#wouldn’t change the plot but just my wording or certain small parts

[bassforte]

Looking back, I do want to rewrite the first couple of chapters of Ever-Changing Gears.

Like at least just the Prologue and Block Man’s chapter

[melodygatesauthor]

Shut Up, Marc

Marc Spector X f!Reader

Part 2 of 28 in the February Fluff and Fuck 2023 Challenge

Day 2 Prompt - Friends to Lovers

Summary: After a bad breakup, you call your close friend Marc to come and pick you up. You don't feel like going home to be alone on Valentine's Day, so he agrees to take you to his place for the night.

Tags/Warnings: NSFW, smut, porn with some plot, Jake and Steven make minor appearances, mentions of reader's father w/ alcoholism and abusing mother (non-explicit), valentine's day fic, friends to lovers

Word Count: 4k

You were standing on the sidewalk outside of your, now, exes house with a river of tears falling down your cheeks. When you looked at your phone, you saw the time was 11:01pm. It was late, too late to call anyone. You were certain that in this small town there wouldn’t even be a cab available. As your mind raced through names of people who could help, you realized who you should’ve thought of first and foremost.

You remembered when Marc had told you, anytime you need anything, you just call me, alright? Surely it was too late, but you didn’t have anyone else you could think of that would come get you at that hour on Valentine’s Day.

Your mother had told you that Kevin was no good from the first day you’d met him, but you didn’t listen of course. You liked the way he made you laugh, and he was a damn good cook. None of that made up for the fact that just then, when you’d come over to surprise him for what was supposed to be the most romantic day of the year, you’d found him pressed, hips to ass with another woman.

With shaking hands, and blurred vision, you called Marc.

When he answered, he croaked out your name in his sleep drunk state, “...what’s going on? It’s…it’s past eleven at night. Are you ok?”

“M-Marc…” You whimpered, trying to keep yourself from sobbing over the phone.

“Are you hurt?” He immediately sounded awake, as though he wasn’t just woken from sleep. He was so intense sometimes, it took you off guard.

“N-no, Marc nothing like that.” You said.

“Then what is it?” He asked, concerned.

“I’m going to be at Bixie’s Crossroads, can you come get me?” You asked, voice cracking under your sorrow.

“Be there in ten.” He said, hanging up the phone.

You knew he lived twenty minutes from Bixie’s, but if Marc Spector said that he was going to be somewhere, he would be there, and he would be there on time or earlier. You felt cold, having worn only a cute and short dress in an effort to impress your now ex boyfriend. The heels you were in had you in agony as you approached the gas station where you’d wait for Marc. You hoped the blisters on your ankles would heal quickly.

Marc finally showed up and rushed over to you.

“Hey…” he said your name, “are you ok?”

You nodded, holding yourself tight and shivering. He immediately saw how cold you were and removed his coat, wrapping it over your shoulders before ushering you to the truck. After helping you into your seat, he got back in on the driver’s side and then started driving. You pulled your seatbelt over yourself and tugged his coat around you tightly.

“Was it that asshole Kevin?” He asked. “You know I always-”

“Can you please just shut up.” You said more harshly than you meant to.

“I have to ask…am I taking you home or…” He was timid when asking you a question after you’d snapped at him to shut up.

“I don’t want to impose, but I’d rather not go home so I don’t have to hear, I told you so, from my Mom too.” You crossed your arms over your chest and looked into the side mirror.

Your makeup was running down your face. It was such a mess that some had even spilled onto your cleavage. Marc was quiet for a while, you knew he was trying to think of something to say, and after a moment of calming down, you weren’t as upset with him when he spoke to you again.

“Jake is pissed off.” You looked over at Marc. “He is yelling at me to go fight the guy.” Marc chuckled.

“If I thought it would change anything, I’d let him.” You looked back out the window.

“I’m surprised you didn’t want Steven. He’s a lot better at this kind of thing you know.” Marc pointed out.

He was right. You’d known Marc and his alters for a long time, and of course you loved them all dearly and the roles they played in your life, but when you thought about who you really needed when you were standing outside of your ex's house in heaving sobs, it was Marc. Marc always knew how to take care of you, and he was the one you wished you could talk to.

You remembered being a kid, he was a few years older than you, and your dad was fucked up again, drunk out of his mind and taking it out on your mother. Marc was fifteen, you were nine. His father and your father had been friends, that’s how you’d met. You were sitting outside that night, listening to your parents fighting inside and Marc happened to be walking by on his way to the convenience store. He saw you, and walked over to you.

He didn’t say anything, he just held you on the doorstep and rubbed your shoulder while you cried. That was also the first time you learned about Steven. Saying Marc knew how to take care of you, meant that he knew how to make sure you were safe, and out of harm’s way. He didn’t like the parts that came after, the comforting and the telling you, everything will be alright, he didn’t think he should be the one to do that. He didn’t think he was good enough to be that support system for you.

So many times after that you would turn to Marc to help you when you needed him, and so many times he would rescue you from whatever issue you found yourself in, and so many times he would dip out when it got emotionally difficult to handle. Even then, as you sat in his truck while he drove through town, nearly at his house, you were waiting for him to go into hiding and let Steven take over.

“I need you, Marc.” You said, keeping your eyes out the window.

More silence filled the small space.

When Marc pulled into the driveway of his house, you both got out of the truck. You followed him up the driveway in your aching feet. You couldn’t wait to get inside and take off your heels, and you wished you’d worn something more practical. Marc muttered something unintelligible at his window, no doubt one of the boys still talking about you, while he fumbled with his keys before he finally opened the door and ushered you inside.

Warmth.

You felt the heat envelop you the moment you walked through the door, but you didn’t want to take off Marc’s jacket yet. You clutched it around yourself, feeling the fabric wrapping you in a sense of comfort and safety. It smelled like him, and that alone was enough to make you feel better.

“Do you want me to grab you some sweats and a shirt? Might be a little big on you, but it will probably be more comfortable than what you’re wearing.” He offered, dropping his keys in a dish on a table by the door.

“Yeah, that would be great, Marc.” You caught a glimpse of yourself in the entryway mirror and sighed heavily. “Actually, can I hop in the shower first? I’m a mess.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah sure. Bathroom is right down the hall over there. Towels are on the shelf in there.” He said, pointing to the left of the dining room.

Now you removed the jacket, handing it to him. You went to the bathroom and washed away the night. You washed away the makeup that had run down your cheeks after all the crying you’d done, and you washed away the perfume that Kevin had always told you was his favorite that you wore just for him. You were left with nothing but embarrassment, and frustration.

When you stepped out of the shower, you could hear Steven talking and he sounded upset. You had a feeling you knew why he had control now, and you were sure you’d find out for sure when you were finished in the bathroom. Steam billowed around you when you stepped into the hall, and you heard Steven stop speaking abruptly. They were talking about you. Of course they were, what else would they have been talking about?

You turned left and could see Steven standing in the living room holding a set of clothes neatly folded in his hands, outstretched to you.

“Hi, Steven.” You said, walking over and grabbing the clothes from him.

“Hi…” Steven said your name. “Marc is erm…”

“I don’t care. He always does this to me.” You started to choke up again, but you didn’t like making Steven feel bad so you turned away. “Thanks for these clothes.”

“Oh, don’t cry, it’s going to be alright, love.” He said gently, touching your back. “Look I tried to tell Marc that you needed him tonight, but he really insisted that he thought I was best for the job.”

“He’s always running away on me when I’m upset. I know it’s hard for him, but I need him.” You looked at Steven again. “I care about you Steven, and Jake too, but sometimes I just need Marc.” You let out a heavy sigh. “Nevermind. I’m just gonna go change and then head to bed I guess.”

Steven looked heartbroken for you as you stepped away from him and made your way to the bathroom again. You dried yourself and pouted at your puffy eyes in the mirror. This wasn’t how this night was supposed to go. You should’ve been curled up with Kevin watching a crappy movie pretending that you didn’t feel his erection poking your hip until he couldn’t stand it anymore and you let him take you in the bedroom. Instead you were listening to Steven arguing with the other two in the living room from the bathroom of their house.

When you walked out, he was hushed again, and looking at you softly. His cheeks were all red from the arguing. You could tell he was distressed. He hated arguing, and he especially hated it when the three of them were in disagreement. You imagined it must be hard to have three minds in one body all pulling different directions.

“Steven, you don’t have to argue with him anymore, I’m good.” You pressed your lips together tightly. “Marc, I know you can hear me. I get it, I want you to know I’m not mad, it just really sucks. I needed you.”

“For what it’s worth, you can talk to me if you need an ear, or you can just y’know, cry on my shoulder if you want.” Steven offered, looking now like he needed a hug.

You sighed, “I really think I’m just going to go to bed.” You insisted. “I’m tired.”

“There’s only the one bed now. The guest room is getting renovated, so you go ahead and sleep in my room. I’ll sleep out here.” He said.

“I’m not going to take your bed Steven.” You said. “I can sleep-”

“I insist. It’s much more comfortable and you had a hard night.” He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, that much was clear.

You nodded. “Alright then. Thanks Steven. I appreciate you so, so much.”

Of the three of them, you’d only hugged Marc and Steven, and Steven gave the best hugs by far. You would think that something like a hug, being from the same body, wouldn’t be any different regardless of who was in control, but Steven’s hugs were easy to melt into, like they softened every part of you. He was so warm.

“Keep your chin up, love.” Steven said, “you’re really amazing and you deserve better than whatever that horrible person did to you.”

“Thank you Steven. Truly.” You said, waving goodnight to him as you headed down the hall to their bedroom.

As you walked into the room, you felt a sense of sadness wash over you. You were alone again, and even your closest friend wasn’t going to be there to comfort you. You thought about going back out to the living room to take Steven up on his offer for a good shoulder cry, and even ask him to sleep in the bed with you, but you decided against it. You couldn’t give Marc the satisfaction of using Steven as an emotional sponge when he hid from you.

Ever since you and Marc had become friends, you knew Marc was like this, constantly wallowing in self-pity and self-loathing. You thought about the time that you two tried to date after you were nineteen and he had just turned twenty-five, and he quite literally told you that he was, too messed up to bring you down with him. He even managed to, through a night of painful sobbing of his own, tell you about the trauma that caused it all in the first place. Despite all of it, you still cared about him, and you still loved him and wanted to date him, but he refused to, as he put it, put you through that.

So the two of you had remained just friends through all that time. Over the years you got to know Steven and Jake too, and you cared for them as much as you cared for Marc, even though Jake could be a little rough around the edges at times. Right now though, you needed your best friend. You needed the man who had been there from the beginning.

He always felt like his comforting wasn’t good enough, and like you deserved a better friend. No matter how many times you told him that you didn’t need someone to hold your hand or dry your tears, that you just needed him to be there and let you talk, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Steven told you once that he thought seeing you upset bothered Marc so much that he couldn’t bear to see it without feeling the need to hide.

It didn’t matter now, he was out there, hiding from you, and you were in his bed, curled up under his blankets and wetting his pillows with your damp hair and still streaming tears. You froze when you heard the door open. You sat up and looked through the darkness and saw him standing there.

“Steven?” You asked, squinting your puffy eyes.

“No, it’s me.” Marc said quietly.

“Marc.” You said, relieved. “Come here, please.” You practically begged, holding up one end of the blanket and beckoning him to join you.

He walked over and got into the bed, laying his head down and looking at you. His eyes were so pretty, glistening in what little light the moon provided through the window above the headboard. He reached up a hand and wiped away a tear with his thumb. His hand stayed on your cheek. You smiled and leaned into his touch.

“I’m an asshole.” He said quietly.

“I know you don’t mean to be.” You said. “I know this isn’t easy for you, so thank you.”

“Come here.” He whispered, pulling you in tightly.

You nestled into his chest and wrapped your arm around him. You felt his soft breathing against your body, the beat of his heart was quick, but soothing. There was nothing you wanted more than to feel him like this forever. 

“You know, I can’t help but feel responsible for this.” He said after some time. 

You pulled back and looked up at him. “How? You didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“If I didn’t push you away all those times…” He groaned, “nevermind. You’d just be crying over something I did instea-”

You cut him off with your lips on his. It was likely he was going to push you away, and it was possible you were rebounding from what had happened with Kevin, but you didn’t care. This was what you needed right now, this was the comfort that you craved. His lips were just as soft as you’d imagined for all those years.

Marc tensed for a second, you were ready for him to shove you away in surprise, but he didn’t. Instead you felt him relax before wrapping his arms around you further. When the kiss finally broke, he just stared at you, looking from your lips to your eyes and back again before going back in. Your mouths melted into each other in sweet rhythm and repetition.

“I’m so sorry.” He said breathlessly.

“Marc, just shut the fuck up.” You said, going in for another bruising kiss.

You wrapped a leg over his and you immediately felt the hardness of his cock pressing against you. You’d had fantasies about fucking Marc before, back before you tried dating each other, and you never thought you’d actually get the chance to do it. You separated your lips from his just to place more kisses along his stubbled jawline. The moment your mouth touched the soft skin of his neck, you heard a quiet breathy moan escape him followed by a needy grind of his cock against your clothed cunt.

“Is this something you really want?” He asked. “I don’t want you to-”

“Marc!” You said, leaving his neck to look incredulously into his hooded and lusty eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up Marc, I got it.” He closed his mouth over yours once more, filling you with his needy moans.

You felt his hands begin to explore from your back down to your hip as you returned your mouth to his neck. You were grinding gently against him, feeling your hand working its way down to his hip as well, and slipping into the waistband. He let out a shuttered breath when you started getting a little rougher with your neckplay, sucking the skin there between your teeth.

“F-fuck.” He whispered, churning his hips with a desperation for even the slightest friction.

“You like that, Marc?” You asked against his throat. “You like when I tease you like this?”

“Yeah, yeah I do.” His voice cracked.

You slipped your hand into the waistband further, gently running your fingertips over the shaft of his long cock. You felt him let out a soft whine as he became more desperate. He slid his hand further into your sweats as well. You hadn’t realized how wet you were until his callused middle fingertip touched between your folds. A sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper escaped you.

“Shit, you’re so wet. Damn.” He said, voice becoming more airy and hungry. He slid a finger into your hole. “And tight.”

“Think you can fit?” You asked, wrapping your hand around his girth. “You’re so thick, Marc.”

“I’m gonna try like hell.” He promised, now rolling you so that you were on your back.

You pulled your hand from his cock and reached again for his waistband, pulling eagerly in an attempt to free his erection from the cloth. He assisted you, getting his pants and underwear off before tossing them to the side as though they’d done him wrong. Then you took yours off quickly, trying to get him inside of you as soon as you could. Marc was the type that could change his mind in a moment’s notice, and you didn’t want him backing out now that he’d come so far.

Your legs were spread out under him, the cool air nipping at the wet folds. He brushed the head of his cock at your entrance, testing his size against your small hole. You weren’t a virgin, far from it, but he was bigger than anyone you’d had before, and you knew it would probably be a little painful.

“Will you let me know if I’m hurting you?” He looked at you expectantly.

“For fuck’s sake, Marc, please just-”

He grunted as he slowly pushed past your threshold and deep into you. You muttered an, oh, shit, as he pulled back out again and repeated the process. He sounded so good, groaning with every thrust to the hilt. You arched your back, trying to get him in as deep as you could. This inspired one of his hands to lift under the shirt you wore and latch to your breast. He pinched your nipple before kissing you more, stealing your moans into his mouth.

You wished now that you’d pressed harder when Marc pushed you away years ago. You wished that you’d fought him harder and made him see reason. Another thrust, deep and intentional, forcing your cunt to pulsate over him.

“You sound so good baby, your sweet moans are just…fuck.” He breathed heavily, grunting more, moving harder and faster.

He leaned back up, lifting his shirt up so he could watch himself as he fucked you. You could see it too when you leaned up. His thick length sliding all the way back, almost ready to drop out, before he pushed it back in slowly. You touched your hand to his abdomen, in love with the way it rippled with each fierce movement. There wasn’t a more beautiful sight, not one you could imagine, than Marc watching himself proudly as he filled your hole. His hair was disheveled at this point, sticking to his face, but he looked so good.

“Feels so good Marc, I don’t think I’m going to last much longer.” You whined, feeling your core heating the harder he fucked you.

“Good, I can’t wait to feel your pussy crushing my cock baby.” He was close too, you could feel it in the way his movement became more rapid, nearly bruising your cunt with the strength at which he slammed into you.

“I like it when you call me that.” You admitted. He dropped his shirt and turned his attention back to you.

“Good, that’s really good, baby.” His tone became dark and husky as he leaned forward and grabbed you tightly.

“Are you going to fill me, Marc? You gonna fill me with your cum?” You asked, feeling your climax rising inside of you.

“You want me to? I’d love that.” He buried his face into your neck. “Just tell me.”

“Yes Marc, I want you to…I need you to fill me up.” You begged. “I’m right there, I’m-oh.”

You trembled under Marc’s frame, your cunt doing just as he said he’d wanted and contracting down over his thick cock in a hard pulsating motion. You were making a sound between a scream and a groan. Marc didn’t waste time joining you, his body seizing as his cock throbbed inside of you, stretching you and filling you as full as it could. He stayed like that, holding you in an embrace that you wished would last a lifetime.

When he finally stepped back and climbed off the bed on wobbling legs, he left the room and came back a moment later with a towel. The way he tossed it at you…you knew it wasn’t him anymore. You knew he must’ve taken over when Marc walked out of the room. He crossed his arms over his chest. It didn’t matter to you that one of his alters was seeing you naked, what bothered you was the fact that it was…

“Jake. Give Marc back the body.” You demanded.

“So, are you going to tell me where Kevin lives, or am I going to have to track him down myself, cariño?”

AO3 LINK

TAGLIST (please let me know if you would like to be added or removed): @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction, @my-secret-shame, @welcometostayingawake, @jake-g-lockley, @campingwiththecharmings, @steven-grants-world, @lia275

[space-mermaid-writing]

Consort and King [IronStrange]

Summary: Anthony Stark, King of Midgard, needs a spouse. Whether he wants one or not. So he accepts an arranged marriage with the Prince of Kamar-Taj – a man he has never met in his life to the day they are standing in front of each other at the altar, speaking their vows. Is it possible that the feeling of duty grows into something more? Will their future be happy?

Relationship: Tony Stark / Stephen Strange

Tags: arranged marriage au, royal au, strangers to husbands, enemies to lovers, slow burn, idiots in love, fluff, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, all the good stuff

Author's note: I'm finally back with a multi-chapter fic project! I started writing and plotting this last year. Then I got distracted by vampire Stephen and werewolf Tony. But I finally circled back to this and finished it on paper. Now I'm so happy to finally share this with you. New chapters will be posted regularly. Special thanks to my beta @kvjjjjjj who did a fantastic job and invested a lot of time and effort in this fic ♥

Ko-fi | Read it on AO3 | Series Masterlist | Word count: 3k | Next

Chapter 1: The wedding

The day of the wedding began early. There were still dozens of little things left to do, only a small part of which concerned Tony. He got breakfast in bed, but didn't have much of an appetite and settled for a single bagel.

"It's going to be a long day," Jarvis remarked, Tony’s mood not escaping him. "You need to eat."

"There will be plenty of opportunity to eat at the feast," Tony reassured his manservant slash personal guard slash personal advisor; and his own stomach.

It was unusual for him to let his feelings affect his hunger. But it was an unusual day and he suppressed that certain anxiety that probably overtook all grooms.

He took a long bath and tried to think of anything else but the wedding – without success. His fiancé had already arrived the night before, along with a small delegation from Kamar-Taj. The realm was far away and the journey must have been exhausting.

Tony wouldn’t see his soon to be husband until the actual ceremony. Not until it was too late to call the wedding off.

The day was a blur of people coming and going. Tony just nodded along whenever Pepper made him do any last minute decisions or May wanted an opinion on the decoration or the seating situation. As if Tony would care at this point.

This whole day has been planned for weeks and he knew that Pepper wouldn’t allow it to be less than perfect.

In the late afternoon Tony changed into his ceremonial wedding garment. The tailors had worked on it for weeks, painstakingly decorating it with beads and brocade. It must have taken hundreds of hours. All done for this one, special day.

Strapping his belt around him, heavy with an ornate dagger, his eyes drifted over his room. It had just been him living within those four walls for so long he couldn’t imagine how it would be to share them with another person.

He'd grown accustomed to his own company. But he was wise enough to understand that a marriage of alliance was something the kingdom needed for its own protection and strength. It had been something he'd resisted, whenever his father approached the topic. It hasn’t been necessary for when his father and king had still been alive. But now there was no further delay.

The events of the past year had made him realize how defenseless his kingdom was without a king or queen at his side. The kidnapping, his almost death, the betrayal of his uncle. Of all these events, the latter had hit him the hardest.

He needed a spouse, preferably kids to secure the future. Although that was a topic he had yet to discuss with his soon-to-be husband. Wasn't it strange to think about these things when he hadn't even seen his fiancé yet?

Tony stepped to the window, peering down below as the crowds gathered, already celebrating. He loved his people and desired to protect them, had vowed with his life to serve them.

As a prince he had garnered the trust of his people, stood his ground in his father’s court and showed them he was his own leader, and not just another carbon copy of the Stark rulers.

As their King, he was to fulfill that promise and duty to them by taking a spouse.

As a man, he was nervous. He didn't like the unexpected, and the marriage agreements had been carefully and meticulously planned out with Kamar-Taj’s representative by his most trusted advisor, Pepper. All he knew about his husband-to-be was, written on paper, his name - Stephen Strange, Prince of Kamar-Taj.

The foreign realm was known for its sorcerers and even if it was rare for a royal member to become well trained in the magical field, Strange had joined them as a well trained and skilled sorcerer.

Jarvis re-entered his chambers. "It is time," he announced what Tony already knew.

_____________

The pomp and ceremony was second nature to Tony. His father had drilled him on it early on. He was dressed in his finest garments, primped and preened within an inch of his life, and led ceremoniously along to the grand hall that was filled to the brim.

But he had a nervous knot in his stomach as he wondered about the man he was marrying, if they would get along and grow to love one another.

He kept his head up, eyes forward and inched his way along the aisle. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Pepper, standing and watching him proudly, a small smile on her face. Sir Rhodey looked grim, eyes full of knowing how difficult this was on a personal level for him. Tony was glad of their silent support and understanding as he came to a halt at the altar and waited.

A procession of trumpets began, before the anthem of Kamar-Taj filled the hall, played by his personally chosen musicians. He turned sideways to watch the next procession and stood straighter as the second half of the wedding party headed slowly towards him.

One by one they paused, bowed or curtsied before moving aside. He wished they'd hurry up and get on with it, his collar was beginning to itch. It was going to be a long day. The other attendees stood in their positions and then – for the first time – he got a glimpse of his new husband.

He was tall, dressed in exotic blue robes, marching to the beat with a set jaw, eyes front and center. Dark hair, blue eyes. Curious, Tony tried to read them, but they betrayed no emotion. Tony wasn’t intimidated by this and smiled warmly at him, still getting no reaction.

Stephen Strange was handsome, Tony couldn't deny that. He came to stand before him and bowed low, Tony gave a small bow in return before turning to the officiator who would carry out the marriage service. This was more the formal showing of them joining their royal courts; the marriage agreements that were the important part of the alliance, to be signed after the ceremony finished.

Strange would remain a prince for now, consort to the king. His coronation was planned after the duration of a year. That gave him enough time to become familiar with the realm he would rule by Tony’s side.

Tony was familiar with the ceremony, having been coached and taken through it over and over, because it would have been seen as a weakness and failing on his part to get the words wrong or miss his cue. He replied perfectly on cue, clear enough for his voice to echo throughout the grand hall, adding to the already delirious atmosphere of the crowd. The vows were pre-written and generic. They didn't know each other well enough to make it more personal.

Stephen was just as efficient as him. His voice not quite as loud but had an edge to it and Tony briefly wondered if he was displeased or just nervous. Tony watched him intently as he promised his vows, wondering how their lives would be from now on.

When it came to exchanging the rings, Stephen's hand seemed shaky and Tony gave him a squeeze of reassurance. The king got his ring first, a simple golden band with both their names engraved on the inside.

Stephen took off his glove to receive his own ring and Tony was surprised to see scars all over his skin. His eyes darted briefly up to Stephen, who had his gaze fixed stubbornly on their hands. His jaw was set, as if he expected a negative reaction. Well, Tony certainly wasn't going to give him one while all eyes were on them both. Besides, he didn't want to drag out the ceremony unnecessarily. He slid the ring on Stephen's finger, trying not to be too rough, and then looked to the officiant to finalize the marriage.

Stephen removed his hand from Tony’s and Tony noticed out of the corner of his eye that he was putting his glove back on. He didn't have time to comment, because the last words of the officiator were traditionally followed by a brief kiss.

It was mostly symbolic and felt a bit awkward. But it meant the ceremony was nearly over and they'd be able to escape for a moment before the short procession around the courtyards surrounding the castle started so his people could cheer them on their way back for the evening banquet.

Tony led the way to the small adjoining room where the papers would be signed, Stephen following, along with Pepper and Stephen's advisor, a man that Tony didn’t know the name of. He wore the typical robes of Kamar-Taj and had a stoic face. Tony didn’t pay him much attention.

There was little to do but sign their names, having already poured over the words and promises, fully aware what this meant for their kingdoms. Tony still felt a sting as he scrawled his name and took his signet ring from Pepper to stamp his seal by it. The alliance had proved to be a strong one, but he'd had to make some compromises he wasn't happy about. He stepped aside to allow Stephen to sign his own name on the documents.

There were several duplicates: two public, for Midgard and Kamar-Taj, to be displayed in the royal museums. Two private for their personal records to be stored in the royal historical records and one for them to personally keep.

Stephen set down the quill and the papers were checked over by an officiator under the watchful eyes of Pepper and Stoic Face.

Tony looked at his husband, who looked a little out of his depth, unable to meet his eye and practically ignoring him. Tony thought this should be an opportunity to get to know one another but found he was at a loss to attempt any small talk.

"Your Majesty," Pepper said, getting his attention, for once using his formal title. "Everything is in order. If you're ready we can begin the procession."

Tony nodded quickly, anything to get it over with. He walked to the door, Stephen falling to step beside him and they made their way out, side by side, Tony taking Stephen's hand as they faced the crowd. The court was on its feet and Tony paused, smiling over at the flower girls and giving a small toss of his head. They skipped forward just ahead of them, throwing rose petals and laughing delightedly as the people all bowed and curtsied their respect as they passed by. Tony kept a tight hold of Stephen's hand though it felt stiff in his own until they reached the outer doors that led to the courtyard beyond.

They were greeted with a cheering roar that caused his ears to ring. A sea of people came to celebrate the royal wedding.

The festivities took place in the ballroom. It was beautifully decorated with ribbons and lanterns and long tables that served food and drinks. As it was tradition, the celebration would last for a day and at night the king would whisk his husband away to his chambers.

Tony and Stephen sat at the head of one of the long tables and accepted congratulations and good wishes from all sides during the meal.

By now it was early evening and after the sparse breakfast in the morning and some of the excitement dying down, Tony's hunger was starting to kick in. Jarvis made sure that his plate was never empty.

Musicians played and various forms of entertainment were provided. Tony looked at his new husband from the side. Despite them sitting next to one another, they barely spoke a word to each other; instead they were caught up in conversations with the people beside them. With all the attention from the guests, Tony found it difficult to find the right words. Maybe for the first time in his life. What did you say to someone you just met, but with whom you would spend the rest of your life? And all this while being under constant observation from other people.

So he stuck to thanking the guests for their blessings.

And so it went on until night fell and more lanterns were lit. The hall was bathed in a warm light that gave everything a somewhat unreal and magical touch.

"I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to leave," Tony said at some point, not wishing to begin making any demands on him after only a few hours.

Stephen gave a curt nod and pushed his seat back as Tony did his. Tony said a few goodnights, well aware all eyes were on them as they left. He already knew what was on the court's mind as he led his new husband back to his quarters.

"These are our private chambers. I'll show you around tomorrow."

Opening the door Tony ushered Stephen inside, closing the door firmly behind them. Stephen took a few steps into the room and paused, turning to him and waiting. Tony could understand, this was their room now but nothing of it consisted of Stephen's possessions. They would all be unpacked in the next few days for him to arrange as he liked.

"There's been space made for your things in the wardrobe," Tony said, waving towards the large ornate cabinet. "Bathroom is through there."

"Don't I get my own chambers?" Stephen asked him and Tony turned with a look of surprise.

Stephen stared back at him, jaw set and waiting for an answer.

"I was just assuming," Tony began, suddenly unsure of himself. "I mean, we can arrange some rooms for you of course if you prefer. But these are private enough, no one but my personal servants and guards are allowed here."

"I'd prefer my own space," Stephen told him matter of factly with a small shake of his head. "Lets not pretend this marriage means more than it does. You wanted an alliance and you got it when I signed my name on those papers, and my parents had me taken off their hands."

Tony stared at him open mouthed, surprised and taken aback by the statement. "This marriage means more to me than a mere alliance, Stephen," he replied slowly and firmly.

Stephen rolled his eyes at him. "And what is it you're exactly expecting from me, Anthony?"

It was Tony's turn to roll his eyes, not expecting any of this conversation. He didn't feel ready for it, his head was swimming from the wine he'd drank and the long day he'd had. "It's Tony," he retorted. "And I was expecting a husband."

"You got one," Stephen told him. "At least on paper. I'm happy to do the public service with you to show the people unity but come on, let's not kid ourselves. You didn't want me and I certainly didn't want you."

"Have someone else in mind?" Tony replied dryly.

"No," Stephen shook his head. "But I'd have preferred to make my own decision on who I'm supposed to live the rest of my life with."

Tony snorted at the idea, it was preposterous and Stephen, as a prince, understood that well enough. Royalty didn't choose who they could marry.

"Welcome to the real world," Tony replied with a laugh. "Maybe you spent too much time with your magic and not enough figuring out just what life has set out for us. You know what this alliance will do for both our kingdoms, or do you consider yourself more important than your own people?"

Stephen glared at him and Tony knew the 'magic' remark had hit a nerve.

"Look, we're both tired, it's been a long day," Tony continued. He wasn't getting into this argument now, his brain was too addled. "We can arrange for new chambers tomorrow but right now, I'm going to bed. Feel free to join me or not, I'm not forcing you into anything here. All I suggest is that you stay in here tonight to at least put their minds at rest that we've 'consummated' this marriage."

Stephen seemed to agree, beginning to undress as Tony disappeared into the bathroom. He wasn't in there long, emerging to strip down himself and finding Stephen lingering, walking past him abruptly to use the bathroom himself. Tony undressed, happy to be rid of the uncomfortable layers, stiff collars and cuffs. He crawled into bed, unused to having to take a side but settling on the left. He turned on his side, back to the bathroom and turned out his light. Outside, in the courtyards below, celebrations were still underway for the marriage and he found that oddly ironic. There in the 'marriage suite' no such celebrations were occurring and instead he was finding out his husbands’ true thoughts on the matter.

Tony had been hoping for something more out of it, not just an alliance. Companionship. And more importantly someone he could lean on for support and help under the general strain and pressure he often felt as the ruler of his people. Instead he found Stephen saw this marriage as nothing but the alliance of their two nations. Of course Tony knew it had been wishful thinking.

He listened to the movement as Stephen emerged from the bathroom and he wondered if he was going to join him as the man seemed to pause in the room. Tony felt a moment of curiosity, wondered if he was naked, what he looked like under all those layers of clothing. The robes were beautiful, ornamented with golden brocade and jewelry. But they also hid the real him, though Tony wasn't sure he wanted to learn about the real man underneath when he'd shown such derision for their marriage.

Eventually the bed dipped beside him and a few moments later the light switched off.

Beside him his husband lay stiff and silent when instead he should have been writhing in pleasure over him. Or under him – he wasn’t picky. Tony hadn't even seen him naked, but if his body was as beautiful and handsome as his face, Tony knew he'd have little trouble becoming passionate with him.

It was just a shame about the emerging personality.

___________

Taglist: @goopierthenyou (text me if you want to be added/removed)

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

The ‘Rook is cute’ post reminded me!!! Rook has two surprised faces; one ‘not too surprised,’ which is the one we know, and one ‘oh no’ face, which is VERY similar, but his brow’s furrowed and his lips are pursed! You can see when Deuce and Sebek ask about his family in Halloween or in Book 6 throughout the Last Part. He shows it some other times too!!!

[Referencing this post!]

