like any kind of magic I’ve ever seen.”

MK shook his head. “It’s just a lightbulb, dude. It’s like, you know, electricity? Pretty much every house in the city has some.” His brow furrowed as Macaque continued to marvel at incredibly mundane things around the dojo. “So, uh… you recognize anything?”

“Huh?” Macaque said absently, “Uh, yeah, some of this… it’s definitely my stuff.” He ran a hand over the weapons rack. “I just don’t know why it’s here, and not on Flower Fruit Mountain.”

“I mean, probably because you live here?” MK offered.

Macaque whirled on him at that, eyes wide with shock. “I live here?” His hands flailed a bit, gesturing around the dojo. “Why do I live here?” He demanded, “What happened to Flower Fruit Mountain?”

Lifting his hands in surrender, hoping that it’d placate the panicking immortal, MK quickly explained, “Monkey King still lives on Flower Fruit Mountain, nothing happened to it, you guys just-”

“Then I need to get back,” Macaque said, breezing past MK and towards the door. “How far is it from here?”

“Uh- hold on!” MK wasn’t sure what he was dealing with, but if Macaque was startled by a lightbulb, the city was going to be a whole different kind of shock. “Let’s just- uh, hang on a second-”

But Macaque had already thrown open the door, barely taking one step outside before he was reeling. “What the hell is that?” His hands clapped over his ears as he stumbled back into the dojo. “What is-”

MK rushed forward to slam the door shut. “Okay! So, just to explain some stuff here, you live in the city,” he explained. Macaque reluctantly moved his hands, the outside noise banished with the closed door. “And it’s a pretty big city. There’s lots of people, lots of cars, lots of… lots of everything, really.”

“Right,” Macaque nodded, blinking owlishly. “Can I just-” His body dropped until he was crouched on the ground, resting on the balls of his feet. “Could you give me a second, kid?” He asked, lacing together his fingers and pressing them against his forehead. “Processing some stuff here.”

All things considered, MK was having a pretty weird day, but it occurred to him suddenly that Macaque was probably having a way weirder day than he was. “Yeah, that was probably a lot.” He gave Macaque’s shoulder a reluctant pat. The Macaque he knew probably wouldn’t have accepted any kind of reassurance, but this Macaque looked like he needed it. “You, uh… you good?

“Probably,” Macaque mumbled. “Just gotta get ahold of myself.” He took a deep breath, the shoulder under MK’s hand trembling on the exhale. “What century is this?”

“I think we’re somewhere in the 21st century?” MK replied, “Probably. It’s not super clear.” He cleared his throat. “I’m guessing things are a little different than you remember?”

Macaque hummed. “Pretty much everything.” He stood and brushed off his shirt. “Okay, let’s try that-” He paused, looking down at himself with an odd expression. “That… that’s not right.”

“What isn’t? Your shirt?” MK shrugged. “You wear that thing all the time.”

“Do I wear it wrong all the time?” Macaque asked. “Because it’s folded-” He shook his head. “Whatever. I’ll worry about it later.” He looked back to MK. “So, about getting to Flower Fruit Mountain.”

MK clapped his hands together. “Yes! Flower Fruit Mountain, can do.” The issue with that was the Monkey King himself. MK was sure that Macaque wasn’t trying to pull anything, but he doubted his mentor would feel the same. If MK enlisted the help of Monkey King, there was a pretty high chance that he’d taunt the shadow rather than help. “There might be, uh- a slight problem with that, actually.”

“What?” Macaque crossed his arms. “Why?”

“Well-” MK was saved from having to say anything else by his phone, which exploded with sound. “Uh, hold that thought.” MK pulled his phone out of his pocket and fumbled with it for a moment. “I gotta take this.” And he did, not just because it served as a good distraction, but because MK had learned that if he missed a few calls from his friends, they would assume another world-destroying threat had appeared and start panicking.

Macaque frowned at MK’s phone. “What is that?”

MK made a vague gesture for him to wait as he answered the phone, quickly glancing at the caller ID before putting it to his ear. “Hey, Mei! Now isn’t really a good time, if I could just call you back-”

“MK!” Mei interrupted. “They fixed the Monkey Mech game at the arcade,” she informed him cheerfully, “and I owe you about two weeks of butt-kicking.”

“That’s great, Mei,” MK said, “but I kinda got a situation here, so-”

“Who are you talking to?” Macaque asked, tilting his head curiously at MK’s phone, like the device might somehow make more sense at forty-five degrees. “Is the talking box magic? Or is this another lightbulb situation?”

Shooing Macaque away, MK replied, “It’s another lightbulb thing, don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway! Mei, I really-”

“Is that Macaque?” Mei gasped, “Oh, you should totally invite him to the arcade! Then I can kick both your butts at Monkey Mech. That counts as training, right? I feel like that should count as training.”

Macaque waved as though Mei could see him. “Hello, girl in MK’s talking box,” he greeted awkwardly, clearly unsure what to make of the phone. “What’s an arcade?”

Mei winced, “How out of touch is this guy?” she asked quietly. “Even Monkey King knows what a videogame is.”

“Does Wukong know her?” Macaque leaned closer to MK’s phone. “Girl in the talking box! Do you know Wukong?”

MK gently shoved Macaque away from his ear. “It’s called a phone, Macaque, would you just- Mei, I’m putting you on speaker.” He pulled the phone away from his head to find whatever button would play Mei’s voice aloud, so that Macaque didn’t have to talk in his ear to be part of the conversation. “There! Okay, um- Mei? I have a serious situation here, and it’s not a ‘go to the arcade now and fix it later’ kind of problem.”

“Macaque isn’t trying anything, is he?” Mei demanded, her voice suddenly taking on a low, dangerous tone. “MK, what did he do?”

“I just met MK five minutes ago, why would I do anything?” Macaque exclaimed, looking bewildered at the very notion. “And how did you get inside this box?”

“No, Mei, Macaque didn’t do anything this time,” MK told her quickly, and Macaque looked disturbed by the phrase this time. MK hoped that they’d figure out how to fix Macaque before he had to explain what had happened. “Macaque is the situation, he’s… I don’t know, he’s stuck. And I don’t know how to fix him.”

“Stuck how?”

Macaque made an unsure noise. “Yeah, we’re still trying to figure that out, too.”

“Hence, ‘the situation’.” MK pinched the bridge of his nose. “He doesn’t remember a lot of stuff right now, and I don’t know how to make him unforget. And, no, before you ask,” MK interjected before Mei could, “he’s not faking it. He’s a good actor, but he’s not this good.”

“Thank you,” Macaque said brightly. “I think. Have you seen me perform?”

“You’re absolutely sure this isn’t a trick?” Mei asked skeptically.

MK hummed. “Mm-hm, like, ninety-nine point nine percent sure.” He sighed, “But I have no idea how to fix it, and I’m not sure I can bring him to Monkey King-”

Macaque straightened at that. “Wait, why can’t we go to Wukong for help?”

“Uh- he’s busy,” MK said quickly. “Doing Mystic Monkey business, probably.” It was a lie, but it was easier than explaining the long, complicated history between them. Especially since MK didn’t actually know a lot about what happened. Macaque didn’t look very satisfied with the answer, but he didn’t press.

There was something garbled on Mei’s end of the line, a gruff voice that MK could recognize anywhere, even if he couldn’t hear the words. “Yeah, so,” Mei said, “Piggy is saying to bring him here? He and Tang think they might know what’s happening.”

“Really?” MK asked. “That’s great! We’ll meet you guys over there.” He hung up the phone, turning to Macaque with a grin. “Okay, change of plans. How do you feel about noodles?”

Macaque gave a half-hearted shrug. “I mean, they’re fine, I guess?” He fidgeted with his scarf, tugging at the red fabric with a crinkled nose. “Why? Are there noodles where we’re going?”

“Pigsy will probably have some ready when we get over there. He owns a noodle shop, and I work as his delivery boy,” MK explained while Macaque turned in a circle, staring at the tail end of his scarf as though baffled by it. “Did you- do you wanna change before we head out?”

“Can I?” Macaque swatted at the flowing scarf in irritation. “This stupid hanfu is driving me insane, and the scarf isn’t much better. It wasn’t even cold outside.” He started wrestling the red fabric over his head as he walked to the back of the dojo. “I’m gonna go look around this… whatever this is, and find something sensible to wear. I’ll be right back.”

MK wondered if Macaque would be insulted by himself when he got back to normal, taking jabs at his own fashion choice. He couldn’t wait to relay everything that had happened to the shadow when his memories came back, exposing the edgy lord of shadows for the softie he was, because MK did genuinely believe, somewhere deep down, that Macaque was still this soft.

But in order to tease Macaque about his long-buried softness, they’d have to fix him first. And MK figured Macaque would probably take a while with the wardrobe change–he could hear the shadow opening and closing doors, apparently having trouble figuring out which room might have some spare clothes–so he leaned against the nearest wall and scrolled through his phone. While he waited, he looked up the proper way to wear a hanfu. He wasn’t super familiar with traditional clothing, but Macaque seemed adamant that it was wrong, and MK was curious.

The results he got were a little more off-putting than he had anticipated. A hanfu wasn’t supposed to be folded the way Macaque’s had been, right over left, unless it was on a corpse, which had a pretty disturbing implication that MK didn’t want to think too hard about, even if it was just symbolism. He shoved his phone and his pocket and resolved to scold Macaque for his dramatics later.

“Hey, kid,” Macaque called, stepping back into the dojo, wearing what looked like a simpler version of the hanfu he’d taken off, folded left over right and accessorized with a red bandana. He looked nearly identical to the memories MK had seen in the Scroll. “I’m pretty sure that city outside is pretty difficult to navigate if you're a millennia behind the times. How are we getting to this noodle shop?”

“I’ll drive us there,” MK replied, “but we should probably head out now before traffic gets bad.” He started for the door, but stopped with his hand on the door handle. “Uh… is there any kind of- like, a magic thing you can do? So the city doesn’t hurt your ears so much?”

Macaque made an unsure noise. “I can keep them hidden, but there’s not much I can do for the sound.”

“Sorry, hidden?” MK clarified, confused by the statement as Macaque’s ears were clearly in plain view. Though, when MK thought about it, his full name was the ‘Six-Eared Macaque’. He hadn’t ever considered that the name was literal, but Macaque was capable of creating some pretty powerful illusions. MK knew about the scar he kept hidden, it was reasonable to assume that the shadow might keep a couple extra sets of ears hidden, too.

“Uh-huh,” Macaque replied absently. “Wukong usually handles the noise when I need it, but he’s not here… for some reason.” He looked around, like something in the four walls might have more answers if he looked hard enough. “I don’t know why I’d be doing this without Wukong around,” the shadow muttered quietly. “We must have become morons in the future.”

“You mean the present,” MK corrected. “Right? This is still the present? You’re morons in the present.”

“Technically, yeah,” Macaque conceded. “But my memories are stuck in the past somehow, so to me? It’s the future, and I’m not an idiot yet.”

“You know, fair enough!” MK replied, opening the door and letting the city noise back into the dojo. “Let me know if the city gets too loud for you, I’ll let you borrow my headphones.”

Macaque followed MK outside with a barely audible wince. “Your what phone? The box you were talking into?”

MK took the blue headphones off of his neck. “Put these over your ears,” he instructed, hopping in the driver side of his tuk-tuk and putting his key in the ignition. “They’re noise canceling, and I can play some music if you want.”

“No, it’s…” Macaque slipped the headphones over his ears, looking pleasantly surprised at the lack of noise. “This is great, actually.” He slid into the passenger seat of the tuk-tuk, looking around the city in amazement. “The mortals have gotten creative over the years.”

“Yup!” MK drove slower than he usually would, letting Macaque take in the sights as they made their way across the city. “Nothing like good ol’ human ingenuity.” He turned onto a busy street, watching in amusement as Macaque marveled at the skyscrapers and buses and neon signs. “It’s weird seeing you like this, you know? You’re not usually this enthusiastic.”

“Really?” Macaque asked. “What am I usually like?”

MK hummed. “You sorta got this… like, a slightly edgier vibe going on? Kinda broody, a little mean-ish.” Macaque looked concerned at that, so MK quickly amended with, “I think you have good- like, mostly good intentions, you’re just not always the nicest person, you know?”

“Mean, huh?” Macaque mumbled. “Wonder when that started happening.” MK had a few guesses, most of them involving a fight he saw, one deep below a mountain, but he kept that to himself. “I’m sure Wukong will know what’s going on. Whenever he gets back from his… what’d you call it? ‘Mystic Monkey’ business? I’m gonna need him to fill me in on a few things.”

“Well, hopefully we can get you fixed before he has to explain anything,” MK said. “No ‘filling you in’ required, because there’s, like, hundreds of years worth of stuff to tell you, and I don’t think Monkey King would have the patience.”

Macaque chuckled. “Fair enough.” He leaned back in his seat. “I can’t wait to tell him all about this when I see him again.” MK stopped at a red light, turning to watch Macaque. It was odd seeing an almost child-like wonder from the otherwise cynical shadow. It was easy to see how Monkey King had gotten along with Macaque in the past, if this was the Macaque he’d befriended.

But it made a small, anxious pit in MK’s stomach, knowing that this Macaque was also, somehow, the same Macaque that stripped him of his powers and pinned him to a mountain. The Macaque so eager to see Monkey King had grown to be someone who’d go to unfathomable lengths just to provoke his former friend into fighting him. MK had seen some pieces of their past, a peach-scented promise on a beach and a vicious, scathing fight from under a mountain, but it still seemed so surreal, that two people who cared about each other so much could become such bitter enemies.

MK shook his head as the light above him turned green. Macaque lurched a bit as MK hit the gas, and he put his hand out to brace himself on the dash. “So,” the shadow asked, “how far are we from this noodle shop?”

“It’s right up ahead,” MK told him, turning down familiar streets. “Oh, and just a heads up, I guess, because you don’t… you don’t remember it, but you don’t always get along with my friends. So, if everyone’s a little on edge, don’t take it personally.”

“Huh,” Macaque frowned as MK pulled up alongside the shop. “Well, I guess that’s not a surprise. I don’t get along with a lot of people in the past, either.” He pulled the headphones off his ears and handed them back to MK. “Maybe I can win them over. I don’t know what I did to make them mad at me, but I probably shouldn’t be on bad terms with your friends if you’re Wukong’s successor.”

“I mean, yeah,” MK said, hoping he sounded more optimistic than he felt, “maybe we can, uh- we can put in a good word for future you. Present you. Whichever you it is.” He cleared his throat and hopped out of the vehicle. “Come on! I’m sure Mr. Tang is pacing a track in the floor trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.”

Macaque slid out of the passenger seat and followed MK to the door. “Is this Mr. Tang guy familiar with my kind of magic?”

“He’s familiar with some magic,” MK supplied. “He’s still learning. And you’re a little cagey about your, uh… whatever you got going on.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I don’t even understand my powers half the time.” Macaque’s hand trailed to his chest, like he had something to protect there. “Hopefully, we won’t have to pry at anything to figure this out.” He grasped the knot of his bandana as MK parted the wooden curtain leading inside.

Everyone was waiting, heads snapping to the door as MK entered. “MK!” Mei gasped, jumping from her chair and grabbing MK by the shoulders. “Are you okay? Where is-”

“Macaque!” Tang, half-hidden by a pile of books, yelped as the shadow slipped in the door behind MK. “He’s here!”

