#you could cut his discomfort with a fucking knife. and good thing he learned this lesson from me and not a 16 year old girl he might’ve

[steevejr]

it’s very interesting being an adult (28) working with teens (16-20) and having moments when you can feel this teen, in interacting with you, just learned about how to behave appropriately in a situation they’ve never once encountered before. it’s palpable.

[evita-shelby]

National Anthem

Chapter 8

Cw: mentions of violence, murder, sex, nudity, basically same old lol

Taglist: @thegreatdragonfruta @zablife @call-sign-shark

Autumn 1920

Jack had involved Eva in his business before, but always at home where he could go on to claim it was his genius that led to his success and never his illegal ones.

“No. It wouldn’t benefit us for him to die so soon.” The witch comments after he, his right hand and Wild Bill of the White Hand Gang discuss the best way to deal with the Italians.

They had been offended by the woman sitting on his lap until she showed off her talents by making the glass in Bill Lovett's hand shatter with just her eyes.

She was his secret weapon and while the glass shattering would still have them doubt her ability, they knew better than to try and find out.

Good thing they had come home from his club. If they knew Jack allowed her to speak to him like this, they’d lose their fucking mind.

“Us?” the gangster asked, trailing his hand up her chest, caressing the soft tan skin and wrapping his hand around her neck knowing she cannot stand that. A small payback for when she called him Jackie as she goaded him into chasing her around wearing nothing but his shirt earlier.

He cannot back out of this like that, not after they threatened his family and his life a month ago. Things with Eva had improved, including her as an advisor in these things had given her a purpose beyond pretending to be the perfect American wife.

She had learned business from books, from her family and hired professors to teach her. Eva had also learned strategy during her time in the war, using her gifts to their advantage at every turn. A useful thing when it didn’t contradict him, like now.

No wonder the president and Pancho Villa had gotten tired of her, who wanted a girl telling them what to do. Jack already fights the rumors that he’s gone soft now that he’s a husband and a father.

“Changretta didn’t just come for you, he came for the both of us. If you want to win, you gotta let me play the game with you.” The witch answered masking the discomfort of having his hand on her throat with a sultry breathy tone before dropping it entirely. “Besides, the White Hand made its deal with you through Dinny Meehan not Lovett, Lovett knows you’re a threat to him and will sooner frame the Black Hand for your murder than let you run the Irish Mafia like you intend.”

The Irish of New York had posed less of a threat, choosing to ally with him than fight him. They’d agreed to join in on erasing the Black Hand out of the picture for a cut of the cake.

Especially after Sadie Meehan correctly guessed it was Bill Lovett who orchestrated Dinny’s hit and had him murdered right next to her in their own bed.

Jack would be lying if he didn’t fear his Evie suffering the same fate.

“Then what do you suggest, oh holy Pythia?” Jack didn’t trust Wild Bill nor his brother-in-law anymore as far as he could throw them and this plan to strike the Spinietta Family now that Luca’s back on American soil required a whole lot of trust.

“We wait. Solidify your gangs so when the blessed day happens you won’t even break a sweat or have to watch out for knives in your back.” She moved his hand off her neck and let it wander down the half-buttoned shirt, daring him to divest her of it entirely. Nakedness wasn’t something Eva ever felt bothered by.

Her beauty was as much as a weapon as that diamond encrusted knife she straps on her thigh.

“What did you see?” Jack’s fingers undo the first of the buttons, letting her think she’s won.

She uses sex to manipulate him, doesn’t take a genius to know it.

But he lets her, knows the witch does this to secure some power for herself. She has whatever power he gives her here, where she cannot wave her name or money around to exert her own.

Not yet anyways, the day will come when society will just have to bend its knees and realize how wrong they were to discount him.

Us, the witch’s voice seems to correct him even in his mind.

“Lovett’s getting killed by his brother-in-law in three years and Lonergan will lose the waterfront a year after that, Luca Changretta gets his brains blown out by the man Grace will kill Clive for and New York ripe for the taking that same year.” His wife leaned back on her hands and uncrossed her legs giving him an unobstructed view of herself as the shirt fell open. “I have seen all that and so much more, and if you want it to come true, you have to let me play.”

Jack snaked his arm around her waist as she slotted himself between her long legs cutting off any chances of her bolting when he reminds her what the agreed on.

She’s done it before, when he does something to displease the spoiled goddess she runs off leaving him to use his hand instead of her for release.

“You drive a good bargain, doll. But we agreed, my game my rules.” Not that he won’t take her sage advice, just incorporating it into the plan. “I will keep my plans and take your advice, I will give Changretta a reason to run back to his old man and meet his maker there. Don’t you worry about it, darling.”

March 1921

They’d lost but somehow come out on top.

There’d been some losses in the New York Mob, Luca and his men lived to see another day and yet Jack had gotten the Spinietta Family to call for a truce when he got the last Sabinis in New York to high tail it back to London.

Luca had been given the same treatment he gave Jack six years ago before Jack let him go.

Election night seems to reflect Jack and the White Hand’s offensive on the Spinietta Family.

The Republicans had won the presidency and the gubernatorial race, and yet these cocksuckers had their wives eating out of her hand.

The First Lady had been told about her clairvoyance and Calvin Coolidge had been so impressed about his future as the 30th president of the United States, that the Nelsons were becoming the must know couple in the state, if not the entire region of New England.

Everyone knew who she was, loved her so much they forgot she wasn’t a white woman and now hosts a ball for the man who thinks balls are too frivolous to have.

Jack doesn’t know why taking over society isn’t enough for her.

“Same reason you keep your gang even after no longer needing it, because it’s just not enough.” The witch whispered as they arrived at a charity ball she'd done to replace the President’s Inauguration Ball. “I am so much more than your damnably charming wife, Jack.”

As he remembers with great fondness how he made Luca beg for his life as he taught Eva how to wrap the garrote around his cock and balls, he cannot help but agree. “That you are, doll, that you are.”

The feeling of her silky hand in his as Luca held back his agony was something he’d never thought he’d enjoy so much.

Perhaps, it was a good idea to make her a fellow player in his games for power.

A/N: Dinny Meehan was the leader of the White Hang Gang, a group of Irish gangs in New York who cretaed themselves to fight of the Italian Mob, the Black Hand.

Luca and the black hand family he worked for are fictional so in this fic they take the place of the real gang.

Dinny Meehan was murdered in his home in 1920, his wife Sadie in 1923 told the fbi she believed his right hand Wild Bill Lovett had him murdered, Wild Bill in 1923 was then murdered by the Black Hand in a hit orchestrated by his brother in law Richard 'Pegleg' Lonegran. In 1925 teh White Hand lost their territory to the Black Hand.

Jack is looking into taking New York as he has secured the gangs of Boston just as Tommy sought out London after taking over Birmingham.

William Hardying was president from 1921 to 1923 when he died of a heart attack, he was a republican and succeeded by his vp, Calvin Coolidge who had been the governor of Massachusetts until 1921

[onecanonlife]

Wilbur wakes up one morning to find white in his hair. This is—irritating, for several reasons, but that's all it is. An annoyance. A distraction.