You’re right!! 👀 *yoinks this ask as an excuse to talk more about R00k and J word*

Rook’s usual surprised expression is on the left (I’ll call this A), and his alternate surprised expression is on the right (I’ll call this B):

Notice that his brows are not visible in A, his mouth is more subtle, and his head appears to be tilted up and slightly back. Of course, he also has his hands up in an exaggerated move; it’s a very playful demonstration of his emotion.

In B, Rook’s brows are pinched mouth is slightly more severe (pursed, as the Anon says), and his head is tilted more down. These are very small differences that you wouldn’t notice unless you were really thinking hard about it or comparing them side-by-side.

Now, here’s my take 🤔 A is the “fake” expression and B is the “real” expression. I wouldn’t say that Rook is a fake person in the traditional sense. By “fake” I mean that he sometimes purposefully exaggerates his displays to control how others perceive him. It’s by no means malicious; Rook most likely just wants to create a certain narrative around himself (similar to how he manipulated his heartbeat to speed up in order to gain Sebek’s trust when Sebek accused him of being a traitor). Likewise, I believe Rook intentionally acts silly so people don’t take him seriously. This would naturally give him an advantage against them, since people would lower their guards around him and more easily play into his hand. Others would be too focused on his ridiculous demeanor to think about how he’s outwitting them (think about the skincare delivery of episode 6 and how Idia reacted to Rook showing up).

I do think, in part, that expression A can also be genuine and heartfelt! Rook’s just a very loving and theatric person; this is just how he expresses himself, whether it’s a front or just natural to him. In the same vein, I also think that expression B is real—and a better look into what actually rattles Rook to his core. He can play off his surprise fine with A, but B is much more uncomfortable and difficult even for him to hide. B most notably appears when Deuce and Sebek start prying about Rook’s family. He gives a very evasive and generalized response, but they keep pressing about it until Trey lies about having seen a ghost nearby. It’s clear that Rook is secretive and doesn’t want to divulge details about what his family does. There is real distress in his face, a violation of his privacy made apparent. It’s times like these when Rook’s truest emotions shine through the happy-go-lucky facade he wears on a daily basis.

We also see a similar (albeit MUCH more subtle) facial change in Jade! On the left is his normal neutral expression, and on the right is his so-called “angry” expression.

The only differences here, as far as I can tell, are the eyes and mouth! Neutral Jade has light reflected in his eyes and a straight mouth whereas angry Jade has dull eyes with no light, as well as a slightly more noticeable frown. Angry Jade’s eyes may also be slightly more narrow. It’s even harder to read Jade because of how well he controls the emotions he portrays to onlookers! He’s cool as ice and probably plotting revenge in the second picture!

dhkswbu;tqfau:-5ae) I really love small character details like this!! It’s like a “spot the difference” game 😂 It really makes sense for their characters while still working within the limitations of the game.

[writtenonreceipts]

Part One // Part Two // AO3 Link

Sometimes I think I shoulda turned this into a full length 25 plus chapter fic.  Other times I remember my sanity is hanging by a thread. Enjoy the chaos of expedited plot and questionable development.

To those of you who have been patiently waiting for this conclusion: Thank you for being here! I love you.

Warnings: mentions of torture/violence, death, blood, and injury. ~13k words

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

Howling Moon--Part 3

The familiar was gone.

No matter what he tried to do, Rhys couldn’t sense it, track it, or summon it.  He’d tried everything in the hours that Feyre had been gone.  But the creature either wouldn’t, or couldn’t, reveal itself.  And that did not sit well with him.

As a new day approached, Rhys stood in the small clearing from just last night.  Nothing had changed since that strange fog had taken Feyre.  According to Mor, who was a little more versed in witches magic than he, it was a summoning charm.  Someone had been looking for Feyre and chose last night to take her.  Rhys had no idea why someone would do such a thing and without the familiar, he doubted he would ever learn anything that would give him the answers he desperately wanted.

He kicked at a loose rock and looked everything over.  Feyre’s blown out candles and the few crystals she’d brought were scattered around.  There were even sachets of herbs.  He wondered if he should collect the items or if that would be taboo or unwelcome in anyway.

He didn’t know anything about witchcraft.  His mother had tried to teach him some things, before Benham had forbidden it.  Alanna had grown up the daughter of a werewolf, but she’d always had a peculiar talent for witchcraft.  She took great pride in educating herself on the rest of the supernatural world.  Benham, a purist, couldn’t have cared less about witches.  Unless they were being burned in public again or otherwise ostracized.

Rhys tucked his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants and sighed.  As soon as Feyre had been taken; he’d begun to shift back to his human form.  It had come automatic, the urge to change, and once it began, he couldn’t stop it.  Something about Feyre being ripped away from him so suddenly churned his gut.  He’d been moments away from snapping at her, scaring the living hell out of her, and then she’d been swallowed up.  And everything changed.

Now, he was back here again, not bothering to put on anything else on the cooling autumn day.  Just sweats and a thick flannel.  

There had to be something he was missing.

Heavy footfalls sounded in the trees and Rhys turned toward them.  It didn’t take long before Cassian and Mor appeared in their wolf forms.

Cassian’s enormous shape was nearly double Mor’s and his coloring far darker than hers.  They didn’t bother shifting back to humans.  Not only would it take too long but they’d be leaving soon enough as it was.

“Anything?” Rhys asked.

No, came Cassian’s reply to his mind.

A wolf pack was psychically linked and they could communicate without actually talking.  It was easier to be done in wolf form, but since Rhys was the alpha the strain didn’t affect him as much as it might others.

No sign of the familiar.  Her scent isn’t anywhere in these woods, Cassian continued. We went as far as the borders to Vanserra’s pack.

Rhys grunted.  It was probably smart of them to stay away from Beron.  They had enough issues to deal with without any of that.

“Has Amren found anything?”

Mor shook out her golden fur. No.  But, she won’t go to Spell-Cleaver either.

“Of course she won’t,” Rhys muttered, shaking his head.  

Amren was a very interesting wolf who technically wasn’t even a part of his pack.  She preferred remaining by herself, but had decided to stick around Velaris for the time being.  She was not only stiff with pride but Rhys was certain she could kill an Attor just by looking at it.  Why she didn’t want to be the leader of her own pack, he’d never know and he didn’t want her to kill him for asking.

“Is there anything you can tell me?” Rhys pressed.

Mor and Cassian shared a look.  Then Cassian let out a great huff and flicked his nose to the East.

There is the scent of another witch.  It’s new, not been here long.  We didn’t do anything other than watch it for a few hours.  

Many witches tended to be migratory as they looked from ingredients to spells, magically enhanced ground, things of the like.  And it wasn’t like there was any immigration laws against such a thing.  Rhys tried not to worry.

Mor’s tail twitched. Nothing interesting happened.  Azriel is looking for the sisters but he hasn’t tried to contact us.

“Me either,” Rhys murmured.  He clenched his jaw and stared off into the trees.  He couldn’t help but think this might have been his fault.  For chasing after Feyre like she was the enemy and not being cognizant of another threat.  She’d told him he didn’t understand.  She’d said she was trying to help him.  “Go watch that witch.  Only to learn.  I don’t want to spook them or make them wary.”

Both Mor and Cassian turned to leave.

“Mor,” Rhys added.  She paused and he could practically see an eyebrow raise even if wolves didn’t have them. “I want to talk to you.”

Cassian pulled away and headed off into the trees where he would wait for Mor when Rhys was done with her.

She sat back and stared up at him.  For all intents and purposes, she looked utterly innocent.  Rhys shook his head.

“Who was your source?” he asked.  She didn’t move. “When you told me not to touch Feyre Archeron, you said you’d heard from someone she was the one who summoned the Attor, that she was the one hunting our pack.”

Mor shifted and Rhys could imagine her delicately brushing her hair over one shoulder or picking at a nail.

The wraiths, Mor began slowly, and I know they are just as bad as a vampire in terms of trust, but these two are smart.  They know things.  They’ve given me good intel before.  And they told me that the Archeron witches are…strange.  

“They’re witches, of course they are,” Rhys said, impatiently.

They don’t touch black magic.  At least, two of them don’t.  They haven’t spoken in years even though their coven lines are still intact.  Mor paused.  Their father disappeared two years ago.  They don’t fit into the world, Rhys.  They’ve always been different.  Especially after their matriarch died.

“And this means Feyre’s untrustworthy?”

She’s the only one that stuck around, Mor shifted in means of a shrug. And her familiar…her familiar isn’t natural.  That’s all they told me.  They said the Archeron’s are strange creatures who have strange magic.  What was I supposed to think, Rhys?  I’ll protect my pack before I see anything taint it.

From what he could tell the conversation with the wraiths had been a mere mess of circles.

Just because something took her, doesn’t mean she’s innocent, Mor added. She could be in the middle of an elaborate set up.  Your blood, Rhys, could incite some powerful magic.

“She had plenty of chances to hurt me before,” Rhys replied.  When Mor said nothing, Rhys sighed.  “Go with Cassian.  Let me know if anything strange happens with those witches.”

Mor nodded and then took off into the trees.

Rhys waited until he couldn’t hear the patter of paws in the underbrush.  He waited until a breeze wafted through the trees.  He waited until the mid-morning sun began its slow descent into the afternoon haze.

A witch needed her coven.  Even if Feyre hadn’t spoken to her coven in years, they would still be the best chance of finding her.  Wouldn’t they?

He gave one more cursory glance around the clearing before turning and heading back down the trail that would eventually take him to his car.  

Whatever Mor might say, Rhys knew Feyre wasn’t trying to trick him.  There was something telling him to trust Feyre, some subtle pull deep within him that wouldn’t let go.  So he hurried down the mountain and back to his car.  He would go to Feyre’s shop and see if there was a way to contact her sisters there.  Or if there was any sign that she’d been in trouble with anyone.  It wasn’t much, but it was the best lead he had.

…

The cellar was turning into a nightmare.  A cruel sort of nightmare that ate at every insecurity and fear Feyre had ever known.

It was small, barely more than five paces by five paces.  The doorway at the top of a small set of stairs was carefully crafted so it remained snug when closed, making everything utterly dark.  It was as though she were buried alive with a very long timetable stretched out before her.

She tried her best not to freak out.  It wouldn’t help her in the least.  The only thing it would do was alert her captor to the fact that she was frightened.  And that was a sure way to lead Feyre to even more misery and woe.

Her captor was a witch.  Amarantha.  A strange name that Feyre didn’t recognize.  Still, Feyre couldn’t help but feel that there was something familiar about her.  Feyre might have given her advice or sold her something at some point.  Or it was in the way she carried herself.  She was a confident woman who looked down on Feyre as though she were merely a worm.

She wished she knew what the woman wanted.  But all she’d done when she’d visited was flaunt Feyre’s situation and croon over the woes of being outsmarted.  It must be one hell of a plan if the one random witch you captured was the cornerstone.

Feyre scrubbed her face with her hands.  This was madness.  It really was.  She had no idea who the woman was or what she could offer her.  She was just a witch who ran a mediocre apothecary.  If Amarantha wanted real talent she would have done better going after Elain or Nesta.  

Elain with her penchant for plants and Seer work.  Nesta who could call upon death and flames.

Feyre had no specialty.  Nothing that she could claim as her own.  She was a good little witch who kept a good little apothecary.  She wasn’t anything special.  All she could do was summon a very strange, very volatile familiar.

Amarantha was sure to be disappointed by whatever she forced Feyre to offer up.

As near as Feyre could tell it had been two days since she’d been brought here.  She’d been given two water bottles for each day and a handful of granola bars.  There was a plastic bucket in the corner that she could relieve herself in.  

Realistically, Feyre knew this wasn’t the worst it could be.  She could be tied down, she could be naked and starving, she could be dead.  Nothing had been done to her beyond being trapped in the darkness.  Underground.  Which, honestly, was Feyre’s worst nightmare.  She’d long struggled with the dark, long struggled with the unknown things that could lurk in the shadows.  As a witch, she should have been able to use magic to protect herself, but Amarantha had bound her magic.

A precaution dear.  I do need your promise that you won’t do anything…rash…before I can let you have access to your powers again.

Feyre knew that Amarantha was controlling her, manipulating her into giving in.  She also knew it was only a matter of time before the other witch snapped.

“Bryaxis,” Feyre whispered, running her fingers over her tattoo.  No matter how many times she’d done so, she’d never gotten a response.  She couldn’t help but hope though.  Couldn’t help but keep waiting for that subtle presence of comfort of their bond.

She had to get out of here.  No amount of pacing or investigating the cellar door had told her anything other than what she already knew.  There was a spell in place, layered with iron and salt, that no amount of mundane persistence would alter.  Her only hope was that perhaps, Amarantha would choose to move her.

Once she got out of the cellar, her magic would come back.  She’d be able to summon Bryaxis.  She’d find help.  Maybe Rhysand—

Rhysand.

Rhys.

She’d been able to gloss over thoughts of him for a while now, but it was impossible to forget him entirely.  He thought she’d betrayed him.  It had been obvious given that look in his eyes as he’d surged over her.  She’d felt the hurt and the anger rolling off of him.  And then she’d simply vanished in a puff of smoke and magic.

Did he know what had happened?  Did he care?  Or did he simply think she’d chosen the easy way out and was never going to come back?

Those thoughts sat heavy within her.  She didn’t want him to think any of that about her.  Sure she had her reservations about werewolves, but she’d been beginning to think that Rhys was different.

As she’d been working on her own summoning charm with the Relic, she’d felt old magic pulling at her.  And when she’d been directing the magic to pick out ties to Rhys and his pack, there had been something innately powerful there.  She’d been able to feel the strength of his pack, the loyalty, the love.  Rhys was the most powerful alpha she’d ever heard of in this generation—and he cared.  He cared about his pack, about the magic he represented, and he cared about Velaris.

He’d trusted her and she hadn’t been honest with him.  Not about Bryaxis, not about the magic she was doing.  Not that she minded lying to him.  She still felt he deserved at least a little honesty.  She shouldn’t even be giving him this much thought.

Her slow descent into madness halted when the cellar door creaked open.

Fresh, cool air raced down the steps and enveloped Feyre.  She shuddered at the chill and also at the relief when golden light raced down the cellar steps.  If Feyre had to guess, she’d say afternoon was beginning to fade.

Amarantha stood at the top of the stairs, choosing not to come down to Feyre this time.  Maybe she’d just chuck the next water bottle and a granola bar at her.  But after a moment, Amarantha slowly decended into the cellar.  Her steps were light on the old wood steps, the only noise was from the groan of the old wood under strain.

Standing on the last step of stairs, Amarantha gave Feyre an assessing sort of look.  Feyre felt a chill rise on the back of her neck.  Even surrounded by wards and iron there was a distinct pulse of power around the other witch.  Feyre swallowed stiffly and lifted her chin.

“Well, little witch,” Amarantha said, “are you ready to obey?”

If she’d had any saliva left in her mouth, Feyre would have spat in the other witch’s face.  As it was, she only stared with hardened eyes and as much bravado as she could muster.

Amarantha grinned.  It was a sharp smile that could have ripped Feyre apart.

“You know you can’t escape this, dear, it will be better to just comply now,” Amarantha said.  Her lilting voice sounded so calm and assured, as though she’d already won this little game.

And maybe she had, Feyre had no idea what was going on—no idea who this witch was or what she wanted.  Amarantha had the advantage and Feyre didn’t like it.  She usually always had a plan for things or always had some inkling of an idea of what the next day would entail.  But here she was thrown in the deep end of a mad woman out for blood.

Feyre cleared her dry throat. “I don’t even know what you want.  You never did explain that.”

That same, slow smile crept across Amarantha’s face.

“You took something from me,” the witch said, “so now you will pay the price.”

Setting her jaw, Feyre didn’t waver. “That doesn’t really sound like me.  I like keeping to myself.”

Before she even had time to regret her bout of confidence, Amarantha crossed the small space of the cellar and slammed Feyre against the wall.  The breath hissed out of her lungs as pain racked up and down her spine.  Stunned by the pain, Feyre could only blink dazedly up at Amarantha.  The witch curled a hand around Feyre’s throat and squeezed.

“You killed my attor, you took the werewolf, and then,” another hard squeeze to Feyre’s throat, “you broke the contract your father created with me.”

Stars danced in Feyre’s vision as she tried to gasp for air.  But the last words Amarantha spoke left her breathless again.

“My father?” she asked, the words forced and broken.  

What was Amarantha talking about?  Her father was a lesser witch, barely capable of even simple charms.  She wouldn’t want anything to do with him.  He wouldn’t want anything to do with her.  Elias had disappeared without a trace, lost in the grief of losing her mother.  The whole reason Feyre had summoned Bryaxis in the first place was to find him.  But nothing.  Nothing but bitter silence.

Amarantha released Feyre so she slumped to the floor.  Coughing, Feyre shuddered as she tried to catch her breath.  The air in the cellar shifted, dropping colder and colder until goosebumps rose on Feyre’s arms and her breath fogged with each exhale.

“Your father,” Amarantha said, “was a lonely old man who was far too easy to manipulate.”

She crouched down until she was eye-level with Feyre.  Her bright eyes gleamed in the sliver of light that slanted through the cellar doorway.  She had an earthy scent about her; subtle and smooth.  But Feyre couldn’t help but feel fingers of dread prodding at her.  There was something unnatural about this witch.  She also didn’t like the way Amarantha spoke about her father.  While Feyre didn’t much care for the man, he wasn’t a complete fool.

“He wouldn’t align himself with you,” Feyre whispered.  Her throat still burned and chills still raced along her skin, but she was steady.  She was steady and strong and she would see this through.

“Of course he would,” Amarantha said.  She tossed her long, red hair over her shoulder and laughed. “I could give him anything he wanted.  All he had to do was summon the attor.”

“He’s not,” Feyre began to protest but Amarantha waved a dismissive hand.

“Anyone can be strong enough when they’re motivated,” Amarantha replied. “Even a man like him.  I admit he probably did have a little help, but I got what I wanted in the end, so it didn’t really matter.”

“You wanted a demon to wreak havoc for you?” Feyre raised a brow.  Sure there were plenty of supernaturals who enjoyed causing problems and mayhem and giving the humans something to piss their pants about—but summoning a demon?  Feyre could count on one hand who would be stupid enough to do that.

Amarantha slowly rose to her feet as she let out a laugh. “I’m not going to tell you all my secrets.  Just know that tomorrow you will finish what your father started for me.”

Reaching out, Amarantha patted Feyre’s cheek a little too harshly making the skin smart even after the witch retreated from the cellar.

When she was alone again, Feyre shuddered.  And not just from the cold.  She didn’t like anything about what Amarantha had said.  She didn’t like the implications about her father, the mentions of tomorrow, she didn’t like how this cellar had been set up as a holding cell long before Feyre had come here.  

She could smell the magic and feel it deep in her bones.  Salt and iron had an ageless quality to them anyways, but this…this was different.  The cellar was supposed to be carefully guarded, carefully curated.  Feyre had the distinct impression she was not the first person, or creature, to be held here.  

She held back from shuddering again.  She would not be afraid.  She would not let Amarantha defeat her, not like this.  She just had to figure out what the witch wanted and that would lead her to how to get out of this mess.

Feyre remembered the way the Attor had disintegrated around her just a little over a week ago.  Bile rose in her throat.  She didn’t relish the idea of slaughter, even if one evil creature deserved it.  But would she have a choice?

“Focus Feyre,” she muttered.  Mostly she just needed to hear herself speak, hear something other than her thudding heart of the gapping silence of the cellar.

It wasn’t hard to think of why her father would go to a witch like Amarantha: to bring back her mother.  For all of Elias’ faults; he’d loved his wife.  Not that he managed to extend that same love to his daughters.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said.  Her voice sounded dull in the small space but she would take what confidence in the words she could.

As soon as Amarantha pulled her out of the cellar, she would make a stand for herself.  She would fix whatever hell Elias had gotten their family into and put an end to this madness.

…

The next time Amarantha visited her, Feyre was determined to whittle any bit of information from the witch she could.  Because really, Feyre had no idea what Amarantha intended.

Elias may have summoned an attor for Amarantha, but since Feyre killed it after rescuing Cassian there was no getting the creature back.  No matter what Amarantha did, Feyre refused to try and summon a new one.  Besides, attor’s were very particular creatures.  Usually only warlocks or death magic could bring one about.  And now trapping Feyre, who really was nothing special.  She wasn’t even a part of a coven anymore.  Not since Elain and Nesta went their separate ways.

Feyre scrubbed a hand over her tired eyes.  She was missing something.  She had to be missing something.

It wasn’t until the door of the cellar opened and a pair of feet descended the steps in a leisurely fashion that Feyre realized just how much she’d been missing.

It wasn’t Amarantha that appeared in the stretch of late afternoon light but another face that Feyre recognized.  Pit forming in her stomach, Feyre watched the witch with icy blonde hair and pale skin come down the final few steps, hands resting on her hips as she stared at Feyre who leaned against the wall at the far end of the cellar.

“Hello, Feyre,” Ianthe said, “I’m sorry I never stopped by your shop sooner.  That spell you gave me never worked though.”

Feyre kept her expression neutral as she tried to reign in her fear.  It had only been a week ago when Ianthe had come by the shop claiming to need a summoning charm.  Feyre had dismissed it; people often came by to find trinkets and spells for whatever they needed.  Nothing major unless there was a cleansing or banishment.  But she’d never had anything dangerous happen.  Rhysand not included.

“Sorry,” Feyre replied, “no refunds.  It’s my policy.”

Ianthe gave a humorless laugh. “Oh, I have everything I need, don’t worry.”

The other witch didn’t approach Feyre, only paced a little in front of the steps of the cellar.  She wore a pair of slim fitting jeans and black sweater.  She looked more like she was ready to go to the mall then threaten Feyre with spells and magic.

“I’m surprised though,” Ianthe continued lightly, “that you didn’t see that spell for what it really was.  You’re not as smart and powerful as everyone thinks you are, hmm?”

Feyre kept her mouth shut despite how hard it was not to lash out and defend herself.  Ianthe just wanted to egg her on and feel powerful in her own right.  But she really didn’t know what Ianthe was talking about.  It had been a simple summoning charm.  A little more powerful than normal, sure, but nothing concerning.  She would have known.

“You can say that all you like if it makes you feel better,” Feyre said.  

She shrugged as she kept her position against the far wall. The good thing about dealing with a witch was that it was easier to hide fear and discomfort.  Unlike wolves or demons or the likes, witches couldn’t scent a change in someone’s temperament.  So, Ianthe likely had no idea how worried Feyre was.  She did have a good poker face after all.

“Though,” Feyre continued, “you still didn’t know your charm was missing a bonding agent—” she paused realizing what exactly she was saying. “You’re trying to summon another attor, you and Amarantha.  That’s why you needed the charm.  Kidnapping me won’t make any difference, you know.  Even if you do end up killing me and using my blood or bones or what have you.”

“I know dear,” Ianthe said.  With a mocking pout she faced Feyre and cocked her head to one side. “You’re just not special enough for a spell like this.  But you know someone who is.”

Something lurched in Feyre's gut as Ianthe’s words slowly sunk in.  Someone powerful enough to summon an attor that had been sent back to hell.  Someone powerful enough to do the impossible.  And there was really only one person Ianthe could mean.

“Rhysand Avitas is the most powerful werewolf, the most powerful supernatural really, to be seen in centuries,” Ianthe said, “and offering him up for an attor? We’d be fools not to think of it.”

“So, your grand plan is to…what?  Lure him out with me?” Feyre scoffed. “He won’t care.  He doesn’t even like me.”

Well, as near as Feyre could tell.  She and Rhys were not necessarily friends.  They simply helped each other out when the other needed it.  Argued a bit.  And sure, Rhys flirted any chance he got but that was just him.  He wouldn’t care if she lived or died.  And given how she lied about her father—

“You’re wasting your time,” Feyre said again, pushing back as many thoughts about Rhys as she could. “Sacrifice me, don't sacrifice me—I don’t care.  But either way, you aren’t going to get what you want.”

Ianthe only raised a brow. “We’ll see about that.  Rest up.  We’re leaving at nightfall.”

With that, the witch left.

Shuddering, not from the cold, Feyre pushed away from the wall and started pacing the cellar.  She knew even if Amarantha and Ianthe strung her up with a pretty bow and all the magic and money in the world—Rhys wouldn’t come.

She’d seen the look of betrayal in his eyes.  The hurt.  The anger.  He wouldn’t care if anything happened to her.

And yet…and yet Feyre couldn’t help that niggling bit of fear in the back of her mind.

What if he did come?

She’d never forgive herself if something happened to him.  She might be an arrogant prick, but he was her arrogant prick.  Come nightfall she would have to put a stop to Amarantha’s plans and pray that Rhys wasn’t stupid enough to come looking for her.

…

Rhys never thought he would have as much association with witches as he was now.  Sure, he’d admittedly been enraptured by Feyre and the help she’d provided him in recent months, years even.  But that was one witch.  One witch he’d been more than willing to spend time with.

Now, he was staring at three.  Well, two and a half if you wanted to get technical.

The inside of the Archeron apothecary was a little too crowded for the amount of magic that crackled about.  Aside from Rhys and Azriel, the other three women practically overflowed with their own magic.

Nesta Archeron’s silver-gray eyes bore into him from across the shop.  She looked a great deal like her sister with the same golden blonde hair, though Feyre’s was a bare shade lighter and she had softer features.  But the unimpressed brow raise and the confident stance were the same.

“So, you’re the one that got my sister kidnapped.” Nesta regarded him with a raised chin and almost sneer to her lips.  She wore a pair of black pants and combat boots, a leather jacket over a gray t-shirt.  

On either side were the other witches.  One full blooded, the other half.  The full-blooded witch had brown skin and dark hair twisted in a braid.  Her smooth, pretty features betrayed nothing of what she thought, but the displeasure was evident.  The third was younger than the others, only by a year or two.  Her coppery hair hung straight over one shoulder, bright teal eyes hard pressed and ready for violence.

And she was part nymph.  He could scent it on her—lily and salt and earth.  It was a strange combination, witch and nymph, but not entirely unheard of.   And for her to be accepted so readily by the two other witches...it said a lot. Witches had a tendency to have a cruel obsession with the way blood ran.  But not these.

“And you’re the sister that shows up after the damage has been done,” Rhys replied.

That earned him a smile sharp as any werewolf’s claws. 

“We don’t have time for this,” Azriel murmured from where he stood off in a far corner of the shop, near a display of obsidian blades. “Whatever has Feyre shouldn’t be left alone any longer than necessary.”

Rhys turned a glare to his brother. “Then please, tell me where the bitch is.”

He was met with a bland look of disinterest.  Az had always been the one that Rhys trusted to find out information.  Azriel always had a knack for getting what he wanted.  Except for this.

Azriel didn’t flinch under the scrutiny, merely crossed his arms over his chest.  That was all the response Rhys was going to get out of him but he could sense the answer well enough.

A strong witch makes for a strong ward.

And a strong witch made for destroying a ward.

Rhys was certainly powerful in his own rights.  There were many magical capabilities that he possessed as a werewolf beyond shifting.  But nothing he’d been able to do had broken through the wards surrounding Feyre.

“Do you know what has her?” Nesta asked.  She turned her cool gaze on Azriel.

“A witch,” Azriel replied. “A witch strong enough to call an attor and know what to do with it.”

Nesta cast a look to the brunette witch who nodded.

“Give me a minute.”  She broke away to begin sifting among the many shelves and cabinets of Feyre’s shop.  She moved carefully and didn’t cause much of a disturbance, but Rhys still didn’t like the idea of someone else rummaging around here.  Not without Feyre present.

“Emerie’s always been the best at collecting spells and knowing how best to work new ingredients into them,” Nesta explained.  “She’s done the most research out of us.  Gwyn—” a nod to the redhead— “is the muscle.”

Gwyn smiled at that and Rhys had the distinct impression that muscle would turn out to be the blandest descriptor for the witch.

He lifted his chin, attention back on Nesta. “And you?  What are your specialties?”

Nesta didn’t rise to the bait.  She looked between Rhys and his brothers before shrugging. “Nothing interesting.”

“She makes things,” Emerie called out from behind the main counter.  She already began tossing herbs and other items into a large, stone bowl.

“And kills them too,” Gwyn added.  

Nesta remained a mask of indifference.  Though after knowing Feyre for a few years now, he should have expected her sister to be much the same.  There was something far colder about the eldest Archeron though—cold and dark and violent.

“Only when it comes to it,” Nesta conceded.  

Rhys recognized the small bit of regret in her words—not remorse or sorrow—but a near resignation to the fact that death was a part of her.  It was something he knew all too well.

Sighing, Nesta relaxed just a fraction.  She met Rhys’ gaze and nodded once. “I just want to find my sister.  I felt when she vanished and I…I didn’t like it.  We may not be a real coven anymore but we still are blood sisters.  She’s in trouble.  That much I do know.”

“You have another sister, don’t you?” Az asked from his corner of the shop. “There’s three of you?  If the other were here, that might be enough to break whatever spell is masking Feyre.”

“Elain, yes,” Nesta said.  She frowned. “She’s been with the Spell-Cleaver for the past few years.”

“The warlock?” Rhys asked, unable to hide his surprise. “Why?”

Helion Spell-Cleaver was not known for taking apprentices. Nor granting favors.  Rather, the warlock enjoyed keeping secrets and causing mayhem.  Especially where wolves were concerned.

“Elain is different and that’s all you need to know.” Nesta’s walls slammed back into place and Rhys doubted they would come down the rest of the night.

“We’ll be fine,” Rhys said.  He wouldn’t take no for an answer. “And extra strength you need for the spell, my pack can provide.”

Az let out a huff of laughter. “Amren will love that.”

“My pack,” Rhys repeated coolly.

He was the damned son of Velaris, heir of the oldest bloodline of wolves left on this cauldron damned earth.  He was the one who owned his wolves and saw them safe.  He was the one who had power flowing in his veins.  He was the one who gave it freely as needed.  He was the one they called leader when the moon bled silver.

Az blinked, breaking eye contact, and acknowledged his placement in the pack.

“Cassian and Mor are finishing one last patrol,” Rhys said.  He looked to Emerie who was finishing collecting the things she needed for whatever spell they were going to cast. “I don’t want to try anything without them.”

Nesta rolled her eyes impatiently.  “Well, they better get here soon, it’s nearing midnight and the later it gets the more time there is for something to go wrong.”

Before Rhys could say anything, constructive or not, he heard the sound of running wolves outside.  The gaits were easy to identify, he’d been running with them for years.  Cassian and Mor were nearly there.  Good.

“Get the door,” he told Nesta, who scowled again at him, “my other wolves are almost here.”

She waited just long enough to almost challenge him, she was a witch after all and a different order of magic flowed in her veins, but it was enough to irk him.  Nesta finally flicked a wrist and with a small burst of magic, the front door of the shop creaked open.

Not long after that, Cassian and Mor entered.  They’d shifted surprisingly fast on their way here.  Rhys supposed that was good, having them in human form would make communication easier.  Cassian’s gaze swept over the witches; his expression unreadable.  Though, he lingered a moment longer on Nesta who glared right back.

Smirking, Cassian looked at Rhys. “All clear on the borders.”

“But there’s a strange ward up in the woods, just off of the 56th service road,” Mor added.  

Unassuming and utterly at ease, Mor much preferred the element of surprise when it came to interacting with the unknown.  And three witches were definitely unknown.  Her blonde hair was swept up into a bun, her clothes loose and simple.  But, much like Cassian, she didn’t miss anything. 

“There’s over two hundred acres of wild land out there, there’s no way to narrow anything else down,” Mor added, “but nothing else seems to be out there.  At least, not another attor.”

“The familiar isn’t around either,” Cassian added.  He wore a pair of sweats and black t-shirt that was at least one size two small.  Sometimes in a hurry, it was hard to find clothes that fit properly.

“That’s what—” Rhys began explaining about what the witches were here for, but Nesta cut him off, finally looking a little uneasy.

“What familiar?” she asked.  She looked between the four wolves. “Who has a familiar?”

“Your sister,” Rhys said, he glanced at Mor who was always the best at detecting a lie or feigned words. “She’s had him for ages by my guess.”

“No,” Nesta said slowly, “she doesn’t.  She wouldn’t, not after our father...” Nesta, for the first time that night, looked at him without any inhibition.  Genuine worry laced with confusion flashed in her eyes. “Did she ever call him by name?”

“I, don’t—” Rhys began, wishing he’d had more time to ask Feyre about the familiar.

“Bryaxis,” Cassian said, “I heard her call it that when I was taken.”