Pigsy’s eyes narrowed. “He didn’t try anything, did he?” He jabbed an accusing ladle in Macaque’s direction. “I better not find out that this is some trick of yours, ‘cause I have a pot of boiling water with your name on it.”

Macaque crossed his arms, looking self-conscious under Pigsy’s scrutinizing stare. “Alright, yeah, I see what you mean,” he told MK. “These guys do not like me. Which,” he lifted his hands placatingly, “I’m sure you all have perfectly good reasons for! So, I’m just gonna sit over here,” he moved to a table in the corner of the shop and pulled out a chair, “and, uh… be very quiet.”

While everyone else in the noodle shop seemed surprised by the complacency, Sandy waved from across the room. “Hello, Mr. Maquack,” he greeted warmly. “I heard you’re having some memory trouble.” He held up a book full of flowers and plants, “I’ve been looking for some cures; I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

The shadow gave a hesitant smile. “Maquack?” he asked.

Sandy shrugged. “You never corrected me.”

“Fair enough,” Macaque replied.

Tang squinted at Macaque, readjusting his glasses. “You know, I had my doubts about Macaque’s amnesia before, but… he’s like an entirely different person.” He pulled a book from his pile and flipped through the pages. “I’m not exactly sure what to do about this.”

“You think this is like the Monkey King’s amnesia thing?” Pigsy asked.

Mei clambered onto a barstool and leaned against the counter. “Uh- question?” she said curiously. “What amnesia thing are you guys talking about?”

“Yeah,” MK agreed. “Just a recap for, you know, anyone that didn’t see what happened.”

“Well, someone woke Monkey King from his transcendental meditation,” Tang said, glaring pointedly at Pigsy, whose only response was a huff and an eyeroll. “We were dealing with a much younger Monkey King for a while, and he seemed convinced that Mo, Pigsy, and I were his friends from the Journey.”

Macaque, from across the room, asked, “What journey?”

“But Macaque doesn’t think we’re anyone else,” Mei pointed out. “He just doesn’t know who we are.”

“And I don’t think he was meditating when I found him,” MK added. “I mean, it looked similar, I guess, but we're still not really sure what happened.”

Pigsy idly stirred his pot of noodles. “Well, it’s still amnesia, ain’t it? Let’s just find a big rock and have MK chuck it at his head. It fixed Monkey King just fine.”

“Sorry,” Macaque interjected. “Did you, uh- did you say that you threw a rock at Wukong? Because I find that both hilarious and mildly concerning.”

Sandy scratched his head in thought. “I’m sure there’s a better solution than that,” he insisted. “Throwing a rock at him seems like such a violent way to solve a medical emergency.”

Tang made an unsure noise. “Are we sure that this is a medical emergency? MK said that Macaque was doing something with his magic. If this is some kind of mystical interference, there might not be a lot of mortal remedies that can help.” He gestured to Macaque. “We don’t even know if Macaque is as indestructible as Monkey King is. Throwing a rock at him might actually make this worse.”

Mei hummed in thought. “Remind me again why we’re not asking Monkey King for help?” She placed her chin in her hand. “I mean, he’d know Macaque better than any of us, right? Maybe Monkey King has seen this before, even if this Macaque doesn’t remember it.”

“Even if this Macaque doesn’t remember anything, Monkey King does,” Tang pointed out. “Would he even be willing to help Macaque?”

“I mean…” MK started reluctantly, “they have been on better terms since the Scroll of Memory.” He fiddled with the zipper of his jacket, dragging it up and down anxiously. Just because Macaque had helped with the Scroll, didn’t mean the shadow and the king were on good terms. Their whole situation was too difficult to navigate. “Monkey King might be willing to help, probably.”

Pigsy raised an eyebrow. “Then why didn’t you call him,” he asked, and the question made MK shrink a little, because Pigsy never asked questions like that unless he already knew the answer. And, the truth was, MK wasn’t sure if Monkey King would help.

There were centuries of distance between Monkey King and Macaque, and MK was certain that the gentle exchange of glances he’d seen in the Scroll was only a mere dent in the walls they’d created around each other. Even with Macaque out of the loop, MK honestly wouldn’t put it past his mentor to heckle the oblivious shadow, anyway, just for the fun of it. And not only would that be incredibly unhelpful, it also wasn’t particularly fair to the memory-impaired Macaque.

“You know I can still hear you guys, right?” Macaque said from across the room, not looking particularly happy about what he was hearing. “I’m not called the Six-Eared Macaque for nothing.”

At that, Tang’s head snapped up, staring Macaque down with an odd look. “Six-Eared Macaque,” he repeated slowly.

Macaque nodded. “Uh… yeah, that’s- is that news to you?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe I should have introduced myself. MK seemed to know who I was, I guess I just assumed his friends would, too.”

“The Six-Eared Macaque?” Tang clarified.

“Well, I assume it’s the Six-Eared Macaque,” the shadow replied, sounding vaguely amused. “Unless that’s somehow become a common name in the last few hundred years.”

That didn’t seem to soothe Tang’s confusion, his brow furrowing as he turned to MK. “Did you know that was his full name this whole time?”

MK shifted nervously. “I mean, yeah, he mentioned it when we first met, but I didn’t think anything of it. He introduced himself as Macaque, so that’s what I called him.”

“That can’t be right, I thought…” Tang grabbed a book, a familiar one, worn with age and use. MK leaned over his shoulder as he flipped through the ‘Journey to the West’. “I didn’t think you were-” He snapped the book shut before MK could get a good look at what chapter he was reading. “How did I not see it before?”

Tilting his head, Macaque asked, “Sorry, what can’t be right? I’m still new here, so-”

“He was part of the Brotherhood,” Tang scolded himself. “The Macaque Spirit King, the Six-Eared Macaque, it’s Macaque, it all seems so obvious now.” He slipped a hand under his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Monkey King has a thousand titles; he’s Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, the Protector of Celestial Horses-”

“Oh!” MK interjected, “I asked him about the horse thing one time? He does not like that title, like, at all.”

Pigsy shook his head. “I don’t have the slightest clue what either of you are talking about.”

Mei hummed in agreement, “Join the club.”

“I mean, in my defense, people called Monkey King ‘macaque’ all the time!” Tang continued. “They called him ‘monkey’ and ‘simian’ and,” he turned to Macaque, “you’re a- like, a monkey demon thing, right? I thought ‘Macaque’ was just a name you got… stuck with.”

“Well, I’m- I think I’m technically celestial,” Macaque said. “And I don’t really see what my name has to do with anything.” He squinted at Tang’s copy of the Journey. “And I definitely don’t see what it has to do with that book, that’s… did someone write a book about Wukong? Am I in it?” He smiled, a fond looking thing. “Aw, he’s probably insufferable about that. His very own book.”

MK had been made acutely aware that he should have read the ‘Journey to the West’, Macaque had said as much at least three times in the Scroll. And, in hindsight, it would have been useful to have some information about Monkey King’s old enemies, but never had MK been quite so annoyed with himself for not actually sitting down and reading the Journey cover to cover. Of course, Macaque was in the book. He’d been trying to pry the information out of the two immortals for months, and he could have just read the book.

But he hadn’t, and maybe it was because some part of him didn’t really want to know the extent of the damage Monkey King had caused, or maybe he was afraid some of the enemies he’d fought had real reasons to hate the Great Sage. In any case, MK didn’t like the expression on Tang’s face as he looked at Macaque. “You know what? Maybe I should get Monkey King,” he said quickly. “I can try astral projecting, see if he’ll come to the noodle shop and help us brainstorm. Or I can bring Macaque to him! Maybe he’ll have something in the cave that can help.”

“He has always been a bit of a hoarder,” Macaque mused. “And if he’s been collecting for a thousand years, maybe he does have something.” Confusion creased his brow. “But I thought he was busy.”

Mei snorted. “Busy eating peaches, maybe,” she joked. “It’s his day off. MK had training with you today, so I doubt Monkey King is doing much of anything.”

Macaque glanced at MK, raising an eyebrow, “Mystic Monkey business, huh?”

MK gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah, so…” He ducked away and scurried to the stairs that led up to his apartment. “I’m gonna go call Monkey King! Be back in a minute.” He bolted up to his room, eager to escape Macaque’s prying gaze, shutting the door firmly behind him and slumping against the nearest wall, dragging his hands down his face with an exasperated groan.

As much as MK wanted to avoid a fight between the mystic monkeys, he’d reached a point that he was flailing for answers. And Macaque was behaving himself, if only because he didn’t remember how to be bitter, so if Monkey King was willing to call a truce long enough to help, maybe–just maybe –MK wouldn’t have to deal with them fighting like children.

He sighed and pushed himself off the wall, closing his eyes and summoning the focus to project himself outwards in search of Monkey King. If there was anything optimistic to be found in the ruins of his training session, it was that dealing with his two emotionally incompetent mentors would, at the very least, be a fantastic exercise in patience.

#mylo's lmk stories #cross posted on ao3 #lego monkie kid #lmk #lmk macaque #lmk sun wukong #lmk mk #lego monkie kid macaque #lego monkie kid sun wukong #lego monkie kid mk #shadowpeach #lmk mei #lmk pigsy #lmk tang #lmk sandy #lmk fanfiction

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goodomensafterdark · 4 months ago

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Writers Guild Presents - Tethered - Ch 11 - Angel

Written by NegotiationReal6508 on our subreddit!

TW/CW: Angst, discussion of attempted suicide, implied character death, internalized homophobia, discussion of conversion treatment, mentions of child abuse.

Summary:

Crowley wakes up in a mental hospital with no memory of how he got there. Without his demonic powers, neither the doctors, nor the people who claim to be his family will believe he is who he says he is. With the evidence against him mounting, his only lifeline to the real world is a cryptic note left by an unseen messenger. The longer he stays in this hospital, the harder it becomes to recall for sure, is Crowley really a demon of Hell? Or has his entire existence been nothing more than a delusion conjured by a grieving mind?

Excerpt:

He stepped into the corridor, slamming the door shut angrily behind him. Fighting back his tears, Aziraphale touched his jaw where Crowley had hit him. He wasn't hurt. Crowley was too weak to hurt him in this human form. But the shock of it…

Crowley had never once, not even in the most heated of arguments, ever even shown the slightest inclination to throw a punch. Crowley could shove him violently up against a wall, and Aziraphale would feel in more danger of getting kissed than clocked. It was all an act, part of their dynamic. The unspoken rules of their unspoken game of riling each other up, getting heated, getting close, at times too close, and then backing off before anything untoward took place. Plausible deniability. It was the cornerstone of their alliance.

He had brought the tartan blanket for Crowley. He always looked so cold curled up in that hospital bed. Why didn't they ever give him an extra blanket? Knowing Crowley, he probably refused to complain about it. Always pretending to be so insusceptible, that one. Aziraphale had pulled the warm woollen throw over Crowley’s sleeping form, perching himself on the edge of the mattress.

He had watched him sleep momentarily. Normally, Crowley slept peacefully, face unpinched and slacken, as if he had nary a care in the world. At least, that's how he appeared when he napped at the bookshop. But here, in this place, Crowley’s brow seemed always to be ruched in distress, the complete opposite of how a peaceful sleep ought to look.

It had felt so wonderful the way the demon had sleepily curled up against him, like an affectionate housecat. It was so unlike him, but it was nice to feel… well, Aziraphale was not quite certain what he'd felt, only that it had been such a lovely feeling. Warm and electric…

Of course, it didn't last. Aziraphale could never have anticipated that this visit was going to go quite so poorly as it did.

Continue reading on AO3

Or start from chapter 1 - Dies Lunae

Special thanks to my beautiful betas: u/KotiasCamorra and u/blackjeans93

Also, go support u/gleafer on Patreon! It will improve your life in ways you may never fully comprehend!

#good omens after dark #goad #good omens #good omens fanfic #writers of after dark #writers guild presents #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable spouses #aziracrow #azicrow #crowazi

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storiesofsvu · 2 years ago

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A Dangerous Game Ch 11

Emily Prentiss x reader warnings: language, alcohol consumption, smut, kinda semi public/very public smut, daddy!emily, two idiots in denial but slowly realizing it, minor talk of past hurt/angst/relationships. some more foreshadowing and parallels from previous chapters (v interested to see if y'all pick up on them...) sergio being a little shipper/instigator. House pictured is yn's, i have a real estate link i'll add later thanks to the constant glitching from earlier. Also the triple stars *** mean it’s the next week. The * means time passage same day. I AM PUTTING A READMORE IN, IF IT DOESN'T WORK AGAIN THAT IS NOT ON ME IT IS ON THE HELLSITE AND I AM SO SORRY.

It was incredibly easy to fall into a routine with Emily in the following weeks.

You’d leave work on Fridays, sometimes at the same time, but never together, always making sure to say goodnight to everyone as if you weren’t about to spend the night together. The first week Emily had left Sergio extra food, and since your place was closer to the BAU, you spent it there. The following you ended up back at Emily’s and the habit was made to make the trip to D.C every Friday.

Emily would claim it was because Sergio destroyed a couch cushion and puked on the entry way rug in retaliation of being left out of take out night but you knew it was because she liked her own bed better. You had to admit, you weren’t complaining about it at all, her bed was comfier, bigger too and she had a larger selection of toys. The unspoken argument was that because it was further in miles from Quantico, it felt it, you felt less like you were breaking the no fraternizing rule, when you were there you were still wrapped in the safety of your Vegas bubble.

***

You were fresh out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a fluffy towel, hair pulled up to keep it out of the way when your phone buzzed on the basin counter.

‘I dunno about you but after that fucking hell I am absolutely not cooking tonight.’

‘Are you still at work!?’

‘Last minute budget meeting.’ She inserted an eye roll emoji, ‘I’m just getting in the car now.’

‘Well you just take your pretty ass home, uncork a bottle of wine and relax, I’ll worry about dinner. What’re you feeling?’

‘You were in field training all day; I’m not making you cook.’

‘Never said anything about cooking. I drive right past Carmine’s on the way to your place.’

‘Sounds perfect. See you in forty?’

‘Maybe a teeny bit longer, I’m literally still dripping from the shower.’

‘Won’t be the only time you’re dripping tonight.’

‘Emily!’

Dinner was eaten on the couch that night, a little bit of extra relaxation for everyone, more physically for you and mentally for Emily. Leaning forward she picked up her wine glass from the coffee table, replacing it with the mainly eaten container of carbonara before she settled back against the couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table. You had your back resting against the arm of the couch, your legs extended across her lap, container of classic spaghetti and meatballs in your lap. You let out a small groan, shifting your legs and stretching out one of your calves before it cramped and Emily chuckled.

“Morgan put you through the ringer?”

“Honestly not as bad as I expected.” You laughed, letting out a happy hum as she began to gently massage the muscles.

“Probably helps you guys work out together.”

“Yeah. And my cardio is better than his, I can run circles around him.”

“I’ll make sure I don’t work you too hard tonight then.” She said with a grin and you scoffed, playfully rolling your eyes.

“How kind of you.”

You were distracted momentarily when Sergio leapt up onto the couch beside you, crawling into what open space your lap had and you greeted him with a gentle scratch behind the ears. He leant into it with a soft meow and your hand shifted to under his chin while you cooed at him for a moment. Emily watched with a soft smile, her hands still gently rubbing at your skin, not only could she get used to this, she already had and it was after only three weeks. Your gaze had drifted from Sergio back up to the television, your fingers absentmindedly picking at the leftover meatball on your plate, handing off little bites of it to Sergio who eagerly scarfed them down.