There's nothing deeper at work here. There's nothing wrong at all.

(Or, the stresses of the presidency give Wilbur a white streak of hair earlier in canon, and somehow, this serves as the cry for help he can never bring himself to make.)

(word count: 11,592)

(first part) (second part) (third part)

--------------------

Part Four

He blinks awake, and he isn’t sure what he’s looking at.

A ceiling, to be sure, but it’s not the ceiling that it should be. It’s paler, more uniform, and the light illuminates it more evenly. His eyes drift across it, catching on a few hairline cracks near the wall, and he wonders, vaguely, if this is something he needs to be concerned about. This isn’t his room. He ought to be in his room, if he was sleeping.

And then, he comes to full awareness, because he is suddenly very cognizant that there are other people nearby. Breathing, clothes rustling, quietly conversing, even, and panic bursts in his chest. He sits bolt upright, casting about him for a weapon, anything he could use to defend himself, because he’s not going to let Dream’s men get the drop on him, not going to let him take down their revolution so easily—

He’s greeted by the sight of his friends, staring at him, visibly startled.

That’s right. The war is over. And he can relax, because none of them are likely to stab him in the back. Though that doesn’t mean he can let his guard down entirely, of course—not likely is not the same as impossible, after all, and he learned long ago that nothing is impossible, no loyalty guaranteed. And why are they here in the first place?

He scans the looks on their faces and simultaneously tries to figure out what they’re doing. They’ve got paperwork, it seems like. All of them. Is that his paperwork? Why are they doing his paperwork? And why are their expressions like that, varying between vaguely guilty to concerned to glad to—

His gaze lands on Niki. And just like that, he remembers.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck, what has he done?

He can’t believe himself. Did he actually let himself have a full-on break down with her in the room? Did he actually say all of that to her? There’s no way he can take any of it back now, which means it’s out there. She knows. And with everybody else here, with Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy and even Jack Manifold sitting around on his office floor, he can assume that they know too. They know how much of a failure he is.

Maybe that’s why they’re all here, going through the work that’s meant to be his. They’ve realized that he’s incapable of doing it properly, so they’re going to appoint someone else to take care of it and gently ask him to step down. He has no doubt that they will be gentle. As kind as possible with the knife that hits his heart. He’ll fade into obscurity, a slow death, and dust will coat his bones, and in fifty years or so someone will visit him and find what remains.

That is the kind of thought that would have even Technoblade accusing him of melodrama. He doesn’t care enough to rein himself in at the moment.

“Hey, boss man,” Tubbo says, peering at him over a paper that he’s holding very close to his face. To get a good look at the words, he assumes. “You feeling any better?”

“Um,” he says, and curses his tired brain. He needs a minute. Alone, preferably, so that he can get his mind up and running properly, without anyone seeing him before he can manage as much. But they’re not about to grant him that, are they? “Uh, I’m good.” He shifts, trying to release some of his tension in a non-obvious manner, and fabric falls from his shoulders. He glances down at it; it’s his coat, meaning someone divested him of it when he was asleep and covered him with it. He’s not sure how he feels about that. It’s a nice gesture, on one hand, but on the other, he doesn’t like that they could do that without waking him up.

Niki is sitting closest to him, though everyone is kind of close, actually, now that he’s noticing it. They’ve pushed his desk to the side, too, as well as his chairs, leaving the floor wide open, and yet, they’re all clumped near him, papers spread out between all of them. But Niki smiles at him. No one else does. He wishes he could smile back. His heart refuses to calm, even though he’s recognized the people in here for friends rather than foes. The problem is that anyone could be a foe, and he might not know until it was too late. Not that he really thinks that about any of them, but—he can’t not think it, either.

And he’s too vulnerable. The space is too crowded. They’re all looking at him, watching him, and even though he’s slept, he doesn’t feel rested. Doesn’t feel awake. He’s going to slip up, and they’re all going to be here for it, and he didn’t know what to do about it when it was just Niki so how is he supposed to do damage control when it’s literally everyone—

“That’s good,” Niki says, drawing him out of his thoughts. “I’m glad.” She pauses, and he should say something, but his head’s too jumbled, and all the words jam up against each other before he can think to voice any of them. “It’s been about four hours.”

Oh. That’s good. He hasn’t lost too much time, then. Not that he would have accomplished much with it, probably, but there’s a reason why he forces himself out of bed, at least, even when that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Right,” he says. “Good.” Fuck, the words just aren’t coming. He has to do better than this. “Can I ask why you’re all here?”

Silence falls, thick and oppressive. He feels like he’s breathing heavy fog, like it’s filling his lungs and then staying there. And they’re all still looking at him, too, at him and at each other, and they’re having some sort of silent conversation, and he hates it. He meets Fundy’s eyes for a second, and Fundy glances away, away and down, his ears almost flat against his head, and Wilbur—he’s not going to cry again. Not going to—but he wants to know why they’re here, and he wants to know whatever it is they’re not saying to him, and he doesn’t want his son to look at him with that expression on his face. Like he’s—he doesn’t even know, and when did he forget how to read Fundy? How long has it been since he really tried?

It’s Jack, of all people, who speaks up first.

“Niki said you could use some help,” he says with an easy shrug. “So we’re helping. And you seemed like you might need the rest.”

I don’t need help.

The sentence sticks in his throat. Because it’s a lie. It’s a lie, even though he’s tried so hard to make it into truth. It’s a lie, and perhaps he’s just tired of telling lies.

Though he doesn’t much like the alternative, either. Is there no way out of this?

“We don’t mind, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Tubbo tacks on. His tone is casual, but there is something knowing in it. Something slightly sharp. Tubbo is so very perceptive, even if he doesn’t always let that on, and normally, it’s a trait that he very much admires. Normally. When it’s not directed at him. “And besides, some of this is definitely stuff that I ought to be working on anyway. Since I’m in your cabinet and all. I’m not so busy with the space program that I can’t.”

Space—oh. Right. Did he approve that? He must have.

“Yeah, this is way too much for one guy,” Jack agrees. “No wonder you’ve been stressed out, man. But hey, you’ve got us. We’re paperwork champions, us.” He waves a paper cheerfully, grinning, and that’s a bit much for him at this second. There’s no malice in any of it, in anything that Jack is saying, but it’s still—too much, and he doesn’t quite know why, but his skin has started that uncomfortable buzzing again, the kind that it does when he’s feeling overwhelmed and doesn’t have an outlet.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment,” he tries, phrasing it as carefully as he can, “but that’s really not any of your responsibility.”

“Wil,” Niki says, and her voice cuts through the white noise in his head. He stiffens, and suddenly finds that eye contact is also too much. “We want to help. That’s all. And it’ll make us feel better too, if you let us.”

“We made you soup, too,” Fundy mutters suddenly, ears still pinned back. “Or, well, Niki did. Tommy messed it up the first time.”

“Oi, shut the fuck up,” Tommy says. He’s hunched over, curled in on himself, and eye contact is a thing that he seems to be avoiding as well, which is concerning. Tommy doesn’t tend to be avoidant when he’s angry.

In a way, though, it’s almost relieving to see clear signs that someone, at least, is upset with him.