If possible, Nesta’s pale skin paled further.  The dark circles beneath her eyes became more pronounced and the angles of her face sharpened as she tilted her chin up to stare at the ceiling.

“My sister has a death wish,” Nesta murmured.  She met Rhys’ gaze and sighed. “She was trying to find out why our father disappeared.  Wouldn’t accept that he was a deadbeat warlock who didn’t care about us.  Not to mention she likes causing problems.”

Nesta crossed the shop to where Emerie was finishing whatever spell she was creating.  Quicker than Rhys could react, Nesta grabbed a silver blade from her side and dashed it across her palm.  She didn’t flinch as she held the wound over the bowl, letting a trickle of blood ooze into the concoction.  She whispered something under her breath that Rhys didn’t catch but with her words, a thin stream of smoke, iridescent and practically silver, flickered up into the air.

“Bryaxis,” Nesta said as she looked over her shoulder, “is a demon.  And if he’s not here then something is very wrong indeed.”

…

Iron shackles bit into Feyre’s wrists as Amarantha dragged her through the underbrush of the forest.  The other witch had been smart enough to cover Feyre’s head with a canvas sack.  So even though Feyre could smell the sweet pine and aged detritus, even though she could feel blackberry vines scrape her bare legs and cool night air—she couldn’t see.  And without sight Feyre had no way to know where she was.  Maybe if she wasn’t as drugged as she was…

She stumbled over a tree root, pitching forward.  The iron tugged painfully against her, magic burning flesh.  Amarantha grabbed a handful of Feyre’s hair to keep her on her feet.  

“If you take this bag off my head, I’d be able to walk better,” Feyre said, a little breathless.

“I’m not a fool,” Amarantha said.  “You can manage.”

Snorting with derision, Feyre did her best to skirt around a branch that poked her side.  “This isn’t how you confuse a werewolf you know.  They’re going to find you.  And rip you apart.”

“Oh, little witch,” Amarantha chuckled, “so young and so stupid.”

Despite the pain radiated throughout multiple points of her body, Feyre tried yanking away from Amarantha.  It was dumb, she knew, to use up her strength on an action that wouldn’t do anything, but Feyre never liked being docile.

She could smell her own blood welling on her wrists, dripping down her palms.  Her sweat was poignant with fear.  Amarantha’s nails dug into her scalp as she forced Feyre to keep a steady path.

“You haven’t figured it out yet,” Amarantha said, “such a shame.  I thought you were smarter than this.”

Feyre tried to keep her panic at bay, tried to convince herself that everything was going to be okay.  She wasn’t completely useless or helpless, she knew that.  Even if her magic was stunted right now she knew that she would find her moment to strike.

At least…she had to believe that.

“I know you’re pinning all your hopes on Rhys thinking I’m worth saving,” Feyre said.  “But you’re as stupid as I am if you believe he cares.”

She didn’t know what else beyond using Rhys’ blood (and death) to summon the attor would do—but Amarantha seemed to think it would give her immeasurable power.  Enough to bring even Velaris to its knees.

That was not a pleasant thought. 

She had to get out of this.  But breaking through iron chains and staving off day’s worth of sedatives wasn’t an easy thing to do.  Even with the flickering flame of magic that was still burning through her, Feyre would need a miracle to see this through.

If the irons were removed that would already help her connection to the earth and her real magic source.  With that she could get away and cast a cloaking charm.  And then without the outside interference she’d be able to summon Bryaxis again.  Hopefully.  But the light that usually attended her tattoo had remained winked out.

For now, she could only remain silent as Amarantha continued to drag her through the forest.

As the night chill grew stiffer Feyre used that as her grounding force.  She was fine being cold.  Could use that to remind her to stay on target.  That she was alive.  That she would get through this.  She might get hypothermia but she would get free.

Amarantha finally pulled Feyre to a stop with another sharp tug to the hair.  Feyre stumbled over her feet at the abrupt motions, nearly falling into Amarantha’s side.  She tried to break free enough to reach for the sack over her head, desperate for a return on her most needed sense.

Something hot and sharp pressed into her side through the fabric of her shirt.  The burning sensation nearly sent Feyre to her knees.  She should have known Amarantha would be so carefully prepared.  It was an iron blade that would control her just as easily as the chains would.

Feyre bit into the side of her cheek—refusing to cry out in pain.  She wouldn’t give Amarantha the satisfaction.  She tasted salt and metal as she broke skin and focused on that instead of the immense pain radiating across her side.  Amarantha hadn’t stabbed her, yet, only gave enough of a nudge with the metal that Feyre’s witch blood reacted automatically.

“Have you ever tried asking nicely? Feyre bit out, “you might actually get some success.”

She was promptly thrown to the ground.

That at least disrupted the rough sack over her head and Feyre managed to yank it off with stiff fingers.  How her hands hadn’t fallen off given the pain shooting through them at the heavy iron, she didn’t know.  But she would take what little function she had left.  While she knew iron wasn’t completely lethal, if the chains didn’t come off soon there would be irreparable damage.

She didn’t bother getting up, knowing that anymore movement would illicit Amarantha beating her further.  But Feyre managed to look around.  They were in a wide, open clearing somewhere in the middle of the woods.  They were in deep up one of the old service roads.  Feyre only knew that from the distance they drove to get here, the rough unpaved roads, and the bare glance she got when Amarantha opted to change a blindfold to a canvas sack.  Apparently, a sack was more dramatic.

Dry grass poked in through Feyre’s leggings and she could feel sharp rocks and dusty earth beneath her.  They were still surrounded by trees, towering masses of cedar and pine.  And while the fresh air tasted like an elixir in comparison to the cellar—she couldn’t let it comfort her.

Not when she saw Ianthe across the clearing already waiting for their arrival.  She was surrounded by dozens of candles.  Many were of the smaller variety, but there were also ones of the spellcaster variety with thick wax and towering flames.  Feyre also noted the circle of rocks messily created along the edge of the clearing the larger ones had been marked with runes.

Already, Feyre could feel the hum of magic in the air.

A shudder rippled down her spine.  

This was the type of magic she’d played with once, just she and Nesta, and they’d both sworn to never again use it.  It was dark and cruel like something out of Hell itself.

The one comfort Feyre could give herself was that Rhys certainly wouldn’t track her here.  Powerful or not this type of magic would confuse even the most dedicated.  Unless they were explicitly prepared.

“Get up.” Amarantha kicked Feyre in the side.  Hard.

Feyre swallowed hard, ignoring the tang of blood still coating her tongue.  Making sure to let the chains rattle as annoyingly as possible, Feyre slowly rose to her feet.  It took much more effort than she wanted to admit.

They’d been walking nearly two hours which wasn’t anything Feyre had an issue with, but combined with the iron and Amarantha’s easy deliverance of punishment her body felt stiff and worn.

“He’s not going to come,” Feyre said.  “You don’t even have a full coven.  This spell isn’t going to work.”

Amarantha only smirked. “We’ll see.”

She prodded Feyre in the back with the blade.  To avoid the risk of getting her spine snapped, Feyre moved.  

Stealing a glance at her tattoo, Feyre silently wished something had changed in the ink.  But the lupus constellation remained dimmed, even the lines connecting the individual stars seemed to fade.

Bryaxis, she thought desperately, hoping that he could still hear her.  He wouldn’t have left her.  Not yet.  Not until the debt of summoning him had been fulfilled.  

She knew summoning a demon had been stupid.  But she’d been desperate.  Not just for protection and help.  But company too.  And Bryaxis had been quick to answer her.  All he wanted?  To be in the human realm.  Oh she was certain he got into his own sort of mischief, but nothing that ever came to her attention.  So it couldn’t be all bad.  Could it?

Her mind remained silent, though, telling her that he either wasn’t near, hadn’t heard, or decided to break their bond and see her killed.

That was far from comforting.

Feyre let Amarantha prod her across the clearing until they met Ianthe.  The blonde was dressed in a dark blue gown with her hair hanging loose down her back.  Amarantha too had chosen to wear a black gown herself even to trek through the mountains.

In her leggings and sweater, Feyre was far too underdressed.  But she’d never understood why witches or warlocks felt the need to dress a certain way for their spells.  It hardly made a difference.  The runes didn’t care.  And she highly doubted the attor they wanted to summon cared either.

“Is everything ready?” Amarantha asked.

Ianthe nodded. “Yes.  All we need is the wolf.”

“Good,” Amarantha replied.  “It won’t be long; I can sense a change in the woods.”

Feyre highly doubted that, but knew her opinion was not welcome.  She lifted her hands, trying to adjust the way the iron cuffs hung on her wrists, but only succeeded in aggravating her already raw skin further.  She would be useless to help herself like this.  Even if she did manage to get away, the iron would still impede her magic and her ability to navigate the woods properly.

“You should take these off,” Feyre said, lightly.  She wiggled the chain looped between her hands. “The iron will affect your own spell.  Especially one like this.”

The other witches exchanged a look.

“I’m not a fool,” Amarantha said. “You could just as easily lash out at us and ruin everything.”

“You’ve kept me bound in iron and drugged me.” Feyre shrugged. “I’m not a threat with my magic.”

How fast the last dose of drugs was wearing off was Feyre’s own business.  If Amarantha was stupid enough to forget to dose her again, that was her own fault.

“Besides,” Feyre continued, “I know you won’t do anything to ruin what you’ve worked so hard to accomplish.”

She rattled the chains again for emphasis.  

“She won’t get far even if she does try to run,” Ianthe said.  She shrugged to Amarantha. “And she’d right about having that much iron in the circle.”

Lip twitching, Amarantha nodded once before she reached out to grab Feyre’s arm.  Her slender fingers dug into Feyre’s bicep with far too much force.  Just another set of bruises to add to the list.

Pulling a simple key from a pocket in her dress, Amarantha unlocked the cuffs at Feyre’s wrists.  The iron fell with a heavy clatter and thump against the earth.  The change was immediate.  Not just in the relief from the weight but the way Feyre’s magic breathed within her once more.  

“Oh,” she said in a relieved sigh.  Even if she wound up dead in the next five minutes, she didn’t think she’d actually care.

“Now,” Amarantha began, but she was cut off when a howl echoed through the night.

It was soon joined by another and another until a whole pack of wolves was making itself known.  They didn’t sound close, at least a few miles off.  But the low call that wavered off with careful unity and strength was nearly impossible to ignore.

Amarantha cut Feyre a knowing smile. “See?  I told you.”

Feyre didn’t answer.  Didn’t want to.  Because even if it was Rhys, he could very well just be coming to kill her.  Or it could just be a regular pack of wolves.  Even though regular wolves hardly tread in the same terrain as werewolves.

Amarantha and Ianthe wasted no time though.  They spread out a woven blanket of black with white thread of a specific design that reminded Feyre of ancient runes straight out of the Book of Breathings.  These two were idiots indeed if they were going to use such magic.  If anything, they’d all die together.

On the blanket, Ianthe spread out another iron knife, a few crystals, bundles of herbs, and bones.  From what Feyre could tell, they were animal bones, but she wouldn’t be surprised if some were human.  Especially that one that looked like a phalange.  

It wasn’t long at all that the sound of howling wolves grew closer.  Feyre tensed.  She wished she had a weapon.  Something, anything, to protect her from what was coming.

Her tattoo remained silent.  Her mind remained blank.

“Get the wards finished,” Amarantha ordered.

Ianthe scrambled as she lit a smudge of sage and herbs before she began reciting a spell.

In her own mind, Feyre started reciting a spell of her own.  Nonverbal magic was a fickle thing and there was the possibility that it wouldn’t do anything, but she had to try.  

A soft whisper brushed across her mind and she almost dismissed it as Ianthe’s spell at work.  But then it came again.  Stronger.

Feyre.

Her name.  Someone was reaching out for her.  Someone—

She heard the snarl of the wolf before she saw the giant loping frame.  Coming in straight behind Ianthe the wolf was hurtling at a speed that should have been impossible.  But the great black mass flew.  In a bounding leap he broke through the trees and came straight for the line that had been set up for the wards.

“Ianthe,” Amarantha tried to warn her friend, but she was too late.

In a flash of white snapping teeth and vicious claws the wolf attacked.

Feyre watched in horror as the wolf’s jaws snapped around Ianthe’s throat.  The witch scream in pain before she was abruptly cut off when the wolf bit down harder.  Blood oozed down Ianthe’s pale body, bubbling around the wolf’s muzzle.

The only thing that pulled Feyre’s mind out of the haze of blood and violence were the bright violet eyes that bore into her.

“Rhysand.”  There was no one else it could be.

He dropped Ianthe’s body unceremoniously leaving a thick trail of blood and saliva.  Even though one threat had been eliminated, there was still Amarantha to content with, but Rhys had eyes only for her.

Feyre.

Her name brushed across her mind once again and this time she recognized the subtle undertones accompanying it as Rhys’ voice.  How he could communicate with her while she was very much human, she didn’t know.  But just having that small bit of him was enough to anchor Feyre.

Amarantha let out a snarl of rage.  She managed to throw herself away from Rhys before he could lunge for her too, but it was only a matter of time before she had to stop running.

“Custodia!” Amarantha managed to grab the still smoldering sage and tossed it in the air completing the warding spell Ianthe had set up.  

In a pulse of magic, a nearly invisible shield extended around the clearing.  Feyre could just make out the shimmering edges of the magic as the ward extended down to the rocks that had been set up to line the clearing.

Just in time too because from a few yards to either side of where Rhys had appeared, two other wolves now came to a screeching halt.  The ward prevented them from entering the clearing, even their howls and snarls were muted.  A third wolf prowled along the edge where Feyre and Amaratha had entered not twenty minutes before.

“You can’t stop me,” Amarantha said.  She stared directly at Rhys who licked blood from his maw. “You’re too late.”

Rhys growled, low and gravelly.  His entire body shuddered and Feyre felt his own magic working against what Amarantha had done.

“She wants your blood,” Feyre said, voice surprisingly steady.  She was still a few feet away from Rhys, being unable to move from the shock and unwilling to get any closer to Ianthe’s body than was necessary. “She’s going to kill you.”

Rhys seemed to shrug unconcerned at the warning.

Feyre rolled her eyes at the dismissal.  “You shouldn’t have come.”

Another growl, this one for her specifically, that was accompanied by another word flitting across her mind. Stubborn.

And, despite it all, Feyre snorted a laugh. “Bastard.”

“Enough!” Amarantha drew herself to her full height.  Her red hair had fallen in a slight disarray around her pale face. “This ends tonight.  I will summon what is rightfully mine.”

Feyre put all her mental effort into pushing at the wards in a similar way she knew Rhys and his pack were trying to do.  But the magic was too strong.  Amarantha’s magic was at a different level than even Feyre’s.  

“And for what?” Feyre demanded.  Maybe if she could distract Amarantha long enough a weakness would appear. “An attor will betray you the second it can.”

Amarantha scoffed. “I am not so simple minded.  Do you not know the power that can come from such a creature?  One brought forth with the blood of a lycan?  I will be the most powerful witch that this age has ever seen.”

She was insane.  Absolutely.

“And you think the attor will just hand you that magic?” Feyre shook her head. “You’ll get us all killed.”

Rhys seemed to agree with the growl he gave and the threatening step he took towards Amarantha.

The witch didn’t have time for such arguments.  Quicker than Feyre could see, Amarantha flung one hand out threateningly.  It wasn’t until Rhys yelped and stumbled that Feyre realized Amarantha had thrown her iron blade.

In all the commotion, Feyre had forgotten that Amarantha even had the thing.  It wasn’t silver so it wouldn’t inflict too much damage on a werewolf, at least not enough to kill easily, but it was enough to slow Rhys down.

Feyre, knowing she had to act moved toward the disrupted blanket that had held all the needed items for the spells Amarantha and Ianthe were planning on performing.  If Feyre could just get to that second blade.  

Her magic still felt stunted within her, even as she tried to muster a bit of extra strength and speed.  She hardly made it three steps when a force slammed into her side.

Feyre went flying, skidding against the ground.  When she tried to get up the force remained pressed on her like a boulder, trying to press the life out of her.  Feyre reached for her magic, desperate for relief.  She managed a few week tendrils that flailed around her, but nothing more.

“Really, Feyre?” Amarantha sighed, not at all impressed. “I thought better of you.”

She pointed a single finger at her, enough to keep Feyre right where she was.  

Squirming and lashing out was only making it worse, but Feyre had to do something.  Rhys was already gaining his balance again and from the determined look in his eyes, he would not go down easily.  Even as blood poured from his own wound.  His abilities were already working to heal him given how the flow up blood was already easing, but werewolves were not immortal.  Given enough of a beating not even their healing magic could save them.

“Rhys, don’t,” Feyre managed to get out.

It didn’t do much good because Amarantha was already inciting another spell.  With another pained yelp, Rhys collapsed to the ground.  This time, his entire body started rippling and Feyre heard the distinct sound of snapping bones.  Amarantha had forced him to shift.

Shifting as a wolf was already uncomfortable enough, near misery.  But to be forced into it?

“Now that he’s busy,” Amarantha said.   She started a new incantation, one that caused a wind to pick up and static to rise in the air.

Feyre continued fighting against the magic that held her.  Even if her mind was alert, magic had a strange means of being bound.  It took care manipulation and care to free yourself, especially when the attacker was careful.  

Out of the corner of her eye, Feyre could see Rhys was still struggling with his forced change.  Since he hadn’t initiated it—his mind would fight against his body.  It could sometimes lead to gruesome results, but he was strong enough to withstand.  He had to be.

Outside the ward, the other wolves were still fighting to figure a way to break through.  And if Feyre wasn’t mistaken, three humans had joined them.

She didn’t dwell long on that.  Not as the sharp odor of sulfur wafted in the air.  Snapping her attention back to Amarantha, Feyre watched as the witch continued to work.  The incantation fell easily from her lips and her hands moved as though carving various runes straight into the air.  Before her a halo of red light started to form.

She was really doing, then.  She was opening a portal for the attor.  Rhys’ blood had been spilt and having Ianthe’s dead body too would likely help as an incentive.

Feyre pushed against the iron wall in her mind.  She pushed and shoved and fought with all her remaining strength.  The attor hadn’t appeared yet, she still had time to stop Amarantha.  

The thing about Amarantha was she was far too confident in her own abilities.  Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing in some cases.  But in this instant, Amarantha had severely underestimated her.

Slowly, Feyre began to pick and poke and prod at Amarantha’s threads of magic.  She could deal with stinted magic and simply attack with grit and spite and she would be fine.  Amarantha was so enraptured by the opening portal that she’d even loosened a bit of the magic that was holding Feyre down.

The portal was quickly opening, though.  The red light was darkening with thick rings of obsidian black.  It wouldn’t be long now.

Feyre started murmuring her own spells, ones that would counteract Amarantha’s.  That combined with her sheer determination and Feyre was already able to push herself onto all fours.  She looked at Rhys who was now a crumpled form.  He at least looked mostly human now.  Utterly naked, but human.

A high-pitched scream erupted from the portal.  It was near deafening and Feyre forced herself to endure it.  She didn’t have time to slow down.  She just gained her footing when light slanted from the portal.  It was bright, nearly white even with the red and black outlines of the actual portal.  The split was unsettling.

Through the open portal, a long skeletal hand forced its way through. The fingers resembled claws as they swiped at the air.  The forearm was quickly followed by a thin bicep and shoulder.  Then the face appeared.  It was just as horrible as Feyre remembered with a too wide mouth full of too sharp teeth and deadened black eyes.

There was another scream as the attor gripped the edge of the portal with one hand as the other clawed its way through next.  

“Claude portam,” Feyre whispered.  Close the gate.  Her head throbbed and her body ached and she was certain that she wasn’t actually accomplishing anything.  She nearly stumbled as she took a step toward Amarantha. “Claude portam.”

A sharp pain lanced its way across Feyre’s arm.  She looked down to see the lupus tattoo had started to glow.  Her heart skipped a beat.

Feyre looked at the portal with the attor still fighting its way out of hell.  If a portal was open and if Bryaxis hadn’t been speaking with her…

“Bryaxis,” Feyre said with as much force as she could muster. “Come to me.”

The shift was instantaneous.  

Muted static crawled through the air as the light of the portal pulsed once, twice.  The attor’s body fell back within the confines of the portal and Amarantha screamed.

The attor disappeared entirely as a black shadow poured over the lip of the portal.  The shadow slowly took shape into something twisted with long limbs and a hunched back.  Its shaggy head cocked to one side and a pair of bright yellow eyes glared out over the scene.

When Bryaxis had first appeared to her, he’d been a simple dog.  Giant to be sure, some old Irish hound if you had to give him a class.  But nothing as horrifying as the creature that emerged from the portal now.

With a long shrieking howl, Bryaxis lunged for the attor.

It was as good a distraction as any.

Feyre spun and started to look for the other iron blade.  She wouldn’t have long to get it.  She ignored the sight of Ianthe’s dead body and yanked on the ceremonial blanket.  When the blade dropped out, Feyre grabbed for it.  It burned her skin, the heat sending painful waves up her wrist and arm, but she ignored it.  She barely had time to turn before Amarantha was on her.

Beyond them Bryaxis was yanking the attor back to the portal.  The scent of sulfur and blood was heavy on the air.

Amarantha flung a spell out in Feyre’s direction, messy but true.

The air squeezed out of Feyre’s lungs, pulling a gasp from her lips as she floundered at the loss.  Her entire body convulsed as Amarantha only grinned above her.  In the distance, Feyre could hear Rhys yelling for her from his bindings.  Her name was a desperate plea left only for the gods.

“Poor little thing,” Amarantha crooned, grabbing a fistful of Feyre’s hair and yanking.  

Feyre gasped again, desperate for any bit of air to fill her lungs.  That damned spell cinched tighter.  She leaned toward Amarantha as if that would offer some relief.

“I guess you never were—”

And then Feyre struck.

Her arm snapped forward with the little energy she had left in her body, even as her vision started blackening at the edges.  The iron blade struck home in Amarantha’s gut.  Hot blood oozed from the wound as Feyre withdrew the blade and struck again and again.

Amarantha collapsed before Feyre, her lovely face still a mask of shock and pain.  As the last vestiges of air left her, Feyre’s own breath returned.

Beyond her, the portal and its hissing static gave another crackle, the red light rapidly dimming.  There was no sign of the attor as the portal slowly sunk in on itself, fading as the last vestiges of Amarantha’s power fizzed out.

Feyre flung the iron blade to the side and fell to her knees.  As she gulped down air, she was vaguely aware of someone running towards her. Two someone’s.

First, there was a great heap of black fur emerging from the black shadows of the vanished portal.  Bryaxis, whole and now a dog, loped toward her.

Second, there was the tall, broad frame of Rhysand.  He’d finally finished his transformation to his human form, but he couldn’t seem to stand properly.  Instead, he crawled to her on his hands and knees, blood still weeping from the gash on his side.

“Feyre,” Rhys spoke, voice ragged. “Feyre, are you alright?”

Bryaxis growled at the wolf and angled his body between them. “This is your doing.”

Whatever Rhys said in reply, she didn’t hear.  Another high-pitched ringing had begun screaming in the back of her head and she felt as though her entire body were about to break apart.  She only had a moment to gaze into Rhys’ violet eyes before she pitched forward and passed out.

…

She awoke to a giant, smelly mass of fur in her face.

Groaning, Feyre swatted at the fur.  At least, she tried to.  Her arms were heavy, feeling like lead cudgels that wouldn’t move.  It smelled like sweat, salt, sage, and blood.  Magic.  A familiar shade of magic she’d recognize anywhere.

Feyre opened her eyes to the pale light of dawn that stretched across her bedroom from the windows on the opposite side of the room.  She could make out her art equipment, her laundry chair, and an old spell book she’d borrowed from an old friend.  Everything was familiar and as it should be. Even the giant wolf paw that pressed against her bladder.

“Get off Brax,” she groaned, pushed against the paw and the rest of the giant body next to her.

It was then that reality caught up with her.  Her entire body pretested each of her movements and a dull ache thudded at the back of her skull.  

Too many images flashed through her mind all at once.  The woods.  The portal.  Ianthe dead on the ground.  Bryaxis twitching in pain.  Amarantha holding a knife to Rhys’ throat.  

Feyre sat up abruptly, a gasp choking in her throat.  The warm form on the bed next to her disappeared and was replaced by another and a pair of warm hands gently cupped her cheeks.

“Feyre?  Feyre, open your eyes.”  The voice held too much authority for her to ignore that she immediately obeyed. 

Rhys stared back at her, violet eyes intent and even filled with concern.  He ran a thumb over her cheek, not saying anything as he just kept watching her.

It took another minute for Feyre to find her voice and when she did speak, it was raspy and hollow. “Rhys?”

“Hello, darling,” he said, a small smile quirking one side of his mouth.  But the lilt of amusement didn’t mask the circles visible beneath his eyes or the uneasy pallor of his usually tanned skin. 

She had no idea what to say.  No idea what exactly had happened after she’d stabbed Amarantha, but she did know that Rhys’ grounding presence was keeping her from teetering over the edge.

He kept one large hand curved against her cheek while the other trailed down her arm, running in soothing circles against her skin.  He remained seated on the edge of the bed, not coming any closer and not drawing away either.  In her peripheral, Feyre noted Bryaxis’ large form perched resolutely at the door.

“Are you alright?’ Rhys asked.  His brow furrowed in concern at her continued silence.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.  Because really, she was still in shock.  She unconsciously leaned into his touch, seeking out his warmth as though it were the one thing keeping her sane.  “I don’t…All I remember…there was so much blood.”

That was enough for Feyre to break eye contact and she looked down at her hands.  They were clean, a little battered with a few scars and bruises from the iron chains, but no blood.  There should have been blood.  There should be blood because she had killed Amarantha.

As if reading her thoughts, Rhys gently tilted her chin up so she had to look at him again.

“You did what you had to do,” he said.  There was no disgust or hatred or judgment in his eyes as he spoke. “She would have killed you if you’d tried to spare her.”

He might be right, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

She could only nod in acknowledgement of his words.  If she tried to speak, she knew she would start crying.  She still needed answers though.

“What happened?” she asked, “everything is a mess in my mind right now.”

“As soon as Amarantha died, the spell she was working went with her.  It was already weakened without Ianthe that she couldn’t hold it on her own much longer.  The portal disappeared and the shields with it.  We thought,” Rhys paused as a bit of pain lanced across his features, “we thought you would go with it, vanish with the portal because she tied you to it.  Because of me.  But Bryaxis—”

“My duty has been fulfilled,” the familiar interrupted for the first time.  He hadn’t moved from his vigil by the door, but he remained perfect alert.

“I guess you’re,” Feyre agreed.  In summoning Bryaxis, Feyre really hadn't meant to bring forth a demon.  But it was an excellent means of protection.  “But you’re still here.”

“I’m a demon,” Bryaxis said, “I do as I please.”

That got a smile out of her.  The first one in ages it felt like.

Rhys let out his own huff of amusement. “He was helping to keep you tethered to this realm.  After that and we were able to reach you, we did what we could.  My pack that is.  Our magic doesn’t transfer to witches very well, and your sister and her friends were busy cleaning up after Amarantha.”

“Nesta’s here then?” Feyre asked.  She thought she’d been hallucinating.  In the wild events of what happened, Feyre had seen her sister.  She’d just never thought Nesta would come to her aide…hadn’t realized it as a possibility.

“Refused to leave until you woke up,” Rhys said, “she spent most of her time in here with you until you woke up.  But Cassian convinced her to go eat something.”

“And she didn’t kill him?” Feyre knew her sister and if there was one thing Nesta hated it was being told what to do.  Then she realized something was off about what he’d said. “How long was I out for?”

He winced slightly. “Just a day.  And a night.  Somewhere around thirty-six hours?  Mor was monitoring you.  It’s fine.”

Feyre whacked him.  It seemed the only reasonable thing to do. “You’re a prick!”

“Ow!  I’m sorry but at least you weren’t doing anything else stupid.  Ow!” 

She’d whacked him again for good measure.  Though he was smirking now so it probably wasn’t having the desired effect.

“If you murder him, mistress,” Bryaxis spoke up again, “I will gladly hide the body.”

And with that the demon disappeared in a puff of smoke, officially leaving Feyre and Rhys alone.

“I’m so glad my near-death experiences amuse you,” Feyre said.  She pulled away from Rhys now, reluctant but needed.  It wouldn’t do good to get close to him.  Not after this mess.  She wasn’t ready to get out of bed though, so she sat up a little straighter and leaned against the headboard.  Someone, Nesta most likely, had helped get her changed into a clean pair of clothes.  She now wore a lost t-shirt and sweats.  Oversized and utterly comfortable.

Rhys didn’t take the same amusement from her words.  He frowned, shaking his head. “That was the worst night of my life, Feyre.”

“Amarantha stabbed you!” she exclaimed.  How she’d let that detail slide, she didn’t know.  Feyre reached out, fully intending to yank his shirt off if necessary, just to get a look at the wound.

Rhys grabbed her wrist, careful of her own still healing wounds, and kept her at bay. “I’m fine.  Werewolf, remember?  I heal quick.”

“I thought you were dying,” Feyre said, the levity of earlier evaporating with a snap. “She stabbed you and I thought—”

She cut herself off before she said something really stupid.

Rhys tightened his hold on her, just a bit.  His fingers dug into the skin of her forearm, well clear of the iron burns and writhing black marks of holding that cursed blade.

“What did you think, Feyre?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Rhys wouldn’t let it go, however.  He leaned in close.  Close enough that his scent of salt and citrus washed over her making it obvious that he’d been weaving in and out of her unconscious state over the last day and a half.

“What did you think?” he insisted.

And, forced once again to meet that stupidly enthralling gaze of his, Feyre relented.

“I thought that I didn’t want you to die,” she whispered.

Even with all the grief he’d given her, their occasional spats, and everything in between—the last several weeks alone had allowed for a subtle shift.  It wasn’t one that Feyre knew what to make of, or if she should even examine it further.  But she knew that felt instantly better just by having him close.  Just by feeling the warmth of his body radiating against her.

The words were far more honest and bare than anything she’d admitted to anyone in her life.  Not like this.  

“Didn’t want a world without me?” Rhys teased with a smirk.

But there was no mistaking the worry in his gaze, the circles beneath his eyes, and the careful way he held himself a respectable distance away.

“That’s not funny,” Feyre said.  

Before she knew what she was doing, she was reaching out and trailing her fingers along his jaw.  A fine layer of stubble scraped her skin.  She’d wanted to touch him for ages, wanted to make sure he was a solid force.  She could still see the way his body shuddered in his forced change.  Still hear his snapping bones.

And cauldron damn her, but she’d been terrified.

Feyre didn’t know who moved first.  Maybe it was her thriving on the fact that somehow they’d survived.  Or maybe it was him acting on the simmering tension that had existed between them.  But they collided together with enough force to press Feyre into the headboard.

It was a messy kiss that was desperate and hungry.  Feyre didn’t even bother to try and restrain herself as she plunged her fingers into Rhys’ hair and pulled him closer.  All she was aware of was the rapid beat of her heart and the way her body demanded more.

She would have been perfectly content to spend the entire day just as they were with Rhys pressed against her and the promise that there was nothing else demanding their attention.

Rhys pulled back, with effort, given the small groan vibrating in the back of his throat.

“Feyre,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers.  There was a breathless quality to his voice and a lingering look to his gaze.  

“You’re going to tell me to go back to sleep, aren’t you?” Feyre asked, amused.  She curled her fingers through his hair, not quite willing to let him go.

“You were kidnapped and drugged,” Rhys said.  He ran a soothing hand up and down her arm until his fingers trailed along the black marks left behind from the iron blade.  “You need to rest.”

Feyre narrowed her eyes. “I’m fine.  You were the one that was stabbed.”

He left no room for argument, however, as he pulled back even further.  

“I’m going to get you something to eat,” Rhys said. “And drink.”

“Wait,” she said, “just wait.”

She didn’t even try to kiss him again but simply wrapped her arms around him.  She wouldn’t admit it, didn’t know how, but she just wanted to be held.  To have him close and not feel alone.

Rhys melted against her.  In the fold of his arms, Feyre finally felt safe.  After the nights in the cellar (even in the last weeks and months) she’d been left alone and she just wanted to feel something other than that panic, that fear.

So Feyre buried her face in the crook of his neck and let his scent wash over her.  Rhys’ lips grazed her temple and he murmured softly in her ear.  Feyre didn’t know what he said, she was already drifting back off to sleep, but it was enough to cause a small ember to burn in her chest.  She had no idea what the future held but she decided that no matter what came—it would be alright.  

end.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

sweet mercy.

thanks for reading and to the five of you who have been patiently waiting for this conclusion. LOVE YOU! <3

[fcble]

AFTERMATH. October 2023. Featuring Yoon Mingeun, Lee Jaeseop. 0.8k.