“Hey.” Emily pinched at your leg and you let out a squeak, your eyes shooting over to her, “you keep doing that and he’s gonna like you more than me.”

“Sorry.” You felt your cheeks heat, closing the lid to the takeout container and Sergio batted at your hand with his paw, “mom said no.” You muttered, booping his nose as you shifted on the couch and you directed back toward Emily, “and that is literally impossible. Emily Prentiss is number one in everyone’s book.”

“Oh please.” She laughed, easily handing off her wine glass to you to be topped up while you stood from the couch.

“First in mine.” You said with a shrug, not really realizing what you’d said, padding through the apartment. Wine glasses found home on the breakfast bar while you tossed the leftovers into the fridge, pausing to check something on your phone and Emily felt a warmth spreading through her, watching the way you tugged your lip into your mouth before pocketing your phone again. “You want the gelato now or should I leave it in the freezer?” You asked, breaking her from her trance.

“Oh, now for sure.”

“Kay.” You shot her a grin, refilling the wine, grabbing a couple of spoons and the gelato containers from the freezer before you made your way back over to the couch. “Glad you said that ‘cause I do believe I deserve a treat after today. Remind me to make Derek pick up the tab next time he insists on drinks.”

“You guys go out a lot?” She asked, scooping into her dessert.

“Every couple of weeks.” You shrugged, moaning over your food for a moment, “god this is good. But yeah, Savannah’s a gem, Derek seems to always forget that if I come out for drinks it’s two against one, but it’s all in fun.”

“You don’t feel like a third wheel?” She asked and you bit back a loud laugh.

“No.” The laugh remained on your cheeks and Emily couldn’t help but smile, “hell, a couple of weeks ago Derek was bragging about being hit on at the bar so we bet that either of us could get more phone numbers from girls than him.”

“And?” She raised a brow with a smirk.

“Derek got three, Savannah got eight girls, three dudes, and I ended up with six girls, the bartender and our server… and Savannah’s, but I don’t think that counts.” You let out a little laugh, “oh.. I don’t think I can stay too late tomorrow; we’re going for manicures.”

“That’s fine.” Emily smiled in response, softly squeezing at your leg, “I’ve got more than enough errands to catch up on.”

“You know if you’ve got shit to do we don’t actually have to do this every week.”

“Nah.” She smiled and you could tell there was a tease coming by the look on her face, “I like not having to pay for dinner once every two weeks.”

“Well at least you’re getting some kind of benefit out of this.” You shot back and she laughed, spoon digging back into her gelato.

Your gazes redirected back to the television, old sitcom reruns playing to keep you occupied through the silences. You were halfway through your dessert when the commercial break started, the first a movie trailer, the second for a fast food joint, the third a very over the top jewelry ad complete with obnoxious fake public proposals and crying.

“Gross.” You muttered over a bit of gelato and Emily chuckled softly, though she was mainly in agreeance with you, it was just a little too much for her style.

“Says the one who’s been engaged.” She teased, nearly wanting to take it back the moment your body tensed at her words. She watched the way you froze in your movements, spoon still in your mouth as your brow furrowed before you slipped it out, digging into your food for a second, lost in thought.

“When did I tell you that?”

“Couple of weeks ago.” She shrugged, squeezing at your leg softly, a wordless way of telling you that you didn’t need to talk about it if you didn’t want to. “Well, you mentioned something about nearly marrying a lawyer, I’m just taking liberties.”

“Well you’re right.” You admitted quietly, suddenly very distracted with picking out the cherries in your gelato. It wasn’t that you were avoiding talking to Emily about it, you didn’t mind, it was just that you could feel your chest tightening already with the thoughts of your past.

“Anyone else know?” She asked softly, her fingers tracing patterns on your bare legs.

“Nope.” You finally looked up at her, “wasn’t exactly my star shining moment… can’t say I’m proud of it.”

“What’d’you mean?”

“It was… one of those relationships that when you get out of, everyone around you is all ‘oh my god, it’s about time, she was so terrible to you, I’ve been waiting for you to break up for years, I’m not surprised’ kinda thing.”

“Meanwhile the entire time you’re together they’re telling you how cute you are?”

“Yeah.” You sighed, “Skylar was… something else. I mean she already had the unfair advantage of me in a new city where I didn’t know a lot of people and certainly no family. She proposed in the middle of one of her family dinners, I couldn’t exactly say no in the moment and it sparked a huge fight when we got home.”

“Did you want to marry her?”

“I loved her.” You replied with a huff, “I thought she was the love of my life. A couple of weeks later was when she got the job offer in LA, I coincidentally sat in on a couple of lectures about profiling while we were working a DV case and it kinda all clicked, started to realize just how manipulative she had been the entire relationship. How terrible she’d been treating me. I was blind to all of it, made me realize that if I couldn’t see the real motivations of someone I saw everyday, someone I thought I knew inside and out, then how was I supposed to be able to see through psychopathic serial killers?” You risked a glance up at Emily, the tightness in your chest relaxing when you found her attention on you, a soft encouraging look in her eyes, “It was part of why I decided to specialize in profiling when I moved to Florida after breaking up with her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. But there’s no need for you to be, you’re not the one who fucked me up when it comes to understanding love.” You let out an ironic laugh, finally digging back into your gelato.

“You ever talk to her? I know how feelings can get stuck deep down inside you no matter how much you want to ignore them.”

“God no.” You scoffed, “the only thing I feel when talking or thinking about her is the urge to shoot things.”

“You wanna go to the range?” She offered and your head tilted in her direction.

“Isn’t a little late?”

“Oh c’mon, I’m a unit chief! I’ve gotta have some kind of pull.”

“Really?” You looked over to her with a wicked grin that made her smile for real.

“Yeah.”

“Well then fuck yes.”

“Okay but just one question.”

“Shoot?”

“You pawned the ring right? Didn’t give her the chance of getting it back?” She asked, raising a brow and the look on your face had her instantly wondering what happened as you bit back a laugh.

“I fed that piece of shit to a gator my first day in Florida.”

Emily howled out a laugh, swatting at your leg, the two of you both laughing so hard tears had started to blur into your eyes at the sheer thought. There truly was no better way to win a break up than the path you’d ended up on. By the time you were done at the range you were both feeling much more relaxed, any frustration or build up of emotion lifted from your shoulders as you returned to Emily’s apartment.

But just in case, Emily did still drag you into the bedroom to remind you just how special you were, worshipping every inch of your body, her lips and fingers not leaving any of your skin unexplored until you were completely exhausted, curling into her arms into a deep sleep.

***

Paperwork days were usually loved around the BAU, a little bit of a break, time to spend with friends and family rather than chasing serial killers around the country. This one would be, but it was involving a lot of wrap up from a tricky case out in Salt Lake and everyone was already tired from the week out of office. You’d been paired with JJ that week and the two of you had taken down the unsub together, but alone, so your reports were needing just that much more detail for the deputy director to be satisfied. Then JJ got the call that Henry had a school emergency and she had to take off for that, she apologised profusely and said she’d try to finish at home but you assured her to just email what she had to you and you’d finish up.

You’d done as said, reports sitting in your printer while you got distracted looking through case files. Part of you was always waiting for Dewald’s signature to pop up somewhere other than Florida, you knew he was still out there and were sure he wouldn’t be able to resist this long. The office had started to empty out, you, Derek and Spencer left in the bullpen while Emily worked away in her office, though her voice suddenly broke through the room, causing the three of you to nearly jump.

“Wilson are you done with those reports? I need them asap.”

Your head shot up in the direction of her office, worried that she was mad but you could tell by the look on her face that she, just like the rest of you, wanted to get out of there for the weekend.

“Yeah, sorry!” You scooped up the papers from the printer, quickly jogging up the stairs to her office it was nearly out of instinct you swung the door shut behind you, ready for a lecture for your superior. “Sorry, I should’ve filed them earlier, I just got sidetracked.”

“It’s fine.” She let out a small laugh, turning back to you, “I just wanted to make sure they were done. I’m only an asshole when someone above me is an asshole, promise.”

“Okay.” You laughed, sliding the papers onto her desk, watching the way she paused, her eyes dragging up your body and you nearly gulped, feeling yourself flutter around nothing. “Anything else?”

“You never wear skirts…” you glanced down at your outfit, she was right, you were normally ready for field days but had been running out of work clothes today, throwing on a pencil skirt suit and heels. “And to be honest it’s kind of driving me insane.”

“Oh?” You raised a brow, a small grin taking over your cheeks as she stepped toward you.

“Yeah.” She murmured, her fingers cascading up your neck before pinching at your chin, “thinking about pushing it up, sitting you on my desk so I can get a taste before bending you over it, stretching you out over my cock.”

“Well it is Friday…” You murmured back, your lips nearly brushing against hers as you spoke “office desk? Kitchen island? Same difference to me, I have an imagination.”

“Good girl.” She praised, her lips ever so briefly meeting yours before you could both hear the sound of high heels outside her office door and stepped apart before Penelope knocked and darted through the door once Emily gave her the go ahead.

Once you were home that night Emily wasn’t about to forget your words, propping you up on the island while she ate you until your legs were absolutely shaking, pussy clenching around her fingers and you were practically crying for her cock. She wasn’t about to let you down, flipping you over and bending you over the counter, cock plunging into you as you moaned, fingers scrambling against her skin as you could never get enough. No matter how she fucked you, you were almost always left aching for more, her touch burning into your skin as you fell asleep curled in her limbs.

***

You let out a quiet groan, your eyes scrunching as you shifted in the bed, you didn’t want to wake up yet, especially as you felt Emily’s body next to you. Her breath was warm on the skin of your throat, her face nuzzled gently into your body as the two of you slept. You could feel her body raising and lowering as she breathed, still completely asleep and something inside of you softened, knowing she was that comfortable and safe with you by her side. You dared to crack open an eye, hoping you’d be able to keep a hold of the sleep afterwards and your lips broke out into a grin.

She was absolutely stunning, the sun peaking through her curtains, bouncing colours off her hair splayed against the pillows. She looked absolutely peaceful, like she was as relaxed as she possibly could be and that made your heart swell in an entirely different way. You couldn’t help but reach out, your fingers ever so lightly tracing over her skin, trailing around her lips, up her jaw before they ran down the bridge of her nose. No matter how much you didn’t want to move you shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose and you nearly winced as you watched it scrunch up, her lips twitching up into a grin.

“You’re staring.” She mumbled, her arm wrapping tighter around you.

“Lies.” You murmured, your lips ghosting over hers and she chuckled softly, stealing a kiss without opening her eyes.

“I think you’re the one lying.” She yawned softly and it was your turn to let out a sleepy laugh.

“Maybe if you weren’t so cute when you’re sleeping I wouldn’t have to stare.”

“You ever wonder how I feel?” She murmured, pressing a kiss to your lips and you felt you chest swell, a giggle bursting from your lips before you nuzzled back into her and the two of you were back off into dreamland.

***

When Emily slipped the g-spot vibe into you after your morning session you thought it was to keep her cum buried inside your still dripping pussy, remind you who you belonged to while you went about your day.

You were proven very wrong when you got to the farmer’s market.

Up at a candle stand the tiniest gasp escaped your lips as the toy began a dull buzz inside you. A moment later and Emily’s hand was on your hip, her lips teasing your neck, her words hot on your skin,

“Think of it as a training exercise, gotta keep your poker face sharp. This should do the trick.”

“Yeah, right.” You muttered back, with how close to you she was you could feel the bulge in her pants, you knew exactly what her intentions were.

“Be a good girl for daddy.” She whispered into your ear, nipping at your earlobe before she pinched your hip and stepped away, pretending to look at something else in the stall.

It was a torturous hour and a half at the farmer’s market, every time you Emily picked up her phone you felt your skin prickle in anticipation. The vibrator would pick up speed, change to a more intense pattern before slipping back down. It only took the first three times before she noticed she had a tell, a smirk taking over her lips and she set it to a pre set edging pattern so it would change without her having to touch her phone. Though that didn’t stop her from picking up her phone to pretend she was about change things up, smirk practically plastered on her lips the entire afternoon.

By the time you got back to Emily’s apartment you were certain you were about to explode. The door swung shut, the bag in her hand dropped onto the kitchen island and she was on you. Her lips met yours in a fiery kiss, one that she was in complete control of as her hands made quick work of your clothes, pulling your panties down your legs as she did so.

“Daddy please….” You whined, collapsing against the wall behind you and she could see your thighs trembling.

“Oh princess…” her hand caressed at your cheek, “I never said you weren’t allowed to come. Poor thing. You must be incredibly pent up.” She stepped toward you, slotting her thigh between your legs and you let out a shriek as it nudged the toy deeper into you, the denim of her jeans brushing against your throbbing clit. “Go ahead, make a mess of daddy’s pants.”

Her hands clutched at your hips softly, rocking your body and you cried out as pleasure shot through you, your entire body trembling, gasps leaving your lips as your juices dribbled around the toy. Emily couldn’t help but smirk as you rode out your orgasm on her thigh, the damp spot on her jeans getting darker and bigger with each twitch of your body.

“Fuck.” You swore, a hand clenching at Emily’s shoulder like a life line and she chuckled darkly. Nudging you up off her thigh just enough to pull the toy out you let out a whimper as the rest of your juices drenched her leg.

In an instant she had you spun around, your forearms bracing against the wall. Her hands sunk down your body, pulling down the cups of your bra as she went, your nipples hardening in the cool air of the apartment. You knew she wasn’t done, especially with the tell tale sound of her belt clinking as she undid her pants.

“Just want one more from you angel.” She said, “want you to come around daddy’s cock, okay?”

“Yes!” You practically shrieked, her fingers toying with you already before she coated the dildo in the mess of your juices and her leftover cum from that morning and slid it into you with ease. “Oh fuck…”

It was almost embarrassing how quickly your pussy was fluttering around her cock, the tip of it nudging against you with each thrust of her hips. The sounds coming from your cunt were ones of absolute sin, sopping wet, each time Emily pulled her cock back it was covered in more of your cum, completely drenched.

“Oh god daddy!” The cry left your lips louder than you expected and Emily urged you on with a particularly rough thrust, her hand coming to spank at the curve of your ass.

“That’s it princess. Let everyone know just how good daddy fucks you.”

“S’close!” You whimpered, your eyes scrunched shut as your fingers clawed at the wall, wishing for some sense of balance while your legs began to shake. Fire prickled under your skin, pleasure building deep in your gut, a moan leaving your lips with each thrust of Emily’s cock. “oh god… god! Please!”

Emily’s free hand found your chest, pinching at your nipple, rolling it between her finger and thumb and you practically screamed, your pussy clenching down around her. Your body shook as you hit your peak, your legs began to give out and Emily’s arm wound around your waist, keeping you upright and pulling you to her. She kissed up your neck gently, stilling her thrusts while you whimpered, shivering every couple of seconds until you could finally open your eyes again.

“Jesus Christ.” You muttered and she laughed softly, kissing your shoulder as she pulled out, watching the mess drip down your thighs.

“How about we get you in the bath angel? I’ll start on dinner.” She suggested, nudging you in the direction of the bedroom once she was sure your legs weren’t complete jello any longer.