“I did,” Niki agrees, “but Tommy tried his best. Actually, Tommy, it should be ready now, if you want to go and get it?”

Tommy lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, and the sight makes Wilbur feels a bit like he’s been shot. Because he did that, surely? That’s his fault? It has to be.

“Fine,” Tommy bites out, and then he rises, and he’s out the door before Wilbur can think of what to say to him at all.

“He actually did try his best,” Tubbo says. “When Niki said we ought to make you some soup, he was all over it. He’s just not any good at cooking things. He gets distracted, and then things are burning or boiling over and it’s a whole mess.”

He knows all of this. He traveled with Tommy for a very long time. He was in charge of meals for multiple reasons, despite the fact he doesn’t have much of an affinity for food himself. What he makes is often edible, though, which was always more than he could say for Tommy’s attempts, Tommy who is too impatient and too prone to jumping on ideas and following where they lead, discarding the old ones when they no longer interest him. Not the best mindset to have when it comes to cooking.

And then, the implications catch up to him. Soup. He’s going to have to eat.

That’s a thing he should do, he knows. He just doesn’t know if he can. Especially not with everyone here, everyone looking at him, and his discomfort at that fact has not left him, no matter how silly a thing it is to get worked up over. He ought to be fine with the attention, ought to thrive on it. He used to. He used to, once, not even that long ago. A matter of months. He could drop a deft turn of phrase and have anyone eating out of his hand, and he liked it that way. He could charm strangers and court friends. He was in control.

That control has left him. Along with his dignity, apparently.

“You know, that’s not all that surprising,” Jack says. “Tommy doesn’t really seem like the type of person who knows how to cook things.”

“Well, he can, if he really sets himself to it,” Tubbo says. “Just not if there’s anything else on his mind.”

The implication being that there was. The implication being that it was Wilbur.

His cheeks are on fire. He’s powerless to fight back the flush.

Is this what it’s going to be, now? Are they going to keep discussing him, dancing around the topic while he’s still in the room? He wonders what they talked about while he was asleep. Whether Niki spilled everything, shared all the finest details of his break down, or whether she left them to guess. He doesn’t know which would be worse, but either way, nothing will be the same. At best, they will pity him, will lose their respect for his abilities, lose their faith in his leadership, and they will feel sorry for him. Will feel dismay at how far he’s fallen. Perhaps they won’t even say as much to his face. Perhaps it will all be in sideways glances and hushed silences when he enters a room and too-gentle voices when they speak to him, and he will lose them just as surely as if they hated him.

Perhaps it will be better if they hate him. Perhaps he would prefer that, no matter how it would burn him. Because at least it would burn him quickly, and the flames would not be disguised as an open palm.

“Wil?” Niki’s voice is soft, but it brings him back to the present effectively enough. “Really, are you feeling any better?”

“I’m feeling fine,” he says, almost on instinct, even though he knows very well that he’s not going to be able to slide that past her. Not now. Not after their—

But should he be trying to? After what she said to him?

But he can’t believe her. He can’t. No matter how much some part of him wants to, no matter how much there is something in his brain and in his chest and in his bones that wants nothing more than to break down again, to let them all see the truth of him. Wants to let them take care of him, if they would.

But they shouldn’t have to. Even if they would, they shouldn’t have to.

And he doesn’t want them to pity him.

“Are you?” Niki asks, holding his gaze. He can feel the flush deepening.

“No shame in not,” Jack pipes up, still infuriatingly casual. “If you’re feeling sort of shit, you can tell us that, you know?”

“I’d say it’s encouraged, actually,” Tubbo adds on.

“I’m not feeling sort of shit,” he says, and—fuck. He has to look down. He can’t stand Niki staring at him like that. He’s lying, and she knows, and he knows she knows, but he just—earlier was a fluke. He can’t—he can’t repeat it. Can’t let himself—

So why the fuck is it so tempting to just give in? Is it that he knows he’s already doomed?

“Okay,” Jack says slowly, and even he sounds a bit doubtful, “but you know, hypothetically, if you weren’t? That would hypothetically be fine, and we’d hypothetically be there for you. If you wanted to hypothetically talk to us. Get some things off your chest, as it were. Because we’re your friends.”

He opens his mouth. And closes it again.

And then, the door swings open. Tommy’s standing there, a large bowl in his hands.

“Soup,” he announces, curt and short. He’s angry. And still angry when he looks at Wilbur, for the first time since—all of this. His blue eyes are stormy, and if Wilbur had just a little less presence of mind, he might find himself shrinking back. Which would be ridiculous. He’s not afraid of Tommy.

Just of his judgment.

He blinks, and the soup is being thrust into his hands, along with a spoon. The bowl is hot, but it’s easy to handle, and he takes it before any of it can slosh over the sides. It’s mostly broth, it looks like, with a few chunks of meat. It smells nice. Fairly appetizing.

His stomach growls.

“Thanks, Tommy,” he murmurs. “And Niki, thank you.” He stirs it a couple times, trying to work up the nerve to bring the spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be that hard, but—he’s back to the people thing, again. Eyes on him. And it’s Fundy’s, maybe, that are most unnerving, because Fundy’s barely said anything to him at all. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Can’t read him whatsoever, and that in itself is upsetting.

But perhaps it’s just as well that he waits a moment, because then, Tommy speaks up.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say something?” he demands, and once again, the room falls very silent. No one moves.

His mind blanks, unravels, almost, at the accusatory note in Tommy’s voice.

“Tommy—” Niki ventures, but Tommy shakes his head.

“No,” he snaps. “I want him to say. He’s been in here, fucking, fucking starving himself apparently, because he’s been so fucking stressed, and he hasn’t said anything about it. In fact, he’s been fucking lying about it, and I want some fucking—some fucking answers, alright? Why didn’t he tell any of us what was going on?”

No words form. He doesn’t have an answer. Not when it’s Tommy asking him these things.

His chest feels hot.

No. No, not now, not again, you’re not doing this.

“Tommy,” Niki says, “I think it’s a little more complicated than that—”

“Fuck complicated,” Tommy says. “He could’ve been dying and we wouldn’t have known.”

Tommy’s voice breaks.

And it is probably a bad thing, that Wilbur’s first thought is, I think that I was.

He has enough good sense to not say that aloud, at least.

“I was hardly about to burden you with my problems,” he says, barely above a whisper. He can’t get his volume to increase any more than that. Not in the face of Tommy’s anger. Which is odd, because usually he’s quite good at combating Tommy’s stubbornness. “Especially when I ought to be able to handle them myself.”

“Well, fuck you too, then,” Tommy says, and—it is an effort not to flinch at that, to stop himself from spiraling, to prevent tears from springing to his eyes again. He can’t be that sensitive. He can’t. But then, Tommy continues, and he thinks that all his efforts might be for naught anyway. “No, really, fuck you, man. You’re not fucking—burdening us, what the shit are you on about? Are you just stupid?”

“Not that I’d phrase it that way,” Tubbo joins in, “but Tommy’s got a point, boss man. Why’d you think you couldn’t come to us with this stuff? You have to know we’re happy to help you, right?”