“Was it worth it?” Jaeseop asks. He sits on Mingeun’s couch, sipping beer from a coffee mug, while the end of the Shooting Stars finale plays on the TV. A Hite Extra Cold can sits on the floor next to him.

Mingeun stands in the doorway between the living room and the small hall that leads to his room. He didn’t watch it. He’s lived through it once and lost, and that’s much more than enough for him. “You don’t live here,” he says bluntly.

Jaeseop gives him a once over with his gaze, probably taking in his bed head and his Among Us t-shirt and his basketball shorts. “Haksu let me borrow the spare key.”

Mingeun is going to kill him.

On second thought, he’s going to kill both of them. The ferocity of the thought surprises him with its violence. He takes an involuntary step back towards the safety of his bedroom, flexing his fingers and hiding his hands behind his back before he acts on impulse. He has to stop skipping his therapy appointments.

Jaeseop takes his actions as something else. “I won’t bite. You know that,” he says, holding his mug in two hands and taking another small sip. “I will say I told you so.”

If it was Andrew telling him that or Haksu telling him that, Mingeun doesn’t think he’d be so upset. That’s what he expects from them. He pushes them and they push him back. But Jaeseop is supposed to be his friend, his ally. And sure, he was against Mingeun’s participation from the beginning. Mingeun had been so certain he would come around. He wonders if he could have done something different—he could have won—and maybe Jaeseop wouldn’t be acting like this.

“It’s for the better,” Jaeseop continues, seemingly oblivious to Mingeun plotting his death in the corner. “Do you hate us to the point where you’d rather be in a group called Starzie?”

Mingeun can hear echoes of Andrew in that question: it’s patronizing and almost rhetorical. He fucking hates it. “I don’t hate you.”

He means it. He’s had his disgreements with everyone else, but he’s never hated Jaeseop. He owes him his career—if not his life.

Jaeseop clearly expects more from him, so he adds, “I like Fable.” Also not a lie. Two for two. Mingeun’s proud of himself. If Jaeseop watched the whole show, he would know that too. Mingeun took every opportunity he had to promote the group. It was very much a part of the image he wanted to show, but he rarely had to exaggerate it.

His words are a poor showing by any metric, but Jaeseop doesn’t comment on it. He poses another question instead. “Then why did you go?”

“I wanted to,” Mingeun sullenly, though the words are inadequate in explaining his true feelings. He did want to go. He’s just incapable of explaining how much. He felt like if he didn’t leap at the opportunity, he’d never come across anything like it ever again. He felt like if he let it pass him by, he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I’ve already done it. It was good for me. When was the last time you saw an article demanding I leave the group to save face?”

“Three years ago.”  Clearly, he doesn’t keep up with the news, because Mingeun’s seen that sentiment plastered all over the Internet a few months ago, when Shooting Stars first began to air.

“Try April.”

Jaeseop’s lips are pressed into a thin line, an expression he wears when he knows he’s losing an argument. He changes the topic abruptly. “It’s good that it’s over. You need to start thinking about what’s next.”

He pauses, briefly, swirling his cup in circles. Mingeun stands, rooted to the spot, unsure of what he’s going to say.

“My uncle is going to speak to you about extending your contract soon,” Jaeseop says. “If there’s anything that will satiate you for another year and a half, you should ask for it then.”

Mingeun nods mutely. He’s been so busy he hasn’t had the time to think about how their contracts are nearly up. He also has to admit that he’s forgotten that contracts pause during military service, because it’s not something that affects him.

A soda ad blares on TV in the background as he stands there silently. He’ll have to think about it. He always has wants. It’s a matter of whether or not Taein can fulfill them.

Jaeseop drains the rest of his drink and picks the can up off the floor. “Think about it. Don’t squander the opportunity.”

His words make Mingeun think he isn't nearly as disapproving as he seems to be. Mingeun gives another silent nod.

He expects Jaeseop to leave, but all he does is settle further into the couch to watch whatever drama is airing next. Mingeun leaves him to it, retreating back to the sanctuary of his bedroom to think about what he wants from Taein.

[ssaalexblake]

I mean, I know as far as internet fandom goes i am an outlier in that i happily rant on about tv shows but go out of my way to Not read creator bts interviews and all material like that. I kind of like to toe the line of very dedicated fan who does fannish stuff on the internet and talks about it and makes fanworks, but also like to be a casual fan who only watches the show content and doesn’t look up bts factoids or interviews or things like that. 

Part of this is that I learnt my lesson that asshole showrunners running their traps ruins shows for me bc it can make something innocuous on screen be something insidious with one small bit of bts content, but the other part of this system is that certain people have gotten comfortable in the idea that their stories don’t have to address All the plot threads to make sense because you can just Tell people the info on twitter or something instead. I want to judge if the show is good Without them having to cheat by doing this.

So i watched this season of STP Only knowing about the casting. I have not read a word that man has said. I know he Has said things but i don’t look at them even if i do see peoples reactions. All i have about S3 is what I watched on screen. 

And ngl, this viewpoint of Only seeing the actual content has me really thrown by fandom opinions. I was shocked at the idea of bev and picard dropping their kid off to his first day at work was somehow supposed to be some kind of signal they were together despite zero indication as such. I was shocked at the idea the time jump of a year apparently meant that they’d all been in space for a whole year bc that’s just kind of absurd? ofc they all went home at some point?? probably many times? what kind of weird assumption is it that they just dumped their lives for a year? I know Laris did not appear, but i was like ????????? at comments that it means they’d split up or whatever. Where is the indication of this in the show? That Picard went with Beverly to drop their kid off? I didn’t realise u can’t talk to the other parent of your kids unless you’re a couple i guess? There was absolutely Zero comments on the romantic status of any of the characters. At all. So i’m just gonna assume nothing changed, if it were important they’d have told us in the show. 

Like, i Only have show content to inform my view of what happened between them all and the show itself doesn’t paint such a weird picture as, apparently, whatever the guy with an ego the size of a star system says in interviews. He can say whatever he wants to but in the end, casual non ama reading viewers count for the biggest chunk of viewers and if we don’t know about it because it didn’t end up in the show, it’s not actually viable canon at all, it’s just some crap the writer said but obviously didn’t include for a reason. 

I’m not like, making some kind of statement by saying i’m ignoring the guy. I just Only watched the show, and if what actually happened has no similarity to what he’s saying that’s His bad writing and i personally wouldn’t be admitting to this in public if i were him. 

i’m judging the show he wrote and that only. If i get the ‘wrong’ result from that that’s on him. 

[taleweaver-ramblings]

Finished at last! Thank you all for reading and for your patience. I have really appreciated all y'all's comments and reactions. They basically make my day. Hopefully you like the ending as much as the rest!

The Last Immortal of Evitra, Part 9

Dieudonné made no protest, but willingly turned and followed Anatole back. Once they’d returned, Anatole settled both children in their room with milk-and-honey tea, then retreated to his room to tend his wounds. His hand injury, he found, was already closed and scarred pink, and the others seemed half-healed. It seemed that the transformation from monster to man had sped along their recovery. Still, he applied salve to each wound, just to be safe.

Then he dressed again in clean clothes, and combed his hair and beard. The comb appeared in his hand the moment he began to search for it. He stared at himself in the mirror as he worked. The face that looked back at him was much the same as the one he’d last seen four hundred years ago. That wasn’t really a surprise; his appearance hadn’t changed beyond what he could control since sometime around his first half-century. Still, it was strange to see it again, strange to see himself looking like the man he’d been.

He left the mirror behind with a shake of his head and made his way to the children’s room. They’d nearly finished their tea when he arrived, but as he sank into an armchair, a fresh cup appeared on the small table beside him. As soon as he’d sat down, Aimée left her seat and tugged his sleeve. When he looked at her, she climbed up to sit on his leg and cling to his shirt again.

Well, this was better than her still fearing him because he wasn’t a monster. Anatole adjusted his position to be a little more comfortable, then spoke, “I am sorry for what happened today. I would have spared you that experience if I had the choice.”

“Sorry?” Dieudonné echoed. “You told Sacre-Berger Gauvain that he couldn’t hurt us anymore — and then you fought him so he couldn’t. No one’s ever done something like that before.”

“And I regret that as well.” Did the children know that Gauvain had tried to kill them? That his hatred was apparently such that he would rather see them dead than allow them a chance of a happy, peaceful life? “You are both certain that you’re all right?”

Dieudonné nodded, setting down his now-empty cup. “We’re all right. Really, we are. The bushes turned into a — a gate in front of us, I guess. They put branches and vines between us and the fight so we could only see some of what was going on and nothing could get to us. It went back when you pushed Sacre-Berger Gauvain into the hedge — when you were shouting about how things were yours.” He hesitated a moment. “What did you mean by that?”

“I am not plotting to take over Evitra, if that’s what you fear.” Anatole sighed wryly, leaning back in his seat and taking a sip of tea. “A friend once reminded me that I was put in this land to carry out certain duties, and I have neglected those duties for a very long time. People like Sacre-Berger Gauvain are, I fear, the result. The past months and especially today have convinced me that it is time I mended my mistakes.”

“So . . .” Dieudonné drew out the word, toying with the edge of the tablecloth. “We might see you again after we go to the city? You’d have to come there sometimes, wouldn’t you?”

“You might. Or . . .” Anatole paused with the question on the tip of his tongue. Should he? Could he? But if he didn’t ask now, he might never. “If you wish, you could stay here, with me as your guardian. It would be safer than the city, and I could continue teaching you what I know.”

Aimée looked up with eager eyes, but Dieudonné warily drew back into his seat. “How much longer would you let us stay?”

“As long as you wish — until you are as old as I am, if you so choose,” Anatole replied. Keeping his tone neutral was a fight almost harder than the one he’d had against Gauvain. “I am offering a place as my wards, not merely as my guests. As such, you would have the freedom of the house and grounds — save for those places which would be dangerous for children to wander — and I would see to your needs and education and whatever else should be necessary. And when the time comes, you would have a choice to . . .” How to explain? “Well, some are born immortals, and some are given the choice to become immortal. Let us leave it at that for now. You would remain welcome whatever you chose.”

Both still seemed to be listening, so he went on, “I am aware that I have not always been a gentle host, and that you may wish for better company than an old man like me. If you wish to take your chances in the city, I will take you there myself when next I go. But if you desire to stay . . .” He glanced down at Aimée in his lap. “Well. I would be pleased if you did.”

He half-expected an immediate refusal. But instead, Dieudonné shook himself as if trying to wake from a dream. “We — We could stay forever? With you?”

“That is what I offered, yes.” Anatole took a sip of his tea. “You need not decide at once, if you are uncertain. I can wait.”

Aimée tugged at his sleeve until she had his attention. “Can you still scare my dreams away?”

“I will do my best.” Anatole wrapped an arm around her. “Man or monster, I believe your dreams have reason to fear me.”

 Aimée considered this, then leaned against him, resting her head just below his shoulder. “Then we have to stay.”

“Only if your brother agrees.” Anatole looked back to Dieudonné. “I will not separate you.”

“I don’t really want to go. I like it here.” Dieudonné slid off his seat and joined the two of them at Anatole’s chair. “Does this mean you’ll teach me magic someday?”

“When you’re old enough, if you still wish to learn, yes,” Anatole raised an eyebrow at Dieudonné. “But I warn you, I will be the one judging if you are old enough or not.”

“’S all right.” Dieudonné shrugged. “If you’re looking out for us, I can afford to wait.”

 “So be it, then.” Anatole almost felt lightheaded again with relief — or perhaps he was still just getting used to the lack of horns. “I cannot promise you a perfect life. I have much work to do — as I said, I left my duty undone for far too long. But I promise you that I will do my best.” And perhaps, by the Three-in-One’s grace, that would be enough.

~~~

Five years later . . .

Anatole felt the ripples in the house-magics as the visitor passed the gate of the manor grounds. Even after all these years, he could tell who it was without having to trace the threads of enchantment or stretch out his awareness to see the emblem on her carriage. After all, she had once been his most frequent guest — if anything, he was surprised she hadn’t come sooner.

Aimée, who’d been sitting on the window seat of his upstairs study where he was currently working, dropped her knitting in a clatter of needles and scrambled into a kneeling position so she could peer out the window. “There’s a carriage in the courtyard, Papa!”

“So I am aware.” With luck, he could finish the last few lines of this letter before he went down to greet the carriage’s occupant and, in doing so, lost his train of thought. After an exhausting first year free of the curse, Anatole had decided that upholding his responsibilities shouldn’t mean constantly traveling — especially not when some of those responsibilities really meant he should be at home — but he paid for it with a blizzard of correspondence going to and from the manor.

He'd managed another sentence before the door to his study burst open to admit Dieudonné, coatless and red-faced from a recent run. “There’s someone outside — in a fine carriage. I don’t recognize the emblem. I didn’t think we were expecting visitors tonight! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was no more aware than you were.” One more sentence. Had he missed anything? Lord Périgord’s question was a common one — “I think there are Vrai Cœur sympathizers in my domain; what do I do?” — and Anatole had lost track of how many times he’d answered it. Enough times that he’d written a short volume on the major elements of the Vrai Cœur ideology, how to refute them, and how to approach those who held them. Once upon a time, he might have simply sent the man a copy of the book and washed his hands of the matter. These days, he tried to address each person who wrote to him individually, even if the advice he gave was largely the same each time.

Dieudonné joined his sister at the window. “There’s someone getting out of the carriage now! I don’t recognize her any more than her emblem.”

“She’s lovely,” Aimée gasped. “Papa, she looks like the pictures of Princess Arete in the storybooks.”

“There is a reason for that.” Anatole didn’t elaborate on what that reason might be; better to leave Aimée curious enough that she might ask herself. He surveyed the letter once more, added a closing and a signature, and set it aside. Then he stood. “Very well; let us go greet our guest before either of you burst. Dieudonné, where is your coat?”

Dieudonné glanced around hopefully, as if the missing garment might appear somewhere in Anatole’s study. “Er — I left it — somewhere.”

Somewhere. A look at Dieudonné’s ink-stained hands gave Anatole a good guess as to where. He gave a tug on the house-magics, and as he’d expected, the coat appeared in midair and fell atop Dieudonné. “Busy at the press again?”

“Yes.” Dieudonné shoved his arms into the sleeves of his coat. “Can we go to Renaud’s Printing next time we’re in the city? I want to look at their machines and see if I can make ours better.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Of course, it was anyone’s guess if Dieudonné would still wish to do so when they were next in the city. These days, he cycled through interests at an astonishing rate — through, to be fair, he always returned to bookbinding and printing at some point. Anatole didn’t complain; indulging Dieudonné’s mundane curiosity kept him from begging to learn magic every other month. Besides, Anatole had never put a reign on his own curiosity. Why should he do so with his son’s?

As Dieudonné buttoned his coat, Aimée slid off the window seat and hurried over to Anatole. He solemnly offered her his arm, which she took just as solemnly. Then they left the study and made their way downstairs, with Aimée skipping alongside Anatole, her skirts and curls bouncing, and Dieudonné following just behind.

As they stepped into the courtyard, Anatole’s gaze went straight to their guest. Morgana’s dress and hair were both styled in the latest Caemlyn fashion, but otherwise, she’d changed not at all from how Anatole remembered her. He bowed in greeting. “Welcome. Are you still Morgana, or should I call you another name?”

“I answer to Blodwyn most often now, but I would be glad if you called me Morgana still,” she replied. “And what of you — Judicaël?”

“I prefer Anatole, but for the sake of our friendship, you can call me what you wish.” Anatole gestured first to Dieudonné, then Aimée. “These are Dieudonné and Aimée. Dieudonné and Aimée, this is Lady . . .” He paused, realizing he no longer knew Morgana’s proper full name, and settled for an abbreviated version. “Lady Blodwyn Morgana Admetus.”

Aimée dipped a curtsey that showed she’d been practicing. She still clung to Anatole’s arm, but she stayed at his side rather than edging behind him — definite progress. Dieudonné, meanwhile, made a quick bow and then regarded Morgana with new interest. “Are you the Morgana?”

“I imagine I am, though I hardly expected to find myself infamous when I arrived.” Morgana raised both eyebrows at Anatole. “What have you told these children about me?”

“Nothing but the truth,” Anatole replied, keeping his expression serious. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you sooner. I half-thought you would appear the same day your curse ended.”

“It wasn’t a curse. Merely an enchantment meant to teach a hard lesson — which you seem to have learned,” Morgana replied, lightly. “On my way, I have heard a great deal about how busy you’ve been these last five years. As I understand, you’ve managed to almost singlehandedly turn the Vrai Cœur from the object of everyone’s fascination to Evitra’s greatest shame.”

Anatole inclined his head slightly. “I had, and still have, much time to make up for. But you still have not told me what kept you.”

“Well, I intended visit sooner, but I can hardly leave Caemlyn when it’s in the middle of a civil war.” Morgana’s lips twitched. “To be frank, I didn’t realize at first that it was your enchantment that had released. I half-expected that you would remain a monster until the world ended or one of us died.”

“I might have.” Anatole couldn’t deny that, especially not with the benefit of hindsight. “But the Three-in-One had other plans, as you can see.”

“So He did.” Morgana addressed Dieudonné and Aimée. “And I may guess that you had something to do with it.”

Dieudonné grinned wickedly, pushing hair back from his face. “We snuck into his house and he couldn’t get rid of us for months.”

“That is one way to put it.” Anatole shook his head. “That is a topic for dinner tonight. In the meantime, your usual room is prepared if you want to freshen up or rest after your journey.”

“I would appreciate that.” Morgana started for the doors, and Anatole felt the tug on the house-magics as she tried and failed to open them. She tried a second time, then turned to face him once more. “I see that you’ve taken precautions.”

There was no malice in her tone, only amusement, and so Anatole replied in kind, “I learned many things from our last meeting.” With an entirely unnecessary wave of his hand, he swung the double doors open.

“I can tell.” Morgana started once more for the doors. “And I look forward to hearing all about it.”

~~~Finis~~~

~~~~~~~~~~

Additional fun facts for those curious:

Aimée started calling Anatole Papa between six months and a year after he took her and Dieudonné in. The first time she did it, it caught him very off-guard. He managed to keep it together just long enough to finish what he was doing with them, and then he had to go lock himself in his (borrowed, because they were traveling) room and briefly melt.

Dieudonné will also call Anatole Papa or Père (which is more formal); it just didn't happen on the page.

The method for an immortal to pass on/share his immortal nature with a spouse or adopted child requires the person to be over a certain age (except in emergency situations), so neither Dieudonné nor Aimée have done that yet, but both intend to as soon as they're old enough.

If you want to know other stuff, I will happily answer.

Inklings Challenge 2023: The Last Immortal of Evitra

'Tis the deadline day for the Inklings Challenge (@inklings-challenge), and I have not finished my story, but today is also Ren Faire day, and I will therefore not be able to finish today . . . but it's a long story that I'll have to post in multiple parts anyway, so have part one now, and I'll post the rest over the next week.

Also, in classic Taleweaver fashion, this is a fairy tale retelling. Which fairy tale should be fairly obvious. It is not, however, a romance.

Unedited; please be nice about typos.

~~~~~

The Last Immortal of Evitra, Part 1

Anatole Bérenger Judicaël Télesphore Corentin, lord of Blackrose Manor, last immortal of Evitra, woke to the sound of a child crying.

He let out a quiet growl as he reoriented himself to his surroundings. He’d dozed off in his study, it seemed. The last he remembered, the sun had been just at the top edge of the tall windows. Now it was gone, and the whole room was drenched in black shadows — though, of course, shadows had hidden nothing from him for the last four hundred years.

Anatole stirred and stretched, tracing the sound down the threads of magic that carried it. The child wasn’t within the manor house itself, thankfully, but it was concerningly close. Behind the stables, if Anatole read the magic aright. What it was doing there, he could guess, and the thought made him growl again. It had been a long, long time since small boys dared their friends to creep up to his home and spend ten minutes within his gates. If the practice was starting up again . . . well. It might require him to go down to the town again for the first time in decades.

Unless, of course, he could put a stop to it now. Anatole took his cloak from its hook by the door and swept it around his shoulders. Then he stalked from his study, through the halls to a side door, and out into the night.

By the time he found the child, it had stopped crying and moved inside the stables. There were no horses there anymore, nor even any hay — Anatole had no need for such things these days. But in the back, in a corner of the very last stall, there was a small boy, curled up and shivering with his eyes shut and hands balled into the ragged sleeves of his much-mended shirt.

Anatole stepped into the stall, making sure to leave space in the doorway, and growled again, low and menacing. “Boy. Leave my home or face the consequences.”

The boy startled, and his eyes flew open. Anatole knew well what the boy saw. His cursed form was a work of art, he had to admit — curving horns and red eyes and sharp fangs and claws all sharp and distinct and gleaming even without light, and the rest of him a hulking beast of shadows with just enough substance to resolve into one’s worst nightmares. It was a form to make the bravest of men turn and run.

 But rather than fleeing, the boy pressed himself more firmly into his corner. “No. I’m not scared of you, demon.” His voice strongly suggested otherwise. “Oúte o thánatos, oúte i zoí, oúte ángeloi, oúte igemoníes, oúte oi dynámas —”

“Oúte oi dynámeis,” Anatole snapped. “If you’re going to threaten demons with the Holy Writ, boy, you’d better say it correctly. Fortunately for you, I am not a demon. But I am a monster.” He bared his teeth further and growled again. “Now, begone. Go home.”

“Don’t have a home.” The boy’s hands scrabbled on the floor as if searching for a crack or crevice to hold onto. “You’ve got the whole house and all the land. You can spare a corner for the night.”

“If you have no home, then get yourself to the orphanage. I understand that’s what it’s there for.” Anatole pointed out the door. “Go.”

“Won’t.” The boy, finding no handholds, crossed his arms and shut his eyes. “Go away, monster. You’re probably a bad dream anyway.”

How dare the boy defy him! How dare he!

Anatole felt the enchantments woven into every inch of the estate swell in response to his wrath. They didn’t anticipate his need the way they once would have — the curse ensured that — but they would answer swift enough if he called upon them. He could have this boy ejected and back on the road in moments, and in the morning he could add another layer of spellwork to more effectively discourage trespassers.

But it was full night, the town was well over a mile away, and there were wolves in these woods. Sending the boy out on his own would be a shade too close to outright murder for Anatole’s taste. So, with a sigh, he reached down, grabbed the boy, and slung him over his shoulder. Then he turned and trudged back towards the main house.

The boy thrashed and struggled to get free. “Let me go! Put me down, monster!”

“No.” Anatole shoved open the side door, stepped through, and then paused to lock it behind them. “If you’re spending the night on my estate, you’ll do it where I can keep an eye on you.”

The boy continued to wriggle and protest as Anatole made his way swiftly to one of the smaller guest chambers. There, with much relief, he dropped the boy onto the couch. No dust rose — cleaning spells were child’s play, and Anatole had spent his first week of isolation laying multiple in every room. But somehow, the cushions still managed to let off an air of long disuse.

Anatole took a step back. “You’ll sleep here and then leave in the morning.” Now that he’d brought the boy inside, the long-practiced rules of hospitality gripped him like an instinct. “Are you hungry?”

The boy eyed him with suspicion, but gave a tight little nod. Anatole shut his eyes, probing his awareness of the house to check what he had to offer. Apples, cold turkey left from his dinner, cheese — that would do. A few commands and a plate appeared on the low table beside the couch, along with a sturdy mug of water. Anatole opened his eyes again. “Eat.”

The boy poked at the apple suspiciously — rude of him, as Anatole had even gone to the trouble of having it sliced. “Is this fairy food?”

“I have no interest in trapping you in my home.” Anatole resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I summoned it by magic, but the food is real.”

The boy picked up an apple slice, tasted it, and seemed to approve. “Are you planning to eat me?”

“There’s not enough meat on your bones to be worth the effort.” Anatole turned. “Eat, sleep, and be gone in the morning. I will come to this room at ten o’clock, and if you are not gone, I will remove you myself — and should you return, I may rethink eating you.” He waited to hear no further protests, but rather stalked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. As an afterthought, he locked it, laying a small spell so it would unlock again only after the boy had slept, and sent a command through the estate to close and lock all other doors and to only let them open at his own touch, or if they were necessary to let the boy out in the morning. With that, he made his way to his own bed and fell into a light slumber.