You were particularly blissed out post bath, wrapped in cozy hoodie and stolen pair of Emily’s sweatpants sat at the kitchen island. Sergio quickly took place on your lap, purring loudly as he curled up to wait for treats while you ate dinner. Emily had taken a few of the super fresh ingredients from the farmer’s market to make pasta pomodoro with chicken and goat cheese and to be honest it was one of the best dinners you’d had in a while. You’d offered to help with the clean up considering she’d cooked but she waved you off, insisting on you continuing to relax and refilled your wine instead.

You couldn’t help but watch her as she flit through the kitchen, placing leftovers in the fridge, a pan into the sink to soak before loading up the dishwasher. It was all very menial, almost boring daily tasks but there was something about being around while someone was doing them that made a warmth bloom through you in a completely different way than earlier. Sure, it had been another six weeks of your no strings situation, being in each other’s company on the weekends was a very regular occurrence and nothing new. And honestly? You wouldn’t change it for the world, being able to watch Emily in the comfort of her own home, underneath the shell of the FBI agent was something you adored.

“What?” Her voice broke through your thoughts, a small laugh evident on her lips and you laughed yourself.

“Nothing.”

“You that blissed out?” She teased, coming around the island to wrap an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Kinda.” You admitted with a little giggle, “guess I’m just used to days that are either all sex, or all casual. You took me on one hell of a rollercoaster today.”

“Sure did.” Smirking, she leant down, kissing you softly. “You let me know whenever you want to do it again.”

“Think I’m pretty wiped right now honestly.”

“Not tonight.” She laughed, kissing you quickly again before she swiped both your wine glasses off the island, nodding toward the couch, “but you’re welcome to stay over tonight too. I think I might just owe you some cuddles after how well you did today.”

***

Your house was split into three floors, the entry level being home to a small office, storage room and half bath, safe to say the least lived on floor. You were currently on the second level, home to the kitchen, dining space and living room, the tv on in the background for noise as you finally had the chance to curl up on the couch with a book. It was the middle of the week, the team had gotten back from San Antonio midday Saturday so you’d taken some time tonight to toss some laundry in and tidy up around the house. You heard a noise from downstairs, glancing toward the window, wondering if it was your neighbour getting home when you suddenly heard it again, this time you were certain it was knocking. Tossing back the blanket you scooped up your phone, it was nearing ten thirty and you had no notifications but there was definitely someone at your door. You meandered down the stairs, flicking on a few lights here and there before checking the peephole to find Emily on the stoop.

“Hey…” You greeted, pulling open the door.

“Hey.” She smiled meekly at you and your head tilted in confusion, “oh god… this is so much more awkward than I expected…”

“Well if you’re gonna be awkward can you be awkward inside? It’s freezing.”

“Sorry.” She nearly winced, quickly stepping over the threshold, toeing out of her shoes.

“C’mon.” You’d already flicked the lock behind her, nodding towards the stairs before you jogged back up them. “Wine?” You asked as you approached the kitchen island, turning back to her.

“You got anything stronger?” She asked with a sigh.

“You okay?” You asked, pulling down the bourbon from the top shelf, pouring some into a tumbler for her.

“It’s, ugh, God! This is so stupid.” She groaned, grabbing the glass to take a hefty swig before starting off on a mini rant, “I just, it’s been a hard week and I feel even dumber because it’s only Wednesday and it’s not even like the last case was a rough one. I’m just… tired… ya know?” She glanced in your direction and you nodded, “I don’t know where I am but it’s stuck somewhere between wanting to shoot someone and wanting to curl up into a ball feeling sorry for myself. Apparently I’m crap company too because Sergio wanted nothing to do with me, every time I tried to pick him he’d run off so if I’m bringing the mood down you’re free to kick me out. Oh, and you left a shirt at my place that he’s stolen so I don’t know if you’re ever getting that back”—

“Okay,” you interrupted with a giggle, hands grasping gently at her forearms, “now you’re rambling.”

“Sorry.” She mumbled, ducking her gaze, “I guess I just wanted some company, even if I’m garbage at it.”

“You’re not.” You assured her, your fingers curling under her chin so gain her gaze before you leant in, kissing her softly, “trust me.” You squeezed at her hand, “and you don’t need to feel stupid. Just because you’re this big bad ass FBI Unit Chief doesn’t mean you always have to be in control and know what you’re doing. We’re only human, you’re allowed to feel vulnerable.”

“Even if I hate it?” She asked, her nose scrunching in distaste and you laughed.

“Yeah. You’re even allowed to cry, but I’m honestly not sure if you have tear ducts.” She scoffed, but you saw the smile flash across her face and you knew it had worked. “Everyone needs a little bit of comforting sometimes, doesn’t matter how tough you are.”

“I think…. That’s what I want.”

“Then c’mon.” You squeezed at her hand again, guiding her over to the couch where she collapsed down beside you, letting you wrap an arm around her as you tossed the blanket over your laps, your fingers gently coming to comb through her hair.

An episode or two later and you could feel her body while still stiff wasn’t as tense, her fingers were tickling at your skin and you found yourself climbing into her lap, lips meeting hers tenderly, tongues slowly exploring each other’s mouths. You broke the kiss, eyes dark as you looked down at her, tilting her chin up to you,

“Let me take care of you daddy…” you whispered, slowly sinking to your knees between her legs, “would you like that?”

You were practically pouting back up at her and Emily felt like she could explode at just the sight of it alone. Her hand reached out, caressing at your cheek gently and you leant into it before turning your head to press a kiss into her palm.

“Yeah angel.” She nodded.

“Just relax for me. You’ll feel better, promise.”

A moment later and she was kicking her pants off her legs and your face was buried between them, bringing her to the full point of relaxation that she hadn’t even realized she’d been needing.

____________________

@ssa-sapphic @mickey-gomez @clarawatson @cabotfan42 @momlifebehard @melindawarnersgf @itisdoctortoyousir @emilyprentiss4life @somethingimaginative17 @temilyrights @alexxavicry @anya-casablanca @daddy-heather-dunbar @evilregal2002 @aliensaurusrex @rustyzebra @ilovemycrayons @mandy-asimp @thegrantwater @leftoverenvy @kades95 @dextur @m00nkn1ghts @augustvandyne @supercriminalbean @daffodil-heart @msvenablesbitch @its-soph-xx @going-gray @just-a-torn-up-masterpiece @hopelesslyfallenninlove @peanutbutterprincess @kdaghay @emilyprentisssluvr @lex13cm @awolfcsworld @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy @riveramorylunar @s1ut4nat @midnight-sapphic @scorpsik @thisisraes @prentiss-theorem @unsubologyy @strongsassysexysloane @svushots @lavenderhoney94 @overtrred28

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #a dangerous game #daddy emily prentiss #emily prentiss series #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #emily prentiss fanfic

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xxrainshadowsxx · 4 months ago

Text

New Elite Chapter 11

Sorry this has taken so long, but they made it to the wedding.

Since Nellie’s arrival, the days, and then the weeks, went by much more pleasantly than before. Though your mother’s rejection left a hole in your heart, having Nellie back helped to heal that hole exponentially.

And yet nothing could stop what was inevitably coming closer. With each hour that passed, the day of your wedding drew nearer, and with it brought more confusion than you’d ever experienced before.

Mr. Onceler would be good to you, you knew that. But the emotional side, the part you’d found so easy to ignore when you initially agreed to this, was now rearing its head far more often than you would have liked. And, most annoyingly, you were angry with yourself for your confusion. You didn’t even want to have romantic feelings for him. Everything would be so much easier if there was nothing but cordiality between the two of you.

But that wasn’t the case, and you knew now that it would never be the case. After all he had done for you–keeping you safe after your exile, bringing Nellie to you–you couldn’t remain apathetic. You had feelings for him, that was certain. You just couldn’t quite name what they were yet.

There was also a certain amount of fear involved, though it wasn’t towards him. You’d heard horror stories about wedding nights all your life, and as such, there wasn’t a chance you wouldn’t experience some amount of trepidation, no matter who your husband was. In fact, he was probably the best possible option you could share your wedding night with, since you knew he’d be considerate of you and your inexperience. But even knowing that didn’t eliminate fear altogether. That was likely impossible.

And then, to make matters worse, your little secret was gnawing away at you. Terrified of the possibility of infertility, you’d asked Nellie to go to the apothecary to try and get whatever they had that might help you. You’d had no money to pay for it, and you would never let Mrs. Ryan or Mr. Onceler to purchase it for you, so you’d told Nellie to trade anything she could for it. She had procured it, and had never mentioned the cost. You hadn’t taken full inventory of the things she had brought back to you, so you were none the wiser of what she’d used either. It was an unspoken rule that neither of you would discuss it further. The bottle sat hidden in your dresser, only to be opened before you saw Mr. Onceler on your wedding night.

You weren’t quite sure why you didn’t want him to know you had the tincture. You supposed it would be like admitting you couldn’t fulfill the most basic duty of a wife, though that didn’t seem quite right. For all you knew, you could be worrying for nothing. It was a very real possibility that you would get pregnant on your wedding night and have a healthy baby before you’d even been married a year. But your mother’s struggles made you want to be prepared if that wasn’t the case.

You’d find out soon enough. As Nellie wakes you that morning, you find that a pit has already settled in your stomach. It was your wedding day, and you didn’t feel ready for it in the slightest.

Mr. Onceler and Mrs. Ryan had pulled everything together remarkably quickly, though even with all their speed, you knew you’d trespassed on Mrs. Ryan’s hospitality for far too long; you’d been there over a month. You’d especially felt like an intruder over Christmas. It had been a quiet affair, with two of her children joining you. They’d done their best to make you feel welcome, but you’d known you were out of place. Hopefully, that feeling would start to fade when you moved into Mr. Onceler’s house this evening.

Most of your things had already been transported there in preparation for your move. You were sure you’d find more than you expected; he’d hinted that he’d purchased an entirely new wardrobe for you to make up for what Nellie couldn’t take with her. All that remained behind was your bridal gown, certain accessories you wanted to wear for the day, and Nellie herself to help you prepare.

“Are you ready?” Nellie asks once she sees that your eyes are open. No, you most decidedly are not ready, but you’re also not not ready, and you figure this is the best it’s going to get. So you nod and get out of the bed you’ve been borrowing for the past several weeks for the last time.

You know you’re on a schedule, and must be ready no later than two to make it to the chapel in time, but Nellie’s still taken the liberty of drawing a bath for you, knowing it’s the easiest way to get you to relax. You mercifully sink into the warm water, letting the heat soothe the tense muscles in your shoulders. The only instruction you need to follow now is to not get your hair wet; Nellie carefully piled it on the top of your head, and since she knows your hair better than you do, you trust that it’s easier to work with if it’s not freshly washed like she claims.

You stay in the bath as long as you possibly can without having your skin prune up. Once out, you slip into a robe before sitting on the vanity where Nellie waits with a hot iron for your hair. Though it probably would have been easier, you detested the thought of hiding your hair in a cap-style veil, which was unfortunately becoming quite popular. Your long hair was your pride, and you’d rather sit for hours and risk suffering burns trying to curl it all than hide it away.

Nellie’s just getting the last curl in place when Mrs. Ryan enters the room. You panic for a moment, thinking you’re running late, but the clock reveals it’s only noon. Fear alleviated, you turn back to Mrs. Ryan, who beams at you. “You look a vision,” she declares before turning to Nellie. “Well, let’s get her in the dress.”

Now you’re confused again. “Surely we’re not leaving my hair down?” you ask, turning to Nellie for confirmation. It would be your preference, but a woman with her hair down was scandalous enough. A married woman with her hair down was unheard of.

“No, of course not,” she assures. “But if we don’t get the dress on now, it won’t fit over your hair. Come on. Stand, arms up.” You listen to her, but only reluctantly. You’d only tried that dress on twice before, and it had made everything seem so much more real. You doubt it will be any different today.

Sure enough, as Nellie and Mrs. Ryan ease the garment over your head, your breath catches for a moment. This is real, you’re getting married, and though your groom isn’t a total stranger, you didn’t know him as well as you would’ve liked. And of course, that means you weren’t desperately in love with him, nor he with you. That was a pipe dream now.

“Have you been eating?” Nellie asks as she starts to lace the back up. “I don’t seem to remember having to tighten the laces so much.”

You shrug in response. You did your best to force food down, but in truth, it held very little interest to you for the most part. More often than not, you ended up skipping luncheon or even supper. It didn’t seem like a big deal, since you were sure Mr. Onceler would insist on you eating with him when you were married.

Oh, Lord, that was happening in only a few short hours. Seeing yourself in the dress again only confirms your fate. However, the sinking feeling in your gut, which you expected to get worse throughout the day, seems to lessen instead. Though getting married would be a colossal change, you never really thought of it as being a bad one. Shocking to even yourself, seeing the dress on you makes you feel ready for this. You were ready to live with him. You were ready to be his wife.

Your fears weren’t completely assuaged, but they had been calmed somewhat, and that in and of itself was nothing short of a miracle. You were able to sit and look at yourself in that wedding dress while Nellie finishes your hair without much panic.

Finally, she’s done with you, and fixes the veil at the back of your head, so it doesn’t cover your hair much. She then turns to three glass bottles sitting on the vanity that you’d somehow gone the whole day without noticing. “Mr. Onceler sent these over this morning as a wedding gift,” she explains. “They’re scents. I know it would probably please him today if you were wearing one.”

“You’re right, of course,” you murmur before sampling the perfumes. They were all lovely, and with their French labels, you knew they were excellent quality, better than anything you’d ever owned. You chose the one that claimed to have notes of orange and sandalwood; when you try it on, you find the label did not lie.

With the perfume applied, there was no further reason to stall. You were as ready as you could ever be, and you knew you’d never looked lovelier. Nellie had really outdone herself.

“Let’s get going! It wouldn’t do for the bride to be late to her own wedding!” Mrs. Ryan calls, and she ushers you out the front door to where a vehicle waits for you, which you were thankful for. The chapel wasn’t far, but you didn’t fancy walking there in New York’s frigid winter air.

You make it to the surprisingly empty building quickly, and you’re swiftly ushered off into a side room. “I didn’t realize no one would have arrived yet. I thought he invited most of the upper class, to avoid offending anyone?” you inquire.

“They should start showing up in the next half hour or so,” Mrs. Ryan confirms. “You know how they all are about time. It’s supposed to start at three, so half of them will come at two-thirty, and the other half at three-thirty. Although, now that I think about it, I should probably go make sure he actually shows up on time. That boy is always late to everything…” her voice trails off as she leaves the room, leaving you almost alone, with only Nellie and your nerves for company.

It’s an agonizing hour of waiting. Before too long, you can hear voices outside your door, though you can’t discern any individual words or speakers. You’re surprised you don’t see Alice; you figured she’d bulldoze her way in whether she was allowed or not, but the only person who comes in is Mrs. Ryan again a little after three.

“Well, most of the people have come,” she says. “The Hunte’s aren’t here, but nobody expected them to be. He’s getting anxious though, he doesn’t want to wait for anybody else. Time to get this show on,” she announces, clapping her hands together.

“Wait,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Is… is my mother here? I know she was invited.”

Mrs. Ryan’s face falls, and she puts her hand on your shoulder briefly. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, child,” she berates you with a sigh. “Now, put it out of your mind. Let’s go.” She hands you a bouquet while Nellie picks up your train, and the three of you make your way to the narthex.