It’s that same question again. He can’t go through it. He can’t explain the self-loathing, the mask he wears, the front he puts up. He can’t go through it, because he doesn’t want to see the dawning realizations on their faces. He doesn’t want them to understand him, not like that, because he understands himself. He understands himself, and he hates himself for it, and he doesn’t want them to hate him as well.

But Niki doesn’t hate him. Niki heard everything that came out of his mouth, and she doesn’t hate him.

But that’s not—

He feels so fucking lost. And he hates that, too.

“I think,” Niki says suddenly, “that Wilbur’s been dealing with some things lately. And that maybe he didn’t want anybody to know about it because he’s supposed to be the leader, so that means he’s supposed to be strong all the time, and maybe that means he’s not supposed to ask for help. And that maybe he thinks we’d think less of him if he did need help.”

He stares at her.

That’s the crux of a lot of it. And she’s just laid it out. It’s in the open, now, and he didn’t have to say anything at all. He’s not sure whether to feel grateful or upset about it.

She stares back. “You don’t have to say anything,” she says. “I know it’s difficult for you. But am I right, Wil?”

It is difficult for him. That’s part of the whole problem. If it is a problem. He didn’t think that is was, thought that it was a strength, in fact, the only thing keeping him above water, the fraying stitches that maintain the facade that he so desperately needs to keep up. But if Niki is to be believed, he should have said something a long time ago. Because his leadership capabilities and his formation of this country aren’t why his friends stick with him. Apparently.

He still doesn’t know if he can believe that.

But perhaps he doesn’t have to believe it yet. Perhaps he needs to take a chance.

Slowly, he nods, and he keeps looking at her, not at anyone else, because he doesn’t want to see anyone else’s reactions, but he does see the relief in her eyes at the motion, at the admission. At the capitulation—because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s him giving in, accepting that there is nowhere else to hide.

“Oh,” Tommy says, and he thinks that someone else makes a noise, but he can’t tell who. “Well, that’s just some bullshit, then, innit? Everyone needs help sometimes, don’t they? Except for me, because I’m so poggers, but everyone can’t be me, you know, and there’s no shame in that. And maybe, you know, just maybe I ask for help sometimes too, just to make it fair to everyone else. But you know, asking for help, it doesn’t make you any less, um, good, and if you need help you should ask for it, I think. That’s my opinion.”

Oh fuck. He’s not going to cry. That shouldn’t even be hitting him like it is, because Tommy’s his kid brother and he’s supposed to be looking after him, not the other way around, but—

Fuck. He’s tearing up. He doesn’t want them to see him crying. But his mind’s a mess.

“I know it’s hard,” Niki says, and she scoots a little closer. “But we can start with little things, okay? And we’re here for you.” Her eyes take on a certain amount of hardness, a glint that’s just a bit like steel. “And we’re going to continue being here for you.” She reaches out, then, puts a hand on his arm, and the only reason he doesn’t flinch away and spill soup all over himself is because she choreographs the motion. “How about you eat your soup?”

He finds his voice at last.

“Okay,” he says, small and broken. They can hear it, he’s sure. But they don’t leave.

He eats the soup. It’s good.

He can only get about half of it down before he feels too full to continue, but it’s something like a start.

----

They’re true to their word, all of them.

He’s not alone nearly so often these days. It’s almost frustrating, because they’re hovering. He’s well aware of that fact. Even when he wants to isolate himself, he finds that he can’t do it, that it’s not fifteen minutes before someone comes barging in, either to take him out somewhere or to stay in with him, to work on policies or just to share stories or show him a new build or a thousand other things. His office sees more traffic in the next few weeks than it has in the past few months.

But what they don’t do, he’s starting to realize, is pity him.

He doesn’t understand it at first. But they never comment on the fact that he can’t do what he ought to be able to do, and they never hint that they find him incapable, and they don’t subtly try to say that he’s unfit for the job, even though all of these things are true and wrapped up in each other. They’re just—there. For him. Supporting him.

It’s a little bewildering. He tries not to express as much, because whenever he lets something like that slip, they look angry, if they’re Tommy, and sad if they’re anyone else. Which he doesn’t want. But it truly is as if they care about him as a person and not just what he can do for them, which is a mindset he’s never been able to hold when it comes to himself, and frankly, he’s not sure whether he can trust it at all, because he’s still not good at that. Still not good at trust. He’s not sure whether he ever will be again.

But they stay with him, and they help him, and from everything he can tell, it’s not because they pity him. It’s because they care.

Terrifying. And there have to be limits to that, surely? To even the most genuine compassion?

But he hasn’t found them yet.

The first time he thinks that perhaps there are none at all comes on what he’s taken to calling one of his grey mornings, where all the world appears lifeless, colorless, and there doesn’t seem to be a point to getting out of bed, and even if he wanted to, his limbs drag heavily, as if weighted down by anchors, and his mind refuses to emerge from the persistent fog that takes it.

Usually, on these mornings, he manages to be up and about by midday at the latest, if only because his anxiety about the tasks he needs to accomplish eventually overrides the haze, and no one is ever the wiser for it.

Today, Tommy comes barging into his private quarters at about ten in the morning.

“Wilbur!” Tommy says, loud as anything, drawing out his name in the way that he does when he wants something. He wants to press his pillow over his ears so he doesn’t have to listen, because it’s grating, the sudden noise. But he doesn’t have the energy for it, so he just lies there, in bed, covers pulled over him, watching Tommy through slit eyes as he steps into the room. “Wilbur, you’ve got to come and tell Tubbo—why’s your room so shit?”

He’s fairly certain that’s a change in subject, and not what he’s supposed to come tell Tubbo.

“No, really,” Tommy says. “There’s like, nothing in here. What the hell?”

He needs to respond to that, so he sighs.

“Haven’t gotten around to it yet,” he mutters, and even just saying that much takes far too much effort. “Just—go do something, I’ll be up in a bit.”

And he will be. He always is. But Tommy doesn’t leave, stands there frowning at him, and it’s enough to make him feel self-conscious. Not as much as it would have a few weeks ago, perhaps, but still, he doesn’t like that Tommy’s seeing him like this, all slumped over and still in bed like a sad, messy sack of potatoes.

“Rough morning then, eh?” Tommy says, and—really, there’s no point in denying it.

“I’ll be over it in a bit,” he repeats, though it’s a chore, though he’s dreading the moment he steps out of bed, because the thing about days like these is that the haze doesn’t actually leave him. He just eventually uses his neuroticism to force himself to work through it, which makes for a gut-churning combination of nerves and apathy, both rolling through him at once. It’s unpleasant, and his brain never seems to work properly. Everything that’s supposed to be important dissolves, slips from his grasp, and he can’t even manage to care properly about it, and then he gets anxious about the fact that he can’t care properly about it, and then it turns into a cycle, all of his negative energy feeding itself. And he’s powerless to make it stop.

“Okay, but if I leave, you’re just going to be in here, all sad and shit,” Tommy says. “So how about I stay here, and I tell you about the crimes that Tubbo has committed against me, and then when you’re feeling a bit better, because everyone feels better after talking to me—when you’re feeling a bit better you can get up and we can go out together, yeah?”