At half-past seven the next morning, he roused as he sensed the boy scurrying out the same side door they’d entered through the night before. Anatole remained awake until he felt the boy vanish off the edge of the estate. Then, satisfied, he drifted back into deeper sleep. He had done his duty; no one could argue that. And now the boy was gone and, with any luck, the threat of being eaten would be enough to keep others away for another hundred years or so.

~~~

Three days passed peacefully, and the fourth dawned cold, grey, and threatening either rain or snow. Anatole had decided some centuries ago that, on such days, resisting the urge to hibernate like the bear he somewhat resembled was far more trouble than it was worth. So, he spent most of the day in the library, alternately napping and listening as a speaker-spell read a book to him, stirring only when hunger made it necessary to summon a meal.

He was just waking from one of these naps when he felt a clumsy tug on the estate’s magic. Immediately, he shook himself, reaching out to see who or what dared try to use his power.

Once again, there was a child at the other end of the disturbance. The same one as before, if Anatole wasn’t mistaken. And there was another with him, smaller than he. Anatole growled, extracting himself from his blankets. Apparently, he’d been too kind to the boy last time. He would not make the same mistake again.

Outside, the sky had resolved into a storm of wind and driving rain and occasional flashes of lightning. Anatole trudged onward all the same, following the periodic tugs in his web of enchantment. A curse and a pox on the boy for choosing this day of all days to come back! And he was further from the main house this time, all the way out in the gamekeeper’s cottage — even longer disused than the rest of the estate’s outbuildings.

The door was locked, but it opened at his touch. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he swept inside, drawing himself up to his full height so he nearly touched the ceiling. “I told you not to return.”

The boy — indeed the same one as last time — looked up with wide eyes. He scrambled to his feet, darting in front of the other child. “What d’you care? You’ve got all this space and no one to live in it. We’re not hurting anything. I didn’t come anywhere near your house this time.”

“I care very much when someone trespasses on my property and tries to use my power for his own.” Anatole peered past the boy at the second child: a little girl, perhaps half the boy’s age, yellow-haired and thin-cheeked. “And you should know better than to wander into a monster’s den.”

“There’s monsters everywhere. You aren’t special.” The boy glanced behind him, and his shoulders sagged a little. “One night, Seigneur, please. Then we’ll leave. I promise. We’ll leave and we won’t come back.”

Anatole considered — but the rain and wind outside left him no choice. “I will hold you to that promise.” He turned. “Come.”

The two followed, straggling along behind him, the boy carrying a small bundle on his shoulder and helping the girl along with his free hand. However, after ten minutes, in which Anatole had to stop and wait five separate times for the children to catch up, he turned and simply scooped up both, ignoring their panicked protests. They were light as feathers, both of them — lighter than they ought to be, but perhaps that was merely the greater strength of his current form. Or perhaps he was misremembering. It had been many, many centuries since he’d had reason to carry a child.

He didn’t set the two back down until he’d reached the small guest room where he’d let the boy stay last time. There, he deposited both children onto the couch and once again summoned a platter of food: two bowls of the thick rabbit stew he’d started earlier that day for his dinner, cold flatbread rounds left from lunch, soft cheese, and juicy pears. This time, he very deliberately chose to materialize it on the table by the fireplace. “The food will stay warm until you eat it, at which point you will take care not to make a mess. You will remain in this room, the adjoining one, or the connected bathing chamber until after dawn tomorrow, and you will leave no later than ten o’clock. At no point will you disturb me. Is this understood?”

The girl just stared, but the boy nodded. “I understand. We’ll do as you say.”

“Good.��� Anatole stalked from the room — but, to his surprise, the boy followed him out. “What did I say to you a moment ago?”

“I need to ask you something, sir.” The boy held his head up, dropping his tone. “If you eat one of us, make it me. Not Aimée. I’m the one who brought her here. And can you make sure she goes somewhere aside from the orphanage when you send her away?”

Anatole cast a cold glance at the boy. “The two of you together wouldn’t make as much meat as the rabbit I put in tonight’s stew. You may attend to the girl’s fate yourself when you both leave in the morning.”

“Thank you, Seigneur.” There was a bitter note in the boy’s voice, no doubt at the fact that he had to express gratitude for not being eaten. “We’ll not disturb you.”

He disappeared back into the room, and Anatole strode hastily away, working a belated drying-spell to pull the water from his cloak, clothes, and form. One night more. Then these two would be out of his hair and, with any luck, far, far away.

[l1terary-loser]

The Start of a Wonderful Voyage

Julian Devorak x AFAB!gn!reader

Description: You begin a voyage with your beloved doctor after a month of being too busy to spend much time together. Eventual smut.

Warnings: set after the upright ending, AFAB!reader, dom!reader, sub!Julian, throat grabbing (no choking), spanking, biting, minimal amounts of blood, needy Julian, mistress kink, spanking, slapping, fingering (giving and receiving), cunnilingus, finger sucking, mocking/teasing, praise

Word Count: 3.5K

It was almost time to go on another voyage with Julian. Every third month, you would go on a week-long trip to various parts of the world. You took turns picking out places to visit every other trip. It was your turn this time, and you chose the perfect destination for a romantic summer getaway. You decided to surprise Julian by picking a place you wouldn’t normally choose. You picked a small island nation a day off the Vesuvian coast. It was well-known for its fantastically colored beaches and sweet-smelling fruits. It was going to be a perfect opportunity for getting cozy by a bonfire and staying up looking at the inky night sky. 

When you told Julian your plans and where you were going to go, his entire being lit up. He was so excited, he started daydreaming about the blue sand beaches and gentle, purple waves and missed your next words. You cleared your throat and spoke again, more forceful this time.

“We need to plot the course.”

Of course, this snapped him out of his reverie and he looked at you, shocked, as if that was the most outlandish thing you could’ve said in that moment, as if you were supposed to magically wash up on the shores of the island. 

“You know what? I just remembered that… Nadia asked me to help her with…something,” he said as he stood and backpedaled to the door. 

“Jules, don’t you dare–and he’s already gone.” 

You knew better by now than to try and track him down. Wherever he was, it would take far longer to find him than it would to plot a day’s worth of sailing.

You let out a small groan as you sat down in front of your charts. Just because it would be quick didn’t mean you wanted to do it by yourself. Julian may be difficult at times, but he certainly knew how to liven the simplest of chores up.

After about an hour of lining your charts up and planning for every possible contingency–hurricanes, being attacked, Julian finding a way to piss someone off–every single thing was accounted for. Preparation is the key to success, after all.

A little after you finish, Julian walks through the door and makes eye contact with you.

“So, where have you been?” you ask.

“The better question is where have you been?” he retorts.

“Jules…what does that even mean? Nevermind, I finished plotting the course. Although it would’ve been much quicker and much more fun if I had an extra set of eyes and hands, especially ones as experienced in navigation as yours,” you stated.

He whined and said, “Well, I’m here now. I could put some finishing touches on your…chart.”

You laughed at his disappointment, “Maybe next time. It’s time for bed. And don’t you go stealing all the covers tonight.”

“But I get so cold,” he pouted.

“Then snuggle up to me, but don’t just steal the covers and roll to the other side of the bed.”

“Fine.”

You both trudged up the stairs to the shop towards your shared bedroom. You changed into bedclothes and got under the covers. Julian snuggled into your side and asked, “Is this better?” You let out a contented sigh as a response before leaning down and kissing the top of his head. 

“If you’re here, everything is better. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, my love.”

In the morning, when you woke, the first thing you noticed was the warm, effervescent smell of cinnamon and nutmeg. You took a deep breath and sat up. Taking a moment to stretch and slide a pair of slippers on your feet, you walked to your small kitchen. There Julian stood in a small, red apron holding a plate of pumpkin bread that you were certain he brought home from the market. 

“Good morning, my dear,” he said before darting his face towards yours to leave a small kiss on your cheek.

“Good morning. Thank you for getting the bread”

He scoffed, “Getting the bread? Not only did I get the bread, I put my own spin on it!”

“Yeah? What did you do? It tastes the same as usual,” you said, savoring the bite of bread in your mouth. 

“...I warmed it up so it would taste fresher than it actually is,” he said sheepishly.

A warm chuckle left your throat, “You’re so dramatic.”

“What? I wanted to do something for you, but you know I’m a little culinarily challenged when it comes to anything more than some soup or cooking meat,” he said.

“But I appreciate your efforts anyway,” you said as you leaned over the arm of your chair to press a kiss to his cheek. “And I happen to adore how you look in an apron, so it’s really a win-win for me.”

Julian’s face flushed from the compliment and he turned his attention back to his bread. 

The next week flew past, and it was finally time to put your final preparations into place. You had already packed and were on your way to load the ship. You and Julian were each carrying 3 bags for your week-and-a-half long vacation. Every time you took this walk to the docks, the town was decorated differently and there was never a boring trip. This time around, merchants were selling beautiful clothing in all sorts of bright colors–yellows, blues, greens, and pinks. I have to remember to pick something up for Asra. You were certain he would love one of the patterned ocean-blue cloaks. 

You continued to make your way to the docks and by the time you arrived, both you and Julian were drenched with sweat and out of breath. 

“That’s the one thing I hate about summer. Sweating profusely,” Julian stated.

You hummed in agreement and set down your bags. 

“Now all that’s left is to get the bags on the ship and get organized. We should do that now before we head out tonight,” you huffed.

“Aye, Aye, Captain,” Julian said with a lilt to his voice that let you know he was joking. 

Julian began picking up bags and you turned to do the same, the only issue being that he grabbed five of the six you were bringing. You sighed and turned to start up the platform behind him with the final bag in hand only to see one of the funniest sights in your life. There Julian stood weighed down by the bags, waddling up the platform to get on the ship. The uneven weight of the bags caused him to be off balance and right as he was stepping to get off the platform, a strong gust of wind blew and knocked him even further off balance. 

Luckily, you were close enough that you could wrap an arm around his waist and press yourself against him to keep him, along with your clothes, from falling overboard. 

“That could have gone horribly. You know, if you had dropped all of that we would’ve had to have stayed home,” you said while brushing past him. You trailed your hand over the small of his back and down to his hip. You headed towards the captain’s quarters of the ship.

Julian let out a groan and followed after you quickly, “I know, but…I think I deserve a little reward for my bravery in the face of danger.”

You turned back around after dropping the bag you carried and pressed a lingering kiss to his lips. “Thank you my courageous, swashbuckling doctor. You truly saved the day,” you said with an edge of sarcasm to your voice.

You continue to settle down and organize your belongings on the ship. Julian joins you, still sulking a little, and after a while you finally have everything you brought in its proper place. You took the opportunity to relax and sit on the couch in the captain’s quarters. 

“We’ll be casting off soon, and I have to get us on the proper course. Then we can sleep for a while,” you told Julian.

“Sounds great. I don’t think I’ve ever been more tired,” he responded.

You stood up and walked to the ship’s wheel and looked up at the stars to get your bearings. You found the proper star to set the direction of the ship and turned the wheel in that direction. The sails found wind fairly quickly and you were off. As long as no freak accidents happen-and with a little bit of a magical push-you should arrive at the island by tomorrow afternoon. 

You took turns sleeping and making sure the ship stayed on course throughout the night. As mid-night came, you noticed the waters begin to fade into a lovely shade of purple. You couldn’t help but become excited for what the trip would hold.

Julian spoke the words that you were thinking, “This is going to be one of the most beautiful places we’ve ever visited.”

“I agree. It’s been far too long since we got a proper respite from our work,” you responded–and it was true. Both your shop and Julian’s medical practice have been bustling with customers and patients in the past few months to the point that neither of you had had a day off since your last adventure. 

Julian came up behind where you stood and wrapped his long, strong arms around your waist, trapping you between his body and the railing of the ship. 

“It’s hard living with the person you love everyday and still managing to miss them,” he started. “I’ve not seen nearly enough of you in these past months,” he spoke softly, and, with each word, his lips brushed against your ear.

He brought you closer to him and nestled his head in the crook of your neck, “I can’t be without you for that long. It feels like dying.” 

“Jules…” you sigh. You turn around quickly to face him and take his face in your hands. You bring him to your level and plant a passionate, searing kiss on his lips. Julian moans into your mouth and desperately grabs at your waist. One of your hands snakes its way to the back of his head to stroke his hair. Julian melted into you and you felt his knees go weak as you broke from his mouth to start kissing down his jaw and neck. You bit and sucked as you went and made sure to leave visible marks.

Julian fell to his knees which pulled your mouth away from his neck. He stared up at you with all the love and adoration in the world in his wide, gorgeous eyes. You grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged his head back to take a look at the marks you left on his long, pale throat. This caused him to moan and push his head against your hand, desperate for any affection you were willing to give him. You brought your other hand up to his throat and grabbed it, not choking him but having a firm enough grip to ground him. Your thumb stroked up and down his trachea, reminding him of what he has allowed you to do to him. His eyes glazed over and a flush forced its way from his cheeks to his ears and disappeared behind the disheveled collar of his shirt. 

Your hand slid up, over his jaw and settled on his cheek. He sighed and turned his head to give your palm a quick kiss. You gently stroked your thumb over his prominent cheek bone and leaned down to give the tip of his nose a kiss. As you pulled away from his face, you reached down to his collar and yanked him up off the ship’s deck. He let out a small yelp, but you paid no mind as you dragged him towards your quarters.

The two of you made it back to your bed. You pushed Julian down to sit on the edge of the mattress while you remained standing. You looked down at him for a moment before leaning down to devour his lips. Julian quickly responded and pressed himself into you, trying to savor every morsel of attention you gave him.

The kiss grew more and more desperate and eventually your tongue was in his mouth trailing over every surface as if it were on a conquest to capture his heart and soul.

You pushed him down so that his head rested against the plush pillows at the head of your bed as your thighs found places on either side of his waist. Your hands that had previously worked in a frenzy to feel every single dip, curve, and plane of his body met at his shirt to rip it off of him. He let out a surprised groan against your lips, which you were quick to devour like it was your only source of energy.

His hands trailed along your back and he pulled away to kiss at your neck. His soft lips trailed down your jawline and settled at the dip between your collar bones. He licked and nibbled on the skin there as his eyes begged you for more.

You pulled back from him and slid down his body. Your lips and hands trailed down with you touching, caressing, and kissing anything you could reach. Julian let out small, adorable whimpers once you reached his hips and began drawing his pants down his long legs. Your lips attached to his exposed hip bone and you bit down hard enough to draw blood. This caused him to let out a loud, drawn out moan as his eyes rolled back in his head. Your tongue laved over the wound and you gathered all the blood that leaked out of the wound in your mouth.

Your voice cut through the thick silence that had settled over the room, “You taste delicious, my love.”

Julian groaned and his hips thrusted up against your chest as you hovered over him. Your hands grabbed his hips and squeezed, hard, “You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood tonight. Do that again, though, and you’ll be in trouble,” you muttered as you sat back up.

“I’m sorry. You just-you just feel so good,” he stuttered out.

One look at his face told you all you needed to know. His eyes were glazed over, his lips were parted, tears collected at the corners of his eyes while drool found its way across his chin. He was fucked out and you hadn’t even began fucking him yet. His lips began to move as if he were struggling to find the right words to say. Eventually, he settled on just one.

“Please.”

You took this as your permission to dive right in. You spit in one of your hands and ground it against his hard cock that rested in a large pool of precum on his gorgeous stomach. He let out a strangled moan and while his mouth was wide open, you shoved your pointer and middle fingers past his lips. You pressed against his tongue and worked your fingers around his mouth, gliding them against his teeth just as your tongue had done not too long ago.

His moans were muffled and his hips kept jumping against your palm. You pulled your hand back and landed a hard slap against his inner thigh. “What did I tell you, baby boy?”

His eyes widened and rolled back into his head as you shoved your fingers further into his throat. He let out a dizzying whine and you felt a warm liquid shoot against the hand on his cock. You looked down to see that the pool of precum on his stomach had been joined by actual cum. You tsked before you continued your onslaught against his body.

You took your spit-covered fingers out of his mouth and brought them down against his tight hole. You pressed harshly against the ring of muscle and inserted your fingers into him. You pushed your fingers as far in as you could and began working them around, looking for the small spongy spot inside of him. With a bit more effort, you found it and angled your hand so that every thrust of your fingers hit his prostate square on. Your hand continued working against his cock which grew more and more wet by the second. He was whining and thrashing around and the only distinguishable words he let out were “Mistress,” “please,” and “cum.”

“Again, already? Look at my darling remembering his manners all of a sudden. Aw, is my poor doctor all pent up? Huh, baby? Are you so drunk on pleasure that you can’t even speak? It’s okay, lovely, let your mistress take care of you. You can cum.”

That’s all it took for him to let go again. Your fingers worked his insides while your other hand continued against his still hard cock.

“You’re insatiable, huh?” you asked.

“Only f’you,” he slurred back.

You continued to pull orgasm after orgasm out of him until his chest was covered in his own cum and tears leaked out of his eyes. “Mistress, please…” he trailed off.

“Please what?” you asked.

“Please let me make you cum. Wanna make you feel good. Please let me taste you, Mistress,” he begged. You looked into his teary eyes and knew you couldn’t deny him anything in that moment, let alone your own pleasure.

“Of course, my sweet thing,” you said. You rolled off of Julian and placed your head against the pillows. Julian’s shaking body sat up and he crawled his way down the bed, making sure to wiggle his ass when he knew you were watching. You let out a soft chuckle and slapped his ass, causing his back to arch and making him whimper.

He laid down on his stomach and got comfortable between your legs. He nuzzled his face against your thigh and you both relished in the contact. However, you were impatient and worked up from the beautiful display he had just given you, so a few seconds later, your hands were in his hair, yanking his face into your wet pussy.

You both let out groans as his tongue licked from your clit down to your slit all the way back up again. He pulled his face back to say, “I can never get enough of you,” before diving back in. His tongue worked his way inside of you and you let out a moan as it brushed against your sweet spot.

He was always so talented with his mouth, and you couldn’t help yourself from heaping praise onto him. “You’re so good baby, such a good boy. Your tongue feels amazing. I love you so much, darling,” flew off your lips along with small moans as his lips found purchase around your clit. He began sucking on it and snuck his hand up to your entrance before pushing inside and curling his fingers where his tongue previously pressed.

With how worked up you were before he started, you both knew your orgasm would approach quickly. Julian was relentless and your hands had a firm hold on his hair, tugging here and there to guide his mouth to where you wanted it. Every time you purposefully or subconsciously tugged his hair, he moaned against you, the vibrations adding to the effect his tongue had on you.

He continued working his fingers and mouth and you felt your orgasm work its way up inside of you. Your stomach tightened and your walls clenched around his fingers as you encouraged him, “Fuck, baby. You’re gonna make me cum. Keep going, darling. Make your Mistress cum. You make me so happy baby-”

You cut yourself off with a loud moan as you felt your orgasm crash down on you like a tsunami. Julian helped you through your orgasm and licked up every bit of release that you gave him.

You pulled him up by his hair and gently pressed your lips against his. When you pulled back, you both tried to catch your breath.

“Thank you, Mistress. I love you,” he said while pushing his face against the crook of your neck.

“I love you too, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?” you replied.

You pushed yourself up and walked over to the basin of water on the small table in the bedroom. You dipped a washcloth into the water and took a bar of soap back with you. You wiped the dried cum off his chest and lathered soap in your hands. You cleaned his chest and stomach and wiped the dried tears off his face.

Once you you were done, you laid next to him on the bed. He rolled over and rested his head against your chest and nuzzled his nose into you. You sighed happily and began to play with the ends of his hair.

You both fell asleep to the thought of beautiful blue beaches and sweet-smelling fruit, knowing that this was just the start of a beautiful week.

[the-pale-goddess]

Take Me Home Tonight - Ethan Ramsey x MC

Tiffany doesn’t go on a bender often. But when she does, it’s always a wild ride—especially for a certain grumpy doctor.

Warnings: language, mentions of mature themes (excessive alcohol consumption and its consequences, adult situations)

Rating/category: Teen+ / fluff

A/N: ​Ethan’s reaction to Tiffany saying ‘I have a boyfriend’ when he tries to hug/kiss her because she’s wayyy too hammered @mvalentine ‘s genius ask inspired me to respond with this little thing—thank you, sis, ILY ❤️

My girl is an unpredictable drunk when she goes overboard, so that scenario is right up her alley ksbksbksb I had so much fun while plotting this, and it was really fulfilling to actually write something after a very long drought 🫶 

___

Midnight cloak enshrouds Boston, its thick, smoky darkness is pierced by vibrant lights playing hide-and-seek in the shadows. 

The blurred mass of colors gleaming outside the window steals Ethan’s focus for one split second, then loses miserably against the enchanting figure sleeping on his shoulder in the backseat of a spacious sedan.

A small, loving smile illuminates his face when he peeks at Tiffany curled up to his side. Her make-up remains impeccable, slightly parted lips tease him with his favorite rosy shade, a few strands of shiny onyx locks tickle her cheek as though by design—moderately messy for aesthetic purposes, naturally. 

The only detail betraying her current state is the unmistakable whiff of vodka she must’ve spilled on her black bodycon dress back in the fancy watering hole Lahela has deemed worthy of his approval tonight. 

Still, to him she’s always the most dazzling rose in a vast garden of peculiarity. The river of alcohol coursing through her veins, clouding her perfectly sound judgement and (quite possibly) inspiring madness, could never change that. 

His heart tightens distinctly, clearly pleased that its owner is back where she belongs—in his arms. 

He was helping his dad with a minor house renovation for only three days, certain that the short separation wouldn’t affect him. Those three unbearably exhausting days have proven how wrong he was. How terribly a convert like him can miss another person. 

In a sudden surge of affection, his arm wraps around Tiffany’s sylphlike silhouette, pulling her closer. The gentle brush of his fingers running down her spine makes the bubble of silent adoration burst with no warning.

„Fuck…” Tiffany mutters, her eyes scan the car as she blinks muzzily. „Where are we going?”

„Home.” His warm, steady voice a messenger of a smile, guiding her through the fog of her blurry reality. „Just close your eyes and breathe.”

Tiffany nods, seemingly relieved, her heavy lids follow the directions as if Ethan’s baritone were a spell-casting device. She snuggles closer, purring quietly. 

Unfamiliar with the intricacies of her inebriated mind, he continues the caress, hoping to transfer the comfort she needs through his touch. 

Much to his utter bewilderment, the result is entirely opposite: Tiffany jolts away with a horrified grimace, throwing arms in the air in what seems to be an act of defence. 

„Whoa, whoa…Keep your hands off me!” She fumes, unfiltered rage flashing in her emerald eyes too baffling for a quick assessment. 

At that, the cab driver clears his throat, shooting Ethan with a lethal glare through the rear-view mirror. 

Can this absurd situation get any worse? The answer is always: yes. 

Ethan’s first attempt at damage control is blocked before he manages to even utter her name.

„Tiff—”

„I have a boyfriend!” She interjects harshly, stretching out each word, the offence in her tone as dominant as her determination to keep her drowsy eyes open. „He’s going to freak the fuck out when he finds out some hunk is taking me home.”

Manifesting her panic-induced disgust, Tiffany immediately sweeps away from him. Slack-jawed, Ethan observes her delightfully clumsy moves with barely concealed fascination, unsure whether to laugh or interrupt this drunken performance.

„Some hunk?” Having no time to waste, he chooses the latter, though his question is wholly ignored much like his presence at the moment. 

„I’ll fucking kill Bryce.” She mumbles to herself while rummaging through her sparkly, shell-shaped handbag. 

A wave of relief washes over Ethan; his decision to come back to Boston earlier than planned proves to be one of the best he’s ever made. Her drunken stupor and the effort to act conscious may appear cute, but hammered Tiffany is a disaster waiting to happen and needs to be tackled and protected at all costs. 

Luckily, he knows just the way to escort her to safety. Not without self-sacrifice, of course—the task requires unlimited patience, and that is a virtue Ethan has failed to possess, making years of diligent practice look like an amateur attempt. 

But he’s always willing to be patient for her. Even if her liquor-fogged mind plays a nasty trick on him. 

„What are you doing?” He frowns in puzzlement just when she takes out her phone and waves it in front of his face, dangerously close to breaking his nose in the process. 

„Calling my man.” 

The nonchalant announcement is followed by furious tapping and swiping, lip-biting and a string of muffled curses. Then, eventually, Ethan’s pocket lights up and a loud ringtone conquers the comically threatening silence hanging between them. 

The sound confuses Tiffany even further, twisting her angelic features yet again. 

„Uhh, why is your phone ringing?” Her furrowed brow and narrowed eyes almost push Ethan over the edge, but he manages to suppress a grin and maintains his infamous poker face.

As collected as a world-beating diagnostician delivering the final diagnosis to his patient, he sighs heavily before revealing the truth to his plastered girlfriend. „You’re calling me. I am your man.” 

Predictably, his empty assurance is not enough to convince the ever stubborn Miss Addams. 

With a shake of her head, she corrects him, each word separated by unintentionally suspenseful pause as she weighs the meaning behind them. „No, no, Ethan is in Providence.” 

„No, he isn’t—not anymore.” The corners of his mouth quirk up, but she’s too distracted by her unreliable senses to notice the slight change in his demeanor. „You’d have known if you had checked your messages in the middle of wreaking havoc with Scalpel Jockey and Varma.”

At last, her scattered attention shifts to Ethan; curious eyes investigate his face despite the odds far from being in her favor. The conclusion she comes to, however, seems to be in his: she looks him up and down, something akin to recognition softens her expression, the glint of fondness in her eye making his lips twitch.  

Nevertheless, Ethan prepares for another plot twist, half-expecting an inventive panoply of slurred insults. Instead, Tiffany crawls back to him, holding his gaze with tangible intensity, her boozy grin widening his smirk effortlessly.

„Well, you certainly sound like him.” She admits, the tone of her voice still rather unconvinced. Her dense lashes flutter at him for a long, hypnotizing moment, as if searching for something only her brilliant, intoxicated mind can access. Then, merely a second later, she ducks lower to nuzzle his neck. „But you smell different.”

Ethan can’t hold his unassuming amusement any longer; he lets out a laugh, intent to ignore the arousing sensation of her skin against his. „I forgot my cologne, so I chose to use the one aunt Dina gave me last Christmas.”

She giggles in tune, her slender fingers now dragging along his beard with newfound adoration, piercing emeralds half-shut as she pulls his face close to hers. 

„Never wear it again.” Her whisper dives right in his mouth, their noses pressing against one another, lips all but brushing. „It smells like a suburban dad going through a mid-life crisis.”

„Duly noted.” He responds, putting everything at risk by tucking a stray lock behind her ear and letting his hand rest on her neck. „It’s Alan’s signature fragrance now anyway.”

Tiffany doesn’t flinch, which is undeniably a good sign, even if she doesn’t seem to listen to what he says. 

„I’d still let you fuck me, you know.” She blurts out confidently, perhaps a tad too loud, absolutely unashamed by another glare from the concerned driver. 

The ride takes a turn Ethan has definitely seen coming, but it doesn’t make anything easier for him. He draws in a deep breath, his fingers now freely raking through her voluminous hair. „We’ll get back to the matter when you’re sober.”

Her gaze meets his and the air instantly thickens, the overfamiliar fire erupting for just a second before Tiffany rolls her eyes in surprisingly well-received defeat. „Fair enough.”

Regardless of her reaction, the troublemaker minx in her cannot be underestimated, and Ethan is soon to be reminded of that fragile piece of information. 

„Want to know a secret?” Her alcohol-induced seriousness takes charge, unabashedly flirting with him when Tiffany wets her lower lip. He nods, following the sinful flick of her tongue, but remains fully alert. „I’m gone. Far gone.”

The confession elicits a generous scoff leaving his mouth despite his best effort to keep his saint-worthy composure. „That’s hardly a secret, Tiffany.” 

A peal of her melodious laughter fills the confined space, its rich sound—his favorite sound—almost reassuring their third wheel that whatever is happening between the middle-aged grump and his gorgeous, well-oiled companion is fully consensual.

She pats his shoulder, laughing like there’s no splitting headache rushing to behead her promptly. „You really are my boyfriend.”

„A shocking discovery, but I’m glad I managed to pass this rigorous test.”

The mockery is greeted with a sloppy kiss, her starved lips crashing into his with irresistible force, finding the perfect rhythm almost instantly. His strong hand travels to the nape of her neck, keeping her steady as she melts into him, allowing him to taste the night. 

Her small hand wandering down his belt brings the blissful moment to a halt. 

„Give me your hand.” She orders, and he complies as if under duress, watching her guide him under the sleek fabric of her dress, smoothly gliding up her inner thigh. 

He’s convinced that his willpower is stronger than the temptation, though Tiffany makes it unfairly hard to follow his own rules. 

„Here’s another secret: I’m wearing underwear. Like the good girl that I am.” Exulting in the achievement that is rendering Ethan Ramsey speechless, Tiffany bites her lip provocatively, moving his hand between her legs to provide proof. 

He quickly gathers himself, almost choking on his own words. „It’s bold of you to assume that this flimsy lace is going to grant you a place on the nice list.”

„Come on.” She pleads, her excitement inspired by a sudden outlandish idea helps Ethan’s cause; her hands fall on his shoulders just when his own is set free. „Tell me I’m your good girl.”

Ethan scoffs internally. She’s not a girl anymore, and certainly not a good one. But at that precise moment, staring into his soul while battling the urge to pass out on him, she might as well be anything she wishes to be. 

She’s everything to him. 

He strokes her cheek with utmost gentleness, an impish smile exploding on his face. „You’re my good girl.”

Incredibly pleased to hear the praise, Tiffany sighs happily, throwing herself into his embrace. „Did you come back earlier because you missed me too much?”

„Something of the sort.”

She cosies up to Ethan, whispering I missed you like crazy against his shoulder. His arms offer a shelter from the overwhelming sensations attacking her tired body. 

„You should get used to this. I drank so many shots I’ll probably die tonight.”

„No, you won’t.” He assures, brushing her face with the back of his hand. This time, his caress is most welcome. „I’ll take care of you and your colossal hangover in the morning.”

„Can you start now and stop the world from spinning? Your handsome face is…Blurry. As. Fuuuuck. No wonder I didn’t recognize you.”

„Close your eyes and think of the bed. We’re almost there.”

„Almost there.” She parrots, leaning into Ethan’s touch like a spoiled kitten, then lets out a long yawn. 

„Almost home.”

His addition sobers Tiffany for a second. „But…I am home.”

Her watery gaze finds his as she takes his hand and pecks on his wrist. „You’re my home.”

Flooded with sheer affection, Ethan’s chest rises and falls to the beat of her content heart, the irreplaceable feeling spreads like a soothing warmth of a life-affirming summer breeze.

He plants a soft kiss on her temple, his adoring smirk an invisible imprint of his devotion on her skin. „And you are mine.”

The brightest smile beams across her plushy lips in the most sincere reply. Her eyes slam shut again, and this time she doesn’t put up a fight to stay awake. 

Just as Tiffany slowly drifts off again, only two blocks away from their apartment, she begins to hum a well-known melody, slurring the lyrics with only one of the lines coherent enough for Ethan to decode.

To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.

______

A/N 2: If you made the connection between the fic title, the song Tiff drunkenly hums and E&T—I’m going to name my dog children after you kdhkdhdkb 🥰

Thank you for reading, hope you’ve enjoyed these two! ❤️

[tanoraqui]

Your what if fics are so so good. I reread them often. I love the entire worlds you make out of a question

-@outofangband

Thank you! I love For Want Of A Nail AUs so much, ie, change one thing and see what spirals out. They’re such a good time for exploring the consequences in a story, the what-leads-to-what, and for examining the characters—what about them is fundamental to the character, and what is shaped by circumstance? What is part of them as characterization, and what is part of them as narrative function? What plot points will they always do because of who they are as a (fictional) person; what will they always do—or not do, in an au!—because to not do so would be to completely change their narrative/thematic place? What major plot points must happen, but it would ring differently if a different character did them? How would a certain plot point not happening change the events and the themes of the story? 

Eventually you start to realize that every story is an elaborately branching tree starting from the first words, potential paths of divergence in every character, every choice, every scene…and it’s so fun to explore what’s down a different path!

Also, when writing them out, I’m always picking and choosing the most interesting paths—which is a good writing technique in general. For instance, in last night’s oh-god-I-accidentally-wrote-4k Fëanor-Fingolfin Mom/Birth Order Swap…a small example is I faced the choice of, which son of Fëanor Curufinwë should Finrod be assigned Best Friends From Birth? (Taking “Finrod gets a parentally-assigned Best Friend From Birth as a staple of any timeline, not bc it’s thematic so much as bc it’s fun, but adjusting to the fact that Fëanor and Finarfin are the full-brothers in this au, and Fingolfin is Miriel’s son who hates the existence of all his half-siblings). By my personal timeline of Finwëan births, moving the House of Fëanor forward to start at Fingolfin’s birth but leaving Finarfin as-if puts Finrod between Celegorm and Caranthir, so those were my choices. Celegorm would make fun (painful) cross-timeline echoes of What Could Have Been re: What Happened In Nargothrond, and potential future-in-this-au interesting divergence or even greater betrayal…but, especially with the limited timeframe I was writing, I decided that was less good than the raw humor of the grumpiest and friendliest Finwëans being best friends. So, Caranthir is it!

(Also, obligatory reminder that Caranthir was diplomatically skilled enough to have a thriving, very profitable trade network, and the real result of a Caranthir-Finrod friendship would be a friendly, all-consuming trade empire spanning continents.)

A more notable choice, for The Argument: I actually do lean toward the position that it’s a fundamental part of Fëanor’s characterization that he’d be the one to say, “fuck this, let’s go somewhere else!” Plus I’ve established Arakáno as so firmly settled in Tirion…but that’s why I chose to flip it, because, frankly, if Curufinwë son of Indis started agitating to leave Aman, sure there’d be a fight, but I think ultimately it’d shake out to Arakáno son of Miriel being like, “Great! Good riddance! Here’s your stuff, here’s your boats I negotiated Olwë—look, Father, I’m helping. Have fun in Middle Earth! Never come back!” Not many people would go with him, even for the Silmarils, and Melkor would have them ambushed and the gems stolen the second they set foot in Beleriand, and it just wouldn’t be as interesting a story.

…Or maybe there is potential there! But the other chief problem is: the Story has then moved to Beleriand and Arakáno himself is no longer in it, and THAT fundamentally doesn’t work bc the real trick to this au, the reason I wasn’t sure it would work and frankly I’m still not sure it’d work long-term, is that the protagonist has changed. When I saw canon!Fëanor, Miriel’s son, has a literal excess of fëa energy, what I’m really doing is creating an in-world mechanism to express his role as Protagonist. Or, as Driver of the Story? Let’s use them interchangeably. Fëanor is a well-built character, so his personality and his actions and his narrative function all tie together—he makes hot-tempered decisions at key moments! He creates world-changing gems! He rouses crowds to follow him! He drives the story, and he drives it so hard that it’s driven in the direction he sets for the rest of the First Age, and for the rest of Arda that we know! (Aragorn heir of Isildur heir of Elros, whose childhood was utterly shaped by the Oath and those who followed it! The One Ring made to master the Nine, Seven, and Three, made by “Annatar” and the Gwaith-y-Mirdain because Celebrimbor chose not to say “Get thee gone” to the Maia at his door! The star-glass!)