“We’ll see you inside. Wait for the music,” Mrs. Ryan reminds you. She gives you a brief hug, and though you wish you could express your gratitude in words, the hug seems to say it all. Nellie, too, claims a hug for herself before they both dart into the chapel. You have neither your father nor mother here, so you will be walking alone. For the second the doors are open, you see that it’s full and filled with light chatter.

You don’t have to wait for long, alone with your thoughts. Through the doors, you hear the talking start to die down, before it’s replaced by thundering organ music. With no visible prompting, the doors swing open wide, revealing your presence. But more importantly, at least in your mind, you can finally see Mr. Onceler again, waiting for you at the end of the aisle.

You’re not aware of your feet taking even and measured steps, but they must be, since he’s slowly getting closer. He’s patiently waiting for you with his hands folded in front of him, and miraculously, he’s smiling. Not just smirking as was his custom, but an authentic smile now adorns his features.

You don’t see anyone else as you make your way towards him. You’d expected to glance at the pews to at least spot Alice, Mrs. Ryan, and Nellie, but you don’t. Even your mother’s absence has been temporarily erased from your mind. The only people in the room are you and the man who will very soon be your husband.

And the last thing you’d been expecting hits you quite suddenly: you’re excited. Not just at peace with your decision to spend the rest of your life with him, but genuinely happy to be doing so. The happiness is so foreign to you after your disownment, you hardly recognize it. It feels entirely new.

Lord, what was this man doing to you? You’d gone from loathing him to marrying him of your own volition in a matter of months, and you were happy about it no less. It must be the aura of your own wedding getting to your head.

A wedding that you were still in the middle of. You’d reached the end of the aisle now, and he’s extending his hand out to take yours. You grab hold of his proffered hand, and though the words haven’t yet been said, this feels like a finality. There is truly no going back now.

You’d been to a few weddings in your life, and your own is not much different than the affairs you’d already witnessed. The ceremony consisted of standing there and listening to the priest for the most part. Your participation isn’t required until the very end, and even then it’s just two little words. In your memory, weddings seemed to take a very long time, but now that it’s your own, you’re shocked by how quickly you get to the end and the minister it asking that all important question: would you accept Mr. Onceler as your husband, until the day you die?

The answer is easy. “I do.”

And now it's his turn. The priest posits the same question, and you have no doubt about his answer. “I do,” he says immediately after the question has been asked. His voice is confident, his hand steady in yours.

“Then by the power vested in me by the state of New York, in the presence of God and these witnesses, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.” The fact that you were now a married woman is quite overshadowed by what's coming next. You'd been expecting it, of course. It was part of every wedding, a tradition dating back to the Middle Ages according to what you've read. It doesn't mean you haven't been both anticipating and dreading this moment.

The two of you turn to each other at the same time. Veils that covered the face were out of fashion, so you didn't even have to wait for him to lift yours; he had perfect access to you. He puts his hands on either side of your face and leans down to meet your height. He presses his lips to yours, soft as a feather, and the second they meet, you feel like you're floating, butterflies exploding in your stomach.

The kiss only lasts a couple of seconds; he keeps it very chaste since you're surrounded by people. Polite claps spring up around you, but it's only background noise, a very minor annoyance. Most of your attention is captivated by your husband, and how much you wanted him to kiss you again.

The other part of your mind is consumed with the confusing feeling of why you wanted this. He'd made it clear that this was a business transaction, and you'd reminded yourself of that fact over and over, as a protection for yourself.

But despite all of your caution, despite every wall you'd put up and hid behind… could you really be falling for him?

It would be a supremely stupid thing to do, of course. You'd only be setting yourself up to get your heart broken. But if you were still feeling this way, even with all your precautions, you didn't see a way to make it stop.

“Come along,” he murmurs into your ear. “I've hired a photographer. I'm sure you'd want at least one picture.”

“Oh… yes, of course,” you say, sounding a bit dazed. Pictures had changed, even in your short lifetime. They used to be quite expensive and time consuming. They weren't exactly cheap now, but didn't take near as long, so they'd all but replaced painted portraits. The only thing that remained a constant was that they were reserved for special events; primarily, family portraits, and, of course, weddings. You yourself had only had one picture taken with your parents, just a year before your father had died.

People began to file out, heading to the banquet hall just across the road, since your social statuses decreed there must be a party to accompany the wedding. But as they left, a photographer entered–and, most interestedly, it was a woman.

As her team set up her equipment, she was busy directing how you were to pose. After one look at Mr. Onceler's height, it was decided he would sit so he wouldn't completely dwarf you. You were still able to place your hand into his arm, while your other grasped your bouquet.

“Stay just like that!” the photographer called as she made her way to her camera. You school your face into a neutral expression. The last thing you wanted was to ruin your own wedding picture due your haywire emotions.

You manage to stay still as the flash goes off, then blink several times as stars dance in your eyes, rather uncannily reflecting your own mental state. The brightness hit heavily when you were right in front of it. At least it was over now. Mr. Onceler stands, his form slowly becoming less hazy as your vision recovers. He slips his arm around your waist and leans down to whisper in your ear. “How are you feeling? Regret anything yet?”

“Do you want me to?” you ask. Better to have a smart mouth with him than be honest and give him any hint of your true feelings.

Sure enough, he chuckles in amusement. “Good to know that our marriage has not dulled that tongue of yours, Mrs. Onceler.” That makes you freeze in the middle of taking a step, which he could hardly fail to notice. “Oh? And where's that infamous wit now?” he teases.

His vexing at least spurs something to come out of your mouth. “And why do you think I want to take your name? Mine, after all, has more prestige, as you were quickly to notice. Perhaps I want to keep it.” You really could lie when push came to shove. You didn't mind giving up your name and taking his. It was just so bizarre after being called by your maiden name all your life.

He laughs at that, a genuine one this time rather than the sarcastic chuckle he gave earlier. “I'm afraid that's not the way the world works, darling,” he reminds you. “And I think you gave up any pride you had in your name when you agreed to sully it with mine.”

“And here I thought my name was the only reason you wanted to marry me in the first place,” you shoot back. “Don't tell me there was any ulterior motive, was there sir?”

“‘Sir?’” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “I'm your husband now and you still deign to call me sir? Not very romantic of you.”

“And since when has this relationship ever been romantic?” Try as you might, you can't keep the bitterness that truth brings from creeping into your tone. You hope he doesn't pick up on it, but one look at his face proves that hope was in vain; he's gone from looking amused to frowning down at you, brow furrowed.

You turn away and start heading for the exit to join everyone else. The last thing you want is for him to make any of his own conclusions when you yourself didn't even know what you were feeling. And you especially didn't want any of these possible conclusions to lead him to give you pity.

He grabs your hand and spins you around just before you can make it to the door. Very, very hesitantly, he says your name, pauses, then restarts. “I know that I'm not the man you had probably hoped to marry for most of your life,” he says. “But I do want you to know, now that you are my wife, if there's anything you need, or just want, please do not hesitate to speak to me about it. I want to do everything in my power to make you happy.”

You barely resist the urge to scoff in his face. Just like a typical man, trying to fix every problem by purchasing something. You'd learned long ago most problems weren't fixed by this in the slightest. “I'm afraid what I want is something you can't give me,” you whisper. “I don't even know myself what it is,” you add hastily before he gets the wrong idea.

He reaches up and runs his thumb over your cheek, and you can't stop your slight tremble at his touch. He stops just shy of your lips. “Let me know when you find out,” he murmurs, his expression unreadable. You're relieved when he leads you out the door a moment later. Though you weren't exactly looking forward to being the center of attention at your reception, at least that was something you knew you could navigate. Better yet, it would take your mind off your new husband.

As you predicted, your reception is a bit of a madhouse. Everyone wanted to speak to you at least once, though Alice made sure she got her time first. Just talking took up most of your social skills. Most of these people barely knew you, while others bought into the rumors Mrs. Hunte had done her best to spread about you being hardly better than a harlot. Those who were hostile didn’t dare damage their standing with Mr. Onceler like the Hunte’s had decided to, but they also didn’t work to hide their disdain; you saw more than a few sneers aimed in your direction.

You couldn’t entirely forget Mr. Onceler, of course. He was by your side the entire time, and more often than not, he had his arm wrapped securely around your waist. As you guessed, when food was served he insisted you eat a full plate, and also made a point of leading to a now almost nostalgic dance floor several times. He was now the only person allowed to dance with you, unless he granted direct permission to someone else. No man asked at your wedding however; it would be a surefire way to earn his wrath.

And while the reception lasted well after the sun dipped below the horizon, it still felt over and done with far too quickly, considering what was coming. After several hugs from Alice and her family, there was no one left except you, Mr. Onceler, Nellie, and Mrs. Ryan.

“Get going, you three,” Mrs. Ryan laughed. She’d indulged in the large amount of wine available and was in a great mood. “I’ll arrange for this all to be cleaned, don’t worry about a thing.”

“I’ll pay you back for that, Matilda,” Mr. Onceler says as he starts to lead you outside; he’s had his own personal car loaded with the last of your things, and it waited to take you to your new home.

“You will not if you know what’s good for you,” Mrs. Ryan threatens with a harmless swat at his arm. “This is a wedding present for the two of you.” He just rolls his eyes at her before taking you the rest of the way to his car. It only just has enough room for the three of you and your belongings. You sit in the passenger seat, a bit of an odd change for you.

After a few moments of silence, you speak up. “So, I don’t think I ever asked where you live…” you start before he interrupts you.

“I’m still on the Upper East Side, don’t worry,” he smirks. “Although I also have a house upstate where I spend a lot of time. Obviously I expect you to join me during the months I’m up there. Ah, here we are.” You turn to see an admittedly giant house, much bigger than your mother’s. And though he was indeed still within the limits of the Upper East Side, it wasn’t in an area you had frequented. If you were in the upper class, this was the upper class of the upper class. It might as well have been a different state.

A manservant runs to take your things as you get out of the car. Mr. Onceler turns to you. “I’ll trust Nellie to show you to your room. Though I expect to see you sooner rather than later.” He gives you a meaningful look before disappearing into the house.

You couldn’t ignore it any longer. The day was far from over, and now the real tribulation would begin.

#fanfiction #onceler fanfiction #the onceler #onceler x reader #the lorax #also on ao3 #onceler #period fanfic

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cavalierious-whim · 29 days ago

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Socially Awkward, Chapter One (Wriolette)

Wriothesley and Neuvillette are both lonely, socially stunted older dudes terrified of dating, and so they do what the youngsters do-- accidentally initiate romance over social media by way of 'lewd modeling'.

'Socially Awkward'

Part 1 of 11

modern au

old dude cliche rom-com

Read here on AO3. You can also, follow me on Twitter and Blue Sky.

“You do know that your phone has died, right?”

Wriothesley's face tilts towards Clorinde, who leans over the offending piece of tech. It’s propped against a stack of weights, and no, he didn’t know that—he was too busy counting out his current set and staring off into the distance. He curses, dropping the dumbbell in his hand to the mat.

“Ah.” Clorinde’s mouth curls into a smile as she watches him scramble. “So you didn’t—”

“I don’t need to hear it from you, miss, ‘I have a flip phone’—”

“It isn’t a flip phone,” she replies tersely. “Or, it is, but it’s still a fancy smartphone and certainly newer than yours.”

“You traded up because of nostalgia.” Wriothesley shoots her a knowing look before leaning over to pluck his phone from the floor. “But, you lack the technical know-how of how phones work.”

Clorinde raises an eyebrow. “Says the man who didn’t realize his phone was dying?”

“I wasn’t looking!”

She snorts softly. “I know how to text and answer a call. That’s all that’s needed.”

Clorinde would say that. Clorinde is allergic to anything that doesn’t involve CrossFit, sharpshooting, and butting into Wriothesley's business. Like being nosey and peeking at his phone.

“Well, just in time, I guess. I’ve been needing a break. Hungry?”

“I wasn’t, but now that you’ve said something…”

Wriothesley shoots her a grin. “Want to call it an early day and go to Café Lutece? An order of Crepes Suzette would really hit the spot—”

“Right in your gut,” cuts in Clorinde, following him to the locker room. It’s an unspoken rule that Clorinde is allowed on the men’s side, no questions asked. Besides, it’s not as though she’s looking with intent—her eyes wander in an entirely different direction, and the gym is small enough that the others don’t care. “What happened to the diet?”

“I’m still bulking up!” A flimsy excuse that has Clorinde giving him the look. “Look, there’s nothing wrong with a treat here and there, and you know how good the Conch Madeleines are—”

“Alright, alright, you don’t have to sell it to me.” Clorinde waves a hand. “You had me at Café Lutece. Besides, you need a break, I need a drink, and we need to talk about plans for the week.”

“It’s—” Wriothesley looks at his watch. “—barely noon, Clorinde. Surely it’s too early for booze.”

“Have you never heard of brunch and mimosas? But no, I was thinking about a nice latte. I know their tea is mid—”

“It isn’t that bad.” Wriothesley tugs off his sweaty shirt and drops it into his bag. He pats himself down with a damp towel, paying particular attention to his neck and face, and then it too is tossed into the bag. “It’s drinkable. Besides, like I said—the madeleines.”

While Clorinde’s comment about his diet was mostly a tease, he could be better about his occasional treats. But the madeleines are just too good, and they enhance even the most subpar teas.

He tugs on a fresh shirt and looks at her. “Decent?”

Clorinde leans over and sniffs, her face wrinkling comically. “Decent enough to sit outside. As long as no one is within five feet, we should be safe.”

Rude. Wriothesley reaches into his bag, grabs his soiled shirt, and chucks it at her in response.

She stands there as it smacks her, and then she drawls, slowly and deadpan, “Delightful.” She peels away the article and tosses it right back into his bag. “And you wonder why you’re single.”

Wriothesley shrugs. Reaching for a comb, he attempts to groom his wild rat’s nest of hair, grunting slightly when the tines get stuck on the coarse strands. “You act as if I’m trying to be anything else.”

Because he isn’t. Wriothesley isn’t wired for relationships. They require too much trust, too much vulnerability, and he isn’t about to dip his toes into that. Clorinde should get it because she’s the same, and that’s why they are two peas in a pod.

She’s too quiet though—quiet enough that he looks at her again. Her expression is soft and contemplative.

“What’s with that look?”

“Hm? Oh, it’s nothing, just… Well. We aren’t getting any younger, right?”

“Surely you aren’t thinking about dating again.” Wriothesley hisses softly as the comb finally slides through a tangle. “Clorinde, you’re my wing-woman—”

“Wouldn’t that imply that you are dating?”

Wriothesley snorts. “An occasional fuck and run isn’t dating. Don’t leave me stranded.” A few more tugs of his comb make his hair presentable. “Besides, didn’t you swear off men years ago?”

Men, yes. Women, though?

“Women are fair game,” replies Clorinde, the expected response, one repeated so often that Wriothesley mouths the words alongside her the moment they slip from Clorinde’s mouth. She reaches over and nudges him sharply in the ribs. “Enough of that, though. I’m hungry.”

Only because Wriothesley suggested they grab a bite to eat. Still, he shoots her a smile, and shoulders his gym bag.

“Yeah, let's get out of here before we’re cornered by Sigewinne.”

“So, the schedule for the weekend.”

Wriothesley is halfway through his bite of crepe when Clorinde broaches the topic. He groans, shoving the fork into his mouth and swallowing. “Do we have to talk shop here? Can’t it wait?”

“It could,” she says, “but it’s better to just get it out of the way, no? Besides, you’ll bounce the moment we’re done and then we’ll have to have this chat over the phone—”

“Which you’re allergic to. Got it.”