He’s not sure how he feels about that. But he can hardly stop Tommy at the moment, since it seems he’s already made up his mind, and Tommy’s already looking around for a chair; the only one in the room is the one at his desk, so Tommy pulls that over to the bed, making a horrid, obnoxious scraping noise against the floor. And then, he seats himself, settling down like he’s not inclined to go anywhere anytime soon. And he talks.

The thing is, it sort of works.

The way Tommy’s speaking, it’s like he doesn’t have any kind of expectations. Wilbur doesn’t need to answer, just to listen. So he does, and he lets himself drift a little bit, and it’s difficult to believe that Tommy’s not judging him for it, or for any of this, but Tommy’s not the sort of kid who hides what he’s feeling, and he can’t detect any frustration or derision in the way he’s talking. It’s like he’s content enough to just talk, to be there, even though Wilbur’s hardly making it fun for him, is hardly being an engaging conversation partner. It’s like he just wants Wilbur to feel better, without any ulterior motive at all, so he’s here doing what he thinks will accomplish that.

And Wilbur does start to feel better.

Not all the way. Not by a long shot. But eventually, he finds himself able to reply, and the words come a bit easier and thinking feels a bit less like wading through mud, and it starts to be an actual conversation rather than just Tommy jabbering at him. And after that, he manages to swing himself out of bed and get dressed, and Tommy pushes breakfast on him that he manages to eat most of, and just like that, he’s up and about his day. Not at a hundred percent, not firing on all cylinders, but more than usual, on a grey day like today.

And it’s because of Tommy. Because he was here. Because he came, and he stayed, and he thinks that perhaps, what Tubbo did or did not do was never the point of this at all.

When he asks Tommy about it, a little circumspectly, Tommy stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“What do you mean, why?” he asks. “Why wouldn’t I? You were feeling shitty, weren’t you? So I wanted to make you feel alright again.”

It’s stated so simply. As if that really is all there is to it.

And perhaps that’s the truth.

“You make things way too complicated,” Tommy tacks on, matter-of-factly. “I dunno why you do that. You ought to stop it, I reckon.”

That wrings a laugh from him, and if it’s a bit wet, Tommy doesn’t comment on it.

“Maybe I should,” he says, and Tommy nods, satisfied.

“Of course you should,” he says. “I am always so incredibly correct. You should listen to me all the time.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he returns, and it feels, just a little bit, like the way things used to be.

----

The white hair still bothers him. His reflection as a whole still bothers him, but the white hair most of all. It’s broad and obvious and an irritating reminder of what everyone keeps insisting isn’t weakness, but rather a sign that he’s pushed himself beyond the point of what’s healthy. Which matters. Evidently.

He still doesn’t like looking at it. It makes him feel—lesser, in a way, though he’s no longer sure that makes any sense at all.

So he still does his best to hide it, even though there’s not much point anymore, even though everyone’s seen it and everyone knows exactly what it means. He tries to hide it, and he avoids looking in the mirror when he can, and he pretends he doesn’t see the way people frown at him, sometimes, whenever he refuses to do something like take off his coat or hat in one of the more casual settings they’ve taken to luring him out to.

And then, Fundy shows up at his door with a bucket and a pair of fishing rods.

“Do you want to go fishing with me,” he blurts out, all in one breath, and Wilbur blinks, because he hadn’t expected this at all. He’s come to expect something, most days, has come to expect someone arriving either to interrupt the monotony of his work or to help him with it, but Fundy doesn’t make appearances often. And never by himself. Frankly, Wilbur had come to the conclusion long ago that he’d messed up somewhere along the line, done something that forced his son to desire a separation from him. That his little champion has resolved that he’d rather not have much to do with his father.

“Fishing?” he asks.

He’d promised, a long time ago, that he’d teach his son how to fish one day. That day never arrived. He’d thought that Fundy didn’t want to anymore.

“Yeah.” Fundy shifts his weight back and forth between his feet. “Um, it was just an idea. But I thought that maybe? You’d want to? If you, um, if you have some time for it. It’s okay if you don’t.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say no. But he’s done that so many times, has denied his son again and again. Not just his son, but everyone, and now they’re all determined to make him see, apparently, that focusing on his work in the way he has been is not only unhealthy, but not necessary. He still doesn’t know that he believes that.

“Alright,” he says softly, and stands, and his heart breaks a little at the surprise that comes across Fundy’s face.

“Really?” he asks. “You want to?”

“I do,” he says. And he does, even if a bout of nerves rises up in him at the prospect. He does his best to quash them.

So they do. They go down to the docks. They get situated, and Wilbur shows his son how to put the bait on a hook, and how to cast his line out, and how to be patient, and they fish, and it’s a bit awkward. A bit stilted. There’s too many unspoken words between them, and one big subject that neither of them knows how to breach, especially not in this circumstance, and part of Wilbur doubts that they ever will.

But they’re both here. And he doesn’t want this to be their future. And he’s decided to try not to isolate himself like he was, so if something’s going to change, it really is up to him, so he takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you,” he says, and stares out at the way their bobbers float next to each other in the gentle surf.

“It’s okay,” Fundy says. “Or, well, I mean. I kind of thought that you were disappointed in me or something, so that kind of didn’t feel okay, but I’m glad you’re not.”

He jerks at the confession, which sounds pained, as though he doesn’t really want to be saying it.

“Why would I ever be disappointed in you?” he asks.

“Well, it’s—” Fundy says. “I dunno, you just never let me do anything, and then you kind of stopped spending time with me at all, so I sort of figured that maybe you thought I couldn’t do anything.”

His mouth is dry. His line is slack, which is just as well; if a fish came along now, he might let it tug his rod right from his fingers.

“I’m not disappointed in you,” he says. “I never—I never could be, Fundy, I promise. I—I thought you were disappointed in me, to be entirely honest.”

Fundy’s head snaps toward him, his eyes wide.

It is a struggle to continue. Confessions like this are not his forte, even now. But he’s trying to be more open. Trying not to lock himself away. Trying to reach out for the hands that have been offered to him, trying to believe that they will help him stand, will not abandon him to his own shoddy balance as soon as it becomes apparent that he’s made up of more trouble than worth.

And Fundy deserves this.

“I’m sorry that I made you feel that way,” he says, and that is difficult, too. Saying sorry outright like that. But he needs to. “Truly. I just figured—I mean, I know I’m not exactly the best parent. And especially lately, it’s been—”

He trails off, not sure where he’s going with this. If it were a few weeks ago, he’d be apologizing for his weakness as well, for his inability to remain strong under the pressure, but everyone around him keeps insisting that that’s not the right way to look at it, and he’s growing more and more open to letting himself be convinced.

“You’re—” Fundy starts, and then falters. His tail drags back and forth, and then stills. “Oh. Um. Okay, I probably should’ve—um.” His ears flick, and he glances away. “I’m sorry too, then. For avoiding you lately. I know, um, that’s what I’ve been doing. I didn’t realize that it—it wasn’t because I thought that you were, that you were disappointing or anything, I just didn’t—I didn’t really know how to react. Because I sort of always thought you were invincible, and now all of a sudden you’re not.”