So, what is characterization and what is narrative function? I posited: the hot temper and creative genius are fundamental characterization, but without the semi-literal Protagonist Energy, the temper is a little calmer, or at least less enduring, and less able to sway others, and the creative genius…will lead him exactly down Miriel’s road. For Fingolfin, I posited: even with extra fire in his soul, he will always be the second to lose his temper, and the one to set his feet and his people and say, “Here I stand and defend.” But I also posit: Miriel’s child, born Marred, born Too Much, feeling abandoned and robbed so early, will never be content in Valinor! And isn’t it neat to dwell on how even canon!Fëanor had so many reasons to be aligned with the Valar? (Studying in Aulë’s halls and marrying Aulendil’s daughter; one of his sons is favored by Oromë; Varda herself hallowed his greatest work…)

But after the Darkening we get to the Oath, that greatest of plot-drivers, and okay, that should really be a Protagonist thing even though the total lack of forethought is very Fëanor… I can see Curufinwë collapsed with the theft of the Silmarils, maybe even expiring (last breath, exactly a la Miriel) in Arakáno’s arms, and then the news comes about Finwë… Arakáno reacts to all of this Completely Normally, by which I mean fire, wrath, and Oaths… (though I’m not sure which sons would swear with him, and also, the wording and sentiment would be a little different, and that all matters…) They still steal the ships and kill for them, of course they do; nobody wants to cross the Ice if there’s another option and the Teleri would always fight back. Doom, fear of betrayal and theft once more of ships…

BUT THEN, even if Arakáno did burn the ships behind him, I think it IS a fundamental character aspect that, where Fëanor leaps from fiery rash decision to fiery rash decision (Alqualdondë! Losgar! Charging Balrogs!), Fingolfin makes 1 notable Terrible Idea then grits his teeth and carefully, strategically follows the fuck through (Ice, Siege)…until he EVENTUALLY hits a This Isn’t Working despair threshold, snaps, and charges Morgoth singlehandedly… In short: I don’t think Arakáno son of Miriel would get himself killed 3 days after reaching Beleriand? Which changes…everything, bc then you still have your Protagonist around, driving the plot in person rather than with the ghost of him, and idk what to do with that bc I think practically he’d do much the same as Fingolfin in canon but that doesn’t feel enough, and…

Thus, I stopped the story where I did. Also because it was 5am.

[quindolyn]

hi can i request the maurauders going to see the reader do a musical like heathers or mean girls and they are just confused and turned on bc they didn't expect it to be this dirty (can lead to smut or not). luv you and hope you are taking care of yourself, if not go get something to eat, drink some water, take a nap, or do somthing you enjoy. or dont not trying to be pushy :)

Creature of the Night || Poly!Marauders

Word Count: 3029 (excluding song lyrics)

A/N: I think I liked how this turned out? I didn’t make it smut but it’s certainly suggestive, I went with Rocky Horror, I know that the musicals mentioned in the request are more modern but I fucking love Rocky Horror and I think it works with the request. When I first read this request I smiled so much because I love live theater, I don’t perform as much as I used to because as I progress with my education I’m focusing more on the stuff I can use to pad my resumes for college and stuff but I still love going to see productions. One of the worst parts of the pandemic for me has been not being able to go see shows, I miss it so much.

Warnings: theatre enthusiast reader, erections, suggestive material, song lyrics, slight teasing, wearing very little clothing in front of an audience, I believe that that is it

Masterlist

500 follower celebration

antici-

The magic of the stage was second to none. Sure, Hogwarts may have had witches and wizards, subjects like Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts, and ghosts that spent their time meandering about the halls but there was always a part of you that looked forward to the summer between your years at Hogwarts. Because no matter how magical Hogwarts was, the theater always made you feel completely and utterly alive. 

Every summer since the one after your first year at what all of your muggle friends thought to be a very prestigious boarding school up in Scotland, you’d taken part in your local youth theater’s productions. Your parents both being muggles thought that it would be a great way for you to be able to stay in touch with your muggle origins. 

The first year you’d been far too nervous to actually audition for a role, the very thought causing bile to churn in your stomach and threaten to make you sick all over your kitchen floor when your father first pitched the idea. So instead you’d done costumes and it was the most wonderful experience of your life. 

Who needed drugs when you had live theater? The hustle and bustle behind the scenes was electrifying but after two summers of costuming, of quick changes in the wings, learning how to use the ancient sewing machines they stored in the depths of the storage rooms, and pulling pieces for the actors to try on you decided that you wanted to try something more.

The moment you had stepped onto the stage it was like you’d come to life and you cursed yourself for not taking the risk earlier. You belonged on the stage, with the harsh stage lights on you and pounds of makeup plastered onto your face you could feel the magic thrumming through your veins and it was addicting.

If it was possible, you were even more excited to perform this summer, the previous school year you’d finally gotten together with your long time best friends the Marauders, turning them from friends to your boyfriends.

When your mother had sent word of the production being put on this summer you’d squealed while seated next to James and across from Remus, who had Sirius hanging off of his side. After explaining to them, mostly Sirius and James really, just what live theater was their first reaction was to ask if they could come see you perform.

“I don’t even know if I’m going to be cast,” You had explained gently, not wanting to get their hopes up in case you weren’t cast this year.

“Bull shit of course you’re going to be the cast,” Sirius had contested through a mouthful of jam and toast, waving his hand theatrically through the air, watching him that day was not the first time you’d considered how the way he acted often reminded you of an over enthusiastic theatre major.

Remus, the only one with any knowledge on muggle theatre had snorted, wrapping an arm around Sirius’ waist to pull him closer to his body, “She’s not going to be the cast Pads, she’s going to be casted,” He’d corrected gently, pressing a kiss into his long, dark tresses.

“Whatever,” The smaller boy had grumbled, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.

Which brought you to where you were right now, five minutes to curtain touching up your make up in the mirror of the shared make-up room.

“Hey (L/N),” One of your cast mates called settling into the makeup chair next to you as she plucked a tube of dark red lipstick from the small canary colored makeup bag she had previously abandoned on the counter, “Your boyfriends coming tonight?” She asked, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Yeah, they are,” You responded, applying mascara to your lashes.

“Excited to meet them, that photo you showed us,” She smiled, fanning her face with her hand, “Smoking,” She smiled, making eye contact with you in the mirror.

Rolling your eyes you ignored her comment, “It’s five minutes to curtain, you’re just now doing your make-up?” You chuckled, noticing her black face.

“Oh, shove it,” She laughed as you pushed yourself from your chair, traipsing out of the room, giving her the middle finger on your way out.

“Break a leg!” She called after you as the door latched shut.

You weren’t usually this nervous before a performance but knowing that your three boyfriends were sitting out there somewhere in the audience had you pacing back and forth backstage wondering what they were going to think of the whole production.

“Rocky Horror?” Sirius’ confusion evident in his voice as he plopped down in his seat next to Remus, throwing his arm around the werewolf’s shoulders, drumming his fingers on his clothed shoulder hidden behind his knitted cardigan.

“Yeah,” James collapsed into his chair on the other side of Remus, tucking one leg under his body, “No clue what it’s about but I’m sure our angel will be wonderful. Can you guys see her?” He straightened himself up in his seat, craning his neck in attempts to catch a glimpse of you.

Remus being the only one with any ties to the muggle world knew a bit about the show and had to do his very best to suppress a smirk from overtaking his face as he knew exactly what he and your other two boyfriends were getting themselves into. 

“Just hush up you two, the show’s gonna start any moment,” He scolded, patting his large, scarred hand on James’ thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Rem,” Sirius whined, puckering his lips and closing his eyes, signaling to his boyfriend that he wanted a kiss.

“My needy baby,” He crooned, leaning in to connect his lips with Sirius’ in a quick liplock before pulling back, allowing Sirius to drop his forehead to smear against his shoulder.

“That’s mean,” Sirius murmured discontentedly.

“Poor baby Pads,” James cooed mockingly.

“Both of you,” Remus hissed as the lights in the theatre dimmed, “The show’s about to start, be good for me and be quiet yeah?”

Their response came in their silence as the crowd started settling down and the music from the orchestra pit began a voice coming from somewhere out of sight as it was played through the speakers,

“Michael Rennie was ill

The day the earth stood still

But he told us where we stand”

Not 20 minutes into the show all three of them were as hard as rocks, James had already made Remus check the playbill for the name of the character you were playing, not being able to remember what you’d told them as all of his concentration was focused on a certain place.

Janet Weiss.

Remus couldn’t remember either, but he was almost certain that’s the name he could make out in the dark theatre, printed next to a picture of your smiling face.

When you’d stripped down to your underwear the boys could barely focus on the plot line of the show, only being able to watch the way your bare skin shone under the harsh light of the spotlights. Watching as sweat glistened on your skin, making you shine as you moved about the stage. 

Enchanted by the melodic cadence of your voice they all felt a certain jealousy burning deep in the pits on their stomachs at the thought that there were dozens of other people packed into that theater, all observing you in your vulnerable state of under dress. Only they got to see you like that.

Sirius missed much of the first act glaring at members of the audience who he deemed as looking at you for too long for his liking, but if you were being honest a 4th year smiling at you in the hallway was sometimes too long for his liking.

It wasn’t like any of them had never seen you naked before, in fact they’d all seen you naked more than their fair share of times but something about you on that stage in a white bra with a matching slip was driving them all crazy.

Especially Remus, whose ultimate weakness was seeing you in anything white which was one of the reasons you’d been so excited to invite them in the first place, knowing that they would be horny messes the entire time.

On stage you did your very best not to look out into the audience looking for them, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to stop a ginormous grin from forming on your face and you couldn’t afford to break character. Not if you wanted the night to go your way.

As the opening notes to “Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me”, rose from the orchestra pit you had trouble stopping a small smirk from pulling at your lips as you opened them, inhaling deeply before singing the first words of the song,

“I was feeling done in, couldn't win

I'd only ever kissed before”

Despite yourself you caught a glimpse of long dark hair in the audience, quickly taking a glance at Sirius’ face, eyes glazed over in lust, legs shifting uncomfortably with his mouth hanging wide open. 

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed another raven-haired boy’s mouth dropping as you shrugged off of your robe

“I thought there’s no use getting, into heavy petting

It only leads to trouble and, seat wetting

Now all I want to know, is how to go

I've tasted blood and I want more”

It was impossible to miss the way Remus’ jaw clenched as you laid your palm against Rocky’s chest, he was being played by your good friends who’d been working with the same theatre company as you since forever, he was like a brother to you. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t lay it on extra thick tonight with your boyfriends in the audience.

Tracing a dainty finger down Rocky’s chest you pushed your body against his singing out the next lyrics of the song,

“I've got an itch to scratch, I need assistance”

You turned you and your cast mate so that looking over his shoulder you were able to meet Remus’ eye, sending him a quick wink before focusing back in on Rocky.

“Toucha, toucha, toucha, touch me

I wanna be dirty

Thrill me, chill me, fulfill me

Creature of the night”

Pressing your back up against Rocky’s chest you guided his hands with yours to your breasts, squeezing them as you followed the choreography you knew by heart.

You ripped your slip from your body with the help of Rocky leaving you in only your white bra, matching panties and a pair of small heels as you paraded around stage, belting the suggestive lyrics into the theater.

“Then if anything grows, while you pose

I'll oil you up and rub you down (down, down, down)

And that’s just one small fraction, of the main attraction

You need a friendly hand, oh i need action”

You smirked, thinking about all of the action you’d be on the receiving end of later that night as you sunk to your knees in front of Rocky, your hands grasping his thighs. Deciding to tease them perhaps a little more than necessary as you went through the number, curling your leg around his and pressing your bodies together so that there was no space between your two questionably clothed bodies.

As the number was brought to a close it was impossible for you to ignore the excitement bubbling up inside of you as you continued your way through the show you kept throwing glances at your boyfriends, always finding their eyes already trained on you. More often than not, on some body part other than your face.

If your boyfriends thought that they had a bit of a problem before that song they were in a terrible predicament now.

Remus caught Sirius on multiple occasions trying to move the hand that he was holding to grope at his crotch as he tried to buck up into his boyfriend’s hand. And much to his own dismay, Remus would pull his hand away, thinking it probably wasn’t the best idea to give his boyfriend a hand job in a crowded theater. Knowing that he wouldn’t have to worry about James touching himself because he would never dream of disobeying him, Remus divided his attention between you on the stage and keeping Sirius in check.

Each of the boys were counting down the seconds until the show came to an end and they could get out of there and relieve some of their tension.  As the curtains were pulled closed they all breathed a sigh of relief before they reopened, leaving all three of them bewildered and slightly annoyed, even more so when they noticed everyone around them standing as they applauded the actors.

Remus forced both of them up when you rushed to the front of the stage, curtsying as the crowd went wild, your boyfriends most notably. As you took your bow you blew a kiss to your boyfriends taking note of the uncomfortable way they all stood, trying to adjust their erections to make them less noticeable while simultaneously applauding you.

As you cleared the stage after curtain call you took your time, doddling towards the dressing rooms where you had left the clothes you’d arrived at the theater in along with a special outfit you’d brought for after the show. Usually you were one of the first actors to clear the theater after a show but tonight you took your time. Hanging up your costume with more care than anyone really should treat any garment with and certainly more than what it needed. 

You smirked mischievously as you pulled the you’d brought outfit from your bag and shimmied it up your legs before slipping the delicate straps up your shoulders. You glimpsed yourself in the mirror, the red satin of the dress clinging to your curves in an attractive manner, short enough to display miles of legs and low cut enough to show off a decent amount of cleavage and perhaps a sighting of the matching red bra you were wearing beneath it.

Slinging the back of your black heels over the heel of your feet you snatched your purse from the armchair in your dressing room before striding out to go meet your boyfriends in the lobby, where you’d told them to wait for you.

Their heads all turned as they heard the clacking of your heels against the tile of the floor, “Boys,” You greeted as they unabashedly took in your new appearance.

As he most often was, Remus was the first one to collect himself, “Puppy, you were wonderful,” He praised, walking to meet you as you approached him, leaning down to smear a kiss against your cheek, “You did amazing up there, so proud of you,” He threw his arm around your waist as you walked towards Sirius and James.

“We got something for you,” He explained, his grip on your waist tightening, “Jamie give it to her, yeah?” 

“Oh yeah,” The smaller boy grinned, remembering the bouquet he held cradled in his arms as he handed it over to you, “Here you go angel.”

“Thank you Jamie,” You said as you took it from him, closing your eyes as you buried your nose in the sweet smelling flora. As you opened your eyes you made eye contact with Sirius, who stood across from you, practically drooling as he took in your appearance without any shame, “They smell wonderful.”

“You okay Si?” You asked, looking up through your eyelashes, batting them innocently.

“Like you don’t know exactly what you did up there to us (Y/N/N),” Remus whispered in your ear, pressing his nose into your temple.

“You guys are the ones who wanted to come,” You lilted, rubbing one of the velvety petals between the pads of your thumb and forefinger.

“Could’ve warned us,” James mumbled, his eyes not leaving your thighs as he licked his lips, if it were anyone else you would’ve been uncomfortable but you couldn’t help but feel flattered whenever any of them ogled you. 

“And what’s with the dress Pup?” Sirius nodded his head appreciatively towards your dress, obviously admiring the way it hung on your body.

“What, you don’t like it?” You asked with fake hurt in your voice, knowing that he more than liked it, he fucking loved it. 

“S’not that,” Remus mumbled, nosing at your jugular, “Just that whole show, got us a little bit worked up. We didn’t expect it to be so sexual Puppy,” He nodded towards James and that’s when you noticed the erection he was still sporting. 

“Got us really worked up, can we go home now?” James asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, trying to distract himself from his little problem.

“Jamie,” You whined, smiling wickedly, “I wanted to celebrate, I was thinking we could go eat somewhere, I was thinking maybe Thai food?”

You watched as Sirius ground his teeth, conflicted between needing to get home and not wanting to deny you from what you wanted. 

“Having fun teasing us Bunny?” Remus asked you with a sly smirk, knowing exactly what you were doing.

“M’not teasing,” You insisted, turning indignantly to your other boyfriend.

“Sure you aren’t,” He chuckled, “Thai sounds great (Y/N), wanna talk with you about the show,” The idea of teasing Sirius and James even longer was very appealing to Remus and he was ready to make the sacrifice of being teased himself, knowing that he’d be able to get back at you later that night.

“But-” James began.

“You wanna argue with me Jamie?” Remus challenged, raising a singular eyebrow.

“No,” He moped, “Of course not.”

“Good,” Remus said, nodding his head approvingly, “We wouldn’t wanna deny our Princess would we?”

James shook his head, eyes pleading, desperately seeking Remus’ approval.

“Pads?” Remus challenged, turning his attention to the other raven haired man.

“What? Oh um, of course not,” He agreed distractedly, dragging his eyes from your form to meet Remus’, his reluctance evident in his voice.

“Good,” Remus said pointedly, his eyes cold, daring Sirius to question him. When he didn’t the werewolf continued, “Let’s get going then, there’s a nice little restaurant a couple blocks away yeah?”

As you all hummed your consent you made your way to the exit, “Ten galleons if you can make James cum in his pants at dinner,” Remus whispered in your ear quietly enough so that  James and Sirius trailing behind you wouldn’t be able to hear you, you could hear the smirk in his voice as you exited the theatre.

“Deal.” This was going to be fun, you considered that you might have to invite them to come see the show again.

-pation

tagging: @randomoutsiders @weasleyposts @kittykylax @amourtentiaa @superbturtlemakerathlete

[notathingjustthere]

Hinge II

Modern Ivar x Reader

Writer's Note: I really just be thinking of a specific scene or dialogue, then proceed to struggle filling up the plot. I’d be lying if I told you I knew where this was going but we will see. Thanks to the comments on the first one, I really appreciated it. I wouldn’t mind any ideas of where this could go, I'm thinking it could be a short series.

Word Count: 2.4K

Part I PartIII (short)

Summary: After leaving Lothbrok & Co. as Ivar’s assistant, you get comfortable with the new changes in your life, completely unaware of a certain Lothbrok’s interest in you.

*I do not own this gif*

“A medium Cappuccino for Y/N?”

Your time with Ivar had prompted a routine stop at the cafe every morning for his daily caffeine intake. You always made the effort to deliver the cup to his desk, shortly after purchase, as he always complained of its lukewarm temperature. You never understood the bit, especially after learning of the fancy coffee maker that sat in the company’s break room.

Coffee was not always a palatable preference, however, the habit was now embedded into your routine so you found yourself making the stop on your first day starting a new job. A polite smile reached your cheeks after walking up to grab your order from the barista. The unexpected bump in your way would have spilled the hot cup all over you had the stranger not reached out in time.

You weren’t expecting to see Hvitserk smiling at you when you looked up. Noticing the tiny spill had made it onto his shirt, you splurt out apologies, but he ignored them looking at you amused.

“I’m so sorry about that Mr. Lo- Hvitserk,” you caught yourself. The Lothbroks no longer issued any of your paychecks, so you resolved to a less formal greeting. His laugh was refreshing as always, and you'd almost missed the small conversations back when he had nothing better to do except to bother his youngest brother.

“Coffee?” He pointed at your cup, “Thought you hated it” he accusingly states.

It takes you a second before you process his words, scrambling to your thoughts for an explanation. You check for the time, knowing you had 30 minutes to spare but wanting to cut the interaction short.

“Yeah I know, just wanted to try it for my first day. Your brother seemed to always like it” You raise the cup to your lips for a taste, but your face squints in distaste, betraying you.

“I’ll take that”, Hvitserk does not hesitate for a sip after grabbing your cup. He ushers you back into the line with him and orders a spiced chai drink, one of your usuals. You gave up trying to discourage the offer since he insisted on it making your first day more tolerable. He ordered another cup of coffee which you assumed was for his brother but didn't bother to ask.

“The new assistant starts this Wednesday, so until then I have to suffer as my brother’s servant.” His arms move in gesture, as he lets out complaints that satiate your curiosity.

You nod along at his whining, laughing at his antics and remarks as you catch up. Your taste buds tingle happily, at your first few sips, grateful that the universe had righted your wrong at no extra cost.

Ten minutes had passed before you bid the second Lothbrok goodbye. The office wasn't that far of a walk, so you would still make it on time with six minutes to spare. You didn’t notice the youngest brother staring from the car until Hvitserk walked up to the vehicle after giving you hugs and a kiss goodbye.

You recalled your last week at Lothbrok & Co, the short period having been so peaceful compared to the past year and three months. Ivar did in fact have the capacity to act like a decent human, which left you bitter for obvious reasons as he had made your life a living hell.

That didn’t matter anymore, with the new position you landed yourself, courtesy of Ivar’s reputation outside the office. His reference alone had opened up enough opportunities, leading to interviews and offers that you could never achieve in the past. Though you knew the industry relied on connections, you never realised its prevalent power.

The new management position was fitting, having developed a sense of resilience after working for your previous boss. You thought the universe was on your side for once, her reward to you after the overextended stay with the demon of a man.

Feeling less anxious as of late, the meditation routine that kept you grounded in the past was slowly abandoned. The new job was going steadily well, as your responsibilities remained at a reasonable volume. Never having to see Ivar’s face again was a luxury you never thought you could afford.

With enough balance between work and a social life, you gained enough free time to dip back into the dating pool. Relationships were not quite your thing but you were bored and felt much bolder as of late.

You took to, Match, Our Time, and Tinder at the start of your venture. The latter was easily first to go, after enough dead-ended messages from one-nighters. It had been fun for a while when you first indulged, only deciding to quit after you deemed the whole ordeal a hassle.

After an accidental match with Hvitserk on Tinder, you had more than enough reason to leave as well. You itched with embarrassment after reading a message he left, feigning amusement at the coincidence. The application was quickly removed, taking the extra step to disable your account before doing so.

You would be lying if you said you did not consider Hvitserk’s offer for even a second. He presented a great lay, but was more of a friend anyways, you reasoned. Ubbe had a better chance in contrast to his younger sibling. The man was so well put together, it was hard to ignore how great he looked in a suit. Ivar would have made it onto your list had you not hated him so much.

A brief period had passed where you indulged in going out on a few dates without any commitment in mind. After an odd falling out with a fellow that held your attention for a while, you decided against pursuing anything

The hunt for an apartment was more of a priority anyways. With your job history, you were only now making enough along with what you saved to afford a new place. The dingy place you lived in now had sufficed for the time being. With the lease ending so soon you looked to a fresh start elsewhere.

Somewhere preferably far from the rat infestation, that remained a pertinent issue in your building, along with the hundreds of hazards that your landlord refused to rectify. The place would not be missed once you closed on any one of the two offers you were currently riding on.

Your first choice between the two was just a bit outside your budget, but for the view and furnishes the place provided, you were willing to put in the work to call it your own. It was so personal and easy to your taste, which is why you were so surprised at the coincidence and convenience. The place randomly opened up for rent, and when you questioned the realtor she had gone on about how her client rarely used the space.

None of it mattered anyway, the place was so close to work and you would get to enjoy the nicer parts of the city more often. Maybe this was what you needed to excite your boring leisure. You were getting along nicely at work and made an even better impression than you would have hoped for. If you kept up with the good work maybe, just maybe you’d be able to keep the place.

Ivar continued with his ruse, pretending not to miss your presence around his office even if he went out of his way to annoy you constantly. Your abrupt leave left him bothered, much like when he saw his brother kiss you goodbye on the cheek. The gesture seemed so intimate to him and he only wished he had a similar relationship with you, maybe even more.

He was your boss, of course, so anything beyond the professional relationship would be absurd. Every time he caught his brother shamelessly flirting with you he worked you harder. He would never admit to why he always got so easily defensive, with you never giving him the light of day. It was so easy for you to get along with his siblings, especially Sigurd which he didn't like much.

Even if he were to admit to his incessant want for you, he could never help his need for control over everything. He would only ever want to see you live a life he thought you deserved, one where he sourced all instances of contentment. He heard you confide in Hvitsek once about your hunt for an apartment and had easily offered his help. You had not been looking for a handout from him, but simply a space to vent which his annoying brother had given you.

He took personal offense to your decline, even though his brother offered the same thing shortly after him. You lived in this run-down space downtown that he visited after you were hired without his consent. Wanting a glimpse of your life outside work, he conducted his own investigation leading to a better judgment of you. Any preconceived ideas he held before were easily erased, you held yourself quite nicely outside of your dingy home.

It was unexpected when he found himself preoccupied trying to learn so much about you. He paid mind to small details, the routine you had developed every morning after dropping off his coffee at exactly 8:00am. After reading him his schedule for the day, you’d walk back to your own little desk, busying yourself behind the screen with his emails.

A social life outside the office seemed non-existent in your case considering you rarely had much to share about yourself with his siblings. An argument with Hvitserk, about a show you both apparently liked, had been the most transparent he witnessed. Up until recently, he never would have pinned you as the dating type. When Hvitserk came boasting about his match with you on the dating app, he was disappointed in your tastes.

He often warned his brother about meddling with you when you worked for him, feigning care for keeping his space professional. Now he had no grounds for his evident distaste, which meant his brother could pursue you all he wanted. Never picturing you as the type to use dating sites, he decided you were pathetic enough for stooping so low.

The app couldn't be any good if his brother fawned over it with his nightly rendezvous. He figured he had learned all he could about you but maybe not. Did you mean to swipe because you always had a thing for his brother? Or was it all for laughs and giggles? You must have known he would be sour for talking to his brother, let alone dating him.

“I knew it! You like Y/N" Ivar rolled his eyes at the teasing accusation.

“I don't know what you’re insinuating here, but I didn't say anything” Was he doing that bad of a job at hiding his distaste? What did Hviteserk have that he could not bring to the table?

“I think I spooked them, to be honest, It’s been about a week and still no reply” he laughs.

“Good, they're smarter than I thought”

“it's cute when you get jealous Ivar. You think I didn't notice your little glare the other day?”

“I wanted my coffee and you took your time talking inside”

“So I shouldn't ask why you opened up your place downtown for rent? Ivar looks up at that, surprised. “Yeah, I ran into Y/N again. Talked a bit... Even brought up this place they’ve had an eye on for a while…”

Ivar’s lips stayed shut at his brother’s prying. He wanted you to have a nicer space to call your own. His house in the city was just perfect, but he needed to catch your attention without making it too obvious. You already refused his help once, which was why he decided to take this route instead.

The rent could have been lower in his opinion, but he had to make it reasonable enough to lure you in. He could keep tabs on you if he wanted, to make sure you stayed safe cooped up in his furniture. A steady eye would be kept on you and who you interacted with as well, he didn't appreciate seeing you with others. Grateful that you didn't have many friends, since you were a loner and often kept to yourself.

His own father had visited a handful of times on serious matters regarding the company. He could not help but notice the twinkle in Ragnar’s eyes as he shamelessly flirted with you in broad daylight. It did not help that you smiled back at him, a bit too much he thought, doing little to satiate the anger that was brewing in him. He eventually interrupted whatever was going on between you two, before ushering his father into his office and closing his blinds.

His jealousy was overwhelming at times and his need for control loomed at the thought of losing you to one of his brothers. He did not own you, but that didn't seem to matter in his blinded rash attempts to keep you in his grasps. The game he played was slow and steady, but he looked to define the odds to win his own race.

“I know you brother, and I know how weird and difficult you get when you like someone so I suggest you just talk to Y/N like a normal person”

The ding on his phone stole his attention, helping tune out his brother’s silly presumptions about him. “So we went with the applicant of your choice, they’ve signed the papers and everything” a small smile graced his lips as he read the message from his realtor, while he brewed up further plots in his steady plans.

Feeling suffocated and coddled throughout his childhood, Ivar had always had people taking care of him and watching out for him. He learned to do a lot for himself in his search for independence and could easily do more than hold his own weight when necessary. The young man was scary as it was, but he only ever wanted the chance of having someone depend on him.

He never was a pro at building connections with people and only knew how to take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. With the money to his name and his growing fondness towards you, his dedication to gaining any semblance of a relationship with you plagued his thoughts.

Thanks for reading :)

[spacexcowgirl]

Hate To Think About You With Somebody Else - F.W.

Fred Weasley x Reader

Summary: Fred and Y/N used to be friends with benefits, but that arrangement ended in heartbreak. Can Fred handle seeing her out with somebody else?

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: 18+ NSFW. MINORS DNI. Mentions of alcohol, mentions of blood, small bit of violence/fight scene (the reader and Fred are not injured), possessive talk, fingering, degradation, bondage, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, a bit angsty with a happy ending. Please let me know if I’ve forgotten anything!

A/N: For @theweasleytwinsgirl​ who asked for the reader teasing Fred, leading to her being tied up! I added a bit of plot to it, because I cannot help it. Obviously, this fic is lightly inspired by “Somebody Else” by The 1975. I am not very confident in my smut writing abilities, so any feedback would be appreciated! I also feel I should thank @lumosandnoxwriting for giving me advice and reassurance throughout writing this. Pictures are from Pinterest.

I have not included all of my general taglist, because I do not know who is 18+ or who wants to be tagged in smut.

Fred, George, Angelina, and Alicia sat leisurely around the twins’ shared living room, laughing and giggling over drinks. The past few weeks had been hell at the shop, so the boys felt they needed a much deserved night to just relax. Previously, Fred would have liked nothing more than to relieve his tension with Y/N, but unfortunately, that was no longer an option. 

“Have you heard about Y/N and Pucey?” Angelina prodded with a giggle, her eyes alit with mischief. 

Fred’s jaw immediately clenched at the sound of her name, his grip on his glass tightening. He most certainly hadn’t heard about her in a few weeks, and he hadn’t expected to have such a visceral reaction at the mere mention of her name. Regaining his composure, he forced himself to relax a bit and quirk a brow, feigning both confusion and interest.

“No? They shagging?” George questioned, sitting forward in his seat.

“Apparently, but I guess it’s becoming a bit more serious than just that.” Angelina shrugged, turning her gaze to Alicia beside her for confirmation. When the second girl nodded, Fred downed another gulp of his drink.

That can’t be right, he thought. It hadn’t even been a month since the last time they had been together, Y/N pinned beneath him as breathy moans escaped her lips. In the dim light of his bedroom, she had whispered to him that her pussy was his, that she was his, and now, apparently, she was with someone else. Some part of him knew that he had no right to be upset, because truthfully, it was his choice to end their little arrangement. But she had left him no choice after breaking their number one rule.

Y/N and Fred had ventured past friendly acquaintanceship about a year before, after a few too many firewhiskys at an infamous Weasley twins’ party. The morning after, they had tiptoed around each other, clearly uncomfortable by the change in dynamic. But it didn’t take long for it to happen again, and again, and again. Before either of them had really realized it, they had become much more than friends but much less than really together, and Fred wanted to keep it that way. He wanted them to remain in that middle ground.

As far as he knew, Y/N was more than fine with where they stood with each other. Until one day, she wasn’t. He remembered clearly how she had bit her lip and gazed at him, only moments after finishing him off with her mouth. He had looked at her curiously, wondering where her usual, joking, post-coital self had gone. 

“Have you ever thought of me as more than, you know, just an easy fuck?”

Her words had shocked him, because they certainly weren’t the turn of phrase he would have used. He didn’t think of her as ‘an easy fuck,’ he thought of her as a friend. Someone he cared deeply for. But as he gazed into her desperate eyes, he was struck with the realization that he didn’t care for her the way she hoped. He had swallowed deeply, preparing his words in his mind, before shattering her heart.

Now, he wasn’t sure why he cared. Sure, he had thought about her a lot in the weeks they’d been apart, but he was always so sure that he had made the right choice. Relationships were messy, and he was young, so he had no intention to be tied down so soon. Still, the thought of her with Adrian Pucey made his blood boil, and he wished desperately that he could put an explanation to the feeling.

“Fred?” 

The sound of his name tore him from his thoughts of Y/N, and he quickly plastered on his signature goofy grin before sitting forward and re-immersing himself in the conversation. Still, in the back of his mind, images of Y/N and Adrian played on repeat, fueling a fire that he hadn’t realized was a lit within him.

-

A week later, Fred found himself at a party at Oliver Wood’s flat, celebrating a win for Puddlemere United. There was an array of different people there, ranging from his old Hogwarts team, to groupies, to people who had just showed up at the mention of a party. Fred had planned on getting drunk that night, but after seeing George and Lee sloppily grinding on a few witches in an intoxicated bliss, he decided maybe—for once—he would be the responsible one.

Fred had gone nearly an hour, just barely nursing a glass of firewhisky and chatting with old friends jovially, before his eyes landed on a familiar face entering the party. 

Fred was frozen at the eye contact they held, his first time seeing her in weeks. Y/N held the gaze for a moment, before turning to grip Adrian’s wrist behind her and drag him further into the party. If Fred thought he had a strong reaction to hearing about their relationship, it was nothing compared to actually seeing it. Fred slammed his drink down and walked away from the poor girl he had been chatting with without so much as an explanation.

“Let’s get out of here.” Fred clapped a hand down on George’s shoulder the moment he reached him, pulling his attention away from the girl dancing against him.

“Now?” George questioned incredulously, his brows raising. He gestured to the girl in his arms before returning a pleading look to his brother. “Come on, mate. This isn’t a great time.”

Fred knew he could convince his brother to leave if he explained, but his mouth felt entirely too dry. He couldn’t seem to formulate the words as to why he needed to get out of there. So, instead, he sighed and offered his brother a nod before retreating back to the outskirts of the people dancing.