Clorinde levels him with an unamused look. “I do remember saying that phone calls were fine. It is you who decidedly dislikes them.”

Wriothesley cringes at the accusation. It isn’t his fault that he dislikes it. Direct messages and emails are easier. Clorinde only gets a pass because he’s known her forever. She carries the distinct titles of “bestie” and “ex-roommate”, and is the only person that he remotely trusts. Others are email-zoned, as it were.

“Okay, then, the schedule,” he begins, shoving his food around his plate.

“I knew you’d come around,” she replies, earning herself another groan and a roll of Wriothesley's eyes. “You have a boxing match, right? I think I saw it on the gym calendar.”

Wriothesley nods and hums softly. “Yeah, that guy from Mondstadt. Mr. Dark-something or other.” He chuckles. “Last time we crossed mitts he told me he preferred a fight name which I get, but like…” Wriothesley waves his hand. “He could’ve picked something less comic book-y.”

“I remember that being a good match, though. Excited to have another go at him?”

She knows that he is, and Wriothesley shoots her a grin and winks before shoving another bite into his mouth.

“So, Saturday’s booked up. Good to know. Does that mean you’re streaming on Friday like usual?”

“Nine P.M. on the dot.” Clorinde nods and sips at her latte, silence stretching between them. And it’s fine—Wriothesely can sit there and just enjoy space beside her, but he’d be a fool to not use the shared lunch to needle her in the same way that she did him. “So, about earlier… got eyes on any girls?”

“Wriothesley—” Oh, that’s a terrible tone. “—we are not talking about that.”

He behaves, his mouth snapping shut. Clorinde has shot him in the ass for less things, so he pulls back his teasing and doesn’t push.

After a moment, though, she sighs, and says, “But, to humor you, the answer is no. Every recent date has been…” She trails off, her mouth contorting into a sour frown.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

“It’s a nightmare out there,” says Wriothesley in solidarity. “Especially for folks our age. That’s why it’s easy to go for something with no strings attached. Besides, you like being alone. Remember when you kicked me out?”

Clorinde’s mouth twitches slightly at one corner. “I’d seen one too many bare asses belonging to your conquest of the day.”

“Yeah, yeah, you had to preserve your sanity, I’m sure.”

“I’d prefer to think of it as self-care,” replies Clorinde smoothly.

It isn’t a fight with weight. They’d slummed it together as roommates for nearly a decade and even Wriothesley decided that he’d needed the space, so it worked out in the end. He loves Clorinde, truly, but it’s been nice to just… stretch out and make a place his.

Plus, she doesn’t get to yell at him for leaving out dishes any more. Like yeah, it gets lonely but he thinks they’re better for it. Clorinde is there nearly every other day, especially to help with—

“Oh, that reminds me,” he says suddenly. “Are we still on for tonight?”

Clorinde drags a hand down her face and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Gods, I’d hoped you forgot. Can’t you figure out how to use the timing option on your camera?”

“I know how to use it,” Wriothesley tells her, a smug expression pulling across his face. “But you always get the best angles to show off my assets—”

“Please never say that again.”

Wriothesley will. It’s a standard phrase in his vernacular used specifically to annoy her. He leans over and steals a madeleine from her coffee cup saucer and takes a bite. “Your help is apprecass iated. As thanks, I’ll pay for your coffee.”

“I deserve more than a damn coffee having to see your ass hanging out of—”

“And that’s a little too much info to be tossing out there in the open, Clorinde.” Wriothesley shoots her a glare and then looks frantically at a table just feet away sporting a couple and their young child. “Really?”

Clorinde snickers and steals the madeleine back. “Get your own damn cookies.”

“I’m paying for it!”

“Don’t remind me.” Her reply is as dry as the Sumeru desert. “But yes, tonight. Just try not to blind me.”

Wriothesley promises no such thing.

Clorinde gives him a once-over with a critical eye. She looks unimpressed, a furrow between her brows, and her bottom lip caught between her teeth. That doesn’t bode well. She taps her chin, walking around him, taking in the sight from every angle.

Wriothesley presses a hand to his bare chest, not so much self-conscious, but concerned about his chosen attire for this particular photoshoot. Before he can ask, Clorinde reaches out and tugs on the loosely knotted tie hanging limp against his sternum.

“Do men actually find this attractive?”

“I’ll have you know that my audience is equal opportunity when it comes to gender,” Wriothesley retorts.

Clorinde meets his face. “You’re wearing a tie and a glorified jock strap.”

“It’s proper underwear!” Even if the ass is cut out. The point is that everything important is covered, fully, and the waistband even reaches his hips.

“I don’t find this remotely sexy.”

“You’re a lesbian.”

Clorinde hums. “Again, another reason that I’m the wrong choice to help you.”

She’s the best choice, actually, and she knows it. Not only does Wriothesley trust her but she has a solid camera eye. Even untrained, Clorinde manages to get his good side, leaving Wriothesley looking less like a man pushing forty and more like a silver fox to be admired. Truly, he owes his entire channel to her, which is why she gets critiquing rights.

“Look, I took a poll and this is what won. Shirtless—that’s a no-brainer. Everyone wants to see these guns—”

“I will shoot you,” deadpans Clorinde from where she sets up the camera from across the room.

Wriothesley flexes his muscles just to spite her. “As for the bottoms—”

“Can you actually call them that?”

“—these are the highest quality, made of moisture-wicking bamboo viscose. They leave no lines underneath your clothing and—”

“Your ass is hanging out.”

Wriothesley frowns. There’s no need to point it out for a second time. “That’s the entire point,” he reminds her. He turns and looks at himself in the floor-length mirror to the side. “I work hard on these gains so naturally I should show them off.”

Clorinde gives him a cursory glance and fails to hide her grin. “I’ll grudgingly admit that of the male asses out there, yours is above standard.”

A rare compliment. Wriothesley shoots her a grin and tucks it away for a rainy day. “So, where do you want me, O Mighty Photographer?”

Her teasing over with, she looks at him again, thinking. “Well, as you said, we should offer up the gains. Bend over and show me those glutes.”

Wriothesley chokes on his laughter, wheezing as he coughs through it. Oh, the things she says. But this is also why they have a rapport he shares with no one else. Clorinde knows him like the back of her palm, almost better than he knows himself. She’s aware of everything; his gritty and grimy past, the things that haunt him in the present, and his trust issues.

They’re old—old enough to be wiser but there are times that Wriothesley feels like he knows nothing at all. Clorinde makes it easier. Bearable. It’s nice to have a friend to share those woes, and who’s willing to snap photos of his mildly hairy ass for the sake of Wriothesley's dubious side hustle.

So, he could complain but he doesn’t. He just kneels onto the mattress, jutting his backside out for a good angle. Wriothesley shoots her a glance over his shoulder, schooling his gaze into something sultry, and says, “Good enough?”

Clorinde says nothing but the click of the camera is loud in the room.

The photo set is a hit, which comes as no surprise.

Clorinde’s teasing aside, Wriothesley knows that he is, objectively, handsome. Enough people toss him money to gaze upon his half-naked form that any anxieties that may have once wracked him have gone right out the door.

It’d been a mid-life crisis thing—starting up a ThirstTrap account. He’s aging, going gray, and it’s harder and harder to snag cute guys when out on the town. So Wriothesley thought: What is the harm? He posts up a few lewds, gets a few bites, and maybe makes a couple hundred on the side. Being a personal trainer pays his bills, but a slush fund is nice, and Wriothesley deemed it worth the ill-advised idea™.

Clorinde had laughed at him. Literally. Wriothesley spilled the beans the next day over coffee and tea cakes at Café Lutece, and she’d laughed so hard he thought he might’ve broken her. He’s known Clorinde for decades and that is the only time he’s seen her double over and lose it.

She’d stopped laughing after the first payout because Wriothesley was an instant sensation, a rough and tumble, silver fox showing off the goods. As it turns out, there’s a market for decent-looking middle-aged men with gnarly scars, and a bomb-ass physique.

The streaming came naturally. His fans love his photo sets, sure, but a chance to see him in action? No, not a camboy—Wriothesley would never. He’s too embarrassed to pull out his dick and stroke it in front of a crowd, but lewds? Implied content? Shaking his butt a little to ooing and awing audience members?

Worth the money, at least.

“So, what did we think of the last outfit, hm? You all voted on it and I think that it was a hit.”

The chat of his stream goes wild with comments, and Wriothesely gives a silent shout-out to Clorinde who moderates from the privacy of her own home. Bless her. Seriously. Wriothesley has a thick skin but some of his followers are… well, they’re something.

Parasocial relationships know no bounds.

“I know that I’m done up more than usual today, but you know the rules—the more donations that come in, the more that comes off.”

Wriothesely lounges on his couch in well-cut trousers and a nice button-down that defines his biceps. He fiddles with the tie around his neck—loosely knotted, just like the photo set from a few days prior. “I was thinking,” he says, “that tonight we’ll indulge in a follower favorite. What do you think about me reading aloud to you?”

The chat pops off and Wriothesley grins, pulling that tie open entirely and letting it hang across his shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Let’s settle in for—” Wriothesley looks at the book procured by Clorinde and instantly regrets it.

Still, the show must go on. He shoots his most charming smile at the camera, and finishes with, “Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun: The Accidental Eggening of My Beloved Archon.”

Monsieur Neuvillette, the Lead Prosecutor of the Court of Fontaine and number-one choice for the next Chief Justice, does not take time off.

He lives the latest of nights and survives on coffee (which he hates) and takeout (force-fed to him by his beloved paralegal Navia Caspar). Neuvillette has learned how to function on several hours of sleep a day. He’s perfected the interested look of disinterest—even if his mind is barely there you would never know because it would seem that you have his full attention.

Neuvillette is socially awkward, his best friends are books, and he has only three vices to his name—one being a cool, crisp bottled water from Chenyu Vale (something that Navia would grouse about being a capitalistic nightmare spurred on by rich-inclined folk such as he who choose to splurge on what she calls, “Frivolous”. It is not frivolous; there truly is nothing that tastes quite like it, and Neuvillette’s taste buds thank him at the end of a long and grueling day of case reports and courtroom arguments only to be outvoted by a hulking, mechanical device with a too-long name and a startling amount of personality for a computer).

This night is like most others. Neuvillette lets himself into his dark townhouse, kicking off his shoes before placing them neatly and side by side next to the door. First, off comes his coat. Then his tie, loosened and pulled open gently. His keys are tossed into the bowl on the entry table.

He peels his layers slowly as he walks to the bedroom. His suit jacket is hung up for another wear, provided there is no staining, and perhaps the trousers follow suit if they aren’t too soiled. His shirt is dumped into the laundry, mildly rumpled.

Neuvillette’s bathroom routine is short; he washes his face with a cleanser and water. He dresses down for the night in soft, silk pajamas, and a loose robe.

A midnight snack is often next. As the leftover consommé heats up in the microwave, Neuvillette pulls open his second vice: Kameragram. He scrolls through a slew of new notifications from his last post—a daring profile shot of him in a navy three-piece suit. From the neck down, as always. His hair swept back so the ends barely show, and others are unlikely to recognize him.

He still has a backlog of pictures to post so he picks one and uploads it; the same suit, only this time his jacket stripped off and hung over his shoulder for a more casual look.

Neuvillette did not set out to enjoy social media—he barely knows how it works—but Navia had talked him into checking out this particular application.

“I think you’d like the aesthetic of some of these creators,” she’d told him, and she was right. Neuvillette was instantly hooked by accounts that showed crisp and sleek fashion sense, and the ambiance of what he has come to know as Dark Academia.

The microwave dings just as his picture finishes uploading.

And then there’s another notification that pops up on his phone, his third vice. Neuvillette stares, reading it over, considering just how to spend the rest of his night. He could indulge, or he could indulge. There are differing levels and rarely does Neuvillette give into his baser instincts and truly let loose.

But it was a long day of Focalors running him ragged.

“I have the day off tomorrow,” he muses, thumbing his chin. His eyes fall on a bottle of unopened wine on the counter of his wet bar. A gag gift from Furina. Neuvillette rarely drinks, disliking the way it dulls his sharp-wittedness. But here in the comfort of his home… there is no harm, correct?

“Why the hell not?” he says, the rare curse stinging his tongue.

The pop of the cork is almost foreign to his ears but the blood-red splash of the wine into his glass feels like a welcome friend. The first sip is acrid and acidic—but perfect. That, paired with the consommé will spell out a divine end to the day.

Neuvillette’s third vice comes as an embarrassment in the form of ThristTrap account Cerberus69.

He is a picky man—to the point that he doesn’t date. He can’t remember the last time he was properly fucked, unwilling to let his eyes linger on anyone who doesn’t fit his standards. The Duke is not his type. He isn’t. And yet Neuvillette is hungry for this man in a way that he cannot comprehend.

And so, the indulgence.

Perhaps it is because The Duke isn’t a cam model in what most would consider its purest form. Neuvillette has sat in on other streams and was left unimpressed. Those models, those men, naked, leaving nothing to the imagination. There is no tease to it, no opportunity to be edged, just hands on their dicks and empty words cooed at their audience.

The Duke, though, is different. Classy. The mask settled over his face is handsome despite hiding everything above his nose. Never entirely undressed, just stripped down, that mouth of his pulled into a smirk as he turns to and fro. Just enough skin is revealed to entice. Curate clothing this side of tight to show off his assets, which apparently, are more than just his muscles because Neuvillette finds his gaze locked on the bulge in his trousers tonight.

Yes, this is what he likes, what he finds pleasure in—the art of the striptease. He’s left dreaming for more, coming back time and time again just to hear his voice, to wonder just what his cock might look like, imagine how it might feel—

Neuvillette has had too much to drink tonight.

The Duke reads aloud a smut book. Neuvillette is stretched out on his bed, watching the stream on the television hanging on the wall opposite him. He can feel the flush of his face and the tightness in his sleep trousers. Wicked thing. The Duke. And Neuvillette’s cock. It isn’t behaving tonight.

So Neuvillette takes another sip of his wine, thinking that he can trick it into settling down because he’s too tired to fuck his hand.

But it’s tempting. It’s been long enough that he sighs at the thought, hand drifting lower to rest against his clothed cock. Just to sit there. The weight is nice. Focus on The Duke. Yeah, he can do that.

Another sip of wine.

The book The Duke reads is terrible, the sort of fodder geared towards middle-aged women who spend their brunches grousing over their children. But with The Duke's mouth curled around the words, it’s tolerable.

“It isn’t that I doubt my mate. His ovipositor is long and thick, and it will fill me just right. I pull him close for a kiss, relishing his heavy weight against me. My pussy tightens, wet enough to drench the insides of my thighs—”

So, maybe it isn’t tolerable. Neuvillette drags a hand down his face, willing those words to just melt away, focusing on the raspy timber of The Duke's voice instead.

“A rare treat,” drawls The Duke. He’s relaxed on his couch, shirtless, toned abs and built pecs reflecting the ring light that’s tilted towards him. Neuvillette’s eyes drag across his form taking in every delicious inch, every scar that mars it, every dip and curve. “Whilst my beloved mate often shares these less-than-human traits, this one is left for special occasions. ‘Are you sure you aren’t in rut?’ I ask huskily, nipping at his ear. ‘And what of the risk for hatchlings?’ I barely hear his response—a quick, clipped, ‘I’m too old to worry about unprepared eggs’. A pity. My pussy clenches at the thought of having a few fucked deep into me.”