Something in him wilts.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“No! Um, no, that’s not what I—you don’t have to be invincible, it’s just that I sort of needed to, to adjust to that. Because of course, no one’s invincible, right? But you’re just—you’re my dad, so I guess I always just thought that nothing could hurt you. So I wasn’t—I wasn’t really sure what I should do. Or how I should help. Or if you even wanted me to help. But I didn’t mean to—I mean, maybe I was a little upset with you but not like—it wasn’t like, for a—I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it. I guess I was upset because I was worried.” Fundy looks back at him. “‘Cause, you know. I love you and everything.”

Oh.

He’s not quite sure what to do with all of that, but the last sentence gets caught in his chest and sticks there, warmth unfurling.

All’s not lost. His son still loves him.

“I love you too,” he says, slightly hoarse. “Always.”

He can believe this. Sitting here, listening to the lap of the waves, he can believe this, can believe that his son loves him, that no matter his mistakes, his son still cares, that his son won’t leave him. Maybe he’ll forget later, but he can be reminded. And in turn, he hopes that Fundy believes him. Because there are so many words unspoken between them, but now, there are a few less.

They keep fishing. Far longer than he thought he’d allow himself, but he finds it easier than it has been, to push his duties from his mind. And at some point, he rolls up his sleeves, and then loses the coat entirely, and the hat lands on top of it, and he’s letting his hair free, and other than a few glances, Fundy doesn’t mention it at all.

And when he catches a glimpse of himself in the water, too-thin face and too-dark eyebags and a white streak of hair that’s almost skunk-like in its prominence, he doesn’t care much for it, but he doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t feel the need to hide away, or to put on the layers again, to cover up behind the mask of professionalism.

For a moment, he can just be a man fishing with his son, and all the rest is less important.

----

“There is,” Jack Manifold says, and swallows, “a man.”

Not what he expected Jack to say when he burst in like that, but alright.

“What man?” he asks. He puts down the paper he’d been reading, and decides it goes into the ‘to-delegate-to-Tubbo’ pile. That’s a new system he’s been using. Delegation. He’s not quite comfortable with it yet, but it makes everyone else happier, so he’s doing his best to actually give it a try.

“A man,” Jack says, very helpfully. “He’s at the gates. We told him to wait to come in, and he’s doing that, but um. Wow. He’s got some vibes. Dunno how to describe them, except to be honest, he’s a bit intimidating. And he wants to see you.”

That can’t possibly bode well.

“Alright,” he says, standing and grabbing his coat. Freshly washed. He’s getting better about that. He’s had a bit more energy, lately. “Show me.”

Jack takes him down to the front entrance. He keeps pace with him, matching him stride for stride, but it’s not until they’re almost there that Jack tacks on, almost an afterthought, “Oh, yeah, plus he had wings. That’s not really a usual thing.” And his heart leaps straight into his throat.

“He what,” he says, but by then it’s too late, because there’s the entrance to his nation, and standing there, talking amicably with Tubbo, is Phil.

He looks unchanged from the last time he saw him. Even though that was—well. Not actually years ago. He’s seen him in the meantime for a couple of tournaments and the like, but he’s thinking of the day he left home. The day he decided that the world was too vast, too big to leave unexplored and unconquered, the day he decided to go in pursuit of that nebulous more that he always seemed to want, but could never put a name to. The day he slung his guitar across his back and a coat over his shoulders and gave his father one last hug goodbye and promised to write, and only looked back once to the house, to where Phil stood on the porch, smiling and waving him off, proud of him.

He looks unchanged. Same robes, same sandals. Same dumb bucket hat. Same wings arching behind him, feathers black as the void that granted them to him.

“Oh,” Jack says. “Does Tubbo know him?”

He swallows.

Why is Phil here?

“Yeah, they’ve met,” he says. “He’s—not anyone you need to be worried about.”

Probably. Almost definitely. Especially if Technoblade’s not with him, since he’s heard Technoblade has a bit of a mind toward anarchy these days, so he’s not sure how well that next meeting is going to go. But there’s no sign of his father’s best friend, only his father, whose head swivels toward him on his approach, and it’s too late to turn back now. Not that he would. This isn’t something he can run away from.

“Wilbur!” Tubbo says, as soon as he’s close enough. “You didn’t say Phil was coming.”

“I wasn’t aware Phil was coming,” he says, and tries for a smile. Phil meets his eyes, and he returns it, but there is something else there. Something more complicated than a simple reunion ought to warrant. “Phil didn’t write ahead. Though that’s not to say he isn’t welcome, but I probably would’ve done a bit of tidying up first.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Phil says. “I don’t mean to drop by unannounced. But any letter I sent probably wouldn’t have gotten here much before I did.”

That is—concerning. What’s so pressing that he couldn’t have waited?

“We should probably let you guys catch up, huh?” Tubbo says, and then nudges Jack. “C’mon, we’ve got to go do a thing.”

“We do?”

“Yep.” And then, Tubbo’s got Jack by the arm, and both of them are walking away, Jack considerably more confused than Tubbo, and then they’re gone. And he’s left with Phil.

Should this feel as awkward as it does? There’s no reason for this tension. Not that he knows of.

“Hi,” he says. “Been a while.”

“Hi, mate,” Phil says, voice soft, expression soft. Is there a reason for the softness, more than just seeing each other again for the first time in—a while?

“Well, welcome to L’Manberg,” he says. “I mean it, you were welcome anytime. I’d love to show you what I’ve made here. What we’ve made here.” He pauses. He can’t not ask. Letting something like that slip by him isn’t in his nature. “Though, is there anything I should know about? Don’t take this the wrong way, because I am glad to see you, but I really wasn’t expecting you.” He finishes with a laugh, short and perhaps a bit nervous, and the corners of Phil’s eyes crinkle. His expression isn’t happy, though, not really.

“I got your letter,” Phil says, still soft, and Wilbur goes to ask for clarification, because he hasn’t sent a letter asking him to come. Except the next words make him freeze. “Both of them, actually.”

Phil dips a hand into a pocket in his robes, and it comes out holding two sheets of paper. Both written in his handwriting. One neat, clean. The other with lines and sentences scratched out, and then the rest of it rushed, an outpouring of emotion, something that he never, ever intended to send. And he wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake, would he have? Except he was so tired, and Tubbo came in and interrupted him, and couldn’t it be plausible that he’d just—scooped up both drafts, when he only meant to send the one? That he tucked both into the envelope, sent both flying off, sent them both into Phil’s hands, one a clear contradiction of the sweet lies of the other?

He’s gone numb.

“Oh,” he says weakly.

What did he write? He can’t even remember now. It was a flight of passion, a bit of self indulgence that he hoped would relieve some of the stress. It didn’t, of course. And he didn’t consider the idea that there would be consequences for it, that it would ever see the light of day. He never intended it to.

Something about being a disappointment. About failing everyone. About being hated. Something about the Final Control Room, too, which was something he never wanted Phil to learn about.

“Um,” he says.

“I figured you didn’t mean to send it,” Phil says. “But I—I could hardly not come, after reading that.”

He sounds a little bit lost. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do in this situation either. That makes two of them.