Normally, Fred was the life of the party. By this point in the night, he’d usually be plastered and singing or dancing with no remorse. But seeing Y/N with a bloke like Pucey caused him to have an entire demeanor change, leaving him scowling leaned against the wall.

It didn’t take long for his eyes to find Y/N amongst those dancing, pressed closely to Pucey behind her. She was dancing provocatively, even turning in the man’s grasp every little bit to kiss him sloppily. At first, Fred had been almost certain that she was doing it on purpose. The way she was right in his line of vision, acting completely out of character in her open demeanor, it all felt like too much for him to handle. 

Then, she made eye contact with him, and held it, and he just knew. She was doing it on purpose. All of her actions had been a way to get him worked up, to see if he would get jealous, and dammit it was working. Fred chewed on the inside of his cheek, holding her gaze as she grinded her bum against Pucey. She held his gaze as she slowly craned her neck and pulled Adrian into a searing kiss, her eyes back on Fred the moment the two pulled apart.

That was the final straw for Fred. He wasn’t going to stand idly by while she taunted him so openly, showing him everything he was missing. So, he pushed through the crowd of people and found his way to the two of them, ignoring the small smirk that had risen on her face. 

“Y/N,” He breathed out, just loud enough for her to hear over the music. Suddenly, he was entirely unsure of his next move, but he desperately wanted to regain control over the situation. So, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Oi, what the hell, Weasley?” Adrian paused his dancing, although his hands remained gripped on Y/N’s waist. “Can’t you see we’re a little busy here?”

Fred completely ignored the man at first, his eyes never leaving Y/N. He could see by the look on her face that he had played exactly into what she wanted, but with the jealousy coursing through him, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. She smirked slightly at Fred before craning her neck to look back at Adrian, almost as if she were challenging him to fight for her further. 

“I can see,” Fred seethed, finally looking up at Adrian. “I can see a poor girl not having a very good time. So, I’m offering her a better option. Why don’t you let her decide?”

Adrian scoffed, taking a small step back from Y/N but keeping one hand on her hip. He looked down at her, waiting expectantly for her to deny any desire to go off with Fred. When she simply glanced between the two of them, Adrian’s brows furrowed and a look of offense overtook his features.

“Come on, Y/N.” He pleaded. “Tell him.”

Y/N bit down on her lip, the action only infuriating Adrian further. He looked at her incredulously before scoffing and turning his head away.

“Should’ve known a desperate little slut like you couldn’t be loyal.”

In an instant, Fred pushed Y/N out of the way and landed a hard blow to Adrian’s jaw. Y/N was dazed, everything seeming to move in slow motion as all eyes turned on them. Adrian had faltered only for a moment, cupping his jaw in his hand before straightening up and lunging towards Fred.

Luckily, George and Lee were there after a moment, tearing Adrian away and threatening to pummel him as they marched him towards the door. Y/N knew Fred wouldn’t need their help in a fight, but she was still grateful that a full out brawl hadn’t occurred because of her. Y/N rushed to Fred, cradling his fist in her hand and glancing up at his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Her voice was soft, but the music had stopped, so he could hear her.

“‘m fine.” He answered curtly, glancing between the way she held his hand and her eyes. “So, can we get out of here?”

Y/N’s lips formed into a tight line, so as to conceal the smirk that desperately wanted to break through. She offered him a quick nod, and in an instant he was dragging her out the door and apparating her back to his flat.

The moment that they were in Fred’s room and the door shut, his lips were on hers. Her back was pressed up against his door, desperate little moans leaving her mouth as she reveled in the feeling of having him against her once more. Fred took the opportunity to push his tongue into her mouth when her lips parted, taking full control of the situation.

Y/N was more than content to let him take over, having missed him in their time apart more than she would ever like to admit. Of course, the feelings she still held for him lingered strongly, but she tried not to think about that as Fred pressed himself further against her. Adrian had been nothing more than a distraction, a feeble hope that she had held onto as a way to get over the tall red head, but it clearly hadn’t worked. She felt a bit bad, because she knew Adrian cared about her far more deeply than she did him, but she also knew she had made it clear she didn’t want a relationship. The irony was sickening.

“That was quite a show you were putting on tonight.” Fred pulled away from her breathlessly, his eyes tracking up and down her body.

“Yeah?” Y/N cocked her head to the side, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you mean, I was just having a bit of fun.”

A low growl crawled out of his throat as he pressed his lips to hers once more, using more force than previously. Y/N squeaked at the intensity, but quickly melted into him. His hands trailed up and down her sides as she rested her own around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer.

Fred’s hands finally made their way to the hem of her shirt, his fingers ghosting over the skin of her stomach and sending a shockwave throughout her. Slowly, he trailed his fingers up, raising her shirt up in his wake. Y/N was quick to oblige, breaking away from him to allow him to tear the garment off completely. 

For a moment, Fred’s eyes trailed over her slightly revealed form, drinking in the way she looked half-naked. He hadn’t realized how much he missed seeing her like this, and he found that his breath hitched at even the littlest bit of exposure.

As his eyes met her pleading ones, he quickly recovered. Their passion resumed in an instant as he pressed his lips to hers once more, spinning her away from the door and walking her backwards towards his bed. Y/N allowed him to lightly push her back onto it, her heart fluttering at the sudden gentleness of his actions. She’d always loved the dominance he held over her, but something about what was happening between them now felt different. But, as he draped his body over her own, all of her hopes of actual romance melted away and her mind was entirely clouded with just the appeal of him.

Y/N arched herself against Fred, giving him the space to unclasp her bra. He slid the straps down her arms slowly, trailing open-mouthed kisses down her jaw and neck, until he finally met the tops of her breasts. He cast her bra aside, shooting her one last look before taking a pebbled nipple into his mouth. Y/N moaned at the contact, her fingers immediately threading themselves through his flaming hair. As his teeth gently grazed her nipple she gave his hair a tug, causing him to moan against her.

Fred continued his trail downward, planting kisses down her torso until he made it to the band of her leggings. Y/N lifted her hips and Fred held eye contact with her as he slowly pulled them down her legs. Y/N realized that he seemed to be drawing all of this out, pushing her to the point of pure desperation to make her pay for teasing him all night. Still, she bit her tongue and held back any thoughts of pleading with him, she couldn’t give in that easy.

When she was left in nothing but her panties, Fred sat back on his knees and leisurely unbuttoned his shirt. Y/N watched him intently, her frustration increasing significantly, until she could no longer contain it. She let out a desperate whine, pleading with the man with her eyes alone.

“Something wrong, love?” Fred cocked his head to the side and smirked.

“Freddie,” Y/N whined, the nickname feeling foreign yet fitting on her tongue.

Fred discarded his shirt before circling his hand around on of her ankles and hitching it up on his shoulder. He placed a soft kiss to the inside of her ankle before slowly trailing kisses back up her leg towards her thigh. Y/N shuttered as his lips ghosted over her clothed pussy, her eyes squeezing shut.

“Please.”

Fred looped one finger under the hem of her lace panties, but made no effort to pull them down. When a low chuckle escaped his lips, Y/N knew she was in trouble. Her eyes flew open once more, immediately meeting his darkened, lust-filled ones.

“Did you really think I’d give in that easy?” Fred mocked, punctuating his question by snapping the band of her underwear. “You tease me all night, putting on a show for me, acting like a desperate little slut.” He paused to wet his lips, drinking in the soft moan that escaped from her lips. “That is what you are, isn’t it?”

“Only for you, Freddie.” 

“Really?” Fred scoffed, sitting back up to begin fiddling with his belt. Y/N raised herself up on her forearms, desperation and arousal pooling in her core. “Because it didn’t seem that way tonight.” Fred’s tongue darted out of his mouth, swiping over his bottom lip as he gazed at her hungrily. “Think maybe I might need to remind you whose slut you are. What do you think?”

She whimpered, but managed a feeble nod. In their previous times together, her and Fred were nothing if not adventurous in the bedroom. Still, as he waved his wand and bound her wrists to his headboard, she couldn’t help but gasp and lightly fight against the restraints. Fred held a devilish smirk at her plight as he stood from the bed and sat his wand back down.

Fred crawled back over her, his intense dominance faltering for just a moment as he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“Still remember the safe word, yeah?”

“Yes, Freddie.” She managed to speak, although it was difficult. Fred leaned back and searched her eyes for a moment before leaning in and placing a soft kiss to her lips. After that, any sense of gentleness faded.

Fred’s lips sucked and bit at her neck hungrily, one of his large hands trailing down to rub her through her panties while the other massaged her breast. Y/N’s thighs clamped around his hand, which quickly earned her a light swat to her hip.

“Stay still, or I’ll have no problem tying your legs up too.” Fred growled against her neck.

Y/N quickly obliged, spreading her legs further open. While previously she may have been more inclined to push Fred a bit, her mind was too clouded with lust to do anything but obey him. After weeks of mediocre sex with Adrian, she was ready to completely give herself over to Fred, and let him have her in anyway he wanted.

Fred’s hand pushed the fabric of her panties aside, allowing one finger to drag through her wet folds. She was already soaking wet for him, despite the fact he’d hardly touched her. Without a warning, he plunged one finger into her, lightly moaning at the way she constricted around him. Y/N’s back arched ever so slightly against him, tugging futilely against her bound wrists. He set a steady pace, thrusting his finger in and out of her before adding another and scissoring the two. He changed pace after a moment, beginning to curl his fingers up into her as his thumb rubbed circles against her waiting clit. The pressure in her core grew quickly from that, and she couldn’t help the way she loudly moaned out.

“Right there, yes, oh god…”

Fred was now smirking as he pulled away from her neck, significantly satisfied with the many markings he’d left as well as how quickly he could bring her to this point. He knew her body like the back of his hand, he knew her signs for when she was close, and it made it so much easier to enact his plan.

Just as Y/N was teetering on the edge, desperate whines and random babbles leaving her lips, Fred pulled his hand away. She let out a frustrated and confused groan, her eyes flying open as she felt the build up slowly slip away. Fred just grinned at her, before getting off the bed and ridding himself of his trousers and boxers. He lazily stroked himself as he took her in, chest heaving and covered in a light sheen of sweat, completely at his mercy. She had stopped her attempts at fighting her restraints, looking at him like she were almost defeated. In her mind, she’d begun to fear the very real possibility that Fred wouldn’t let her cum at all.

“You seem frustrated.” Fred cooed mockingly, coming to lean back over her and gently brush her cheek. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Fred.” Y/N spoke firmly, though her eyes portrayed her fears. “You’ve got to let me finish.”

“Hm.” Fred seemed to ponder that, leaning back to slowly pull her panties down her legs. “I don’t think I have to do anything. In fact, I could just leave you here all tied up and needy.”

“Please,” Y/N whined, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. “I’m sorry, okay? Is that what you want to hear?”

“It’s a start.” Fred tutted, finally discarding her panties aside. He leaned down near her ear once more, his warm breath sending a chill down her spine. “What I’d really like, though, is to hear how much you need me. Wanna hear you say it.”

“Please, Freddie, I need your cock so bad. Need you to ruin me.” Y/N cried out, losing all sense of dignity as her sex-addled brain took over. Fred had intended to tease her much longer, but her desperate pleas were going straight to his cock, and he couldn’t hold out any longer.

“That’s all you had to say, love.”

Fred hitched her leg around his hip, gripping his cock in his free hand. He teased the head through her wet folds, shivering at the moan she let out from just the smallest contact. Then, he pushed his hips forward, not stopping until he was completely buried in her. Their low moans mixed together in the quiet of the room, Fred being careful not to move until he was sure she had adjusted to his size.

“Fuck, I forgot how fucking good you feel.” He groaned, burying his face in her neck.

“Move… Please.”

He needed no further encouragement. Fred pulled out about halfway before snapping his hips back forward, setting a brutal but steady pace. Y/N’s loud moans and Fred’s grunts mixed together, accompanied only by the sound of their skin on skin contact. Y/N could feel her orgasm building again as his dick hit her g-spot with every thrust, and she was almost embarrassed by how quickly he could bring her to this point. 

“‘m so close, Freddie.” Y/N breathed out, knowing it would only infuriate him further if she came without his permission.

“Already?” Fred scoffed, although he knew he wasn’t far behind. 

Still, he wasn’t ready for things to end so soon, so he pulled out completely, ignoring the desperate whine that left her throat. He pulled both of her legs together and pushed her knees up against her chest, holding her ankles together with one hand before thrusting back into her desperate cunt. The new position allowed him to hit deeper within her as he thrust downward, causing Y/N to scream out. The pain was delicious, it was everything she had longed for in their time apart.

“You really think you deserve to cum?” Fred grunted, landing a particularly hard thrust into her. “After everything you pulled tonight?”

“Please.” Y/N whined. She was so close, she knew she wouldn’t be able to handle it if he stole another orgasm from her.

“Answer the question, slut.” Fred demanded, his pace quickening ever so slightly. “That’s what you are, isn’t it? A desperate little cum slut.”

“Yes.” Y/N cried out. “But only for you, Freddie. Just a slut for you.”

“That’s right.” Fred’s rhythm had begun to falter, approaching his own orgasm quickly. Still, he was unsure if he’d let her finish or not. “You’re my little slut. Only I get to call you that, right?”

“Yes, Freddie.” Y/N whined, beginning to tug again on her restraints. She wanted nothing more than to scrape her nails down his back, but being completely at his mercy turned her on endlessly.

“Good.” Fred was close, so fucking close, but he had made his decision. So he had to hold off. “Cum for me, then. You’ve earned it.”

That was all the encouragement she needed, and as Fred hit one more thrust into her g-spot she was tumbling over the edge. Electricity seemed to shoot all throughout her body as she loudly moaned out his name. Her legs were shaking and she was certain she’d be sore tomorrow, but she had little time to care about that as he continued to pound into her.

Y/N knew Fred well, just as well as he knew her, so she knew he was close. Her mind felt almost entirely blank and she wasn’t sure she had much energy for anything, but she wanted to bring him to his release badly. So, she clenched around him, a moan leaving her lips when he stuttered and groaned. His thrusts were faltering significantly, and after a few moments he was crying out her name as he finished in her. 

Fred pulled out and dropped her legs before crashing down next to her. He knew that he needed to untie her, but they also both just needed a moment to breathe. All that could be heard was the sounds of their mixed pants as they both came down from their highs. Once he was significantly more relaxed, he gripped his wand and swished it lazily, effectively removing the restraints she was held in.

Y/N hands dropped down and she quickly went to rub at her wrists, but Fred was quick to bat her hands away and do it himself. He examined both wrist closely, seeming to want to ensure that they were okay.

“They weren’t too tight, were they?” Fred implored after a moment. His genuine concern made her heart flutter, and she couldn’t help herself as she leaned in and placed a soft kiss to his lips.

“No, they were perfect—all of it was perfect.” She sighed as she pulled away from him. Her general cognition was beginning to return, and with it her fears of all of the pain she had gone through in the past etched their way through.

Sure, Fred had clearly gotten jealous at the party. Then, he had gotten possessive and claimed her in the bedroom. But that didn’t necessarily mean that he harbored the same feelings for her that she had for him. The fear nearly paralyzed her, and she wasn’t sure if she should quickly redress and flee the room or implore what this all meant. Luckily, he answered her internal questioning before she even had to ask.

“I don’t want to see you out with Pucey.” Fred sighed, his eyes not meeting hers. “Which is a total prat thing to say, but it’s true. I don’t want to see you out with any bloke, really.”

“Fred…” Y/N spoke tentatively, her eyes begging him to speak further.

“I want you, Y/N. Like, really.” Fred finally met her gaze. “Not just in my bed.”

“What, do you want me on the couch too?” Y/N tried to joke, hoping it would cover up her nervous tone. But it didn’t. So, her voice became soft. “Don’t get my hopes up, Freddie.”

“I’m being serious.” He shook his head. “I want to take you out on fancy dates, or watch movies with you on my couch. Bloody hell, I want to bring you to my parent’s house for Sunday dinners. I don’t know, I’m not good at this. Whatever it is that couples do.”

“Fred Weasley,” A small smile had begun to grow on Y/N’s face. “Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”

“Yes.” Fred answered earnestly. “That is, only if you’re going to say yes. Otherwise, this was all just a joke—”

Y/N shut him up by pressing her lips to his, her mouth still curled upwards in a smile. It was impossible to hide the genuine happiness that his words brought her.

“Yes.” She answered softly as she pulled away.

A similar smile began to grow on Fred’s face as he completely registered her words, and he couldn’t help but dive back in for another kiss. Y/N was his, completely. Something he’d probably wanted for so long, but had simply been too daft to realize it. Now, as he held her in his arms, he promised himself he’d never make such a mistake again.

Tagging a few 18+ mutuals from my usual taglist: @wand3ringr0s3 @gcdric @theweasleysredhair 

[mandoalorian]

ohh hi!! I love your writing so much! I was thinking about that part where max is making wishes come true... how about reader touching him and telling him that her wish is... you know... ksksksks it would be a great plot for a smut 🥵

Lord of Desire [Maxwell Lord x Reader] SMUT *sex pollen*

Word count: 4.3k

Rating: 18+ only.

Warnings: SMUT; sex pollen (with that comes it being a dub-con too), overstimulation, cock warming, Dom! Reader, Sub! Max, oral (m! and f! receiving), p in v, slight yearning, reader has a crush on Max, happy ending.

Masterlist

You were one of his many assistants. One of his many assistants who were constantly at his beck and call, who would do anything and everything for him. And you'd be lying if you said you didn't have the biggest, fattest crush on Maxwell Lord. And you'd be lying again if it didn't bother you— the way he'd fuck a different assistant every day, without a care in the world. He did it meaninglessly, discarding whatever they wanted so he could get whatever he desired. Because it was always about him. He took charge, he was the boss.

You heard the other assistants gossip on their lunch breaks about their fantasies, sharing and gushing over their private moments between themselves and Maxwell. You preferred not to say anything about your own experiences, instead, you'd stand in the corner and sip on your tea, listening intently. You were someone who enjoyed your own company, who liked to keep yourself to yourself. You were certain the other assistants didn't even know your name.

"He went down on me." Raquel announced one morning, emptying a packet of sweetener into her latte. Your eyes widened slightly, although you kept them down, not wanting to illustrate any emotion to your colleagues. Deep down, you couldn't help but feel the pot of jealousy begin to stir up in the pit of your stomach. Why— why did all the other assistants have these wild stories about Max and all you could talk about was the way he'd bend you over his desk and fuck you with no remorse? You'd dreamt about it, you'd imagine the way his tongue might lick through your folds, his perfect nose nudging against the bud of your clit. They talked about it like they were competing with each other. Some were even delusional enough to think that Maxwell actually loved them back. You swallowed away your jealousy, held your head up high and for the first time— you said something.

"Liar." the single word dripped with envy and you hated the way it rolled off your tongue. The three assistants, including Raquel, snapped their heads up to stare at you. Raquel's glare was furious.

"Excuse me?" she asked, both her eyebrows raised incredulously.

"Mr Lord doesn't go down on anyone." you fired back. It was true. You knew him— you'd worked for him for the longest time. You knew he wouldn't do that. But if you were so certain that she was lying, why did you feel so jealous? If he was going to go down on anyone, it should've been you.

You didn't care to hear whatever Raquel had to say. You had to go see Max— pay him a little visit— find out the truth. You were finally going to confront him. You were fueled with jealousy and your rage was a blinding light as you stormed through Black Gold Cooperative, earning a few curious glances as your heels clicked against the marble floor. You wrapped both your hands around the two door handles that led into Maxwell's office, and pushed them open without even a knock. Maxwell, who was knee deep in paperwork, quickly looked up at you as you barged over to his desk, hand on hip. He swallowed nervously, dropping his gold embellished pen and offering you a polite smile.

"Not like you to just storm in here without knocking," Maxwell smirked, an eyebrow quirked at your sudden change in behaviour. "You've worked here long enough to know the rules," You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest. But before you could reply, Maxwell opened his mouth again. "But I'm glad you're here." he revealed, looking at you with those big, chocolate brown eyes. "Come, sit." he pointed at the empty chair that was opposite him.

You found yourself softening at the sentiment. He never, ever would say things like that. He'd never offer compliments or be genuine. Everything about his nature was cold and distant, but in those five words, his tone was sweet like honey. In a way, it brought you comfort. That completely through you off course. You sunk into the plush leather chair and began to nervously fumble with your fingers as he leaned over his messy desk, propping his elbows against the expensive oak wood. "I've discovered something amazing," he said breathlessly. "Something that can change the world."

You blinked. "What is it?" you hated the way your voice sounded small and timid. That's not the type of person you wanted to be in front of him, but it was always the type of person he made you out to be. With you, he would always exert his power— his dominance. When he fucked you, he'd whisper murmurs of praise in your ear. He wouldn't let you touch him, kiss him, he'd show no affection. He'd pin your hands together and take you from behind— and you'd let him with no question about it. Just for once, you wanted to explore a different side to Max, a side where you could be in control.

"Take my hands," he held his hands out and you cautiously looked down, swallowing the nervous lump in your throat. You took in the image of his thick, ring clad fingers and already felt your panties begin to dampen with arousal. Max curled his fingers, encouraging you to take his hands rather than just stare at them indefinitely. You caved, finally resting your palms flat in his. He interlocked his fingers in yours, his grip tight but firm. You could feel the coolness of his solid gold rings against your soft skin. "Make a wish."

You blinked again, this time completely dumbfounded. Make a wish? Had he finally lost it? His whole mantra was ‘if you want it you can have it’ — or something like that. But this whole wish thing? This was new.

"I don't-" you bit your lip, glancing from your hands to his face. His eyes were set heavy into you though, boring into your face and taking in every feature of yours that he admired so much. "I don't know what you mean." you sighed eventually, wanting to pull away from your boss. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

"What do you wish for?" Maxwell rephrased, flashing you that same smile he displayed so much for the world to indulge in on television. You hated it. It wasn't real. It wasn't him. You'd seen his real smile when he'd occasionally laugh at one of your jokes, or when he'd spy on you from the corner of his office as you played with Alistair. The small, toothy grin and his little dimple that would appear in his left cheek. Just for once, you wished he'd show you that beautiful smile of his to your face.

No, that wasn't it. You wished for more. You wished for every single dream, every single fantasy you had about him to come true. Could this be your opportunity to reveal all your pent up feelings and jealousy? Maxwell waited patiently, practically seeing the mental cogs turn in your brain as you thought this through. You rubbed your thighs together as your slick had seeped through the thin lace material of your panties.

He had taken everything from you. Now it was finally your turn to take something back.

"I wish," you started and watched as Maxwell closed his eyes. The fact he wasn't looking at you was about to make this so much easier. You were just going to say it. You could do this. "I wish… I wish that just for once, you'd let me fuck you. You'd let me take control. You'd beg and plead for me, be a good boy and do everything I ask of you. And you'll take it," you smile to yourself at the mere thought. "And most importantly, I wish that while we do this, you would just pretend to love me. Pretend to care about me," you felt your eyes sting from the tears you didn't realise had been penting up. That was what it all boiled down to— the helpless crush you'd had on your boss for the past three years. "Please." you finally huffed out.

Maxwell's eyes shot open as a gust of wind blew through the room, knocking the stacks of paper from his desk and breezing through your hair. When you finally looked back at Max, his eyebrows were furrowed together in bewilderment. He looked around his office, slightly dazed, and when he finally looked back at you, you noticed his eyes had darkened considerably. They were almost black with desire.

"Wh- where did that wind come from?" you asked, pulling your hands away from his and quizzically looking around the room. Not a window was open, the fan wasn't on…

Maxwell looked down where, already, his erection was strained against his tailored suit pants. "Holy shit," Maxwell muttered. "It worked. It actually worked." Max dropped his hand to his crotch and began to palm himself through the material, his fingers tracing the outline of his cock. He was painfully hard, trying to ignore the desperation which urged him to get off right then and there.

You gulped, standing up. "I'm sorry Mr Lord," you shook your head feeling embarrassed. You didn't know what had just happened— if your boss had played some kind of sick prank on you, but you weren't willing to stay and find out. "I- I best get back to work."

"No!" Maxwell choked out, rising to his feet and slamming his fists on the desk. The noise was enough to make you jump. "Please," he whispered. "Lock the door and...stay."

You blinked momentarily as you took in his instruction. You'd never heard him speak to you like that before. You slowly stalked over to the double doors, flicked the lock in place before turning back around to face your boss. His hair had fallen slightly out of place, dark blonde strands tousled over his forehead.

As you got closer, you noticed the pearls of sweat that beaded his hairline and the way his eyes became glazed with lust. He swallowed, not saying a word. He just started at you, his gaze following your every movement.

"Mr Lord?" you asked hesitantly. "Are you okay?"

Maxwell's lips parted slightly. "I…" you caught a blush creep upon his cheeks as you walked around his desk. Your eyes widened when you saw the thick outline of his cock pressed against his light grey pants. There was already a small damp patch from his precum.

"Jesus," you whispered. "What- what just happened?"

"K-kiss me," Maxwell pleaded. This was so strange— Max would never plead. He'd never beg, and he'd certainly never ask for you to kiss him. Was he toying with you? But how did he get hard so quick? So many questions. "P-please, I've been a good boy." Your eyes widened at the use of the words 'good boy'— the exact words you had used when he'd asked you for your wish. You stood there, perplexed as Maxwell let out another groan, hastily reaching down to undo his zipper.

"Wait!" you called out, stopping him. You looked over to the unoccupied leather sofa in the corner of his office that was draped in a furry, animal print blanket. "Let's go over here."

Maxwell nodded, shakily standing up and following you over to the sofa. "If… if I lay here will you-" you paused, shaking your head. "I'm going to lay here," you rephrase. "And I want you to fuck me with your tongue."

Maxwell gasped, already licking his lips greedily and nodding his head with excitement.

You kicked off your heels and pulled your skirt down, along with your lace panties, throwing them to one side. "Can I take my pants off?" Max groaned, his fingers grazing the clips of his suspenders as you unbuttoned your blouse.

"No," you shook your head, wanting to deprive him. He'd get the satisfaction he craved eventually, but now it was all about you. "You can take your jacket off though." you shrugged and as if by magic, he shrugged out of his designer suit jacket and let it fall to the floor amongst your clothes.

You sat on the sofa and opened your legs, beckoning Maxwell to come over with your fingers. He slowly stalked over to you, his gaze not tearing from your perfect form once, and he kneeled down in between your legs. "You're so pretty," he whispered, trailing soft and affectionate kisses along the softness of your inner thighs. You moaned, feeling the plumpness of his soft lips and the small trail of saliva as he gently licked and nibbled at the skin. You moaned wantonly, already feeling your toes curl as his face drew closer to your weeping cunt. "Always wanted to do this," Maxwell revealed. "You have the prettiest pussy in the whole fucking office, always wanted to taste."

Max licked a stripe between your folds, his low grumbles vibrating straight through your core. "Agh," you closed your eyes as he licked another stripe. The room began to fill with lewd wet noises, and you felt your cheeks heat up as he lapped at you. "Why- why didn't you taste me sooner?" you asked, genuinely wanting to know an answer.

Maxwell sucked on your clit, holding it between his teeth as he swirled his tongue against your bud in perfect little circles. He pulled off with a pop and a groan, and you managed to get a glance of your juices and how they coated his face, glistening under the amber, artificial lighting. "Afraid," Maxwell groaned, swiping his tongue over his lip and tasting what you had left on him. "Afraid of feeling powerless and not in control. I want you- I wanted you to think of me as someone who makes rules, not follows them."

"But sometimes it's nice to lose control, just a little bit. Let go of your inhibitions…" you smiled, reaching down and letting your hand tangle in his hair. Maxwell mumbled something incoherent before reattaching his lips to your pussy. "F-fuck Max, see? This- this is good, you're so good. Shit." you praised, and it only stirred Maxwell on even more. His cock was throbbing in his pants, it ached for some kind of release. Maxwell pressed the digit of his index finger along the entrance to your hole, teasingly rubbing it as his tongue flicked over your bundle of nerves. "O-oh, you want to finger me?" you chuckle, and feel Maxwell nod against your cunt. "Okay." you grant, and his thick finger immediately presses into you, as he pushes the full way in. As he pumps his finger in and out of you, you find yourself shaking, muttering soft words of praise at him for being so obedient. He curls his finger perfectly so it hits that sweet spot inside of you with every thrust, and his tongue doesn't stray away from you for one moment. He loves the way your walls tighten around his finger and he imagines it was his dick instead— the mere thought making his manhood jump with excitement in his pants. His kitten licks grow more intense as he pulls you towards your first orgasm, your thighs involuntarily shaking around his head as you cum on his tongue. He removes his finger as your climax washes over you, and stares at your cunt with admiration, watching it clench around nothing.

You find yourself heaving and panting as your high washes over you, trying to process everything that just happened. "I've never done that with an employee before," Max revealed, shakily raising to his feet again. You can't contain your smile, knowing that Raquel had been lying earlier. "You tasted just as good as I imagined. So sweet, like fucking candy."

You shuffle upwards to sit up, noticing your wetness on the leather sofa. "When we're finished," you breathe. "I want you to clean up all the mess. Not the cleaners, I want to watch you do it. Okay?" Maxwell nodded obediently and your lips curved into a smile. There was something so satisfying at the thought of a big name CEO like Maxwell Lord clean up after himself. Even more satisfying knowing that he'd be cleaning your cum from the sofa his business associates will be sitting on in just a few hours.

"We're not done?" Max asked, his eyes lit up with hope. You pouted, shaking your head as you crawled over to him. On your knees, you reached up and unclipped his suspenders from the top of his pants, pulling them down his arms and letting the straps fall by his sides.

"No baby," you purred, taking your time to palm his cock over the material of his pants. "See, I could just leave you high and dry, you could've just been my quick fix. Because that's how you see me, isn't it?" you tilted your head and Maxwell frowned, looking away from you with shame. Your fingers found his silver zipper and you slowly pulled it down. "But I'm not like you," you whispered, finally pulling his pants down and freeing his aching cock. You tsked, shaking your head. "Not even wearing boxers. That's naughty of you…"

"W- will you punish me?" Maxwell asked, his puppy dog eyes glistening with desire.

You didn't reply with words, but instead, simply offered him a hum as you wrapped his fingers around his cock. Your eyes widened in surprise at his reaction to your mere touch as he let out a wanton groan and tossed his head back in delight. You spat in your hands and slowly began to pump his long, thick length with one hand. You bring your other hand down to his balls and cup them, rubbing your thumb along the curves as you feel them tighten as you jerk him off.

"C-can you- f-fuck-" Maxwell squeezed his eyes shut as you increased speed.

"What is it baby?" you ask softly. "Struggling to get out your words? Tell me, what do you want? I'm feeling generous."

"Y-your lips, please, your lips around my-my-" Maxwell chokes back a moan as you wrap your mouth along the head of his cock, sucking his tip playfully, your tongue flicking along the small slit that was beaded with precum. You moan as you taste his familiar saltiness. As you continue to suck at his head, you let your fingers grace the column of his cock, rolling your digits softly over his ridges and veins as your pussy twitched at the thought of feeling them inside you. You were desperate to feel him fill you. You were desperate to take full control. But right now, you were too drunk on the idea of overstimulating your boss. Give him a time he'll never, ever forget.

Once you're certain you've milked him of all his precum, you take his full length, gagging slightly as his head pushes against the back of your throat. He's so thick that your jaw aches as he stretches your mouth wide open, a trail of your saliva dripping down your chin. You bobbed your head up and down, thriving on the way he moans your name and strings out low, sleuthy curses of affirmation.

"Can I cum?" he asked, his voice hoarse. Your cunt quivers at the way he asks you for permission. Now you understand why he loves taking control. "I'm close- I'm gonna cum." Max groaned and you began to feel his cock involuntarily twitch in your mouth. You quickly double back, pulling off him and looking up at him with beady eyes. "N-no!" Maxwell gasped, trying to catch his breath.

"Problem?" you asked with a smirk. "Oh baby… you wanted to cum in my mouth?" you frown apologetically. Maxwell nods his head and you take in the way his tears are pricking his pretty brown eyes. He's a mess and he's your mess. "I know somewhere better you can cum." you coo, rising to your feet and pressing a soft kiss into his jaw. "Sit." you command, pointing to the same spot you made yourself comfortable in on the sofa.

Maxwell obeyed, walking over with hunched shoulders holding his cock in one hand as he slowly touched himself. You looked at him with complete desire. You knew how wet you were, but you had never seen him so hard before— you were actually wondering if you'd be able to take him.

You wrap your legs around him, straddling him, and slowly sink on his aching cock. A long, strained moan escaped Maxwell's lips as you pushed yourself all the way down, gasping as he filled you completely. Max half expected you to start riding him, he wished you'd just bounce up and down and milk him for all he had— but of course, you didn't. You stayed seated on him, warming his cock as you adjusted yourself. You began to slowly unbutton his work shirt, pulling it off him and throwing it to the floor. You pressed your hands against his chest as you shimmy even deeper, this time his balls are pressed against the curve of your ass. "Feels so good." you whisper.

"M-move." Maxwell groaned, his eyes tight shut.

"Did you just tell me what to do?" you quizzed and Maxwell quickly shook his head.

"N-no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it…" Maxwell replied in a quick fluster. "I just….fuck…"

"You're just so desperate to cum, aren't you?" you sighed, smoothing out his dark blonde hair.

"Y-yes." he answered.

You reached down to your clit and began to rub circles, getting yourself off as you sit on his cock. "So here's what's going to happen, I'm gonna cum on your cock and you're going to take it like a good boy. You're gonna feel my pussy clench around you— and you're not— you're not fucking allowed to cum, okay? You're going to take it."

Maxwell tossed his head back, and rested his hands on your hips as he watched you play with yourself, full of his cock. It stirred him on as he gazed at the pretty sight that was before him. You were so good, you had him completely wrapped around your finger. It wasn't long until your walls were tightening around Max, and his perfectly manicured finger

-tips dug into your back.

"You're so beautiful when you cum," Max murmured and you smiled as you let yourself unravel around him. "Fuck, you feel so good. You always feel so good. The- the best,"

"Shit," you moaned. "Wanna cum pretty boy?" you asked with a wicked grin. Max nodded desperately and you adjusted your position, laying back down on the sofa. You whimpered at the loss when his cock slipped out of you, but he was quick to thrust back into when you gave him the command. "Fuck me until you cum then."

The words alone almost made Maxwell explode. You wrapped your legs around his body as he pushed his whole length deep inside you, quickly picking up the fast and brutal pace you were used to. He didn't last long though, and you weren't surprised considering you had edged him this long already. His cum splayed inside of you, painting your walls as he grunted and groaned on top of you, his arms shaking as he tried to stop himself from collapsing on you.

"Fuck," Maxwell gasped, trying to catch his breath. He felt himself soften inside of you, not wanting to pull out just yet. He was cherishing the moment and savouring the feeling. He missed your pretty pussy so much. He wanted to live in this moment forever. As his climax washed over him, he felt the magic of the wish leave his body too. You were a heaving, panting mess but you wouldn't have it any other way.