This isn’t the standard fair of what The Duke typically reads loud. His content varies, of course, but eggs—Neuvillette shudders as The Duke says something particularly dirty. “His cock—” The Duke's voice is like sin. “—is good, but his other length, the one meant for eggs, is an entirely different beast. Long and thick, tapered at the edge to ease penetration. It’s hot against my palm as I give it a stroke.”

Neuvillette cannot stand it anymore. Usually, he just watches and there is enough satisfaction in that, eyes tracing over the Duke’s edges before dozing off to the dulcet tones of his voice. Tonight the wine has made Neuvillette bold. Arousal burns through his veins, white-hot and heady. Pleasure coils in his gut, his cock twitches, and fuck, the sight of The Duke just makes it blaze hotter.

That hand he has resting against his cock grinds harder. He’s fully hard and aching, leaking a mess into his trousers. Ridiculous. Neuvillette is better than this but just for one night, he can give into his baser needs. The heel of his palm catches against the tip, raking the soft fabric of his sleep clothes over it. He hisses. His hand would be better. He could fuck it properly, stroke himself until he’s wet and needy and spilling all over his stomach.

The wine. He’s never drinking again, he thinks as he takes another sip.

“‘Like this?’” purrs The Duke. “My thumb slides over the tip of his length, the draconic one, the one that has my pussy clamping from just thinking about being filled. His precome is thick, and viscous, sticking to the pad of my thumb in a long string as I pull it away. I desire to taste it.”

Sinful. Utterly sinful, the way that The Duke reads something so absurd aloud. Neuvillette curses softly, shifting in his bed, lifting his hips just enough to slide his trousers down his thighs. His cock slaps against his belly, dribbling from the tip. He groans, finally getting his hand around it. A quick stroke has him sinking into the sheets, the pillows, the softness of his bed.

“‘Darling,’ I say to my mate, the taste of his come settling into my tongue. ‘I need you to fuck me.’”

Yes, yes, yes. Neuvillette doesn’t listen to the words themselves, just The Duke’s voice as it settles across his bones. He lets it caress his being, his skin. He pumps his cock, eyes closed, imagining that—perhaps—it was the hand of another man. Would the Duke have callused fingers? A tight grip? Would he whisper praise into Neuvillette’s ear as he stroked his cock?

Neuvillette would like to think so. The Duke seems like a pleaser. After all, isn’t that what he does here? Pleases his audience? Neuvillette’s gaze flickers back to the screen because The Duke has paused in his reading.

“Oh,” says the man, leaning up from the couch. “A generous donation from—” He chuckles, and oh, that sound. What Neuvillette would give to hear it, hot and damp, next to his ear. “OneWildNightInSnezhnaya. Such a generous amount. I think we should thank them, chat.”

It is an obscene donation. Neuvillette silently thanks the person for their generous wealth the moment that The Duke stands from the couch. He tilts from side to side and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his tight trousers to pull at it. “These next?” he muses, his mouth pulled into a crooked grin. “You know the rules of course—never much more than this. But…”

The Duke’s hands move to his fly. The buttons are undone slowly, and his trousers drop, inch-by-inch as he turns to show off his ass to the camera. The art of the strip tease is what Neuvillette is appreciative of. The Duke still wears briefs underneath those trousers but he may as well be naked with the way that they cling to his thighs tightly. Little is left to the imagination. Neuvillette’s gaze rakes across the thick length trapped behind that soft cotton and he suddenly needs; needs something more, something out of his reach.

Neuvillette blames it on the alcohol, not his loneliness, or his pickiness. Why date when he can occasionally fuck his hand to a handsome streamer? No muss, no fuss, and the clean-up is easy. He goes to work the next day with little worry, mind clear, and body ready for the long work day.

But The Duke—Neuvillette imagines his hands sweeping over him, catching on the angles of his hips. Those fingers opening him up, spreading his rim wide. The words he’d purr against his ear as he fucks him deeply. Neuvillette would keen at the stretch, gasping in the sheets as The Duke moves within him.

Gods, it’s been a long time. Neuvillette’s hand moves faster on his cock, tugging it from base to tip. Not wet enough. He grunts, pulling away to dig in the drawer of the bedside table to find a mostly full bottle of lube. Pathetic, but not as pathetic as pouring it across his cock and imagining that his hand belongs to another.

“My mate is a needy creature. ‘Yes,’ he cries out as I stroke his length, paying extra attention to the flared head of his cock. ‘Yes, just like that. Sweet girl.’”

Neuvillette lets his fantasy run wild. The Duke, settled over him, pulling over his cock. “Yes,” murmurs Neuvillette, back arching in the bed as he fucks his hand with a rolling thrust of his hips. His brain is fogged by the wine. The room is sluggish and his throat is dry. All he thinks about is the tight grip he has on his dick, and of how The Duke might take care of him.

“My mate’s cock twitches against my palm. I dip closer and kiss the tip, and instantly his hand finds the back of my head to hold it there. ‘Are you going to come?’ I ask.”

He will. He’s so close, heat curling in his gut, coiling tight.

“His breath hitches as my tongue swirls around the tip of his cock. And then the slit, dipping into that larger opening meant to push out eggs. Gods, I want that, to be full, to be bred. He wants that too, judging by the way his hips buck, forcing his length into my mouth.”

Neuvillette’s hand moves faster, and squeezes tighter. His thighs are tense as he arches in the bed, head tipping back as his pleasure begins to mount. Hot, he’s so hot. His head is fuzzed and he needs this, to come, The Duke’s hand on his cock, the praise Neuvillette knows he’d dole out.

“My hand strokes what my mouth doesn’t reach. ‘Good girl’, says my mate, guiding my mouth to move. I’m drunk on the praise, on the taste of his precome on my tongue. ‘Just like that. Yes, yes—’”

Neuvillette comes with a whimper, spilling over his fist and stomach. He jerks himself through it, dick twitching against his palm with overstimulation. He hisses, his pleasure turning sharp and hot, and then mildly uncomfortable. He drops his cock and it falls against his belly with a wet slap. Neuvillette lays there, a blob in his sheets, breathing heavily as the air suddenly turns cold around his heated skin.

Mortification sets in. He drags his clean hand down his face as he comes to the reality that he just masturbated to his favorite streamer. Never has he crossed that line, never has he debased himself to the point fucking his hand to the sound of The Duke’s voice. Keyed himself up, yes. Fucked his hand after the stream is cut? Occasionally. Neuvillette rarely touches himself, to begin with, but never whilst actively listening, watching—and the fantasy of it…

He groans. “Sovereigns, I’m pathetic.”

He’s lonely. He’s drunk. Navia is going to laugh at him the next morning when she sees the circles under his eyes. Then she’ll pity him, pulling out her concealer and clicking her tongue as she sweeps her thumb across the offending skin.

“A bath,” Neuvillette tells himself next. Crisp, clean water calls to him. He hasn’t paid an absurd amount for the nicest hard water filter to not abuse it. He rises from the bed, cringing at the mess he’s made. On the television, The Duke still reads aloud, his sonorous voice moaning softly as the explicit content in his bed picks up its pace.

Right. A bath. To clear his head. Neuvillette is unsteady on his feet, wobbling about in his tipsy haze. No more wine. Never again is easily said, only to be quickly forgotten the next time he feels like this. Worth it? Maybe. Neuvillette will disagree in the morning, but his sore muscles certainly don’t disagree now when he finally settles into the steaming hot water of the bath he draws.

The tub is large enough to submerge himself. Neuvillette’s worry eases at the warmth but the mortification is still firm, like a solid rock in his gut. He’ll never be able to watch The Duke again.

“This is why I don’t do people,” he murmurs once resurfaced. “This is why I keep to myself. Interpersonal relationships are…” Too complicated. Especially for him. Neuvillette already fails to understand the intricacies of friendships, but with his position as a prosecutor, things become awkward fast.

He simmers in the bath until he’s soft and pruny. He rises again, wrapping himself in a soft, fluffy bathrobe. ��Self-care,” said Navia when she’d gifted it a few years ago. Self-care indeed. Neuvillette already feels better.

Or maybe it’s because he’s sobered up a smidge.

Neuvillette walks back to the bedroom on sea legs. His brain is still muddled, but he’s better instead of worse for wear. The Duke is still live, this time chatting to those lingering in his chat. “Yes,” he says, lounging on his couch in nothing but those damnable, tight briefs. Neuvillette swallows as he stares. “I do have hobbies, like anyone else. Social Media scrolling is soothing, no? I have a penchant for handsome men on Kameragram.”

What? Neuvillette stills, the covers pulled back, one knee already pressed to the mattress. His head tilts as he glances at the screen.

“I’m not particularly fashionable myself but there’s nothing quite like a man in a well-cut suit. I am a fan.”

Never before has The Duke mentioned his preferences in such detail. He’s talked about enjoying both men and women, yes, and his content is tailored to both, but when asked about himself he always redirects to the chat, and what they enjoy. Tonight he seems chattier, laughing and smiling wide.

“Mmhm, yeah, you understand me, TheSpooniestBard. Muscles, a nice and tight fit, a collar pressed just underneath a sharp jawline.”

The Duke is, inadvertently, describing the entire aesthetic of Neuvillette’s personal Kameragram account. He slides back into bed, settling the comforter over his lap. He sits there dumbly, listening to The Duke ramble on about handsome men in suits, that deep voice of his soothing.

He always checks his phone for last-minute work alerts before turning in for the night. This time, though, Neuvillette opens up Kameragram and assesses himself. He is not unhandsome. His suits are high quality and of the finest fit. Even without his face in the frame, he paints an appealing picture.

“It’s just so pleasing, the thought of peeling it off. What’s hiding underneath? Are they built? Soft? It wouldn’t matter, I’d love it all.”

Neuvillette is still tipsy enough to make dumb choices.

ThirstTrap has an in-app messaging system that Neuvillette has never even thought about using but on this night he navigates to it and drops his Kameragram link accompanied by a very simple message:

>> I see that you like men in suits. Our tastes seem to align. I think that you may like my account in particular. Enjoy.

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whump-me · 1 year ago

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Conquest, Chapter 11: An Unsolvable Puzzle

Chapter 11 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: fantasy setting, nonbinary whumpee, male whumper, fearful whumpee, cooperative whumpee, royal whumper, emotional whump, fantasy politics

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Miranelis

The last time Miranelis had set foot in the throne room, they had been too out of their mind with terror to really register what it looked like now. This time, though, they were just enough accustomed to captivity—and to Kezul’s face—that there was no blur of panic to smooth over the sight of the bloodstains on the floor.

The blood could have belonged to the queen herself, or the child prince. It could have belonged to one of the guards who had made a futile attempt to save her. It could have belonged to some random palace worker, braver than Miranelis, who had taken up arms against the invaders and thrown themselves in front of the queen. There was no way to tell. Now it was simply an anonymous red stain. And Miranelis would have to walk across it to reach Kezul, who was currently lounging on the queen’s throne as if he had a right to be there.

His massive form dwarfed the elegant carved wood. The smell of fur wafted off him, so different from the sweet-smelling incense the queen used to burn. The smoke used to curl in lazy spirals toward the skylight, which opened at the very top in the early days of summer. Now the air was clear, illuminating Kezul’s harsh face in unforgiving detail.

Miranelis started to take a step forward, but pulled their foot back, unable to bring themselves to set foot on the bloodstain. They braced themselves for Kezul’s retribution. But Kezul only nodded to a table to one side of the dais, piled high with papers. There was a single chair in front of it, the upholstery slashed through on a diagonal.

Two Wolves guarded the door, one to either side. Unlike the Queen’s Guard, they didn’t look accustomed to guard duty—or happy about it, either. They twitched and shifted restlessly, like they were dreaming of all the other ways they could put their muscles to better use.

They conspicuously fingered their weapons, although it looked to Miranelis as if they hardly needed them. Each of them looked much more than capable of crushing an enemy’s bones between their hands. There were no enemies in the palace—except for Miranelis—which meant they had to be there to make sure Miranelis didn’t try anything. A laughable thought.

The Wolves watched Miranelis with contempt. Miranelis tried not to look at them. Miranelis was trying to maintain a little dignity here, and their efforts would be in vain if they started quivering in sheer terror again. They slid into the seat Kezul had indicated, and tried not to think too hard about how it had gotten that long slash down the back.

“Well?” Kezul asked, gesturing at the untidy mountain of papers heaped onto the small table. “Earn your keep. Tell me—what’s the solution here?”

Miranelis stared at the mound of scraps, which seemed to grow taller with every moment that passed. They couldn’t imagine putting it all into a coherent order, let alone transforming it into useful information in less than… oh, a week, minimum. Miranelis doubted Kezul was willing to sit here for a week while Miranelis read and sorted.

What kind of impossible task had they taken on when they had agreed to do this?

“Give me a minute,” Miranelis said faintly. They felt a heavy foreboding in their stomach that had nothing to do with the cold suspicion that—whatever Kezul had to say about it—they were betraying their people just by sitting in this chair.

“Take as much time as you need,” said Kezul, but the words came out quick and irritable. Miranelis read the unspoken addendum—Take as much time as you need, so long as it isn’t too much.

Miranelis paged through the top few layers of papers. The knot in their stomach grew. Not only were the papers not in any kind of order, some had been written in shorthand, and cut off partway through, in the middle of a thought. Some, written in Kezul’s language, were likely reports from his Wolves. If the atrocious handwriting and worse grammar were any indication, they had been written by soldiers more accustomed to holding a sword than a pen. The other half had come from the palace itself; Miranelis had to fight not to react as they recognized several sets of handwriting they were familiar with, including Havedrial’s. Those were in worse shapes than the Wolves’ notes. It looked as if they had been yanked out of various files at random and then shuffled like a deck of cards. Miranelis didn’t dare ask where the remainder of the files were. Burned, no doubt.

In the center, under the first few layers, was a map showing Danelor and the surrounding lands. It had been scribbled on and scribbled over until the ink was too smudged to read. But Miranelis got the general idea. The map was meant as a running tally of where the invading Wolves had been, and where they had done the most damage.

Almost no part of the map was untouched. It was a diagram of destruction, laid out in cold ink. The overlapping smudges reminded Miranelis of the fresh wounds crisscrossing their skin.

Kezul’s voice jolted them out of their horror. “Do you have any answers for me yet, or have you fallen asleep?”

Miranelis jumped, sending papers flying to the floor. The Wolves, no doubt startled in turn by the sharp motion, grabbed for their weapons. Miranelis, halfway to reaching for the fallen papers, cringed back.

Kezul let out a low growl of frustration. “Leave the prisoner be,” he ordered his guards. Then, to Miranelis, “Pick those up, and then give me your best estimate of the situation. There’s no need to go into detail yet. Just tell me, in general terms, what I’m working with.”

Even if Miranelis had been able to draw any conclusions from the few pages of scattered notes they had read so far, Kezul’s sharp voice would have driven the thoughts right out of their head. “I need time. This is a complicated political situation, and…” They gestured helplessly to the table, then to the fallen papers. “And I’m afraid I don’t understand the organizational system you’ve used here.”

Kezul’s brows drew down over his eyes like sharp stone cliffs. “Are you mocking me?”

Miranelis shook their head sharply, sending a few scraggly locks of hair into their face. They wished they had taken the time to redo their braid. But their arms had been too stiff and painful, and they had suspected any unnecessary movement would be enough to rip open several scabs at once. And in any case, the Wolves who had come to collect them didn’t look like they would have appreciated being asked to wait.