He can’t explain this away. Even if he’s been a bit better lately, even if he’s gotten a bit better at leaning on others, at asking for help, and even if he no longer quite believes that his friends will abandon him as soon as he proves to be of little use—because if they were going to do that, they would have already, surely—even with all of that, he’s still not well. In a better state of mind than he was when he penned that, but still not well. And now Phil knows, and he’s here, and he’s going to know all the rest, and whenever he thinks he’s mastered himself, has himself under control, the universe comes and spits in his face, doesn’t it?

Niki was one thing. And then all the rest of his friends, his little brother, even, that was another, but he’s been getting accustomed to it. Has been trying to trust, even though it’s so very difficult.

But Phil. He never wanted Phil to know. Not any of it.

“Right,” he says. “Um. I was—not in a very good headspace when I wrote that. I’ll admit it. But it’s not—I mean, I am okay. You don’t need to worry.”

The words taste stale before they even leave his mouth. Phil won’t believe them; he doesn’t believe them himself. No one has believed them for quite some time, and perhaps it’s better that they don’t. Hadn’t he said that he was tired of lying?

But this is Phil.

“Wilbur,” Phil says, and he almost cringes, “would it be okay if I hugged you?”

And—that is not what he was expecting.

He’s nodding before he can really consider it. A few scant weeks ago, he would have denied the request, citing something about professionalism and maintaining appearances and no longer being a child. And that urge is still there, still present to some degree. But it is overwhelmed by the realization that it has been a long time since he was hugged by his father, and whenever Phil hugs him, he always feels safe and warm and protected, and he wants that, and if everyone around him is to be believed, it’s alright for him to want that.

So Phil steps forward, and he steps forward to meet him, and he’s not sure when he got to being so much taller than Phil, but even despite that, it feels just like he remembers, arms and wings folding around him and tugging him close. He sags against him almost instantly, and Phil holds him up with little effort.

And suddenly, there’s tears in his eyes. He’s starting to make this a habit.

“I’ve been really worried,” Phil murmurs. “Wil—why didn’t you tell me? Any of this?”

“I didn’t,” he starts, and almost chokes on his own breath, “I didn’t want—”

Ah. There go the tears. He’s less ashamed of them than he would have been, not long ago, though he still doesn’t like that this is happening. Still doesn’t like that Phil’s privy to this, now, too.

Phil hushes him, rubbing circles into his back. They must be a sight, L’Manberg’s president crying into the shoulder of the Angel of Death.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” he finally chokes out. “I’m sorry I lied. I just didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Oh, Wilbur,” Phil says, his voice something like grief and something like sorrow, “you could never disappoint me.”

“I could,” he insists. “I’m very disappointing.”

“You’re not,” Phil says. “You’re not. And even if you could be, I would never, ever be disappointed in you for how you feel, or for needing help.”

Ah. Well.

That seems rather in line with the sentiments that everyone else has been expressing, of late. And there’s something in his brain that won’t let him be persuaded, not entirely, as much as he’s been trying to work past it. There’s something in his brain that insists that he is a disappointment, that he should be better at handling himself, that anyone saying otherwise is lying, trying to placate him, because if he cannot accomplish anything worthy of attention or praise then he is not worthy himself.

But Phil is not lying to him. Phil is hugging him, and in his voice, there is nothing but sincerity. And pain, perhaps. Pain born of fear, of worry. For him.

He doesn’t have a response. Not a verbal one. But he holds Phil tighter, and Phil does the same, and for a while, they just stand there, and true safety is not a thing that exists, but if it did, he imagines it would feel a little like this.

----

He uncovers the mirror.

It’s a whim, not something thought out. He barely thinks about it at all before he’s doing it, whipping the sheet off and peering at himself.

The man staring back is a stranger, in more ways than one, and yet, he is utterly familiar. There are the bags, still deep and dark. There is the thinness of his wrist, the prominence of his cheekbones, the blood shot through his eyes. And there is the hair, creeping out from under the hat. Curly, a bit longer than he usually keeps it, and streaked with white in multiple places, the most obvious of which is a broad chunk right in front.

He breathes. In and out.

He still hates it. He doubts he’ll stop any time soon. It marks him as different, as other. Gives people something to stare at whenever it’s out in the open, though his friends have stopped doing it as much. He thinks they’ve realized that it well and truly bothers him.

But at the same time—

The bags are still dark, but less so. His frame is still lean, lanky, a bit underfed, but it’s no longer so bad, no longer as bad as it was. He’s not sure he understood how bad it was, at the time, but he’s eating more regularly now, and it’s obviously made a difference. His uniform is neat, and he feels no compulsion to straighten it up further, to get rid of all the creases, to stand with a soldier’s perfect posture. There is something to be said about professionalism, of course, but the need to be perfect all the time has faded. Not disappeared, but lessened.

And the white is still present, still a sign of what happened to him. Of the conditions he placed himself under. He doesn’t like it.

But he’s not ashamed. At least, not as much as he was.

He runs his hand through his hair. Puts his hat on his head, and lets his curls hang freely underneath it, doesn’t try to shove them up under the covering.

He doesn’t love it. He’s not there yet. He doesn’t know how to love himself. Doesn’t know how to convince himself that he deserves to.

But it doesn’t look bad.

He breathes. In and out.

“Alright,” he says, and the man in the mirror mouths the words in time with him. “You’re alright.”

It’s not quite the truth, but for the first time in a long time, it’s not quite a lie, either.

----

His feet carry him to Niki’s once again.

There’s no one else there but her. Her and the warmth of the ovens, the crackle of furnaces, the bits of flour always floating on the air. He slides into his usual seat, propping his head up on his hands and just watching her for a minute, not saying anything. The prominent scent is that of baking bread, but she’s setting ingredients out for cookies. He recognizes them, recognizes the combination of flour and eggs and sugar, and chocolate chips set off to the side. She’s washing her hands, and then, she turns, and she sees him.

She smiles.

He smiles back.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” she answers. She turns back to the sink and washes her hands, and then goes back to her ingredients. It’s familiar. He’s watched this so many times. She mixes the dry ingredients, and then starts adding the wet, stirring until it all solidifies into dough, adding in the chocolate chips. She’s making them the way he knows most of the kids like them best, almost more chocolate than cookie, barely holding themselves together when they’re fresh out of the oven.

He pillows his head on his arms. Lets his hat slide to the side. He’s aware of it, but he doesn’t pick it back up.

It’s so warm in here.

It’s not long before she has mounds of dough on baking sheets. Her movements are practiced, steady and sure. To his eyes, it’s almost like magic, the way it all comes together.

He’s tempted to ask for a bit of the dough. But if he does that, she’ll smack him on the head with her spoon and warn him about the dangers of eating raw eggs, an exasperated smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. And he’ll sigh and go along with it, no matter how tempting the morsel might be. Unless he sees an opportunity to sneak some, but she catches him more often than not.

So he doesn’t ask. Just watches. It’s warm, and he feels tired, but it’s not a bad kind of tired. Not a bone-deep weariness. Not the kind that makes him want to sleep and never wake up again—and that, that is something he has not quite confronted yet, that sentiment, that desire. He ought to. He has more clarity now, and he knows himself, and he knows he ought to. But not now.