Max leaned into you, pressing a brisk and gentle kiss on your forehead, down to your nose, and then against your lips. "I love you," he admitted, whispering against your mouth. You felt your breathing catch in your throat at the revelation. "I loved you from the moment I met you. But I- just… was scared."

For a second you thought it was just the wish that was making him come out with these things— but the moment he revealed that he was scared, you knew for sure Max's words were coming from his heart.

"Scared of what?" you asked quietly, still drunk in post-coital haze. You drew lazy circles into his bicep as he nuzzled his head into the crook of his neck. He was so warm, the smell of his expensive cologne filled the room, it was intoxicating.

"I don't know…" he mumbled. "Disappointing you?"

"Oh Maxie," you whispered, pulling him in for another kiss. "You could never disappoint me. I love you too."

Maxwell smiled, his eyes glazed with unshed tears. "I've always dreamed of the day I can show you off… call you mine."

"So let's start from today," you told him, dropping your hand to his and holding it gently.

"Wait, you'll be my girlfriend?" Maxwell asked hopefully.

You nodded with a smile and he kissed you once more, passionately and filled with affection. You could really get used to this.

Taglists — (let me know if you wish to be added!)

Permanent: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth @moth-guillotine @pedro-pascal-love @hayley-the-comet @pinkninja190 @maxiarapamaya

Maxwell Lord: @mrschiltoncat

This fic: @lizzowinkyface @dindjarinswhore

[bush-viper-cutie]

I’ll be your Valentine

Pairing: young!severus X reader

Word Count: 7,350

Rating: T for teen

Plot: Severus is humiliated once more by his friends in an attempt to fit in. It was a miscalculation on his part, but he couldn’t have predicted how disastrous his mistake would be. It had taken you days, weeks, months to build up the courage to confess your feelings to your crush, but what did you expect to have happen when doing it on Valentine’s day?

Warnings: Bullying, kissing, slight angst

A/N: Happy valentine’s day everyone! I hope everyone is having a good day :D Wrote this just for today and took some inspo from @violet-knox​’s the Lion, the Snake, and the Locket series, (SPOILER: more specifically the locket! :D )

Posted: 2/14/21

Masterlist

—–

(Y/n) = your name

 ~*~*~

~*~*~ = change in POV

 ~*~*~ = time skip

—–

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Severus was bent over his journal, quill scribbling across the pages at rapid speeds, feather dancing through the air as Professor Flitwick went on and on about the creation of information charms. Words like ‘impossible’ and ‘far too advanced’ only made him roll his eyes. If wizards like the Great Ciera Vela and Sir Wicksley Brightington could create inventions such as the early telling clocks or talking chips at mere fourteen years of age, then who gave Flitwick the right to deem it impossible for a seventh year to create one?

Severus jerked his head up at the sudden bang of the classroom door as it flung open, almost giving himself a horrible headache at the sudden motion.

Flitwick jumped on his stool and turned wrathfully. “Who is interrupting my lecture!” A little man, half the size of Flitwick himself, came storming inside just as annoyed with himself as Flitwick was of him, and held up a bouquet of flowers. “Ah… alright, alright, get on with it.”

The dwarf, dressed in a bright red robe with fake angel wings and a halo too small for his head, approached a Hufflepuff boy on the opposite end of the class. He pulled up his robe, which revealed his real clothes underneath – grass-stained trousers and steel-toed shoes – and took out a folded note from his pocket. “Oh Huegert,” he began in a raspy voice, reading out the poem as unenthusiastically as possible.

Severus groaned and sat back in his seat. His eyes narrowed in dislike at the Hufflepuff who didn’t seem to care that his admirer had interrupted class. As annoying as it was to hear Flitwick squeak away on a tangent about the creation of the type of charm they were learning about, he much preferred it than this.

The dwarf cleared his throat as thunderously as a rockslide down a mountain and bowed, ready to head out after completing his job.

“Psst,” a voice whispered from the back. “Snivellus!”

Severus ignored them, and turned to his fellow Slytherins instead. They all looked as annoyed as he felt and smirked when he caught their eye. The Slytherins had their own way of showing their “admiration” and it didn’t include embarrassing poems or gawky flowers.

“Snivellus!” The voices behind him snickered. “Where’s your flowers?”

“Doesn’t anyone like you?”

Flitwick went on with the lecture and Severus went back to writing feverishly until class was over. He packed his things and followed his friends out the door, keeping at their heels. He pulled out his scarf and wrapped it around once, twice, as the chill from the open arched windows blew through.

“Let’s head down to Hogsmeade. I heard the Three Broomsticks is serving red butterbeer today, bet it’ll taste different.”

“It never does. Not the green ones, or the purple ones – ”

Severus slung his pack over his shoulder and followed his friends down the corridors, out the castle doors, and down the frozen lawn. They talked about food, their significant others, and the gifts they’d given and received. Some had gotten golden cufflinks, diamond pressed watches with metal so smooth it could reflect a candle’s light from a mile away, while others had received nice ties or new shoes. They’d given expensive bracelets with dancing charms, glittering jeweled necklaces, and remarkable earrings that reformed with every wear so as to never be the same twice.

“So how’s it possible to make those woodchips talk to each other from anywhere in the world?” the tallest of them asked.

Severus pulled his eyes up from his scrappy shoes and looked at the Slytherin. He was referring to the talking chips. “They’re cut from the same wood, precisely from the opposite sides of the tree and bound with a complicated spell.”

The Slytherins around him nearly jumped, forgetting Severus was among them.

The tallest one, Zander Ervingwell, whose father owned the Daily Prophet, rubbed his chin and smiled. “That so? Then, could we chop any of these tree,” he motioned at the forest as they walked down the trail to Hogsmeade, “and make one of them?”

The others turned to Severus and he reveled in their attention. He kept his face straight and shook his head. “We could. If we could get the charm from Flitwick.”

Zander nodded thoughtfully. The rest reformed around him and they kept walking down the trail until they reached the popular little inn. They pulled the door open and were met by warmth, the smell of roast turkey, and wary eyes from the students of other houses.

Severus took his seat at the table they crowded around and refrained from ordering the red butterbeer they were all looking forward to. He pulled the strap of his bag over his head and shoved his patched up bag under the table.

“See? Tastes different.”

“I’d cut my tongue off and have Pomfrey regrow it if I were you – ”

Harold Binny and Regis Dunmarten always tended to natter about anything they could disagree on that held little to no importance. They never discussed anything with each other that could ever lead to an agreement, and Severus knew they took after their fathers, who were avid Wizengamot councilmen.

Zander looked to the others, Marcos Jugson – one of the many brothers – who was looking at a group of Ravenclaw girls, and Mumford Wilkes who stared impassively at the dark oak table. Zander turned to Severus. “You think you could make one, Severus?”

Severus stammered. “We wouldn’t be allowed to chop down any tree – And I’d need the charm…”

“If you’re so smart,” Mumford’s eyes pierced through Severus’ defenses and made him want to dissolve into the air. “Why don’t you make one. You’re always saying you can make spells but when we ask to see them they’re never ready.”

Severus wanted to disappear from the very seat he sat in. In this moment he much preferred his usual spot, behind them all, hidden from view of their scrutinizing eyes; but now every one of them looked his way, expectantly. “I can make one,” he said, as evenly as he could muster. They were all rich purebloods who could smell unease and weakness from a hundred yards away. “Easily.”

“You could get in trouble, expelled even, with the way information charms work. Sure you’re not scared?” Marcos folded his arms, eyeing him down.

Severus hated him. Almost as much as he hated Lupin and Pettigrew, but not nearly as much as Black and Potter. After all, Marcos had saved him on more than one occasion with his mere presence. And unfortunately, Severus knew what his words hid. It had been just yesterday Marcos had walked in on him pinned to the ground by a group of sixth years, three standing around with their wands drawn on him while their two ‘braver’ friends tried singeing his eyebrows off. As soon as Marcos had hexed them off, the minute their grubby hands had released his robes, Severus had crawled away behind Marcos.

It was a stupid moment of weakness fueled by fear driven by the sight of the flames bursting out of wands so close to his eyes. A mistake he’d let himself make. Severus clenched his jaw and looked him steadily in the eyes. “Of course not,” he gritted out.

Distant laughter caught Marcos’ attention for a split second, and when he turned back his lips quirked up in a smile. “Why don’t you give us a taste of your bravery then? An assurance you’ll do it.” He jerked his head back, motioning at the table of Ravenclaw girls. “It’s Valentine’s day, so why don’t you ask one of them to be yours? Its only just midday. I’m sure one of them’s not yet taken.”

Severus kept his face even and hands clenched tight under the table, unwilling to let them see how badly they trembled. He risked a glance at Zander, who looked at him with folded arms and an equally level expression. Harold and Regis exchanged similar looks, eyebrows raised, and Mumford smirked. There was always a risk when hanging around certain groups of friends, and this one constantly pushed him to the brink of humiliation.

He stood and made his way around their table to face the crowded space of the bar. Everyone was distracted, talking to other patrons or spilling drink down their faces. There was a stool knocked to the ground between him and the girls who only knew he existed from either rumor or witnessing one of his countless humiliations at the hands of Potter or Black. They’d either know him as Snivellus, or as the Slytherin who knows as many curses and hexes as there were words in a dictionary – although it never seemed to matter how many curses he claimed to know, he was never someone anyone feared.

He took a step, and then another, and kept going until he stood beside their table. He cleared his throat but it was as if he was invisible. He cleared it again and the closest one to him, the louder of the bunch, glared up at him.

Great, he had their attention… Now what? He cleared his throat again, made awkward by their obvious attention to him. “Would… Would you want – ”

“Which one.”

Severus blinked at them. “What? Oh, err… Anyone?” The look on their faces made his own go red.

“Oh? Any of us? Doesn’t matter who?” The closest one to him said, looking back at her friends with raised eyebrows and a smirk, causing a chorus of laughs. “So what is it?”

Severus wanted to turn around and bolt out the door. This had been a mistake. A miscalculation. His friends had lured him into a trap and he jumped right on it. He couldn’t run though; they were still watching most likely. This was about him proving he wasn’t scared.

He swallowed what little of his pride he had left and opened his mouth. “Would anyone want… to be…” All he had to do was say it, no matter how humiliating, how embarrassing this was. “My valentine.”

Done. He did it, now he could turn around and go back to Zander, head held high. He didn’t really care what any of them thought. He already knew their answer before he even got out of his chair. He turned around as they laughed in his face, ready to face his friends and get back to business.

“Wait! Severus!” one of them called him back.

He stopped. Turned. And stared at the Ravenclaw who had stood up. She waved him back with a shy look on her face and his heart leapt into his mouth. He swallowed it down and walked back, feeling his blood rush into his cheeks.

“Severus,” she said, shyly twirling her finger around the mouth of her cup. “I haven’t given you an answer.”

“You’re answer?” He couldn’t help the tremble in his hands now. He started pulling on the loose stitching on his sweater.

She smiled up at him… And in the blink of an eye she snatched up her cup and threw its contents in his face. “Of course not, Snivellus!”

Severus gasped as the cold liquid splashed his face, drenching his sweater. He spit out cherry colored butterbeer and wiped his face with his wet sweater sleeve. He turned away from the laughter, but it circled him. He blinked through red-tinted droplets and scanned the faces of the crowd. It’d be easier to look for someone who wasn’t laughing because every face his gaze landed on was one that made his chest constrict.

He turned to his table, to his friends. They were all doubled over with pure glee, laughing as dignified as they could all while he dripped on the floor, the mock of the inn. He grit his teeth and closed his eyes, unwilling to let any more of this scene get stored in his brain. He stumbled through chairs and stools and pushed his friends aside to get his bag. He pulled it free and threw it over his shoulder. He stumbled some more as the laughter continued and threw his body against the door, throwing it open.

He ran out the door, out of the warmth of the inn and into the cold. The streets were nearly empty as wizards settled into homes or restaurants for lunch. He ran as fast as he could back to the castle, not caring about the sting of the wind as it scraped along his skin. His eyes burned and he felt tears begin to form as the realization of what had just happened began to bubble in the pit of his stomach.

He almost slipped on the bridge and as he reached its crest hands gripped his arms, stopping him on the spot. He blinked tears away and cleared his vision, looking up from the ground, ready to fight whoever had stopped him. He didn’t have to tilt his head up very far, easily staring into the eyes of another student, though he couldn’t immediately tell what house they belonged to.

“You almost bumped into me,” she said, releasing her hold on him.

“You should have cleared my path,” he spat.

She shrunk back and gripped the edge of her cloak. “Well I’ve been looking for you…”

Severus stared at her. He couldn’t possibly fathom why. He’d never seen her before, never talked to her before, and couldn’t imagine what she’d want from him. “I’m here aren’t I?”

She swallowed and nodded. “I… I have something for you…”

“Then hurry up,” he growled. It was cold and the butterbeer was starting to freeze.

He watched her open her cloak and noticed she wore a light red dress, almost pink. He wanted to hex it and turn it black from how sick of everything Valentine he was. The cloak pulled back further and she pulled out a single pink carnation with a green ribbon tying a note to its stem.

Her cheeks blushed as she held out the flower for him to take and he couldn’t help but stand there motionless, waiting for his brain to think something, say something, act and do anything other than gawk at her.

“Will you be my valentine, Severus?” she said, as if the flower hadn’t signaled just that.

He noticed his hand moving to take the flower while he remained stupefied, petrified, and perplexed. His heart, shattered and broken as it was, beat with immense longing as he pulled the flower to his chest.

“I… who are you?” He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t asking more important questions like ‘why me’, ‘is this another prank’, or ‘are you real’. He could feel the air changing around him as hope seeped into his soul, giving him a breath of new air that seemed to revitalized and mend the most broken parts of himself.

She smiled and stepped closer, making his breath catch in his throat. He could feel a warmth radiating off her, reaching out to him, banging on his walls, begging him to let her in. Her eyes looked up at his and he felt his legs go weak. He wanted to run, to apparate away and corral his thoughts, but he also wanted to stay and stare back into the depths of hers. It was different the way her eyes looked at him. He couldn’t see any hatred or disdain like so many others had in theirs when their gaze ever landed on him.

“(Y/n),” she said. “I’ve seen you around school and… Well I’m ashamed to say I’ve sort of been hiding from you.” She blushed and looked down at her feet. “Severus,” she whispered. “I’ve had a crush on you for quite a while.” She looked up at him then and gave him another one of her gentle smiles.

He accepted her words without another thought and regarded her truthfully, willing to open his heart to her. Her smile melted him, her eyes dazzled him, and, he realized finally with one long look, she was very cute.

“So, will you?” she asked again, taking another step closer.

He gripped the flower tighter and it finally hit him. She liked him. She really liked him. Someone had a crush on him and – Merlin, she was cute. Could he really be so lucky?

He opened his mouth when he realized something. She had broken his barriers and shields and so he hadn’t had the mind to analyze his surroundings. Laughter. He heard laughter coming closer. He turned and cursed the world for allowing anyone else but her and him to remain. It was the group of Ravenclaws making their way to the bridge.

“I – ” He couldn’t get any other word in before the group had reached the very spot on the bridge they stood in.

The girl closest to them spotted the pink carnation instantly, pointed, and laughed. They elbowed each other, making sure everyone had noticed him and the flower, and stopped next to them.

“Snivellus! Why didn’t you get us any flowers!” one of them guffawed.

The closest one stepped closer and crossed her arms. “(Y/n), don’t let him fool you into thinking you’re special. He just came from asking for any one of us to be his valentine. He didn’t even care which one.”

(Y/n) eye’s filled with tears and she looked up at him, expecting him to deny everything. Severus realized he’d never felt true heartbreak until now. He knew now that the shattering he’d always felt was nothing compared to the pain now, like stakes were being hammered into his still pumping heart one by one, emptying him completely.

He could lie to her. He could deny it all. But that warmth he’d felt radiating off of her… that’s what he’d imagined safety to feel like. If he could only step closer and feel it once more. If he lied, he’d be bringing thorns and barbs into something so precious and delicate.

He took a step closer to her and lowered his head, ready to feel her pull away that warmth she offered him. “I can explain it. Please listen – ”

She jerked back from him and the cold of winter swooped in to fill the air where the heat had disappeared.

~ * ~ * ~

~ * ~ * ~

The air was cold and dry, sapping the warmth from your hands that had, moment ago, been as hot as coals from the pure adrenaline that had coursed through your veins. The amount of courage it had taken to finally admit your feelings to Severus had taken you days to carefully collect. You had spent hours pushing away your fears, and now something much worse than rejection was taking place.

Your truest crush had asked out another girl, or many other girls, and your foolishness had landed you at the bottom of his list. Was what they were saying true? You didn’t want to believe it but… he didn’t deny it, no matter how much you begged him to with your eyes.

You closed them shut and sniffed. When you opened them again you marched right through the group of Ravenclaws, right passed Severus, and headed down the road to Hogsmeade. What a fool you were, charming your old dress into one you hoped would turn you into Severus’ dream. All those breaks spent following him around, hiding behind pillars and admiring him from afar, watching how he always pushed his long black hair behind his ear when he got ready to read… Or the way he bit his lip when he paused to think before jotting things down in his journal. You’d even swooned at the way he walked, like a sulking cat trotting from one shadow to the next hoping to remain unseen. You had seen him. You had seen him and loved what you saw.

When you reached the low lamp post right before town you turned and wished you hadn’t. Severus was watching you, with his dark glimmering eyes that very rarely ever looked up from the ground. He never gave anyone his attention, but he was giving it to you now. His large nose was almost pink and nearly-invisible lines trailed down his cheek. He stood there, tall as he was despite always slumping his shoulders, holding your flower to his chest.

You sighed heavily and turned, starting back on your way down Hogsmeade’s cobbled road.

~ * ~ * ~

~ * ~ * ~

There she went with his heart in her pocket. Was it possible? Could someone so suddenly appear in his life, shake his world upside down, and then walk away like she hadn’t just changed him forever? Love; now whenever that word would be spoken, he’d only think of her. Kindness; only her face would remind him of the definition. Safety, hope, happiness, dreams; her eyes, her smile, the softness of her curves, the allure of her scent, the wonder of what her hugs could have felt like, and that warmth that had melted away his armor. All his life… he’d never felt that warmth. Not from his mother, not from his friends, and not even from –

He winced as the numbness gave way to a heavy emptiness that hollowed him out. He began walking back to Hogwarts as if nothing had ever happened, except he’d acquired a single pink carnation. With every step he heard voices, familiar and sharp, that stabbed him with words he’d heard a million times before. He knew he was hated, despised, and unworthy of good things. He had just hoped, fueled by the encouraging gentleness of her eyes and welcoming smile, that he could finally be wanted.

~ * ~ * ~

Severus stepped into the common room and pulled on the strap of his bag, hearing several patches groan with protest as the seams threatened to come undone. He headed to the boy’s dormitory and slouched on the wall, unsure if he could make it another step without collapsing. He felt crushed, pulverized, like his life energy had been spent and he was finally coming to an end.

A door opened in the distance and he straightened, staring at the stone floor as his housemate walked by, ignoring him like a ghost in the corridors. He let out a sigh and dragged his feet forward until he reached his room. It was empty, save for a spoiled grey cat which slept on a bed.

He dumped all his things on his bed. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep until he could no longer remember how beautiful her name had sounded coming from her lips. He held out the carnation and rolled its stem between his fingers. “(Y/n).”

He set the flower down on top of his things and pulled his sweater over his head. He threw it into his trunk and toed off his shoes, settling into the bed. If he slept he’d be forced to replay the events of today in some horrible nightmare. He pushed things aside – keeping the flower close – and took out his charms journal.

He could work on the information charm and show Zander and the others how capable he was. Maybe then they wouldn’t try to humiliate him. They’d finally accept him. He pulled out his journal and reviewed his notes. All an information charm really was is an incredibly invasive bonding spell. A spell that tied two things together and forced an object to display information about the other. The telling clocks told its owners where certain people where, and the talking chips merely displayed what their partner chips spelled. As long as he kept it small, it would be easy.

For the next few hours he worked on his spell, thinking about nothing more than the charm itself. He sat on his bed, legs crossed, bent over his journal and books as he crossed things out and rewrote spell after spell. It wasn’t working. Everything he tried was too complicated. He could barely get information out of and of the objects he tried. His quills were too old to withstand the bonding spells, his journals gave too much information. He sat back into his pillows and sighed.

He needed something with more purity, something which he knew he didn’t own. He looked around the room, searching for some sort of unused object, some material that could withstand the spell to even initiate the charm… His eyes landed on the carnation he’d moved to his night stand.

Would he have been enjoying a romantic date right about now? Would she have tried to hold his hand? He would have been too nervous to do it himself but… He held up his hand and looked at it. What did it feel like to hold her hand? It would have been smaller than his, warm, and soft. He would have held on forever and never let go. What was she like? Would they have been perfect for each other? He thought of her smile and of her lips, supple and eager as she spoke…

He sat up fast as flashes of kissing her filled his head. No, he couldn’t endure this torture. He scrambled for new material and growled when nothing he owned fit what he looked for. He got out of bed and looked around, eyes glancing everywhere but the flower. He got on his knees and searched under beds until he found something gleaming and silver flashing back at him.

He rolled up his sleeve and stretched his arm under his dormmate’s bed as far as it would go. His hands found the cold metal and closed around it, pulling it back to him. It was a small necklace with silver metal beads that encased delicate diamonds. He remembered how it got there, thrown aside for not being flashy enough, or expensive enough for his crush.

He held it in his hands and sat back on his heels. It had a round charm, flat as if calling out to him. The surface would be a perfect spot to display something small… a single word… a name perhaps. He ran his tongue over his teeth and felt he was on the verge of something great. All it would take was a single spark of an idea and he could create something grand and – as Flitwick seemed to think – impossible for any Hogwarts student to pull off.

He groaned as he stood and made his way back to his own bed. He set the necklace on his knee, and on his other began to write. It took precious more hours of writing, scratching out, and re-writing until the spell was as condensed as possible; long spells never worked well, the shorter the phrase the better.

Now that he had the bonding spell perfected… what could he use? He stared at the necklace and knew the answer. He sighed and took the necklace in his hand again and began the spell. It was quick to read, and as he moved his wand over the silver metal the air began to shimmer. His lips moved carefully as he focused his intent and finally, at the last word he pointed his wand at himself.

He felt a slight breeze brush his skin and shivered. It was done. He and the necklace were bonded with him as the information giver and it, or more precisely the flat round charm, as the information receiver. He thumbed over the metal and squinted… but no word showed up. The spell was to force the metal to engrave the name of his crush… but her name did not display.

Maybe he got it wrong. He looked through his notes, flipping only the last two pages where he had condensed the spell, and frowned. It is as it should be, unless his logic was somehow flawed… but no, it rarely was. If there was one thing he could count on, anything or anyone in the whole world, it would be himself and his ability to reason correctly.

He stared at the charm again. It could be… He furrowed his brows and pinched his nose… It could be that he didn’t have a crush on her? Not a true one… not like he’d know what that really felt like. But he did like her, very much. He opened his eyes and fell back into his pillows, defeated. What was this even for? Would he really show this to Zander? Was he so foolish to believe Zander would look at her name engraved into this necklace and be impressed with him? No. He wasn’t.

So then… He sat up and looked at the flower once more, as if begging it to give him answers. Was he doing this for her? Did he really think he could fix what he’d done? Right the misunderstanding and win her heart? “I want to…” Then what must he do?

He pushed out of bed once more and dug in his trunk for a new sweater, pulling it over his head. He’d go down to Hogsmeade and find her, tell her the truth of what happened and then… then he’d kiss her. He swallowed and slowed down. Could he kiss her? …If he’d been brave enough to ask out a group of girl’s he’d never met before knowing full well what rejection awaited him, then he could ask out the kind and gentle girl who had offered him her heart so willingly.

He slipped into his shoes and headed out the door, out of the boy’s dormitory, out of the common room and ran up the dungeon stairs. He needed to find her fast before Hogsmeade hours came to an end. He ran through the castle and shoved open the doors, plunging head first into the cold February air. He sped down the slippery grass of the sloping lawn and nearly tripped out the gates. He caught his footing and continued down the trail, huffing and puffing at the exercise and hating the metallic taste in his throat and mouth.

He grimaced as he crossed the bridge and headed right into town. He checked the Three Broomsticks, she wasn’t there. He checked shop after shop, in alleys, behind houses, and even the lake’s edge and under every tree. She was not eating, shopping, wandering, or sitting anywhere in Hogsmeade. “Where is she?” he growled. Of course this is happening, he knew better than to believe luck was on his side. He walked back down the street slowly, and saw the door to Madam Pudifoot’s teashop open. A couple left, laughing and holding each other by the waists.

Severus swallowed. Was she in there with someone else? After she had realized her mistake in liking him, had she given her heart to someone else, refusing to let this day be a waste? He shook his head and looked away. He couldn’t give up hope, not this time, not with something so rare to ever happen to him. He had to believe the best of her, this (Y/n), who had so bravely confronted him and admitted to her long-standing crush on him. He knew very little about her, but he couldn’t imagine she’d give her heart out so flimsily.

He started his way back to Hogwarts, keeping at a slow and somber gait, and made it back to the castle just in time for dinner. He was too late. Valentine’s day was practically over. He filtered in with other students and took his seat at the Slytherin table. Zander was there, with a spot open next to him but Severus couldn’t take it. He had nothing to show him and after today… he didn’t know how he could show his face around him. Severus took a seat at the back of the table with some lower years and ate in silence, his hand in his pocket, thumbing over the cold metal of the necklace.

~ * ~ * ~

~ * ~ * ~

You tried keeping your eyes on your friends, on the food, on your plate as you ate, but your gaze kept lifting to the back of the Slytherin table where a gloomy boy with inky hair sat bent over his food, barely touching it. Severus looked sad, sadder than most days. His nose was pink still and his cheeks red. Had he been outside again? In Hogsmeade… maybe… maybe looking for you? You shook your head. Of course not.

All through dinner you watched him eat alone and away from his friends. Had something happened? When you met him at the bridge he looked a mess with his soaked sweater and hair plastered to his head. And that group of girl, who so readily laughed at him… Maybe… maybe he did have an explanation for what had happened.

Your heart began to beat again, slow at first, and then faster and faster as if hope had filled your soul once more and given you life. You wanted Severus so badly, so badly it hurt and, could you really have him? Was it possible to have the boy of your dreams? If you listened to his explanation would he fix everything and give you his heart in return?

You bit your lip and looked up at Severus once more. You wanted him so bad… It was a chance you needed to take.

~ * ~ * ~

~ * ~ * ~

As dinner came to an end, students filtered out of the great hall and into the entrance hall, making their way to their houses. Severus walked among them, defeated and empty. His arms swayed limply by his sides and his head hung low, eyes glued to the ground in front of him. He turned the corner and kept to the shadows of the walls. He didn’t want to be spotted or looked at or found by anyone. There wasn’t a single person in this prison he wanted to see, none except for (Y/n).

He dragged his feet as he made his way through the corridor and nearly yelped when two hands pulled him deeper into the shadows. He stumbled backwards and heard a door slam shut. It was dark and the thud echoed off the walls. He squinted and saw nothing. He fumbled for his wand – he always kept it on him, ready for anything – but someone pinned him to the wall.

“Lumos,” a familiar voice whispered.

Severus stared into the glittering depths of warm, kind eyes. “(Y/n),” he breathed.

Her face was pensive as she stood there, looking him over. She was unsure of him.

Before she could say another word he shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out the necklace. “I-I made this for you… er, well the charm doesn’t work…”

She took the necklace he held out to her and looked at it carefully. “What’s it supposed to do?”

He heaved a quick sigh and looked away. “T’supposed to display your name… er – display the name of my crush.”

She regarded the necklace and gave a breathy chuckle. “Of course…”

Severus frowned. “Of course what?”

“Of course it doesn’t work. You don’t like anyone!” She laughed and stepped back, the wandlight illuminating more of the empty classroom she’d dragged him into. “You didn’t ask out a specific girl, you asked out that whole group. You didn’t care who it was, so long as someone accepted to being your valentine. And I’m…” She closed her eyes and sniffed. “I’m just someone who has a crush on you. That’s all you care about.”

Severus blinked at her for several long seconds. “(Y/n)… I… I want to like you.”

She scoffed.

“No! I mean – I – You – No one has ever liked me and – ”

She shook her head and reached for the door. Severus jumped in her way, desperate to continue talking, to clear everything up. He liked her, he did. She was nice and warm and everything about her made his knees weak and heart pound like crazy in his rib cage. She was pretty, far too pretty for him, and her voice was soothing, and she was perfect, he just knew it.

“Please let me explain what happened,” he begged her.

She stepped closer and placed her hand on the doorknob stubbornly. “I don’t need an explanation.”

She was so close to him, he could smell her hair, smell the piney scent of Hogsmeade blown into her clothes, infused by the wind. He pressed himself to the door and looked down at her. “Please.”

The look on her face told him she was done. She was done with him and she was done talking. He couldn’t keep her trapped in this room no more than he could make her listen. And yet, he still kept on the door, not letting her pull it open. She huffed and before he could think, she gripped his sweater and pulled him away from it forcefully, shoving him back into the classroom where he tripped and fell onto a seat.

He looked into her eyes. She was fierce. Not the gentle, delicate girl she first appeared to be. There was stubbornness and power to her being. No one could control her if she did not wish it, and the only reason she still stood before him was out of that same kindness that radiated out of her.

“I’m really sorry to have done that, Severus. You don’t deserve to be pushed around like that… but I want to leave… and I will.” She turned around and stepped out of the room, letting the door close behind her.

His heart beat harder than ever before. The way she shoved him, with a calculated caution that told him even when he’d gone too far, when he’d pushed her beyond her patience, she still cared for his wellbeing. She was kind, warm, strong willed, fierce, beautiful, and courageous. The more he learned the more he wanted to her to like him…

He sat there and stared at the wall. She’d been so close he could smell her. She’d grabbed his sweater and for an instant he’d thought – he’d hoped she’d kiss him. Merlin, he wanted to kiss her now. To press this fierce girl into him and kiss her long into the night. He didn’t know how to kiss, and imagined he’d be horrible, but every inch of his body told him he was craving her with an intensity he hadn’t ever felt.

He wanted her, and he wanted her to like him. Needed her to like him again. His hands found the ruffled part of his sweater where her hands had gripped it, and he closed his eyes, imagining her hands still there.

He heard the door and his eyes flew open. Someone stepped in and closed it.

“Lumos.”

A wandlight shined and he could see (Y/n) standing there, looking at the necklace in her hands. He held his breath, waiting for her to speak.

She looked up at him and turned to necklace so he could see, although he was still too far and the engraving would have been too small. “It says my name…” She stepped closer. “If this is a trick – ”

Severus shook his head and sat up. “It’s not a trick.”

She stared deeply into his eyes. “Please explain.”

He nodded quickly and licked his lips. “Ervingwell and his friends – they had me ask out those Ravenclaws to prove I wasn’t too scared to make an information charm… I don’t know why I did it. I thought, knowing they’d all say no, it would be an easy way to prove to Zander I wasn’t as pitiful as he thought I was.” He lowered his head.

There was a long silence, one that made him feel worse than he ever had. He really was pitiful.

“May I touch you?”

Severus jumped. He looked up into her eyes and nodded. “You can do anything you’d like.” His own words made him blush but it was true. She giggled and his heart felt lighter by the sound. Her hand brushed back his hair and he closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of her finger on his temple. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I would never mean to.”

Her fingers pulled back. “You’re saying everything I want to hear… It almost seems too good to be true.”

He stood up and slowly reached for her hand, giving her enough time to pull away, but she didn’t. His fingers hovered close to hers. “M-may I?” She nodded and he took her hand, soft and small in his. “I want to be yours, if you still want me.”

She wrapped her fingers in his and looked up at him. “Do you want me?”

“More than anything.” He couldn’t help but glance down at her lips. Did he want her? His whole heart, mind, and body screamed at him ‘Yes!’

He wanted her in so many ways. He wanted to know her, to have her friendship, to feel her caring ways, to feel her. He wanted her touch.

“I want you, Severus,” she whispered.

~ * ~ * ~

~ * ~ * ~

You breathed in the feint scent of ink and page. He was so close. His face lingered just above your and his eyes, those deep wells of pure darkness that looked your face over with lust that could not be hidden. You could tell he wanted you, and despite knowing he wanted your touch and, perhaps, to touch you as well, his eyes glanced up into yours with intensity; like he couldn’t keep himself from acknowledging your very being. You no longer felt like just a girl who had a crush on him… You felt important to him.

“I need you,” he whimpered.

Without thinking you got on your toes and kissed him hard. He didn’t need any more encouragement than that. His hands quickly found your waist and he pulled you into him with a wild neediness that made you melt in his arms.

His arms snaked around you and pulled you closer into his body. He was warm and your own hands wrapped around his neck, playing with his hair, pulling it as you pleased. He moaned and stepped back suddenly, and you almost gasped as you felt him falling back.

You opened your eyes but his hands gripped your waist and pulled you onto his lap. He sat in a chair and waited for your arms to find themselves around his neck once more. You leaned in and pressed your lips to his, tasting him, biting his lip, moving your head with his. His hands pulled you closer to him and he whimpered once more.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be. I’ll do anything to make you happy. I’ll – ”

You pressed your finger to his lips, quieting him. “Severus… I just want you to be you.” His eyes trailed down and he looked away. “I like you the way you are… You don’t have to prove yourself to me or do anything to make me like you… Just be… Mine. Just be my valentine.”

You brushed a tear out of the corner of his eye and pulled his chin up, meeting his eyes. He nodded and pulled you closer, pressing his face into your chest and sobbed. You held him close, rubbing your hands over his shoulders and back in slow gentle circles.

He pulled his face back to look at yours, as if checking to see he wasn’t ruining anything by displaying his feelings so openly. You bit your lip and smiled. Even with delicate tears trailing down his cheeks, he looked cute and dreamy, as he always did.

“I really like you.” You kissed his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, and finally, his lips.

He moaned and closed his arms around you again. “Will you be my valentine?”

“Nothing would make me happier.” You smiled and kissed him once more, feeling him draw you in closer.

“I’ll be your valentine, (Y/n). Yours and only yours. Forever.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

—-

General taglist:

@setsuna-meiou31

@severuslovebot​

@bionic-otp​

—–