“Not at all,” Miranelis said in a near-whisper. “I only mean… no piece of information can be understood in isolation. I need to figure out the proper order to… all this…” They made another helpless gesture. “Before I can begin to understand how to help.”

To be honest, after a look at that map, they weren’t certain this was even a task they could accomplish. They weren’t trained to rebuild a country after this kind of widespread devastation. The closest analog they could remember was the floods that had wiped out a dozen villages and a midsized city three years ago. That had been hard enough to recover from, even with the resources of the rest of the country to call on. Danelor was a quiet, peaceful nation. They had few natural disasters, and fewer wars. Its clerks were trained to keep everything running smoothly, greasing the wheels, making minor improvements here and there. They weren’t trained to put the whole cart back together again after someone had crushed the wheels to sawdust and burned the rest.

But Kezul didn’t look as if he would be open to that explanation. “You said you were trained in this,” he said, his brows drawing even lower.

Miranelis gave a helpless shrug. “Not… not this, exactly. And… I’m not used to working under this kind of pressure. This is the kind of dilemma that would normally take the queen and all her advisors several weeks to think through before they could even begin to start finding solutions.”

“I don’t have weeks. Neither does Danelor. And neither do you.” Abruptly, Kezul rose from the throne—the impression was something like a mountain getting up and walking. He grabbed the fallen papers and thrust the crumpled handful into Miranelis’s lap. “If you can’t give me an overview of our situation yet, then give me something. Convince me you can do you can do what you led me to believe you could.”

Miranelis hadn’t led Kezul to believe anything, the way they remembered it. All they had done was answer Kezul’s questions as truthfully as they could. Any conclusions Kezul had drawn from that had been his alone. But again, Kezul didn’t look like he was in any kind of mood to hear that.

Miranelis went back to paging through the papers, twice as quickly as before this time. They spent just enough time on any given scrap to get the general idea of what it said, pausing only when they came to a particularly unreadable section of handwriting.

Half of these papers didn’t even belong here. Some were copies of trade agreements from years ago, which had long since been replaced—Miranelis had drafted a couple of the replacement agreements personally. Others, in the messy scrawls of the Wolves, were reports on troop numbers that had to be outdated by now. And with every useless page Miranelis set aside, they felt Kezul’s eyes on them, waiting, judging. Those eyes felt like a blade hovering at the back of their neck, waiting for the signal to come down.

A memory came to Miranelis of the long and complicated tests Havedrial used to set them in the final days of their training. Havedrial would ask them to draft imaginary trade agreements where each side had their own set of impossible demands. Those tests had always reminded Miranelis of that time their uncle had given them a present as a gift, a puzzle that turned out to be unsolvable.

This puzzle was worse.

“Too many pieces,” they muttered, “and none of them fit together.”

Kezul drew up sharply. “What?”

Miranelis instantly felt foolish for speaking the thought aloud. “This reminds me of a puzzle I had as a child, that’s all,” they explained.

“You have those puzzles here too, do you?” A little of the frustrated impatience left Kezul’s eyes as he leaned in to study Miranelis.

That look made them more uncomfortable than the anger had. “But this isn’t unsolvable,” they hastened to add. “I’ll find a solution. I just… I need time. And more information. A lot more.”

“This is what we have,” Kezul said, “so you’ll need to make do.”

“Then you need to gather more. Send your Wolves out to find out which places were hit the hardest, who has the most resources and the greatest capacity to produce more, where the trade routes could be most easily reopened…” Not that anyone was likely to give the Wolves accurate information. And if they did, it was anyone’s guess whether the Wolves would understand enough of the context to report it properly. Or whether anyone could read their handwriting afterward if they did write it down correctly. Miranelis shook their head helplessly.

“How long would that take?” Kezul asked. Before waiting for an answer, he went on, “None of us can afford to wait. Do I need to remind you that your people are starving?”

His voice took on a strange edge as he said it. He didn’t sound like he was just trying to motivate Miranelis with the plight of their country anymore. If Miranelis didn’t know better, they might have thought Kezul—the one responsible for all this devastation in the first place—actually cared whether Danelor starved.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Kezul snapped.

Miranelis had thought they had kept their feelings off their face. But apparently this impossible puzzle in front of them had reduced them to the level of a child once again. “I just wonder why you care,” they said, with no small amount of reluctance. “If things get bad enough, you and your army can leave, can’t you? It’s the rest of us who would be stuck.”

“Don’t think you can get rid of us that easily,” Kezul growled. “And if we’re forced to retreat, you leave you behind, gutted on the palace steps. So think twice before you make that suggestion again.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” Miranelis hastily amended. “I just mean… you have options. If you aren’t willing to leave, you could have food sent from Kyollen Naskor, couldn’t you? Enough to keep your army alive a little longer, at least. Kyollen Naskor wouldn’t have sent you here only to abandon you.” They quailed at the sudden darkness that came into Kezul’s eyes at that, but continued, “Why do you care if Danelor survives?” They waved down at the map. “Especially after you worked so hard to destroy it?”

The darkness didn’t leave Kezul’s eyes. At least if Kezul killed them here and now, they would no longer need to worry about solving this puzzle.

But Kezul didn’t reach for his weapons. “My father’s Wolves are responsible for that, not me.” He pointed a thick finger at the map. “He oversaw the conquest. Ruling afterward is my responsibility. He wants to see that I have this country well in hand. It will hardly be a demonstration of competent rule if the people are starving. Aside from that, it’s a well-known fact that when people can’t find bread, they pick up pitchforks instead.”

At that, one of the Wolves guarding the door abruptly dropped to his knees. “No mere peasants could stand against the son of the exalted Unmaker,” he said, his gaze pointed firmly at the floor.

Miranelis’s eyes widened. The son of Vorhullin the Unmaker… Kezul seemed to grow even taller under his gaze.

“Whether or not that’s true,” said Kezul, seeming even more irritated than a moment ago, “I doubt my father intended to set me such an easy test as ruling over a land of dead men. And dead farmers don’t put food in our bellies.”

Miranelis’s eyes widened. “This is a test for you.” They didn’t realize they had spoken aloud until Kezul’s dark eyes landed on them, narrowing in a silent warning.

From the look in Kezul’s eyes, it was clear that Kezul hadn’t meant to reveal that much. It was a strange thing to imagine, almost impossible: the man in front of them, the one who had singlehandedly saved their life and then made them wish he hadn’t, being tested. Being someone’s child. When Miranelis looked at him with that in mind, Kezul seemed to shrink a little. The tangle of hair surrounding his face was no longer ferocious, but messy. The clenched fist in his lap wasn’t a sign of impending violence, but stress, maybe even fear. His knuckles were white.

When Miranelis looked down at the pile of papers again, they found the puzzle no longer seemed so impossible. Some of these pieces were useless, it was true, but as for the rest… perhaps there was some way they fit together after all. They could almost see it, or at least small pieces of it, now that there was a little more room in their head for something besides fear of Kezul.

They imagined sitting in a meeting with the queen and her advisors, listening to them talk in low, tense voices. None of them would ever admit the situation was impossible. None of them would give up, because that would mean letting their own people die. If the queen laid out these scraps in front of them, and then asked for advice, what would her advisors say while Miranelis sat quietly with pen and paper, recording everything they said?

“I think, to start…” Miranelis paused, their mouth growing dry again. Not out of fear this time. This was something more complicated. This was the first step down a path they had sworn they would never take. They had faced down certain death at Kezul’s hands rather than help him. If they finished their sentence, if they said what they were thinking, it would be their first act as a member of Kezul’s army.

Maybe Kezul wouldn’t think of it that way. Maybe to Kezul, it didn’t count if they didn’t carry a sword, if they couldn’t hold a knife without quivering. But Miranelis would know the truth of it, all the same.

“Go on,” Kezul prompted.

People were starving. The queen wouldn’t want them to starve, would she? It was absurd for speaking to take more courage than staying silent and facing Kezul’s wrath. For turning traitor to be a harder task than staying loyal.

What would Havedrial think of them now?

But they were still loyal. They were loyal to the queen, even now that she was no longer alive to care, and they were loyal to Danelor, which wasn’t quite dead yet. Havedrial had made their choice—one hard choice among many. Miranelis had a different array of choices in front of them. All they could do was close their eyes, step into the dark, and hope they were making the right one.

“Well?” Kezul sounded like he was rapidly losing patience.

Miranelis swallowed, trying to wet their lips enough to speak their treason. “Go to the academies,” they said. “The Poets’ Academy and the Musicians’ Academy. They’ll have reserves hidden.”

And with that, it was done. The first treasonous step, but not the last. And from the look of irritated bewilderment on Kezul’s face, they had a feeling Kezul didn’t understand half of what it had cost them.

“Not possible,” said Kezul. “Both academies handed over their meager supply of gold to my father’s Wolves eagerly enough. It was the only reason the Wolves didn’t burn them to the ground.”

“They’ll have more,” Miranelis said with quiet conviction. “It would take a lot more than the threat of fire to get them to relinquish it.”

Like the threat of the entire country collapsing from starvation, maybe. Miranelis hoped so.

Kezul’s eyebrows drew down again, casting a shadow over his eyes. “If they kept anything back from my father’s army, they will quickly come to regret it.”

“Don’t hurt them,” Miranelis said hastily. “Please. That money will help you now, won’t it? Where would you be now if your father’s army had carted it back to him, leaving you with nothing?”

His brows still low, Kezul nodded slowly.

“Don’t threaten them,” Miranelis continued. “To them, the wealth of the academies is worth more than their own lives. They’ll die to protect it. But if they know you want to help…” Did he want to help? Miranelis had to believe it. They had to believe they weren’t giving in out of a simple fear of more pain.

“What do you suggest we do?” Kezul demanded. “Get on our knees and hold our hands out to them like beggars?”

“Say the people are starving,” Miranelis said. “They’ll already know. Say you want to help… and don’t look at them like that when you say it. And maybe if you apologize for what your father’s army did to the farmers…” At the storm that came across Kezul’s face at that, Miranelis quickly backtracked. “Just try to make them believe you’re on the same side.”

“The conquered don’t often have much reason to find common ground with their conquerors,” said Kezul. “Or so I imagine.” He frowned. “Does this kind of thing really work?”

Miranelis answered with a helpless shrug. “I don’t know. This is the first time we’ve ever been conquered.”

Kezul let out a low growl that immediately made Miranelis regret their words. “First you mock me with the way you talk. Now with another of your jokes.”

Miranelis still didn’t understand what Kezul meant about the way they talked, but they didn’t want their head shoved into another bucket of water, so they pressed their lips shut.

After a moment, Kezul spoke again. “And what do I do with the money once I have it?”

“Pay the farmers,” said Miranelis, picturing the dour and thin-faced advisor who would have suggested just that. “Compensate them for the loss of their harvest. The farmers can pay the academies back later, when the situation has improved. I think the academies will be willing to accept generous terms.”

“Especially if given enough of an incentive,” Kezul said ominously. His brow furrowed—not like he took offense at Miranelis’s words, but like he was trying to commit them to memory. “Pay the farmers,” he murmured. Miranelis remembered using that tone with Havedrial in the early days of their training, when they despaired of ever remembering everything they had to remember.

“But money won’t put food in the farmer’s bellies,” Miranelis said, thinking aloud. “Or anyone else’s.” They tapped the side of the table softly with a rolled-up piece of paper, the way the queen’s oldest and softest-spoken advisor used to do when they were thinking. “We have a treaty with Faraille that could help,” they said, remembering. “I don’t think you’ve attacked them yet—have you?”

Kezul’s face darkened, like he was trying to decide whether this was another joke. But all he did was shake his head.

“Good. According to the treaty, we owe them timely aid in case of disaster, and they owe us the same. Food, medicine, soldiers…”

“You intend to bring enemy soldiers across your border?” Kezul snapped.

Miranelis shook their head frantically. “They don’t have to send the soldiers, I’m sure.” They fought back the sudden impulse to laugh. This was the strangest diplomatic meeting they had ever sat in on. “But food. Think of it.”

“And why would they be willing to help their enemy? I’m sure they’re shaking in their boots now that we’re camped next door to them. Somehow I don’t think they’ll let my Wolves knock on their door. The Wolves will be lucky if they don’t get shot full of arrows as soon as they step over the border.”

“They won’t be happy about it, but…” Miranelis swallowed down a sudden burst of nausea. They forced the words out. “But you’re the ruler of Danelor now,” they continued reluctantly. “You sit on the throne. And the agreement wasn’t with the queen specifically, but with the throne itself. I know—I helped draft it. The queen wanted it to last beyond her rule, you see…”

They stopped at the look in Kezul’s eyes, which told them without words that he didn’t care in the slightest about the circumstances of the agreement. “Anyway, they’re bound by the agreement, as long as this is still Danelor, and not just one more piece of Kyollen Naskor.” A dizzying thought occurred to them. “Is this still Danelor?”

“I suppose so,” said Kezul, sounding irritable again. “I don’t see why it matters. Why should a piece of paper convince them to cooperate with their enemy? You ink-stained lot may care about technicalities, but I can assure you, the rest of the world doesn’t share your faith in words on paper.”

“You said yourself they’re probably shaking in their boots,” Miranelis pointed out. “They’re afraid of you.” In fact, Miranelis knew they were—they had sat in on those meetings, too. “You’re giving them an alternative to meeting the same fate as us. A way to earn some goodwill. A reason for you to leave them alone. Why wouldn’t they take it?”

“It won’t make a difference to my father, if he decides he likes the look of their palace. In fact, if I pass this test with their help, he might attack them just to spite me.”

Miranelis swallowed. They were trying to keep Danelor’s people alive, not condemn their neighbors next door. Was there no way to save Danelor and keep their honor?

No, they decided with a sinking heart. No, maybe there wasn’t.

“Then… maybe don’t tell them that part,” they suggested in a small voice.

Kezul’s eyebrows rose. “Continue.”

That was where Miranelis’s line of thought had ended. But Kezul sounded the most civil he had in all their conversations, and if Miranelis kept this up, maybe they wouldn’t find themselves in the Wolves’ hands again tonight. “Reopen the academies,” Miranelis said. “Make it a priority.”

“And make it look as if our conquest was in name only?” Anger came back into Kezul’s voice. “Everyone knows about your academies, even if they know nothing else about your miserable land. If we open them, it will look as if everything here is the same as it was when your queen sat on this throne. My father won’t be happy. He expects a show of strength.”

“He also wants you to rule. And you need money to keep the entirety of Danelor from collapsing around your ears. Not just what the academies were holding back, but reliable income, year after year.” Miranelis paused as their stomach did another flip. To think of Kezul being on that throne year after year…

With an effort, they forced themselves to continue. “One of the primary drivers of the economy is students coming from all over the world. Another is graduates sending tithes back to the academies after they find high-paying positions in neighboring lands.” They leaned back in their chair, tapping their pen against their teeth the way another of the queen’s advisors used to. “Of course, to attract students, you’ll need to convince them it’s safe…”

The ideas flowed faster and faster as they spoke. With every word, Kezul leaned in closer, a studious frown on his face. With every word, a little of Miranelis’s fear fell away.

They could almost forget they weren’t sitting at that imaginary table, doing the job they were trained to do—a difficult job, but not an impossible one.

They could almost forget they were helping their enemy.

---

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