He’s tired, but it’s the sort of tired that pushes him toward a nap, comfortable and safe, and that startles him for a moment, the fact that he feels safe here, with no qualifications placed on the idea at all.

He’s not in a talking sort of mood. So it surprises him when, after she’s finished putting the pans in the oven, Niki turns to him and asks, “Do you want to help with the next batch?”

He blinks.

“I thought I’d make some sugar cookies next,” she says, and then holds out her hand. “Come and help me.”

He stands, slowly, and ventures around behind the counter to where she’s standing. He takes her hand after only a moment’s hesitation, and is rewarded with another smile, one that he can’t help but return, if haltingly.

“You do know what a mess I am in the kitchen, right?” he checks.

“You are a disaster,” she agrees. “But you’ve been in here enough that you know what to do, don’t you? You can at least follow my directions.”

“I suppose,” he says, and Niki takes that as all the affirmation she needs, because in the next second, she’s stepping away from him and into a back room, and then returns in the next instant with an apron. Plain white, and definitely far too short for him, and she shoves it at him with an expression that tells him she clearly knows that it will make him look at least slightly ridiculous.

He sighs and puts it on. It barely reaches his mid-thigh.

“It suits you,” Niki says, with a determined nod. “Now, come here.”

She walks back over to the counter, clearing off all the bowls and measuring cups that she’d used for the chocolate chip cookies and pulling out new ones. She seems to have an endless supply. And then she looks at him, expectantly, so he comes over, hovering by her as she goes to get the actual ingredients. All familiar. All things he’s seen her use before, countless times. Perhaps this won’t go so badly; he could probably even get the measurements right himself, if he tried.

Niki sets a big bag of flour on the counter with a thump.

“Measure that out for me?” she says. “We’ve multiplying everything by four.”

Alright. He—thinks he knows what that means. So he takes a few measuring cups, scoots them closer to him, and begins pouring the flour, giving Niki sideways glances so as to pick up on whether he’s doing it right or not. She doesn’t stop him, but his distraction means that the flour starts kicking up in the air in earnest, and he coughs, waving a hand in front of his face. When it clears, she’s looking at him in amusement, and he shrugs, holding out one of the cups toward her.

It goes on like that. She directs him, and he does what she tells him to do, and if he gets it wrong, she corrects him, and if he gets it right, she thanks him. They stay quiet, for the most part, little conversation passing between them, but it’s not an uncomfortable lack. There’s no tension in the air, no pressure to perform. He feels as though his words have run dry again, melted away from him in the close warmth of the bakery, but for once, he doesn’t mind. He feels, for the most part, at ease.

What a novel concept.

It’s not too long before they’ve got dough, and plenty of it. Niki moves them to another counter, spreading flour out across a couple of thin boards before sliding one in front of him, and scooping some dough on top of it. She holds the rolling pin out in front of him a moment later, and he takes it. It’s fairly self-explanatory, what he’s meant to do now.

He rolls out the dough. Beside him, Niki does the same.

“We’d freeze it first, if we wanted it to hold its shape better,” she murmurs. “But I think we’ll keep these simple.”

He hums. The motion is repetitive, almost soothing, though it takes a moment to figure out how much pressure he should be applying. It takes some, but not too much. And yet, it’s simple, leaving his mind free to drift, and for the first time in a while, those drifting thoughts don’t land anywhere too dark.

“Here, that’s thin enough,” Niki says, putting a hand on his arm, and he stops. “You don’t want it to be too thin, and you don’t want to have to roll it out again. It’s never good to overwork the dough.”

“Right,” he says, and watches as she fishes around for some cookie cutters. True to her word, they’re simple, just various sizes of circles. She pushes some toward him, and he takes one, pressing it into his dough and coming up with a perfect circle. He then pauses, watching her to see how she gets hers out of the cutter; she pushes it gently with one finger, so he does the same, and it lands on one of the cookie sheets with a light thwap.

He finds a rhythm after that. And there’s something nice in the simplicity of the design. Just circles.

But after a few minutes, Niki breaks the silence.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she says. “It was—scary. The way you were.”

He has to chew on that for a moment. It’s still a bit odd to be thinking of it that way. He spent so long being so determined that he was doing the right thing—and not only the right thing, but the only thing, the only option available to him. Keep his head high, his face pleasant, and only let out his despair when there was no one else around to see or hear. So it’s still foreign, just slightly, to wrap his head around the fact that other people cared that he was doing that. And not because it affected his ability to fulfill his duty, but because they cared for him. Care. Present tense.

Because they’re still here. Are still with him, despite how sure he was that admitting his weakness would drive them away. That, if nothing else, is the most convincing evidence of all as to the veracity of their words.

“I think I understand that now,” he says, and cuts out another cookie. “I’m glad too.”

He’s sleeping more often. Eating more frequently. And the storm of his mind, while not gone, has calmed. It’s easier to hold his ground against the wind that batters him, and easier to recognize it for wind at all.

It’s easier to reach out for a hand to help ground him.

“I think,” he starts, almost on impulse, and then stops. How much of this is fair to say? The importance of sharing his emotions has been impressed upon him, but he doesn’t want to give anyone else a burden. Doesn’t want to—but that’s not thinking about it the right way, is it? He glances at Niki, checks to see if she is willing to listen, and she nods at him, encouragingly. That’s all he needs. She wants to hear him, wants him to speak. The only person holding him back is himself, himself and the lingering fears that anything he says will be used against him, that everyone around him is circling, waiting for a fall, that the moment he opens up they’ll pounce, tear him to shreds and then leave what remains for the crows.

But that’s not the case.

They’ve proven it to him. And more than that, they were willing to prove it, even when it was, perhaps, not fair of him to demand that of them.

“I think I got used to it,” he says, slowly, feeling out the words as he says them. “Hating myself. So used to it that I didn’t realize that I was a bit fucked up.”

“I don’t know if fucked up is quite the right word,” Niki says, matching his soft tone. “Do you still? Hate yourself?” Her voice breaks just a little bit on the last word, but when he turns his head to meet her gaze full-on, she looks back steadily.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and this honesty burns. “I really—I really don’t.”

Is he supposed to know? That’s probably a thing he’s supposed to know. A chill runs up and down his spine, but then, Niki lays her hand on his arm again.

“I think that’s progress,” she says, “isn’t it?”

“But I should know,” he says. “And—I’m aware of the fact that healthy people don’t hate themselves, Niki.”

“Well, I don’t want you to hate yourself,” she says, and her voice is a strange mix of upset and calm. “I don’t think you should hate yourself. And it’s upsetting, that you can’t see how much of a wonderful person you are, just because you’re you. Upsetting for you, I mean. Not because of you. This isn’t your fault. It’s—” Her nose scrunches. “Tommy describes people as wrong’uns. I think your brain is a bit of a wrong’un.”

He blinks. “My brain’s a wrong’un?”

She nods. “Yeah, because it’s wrong, and it—it makes you feel bad about yourself.” With the hand not on his arm, she makes a sharp gesture. “And that’s not—that’s not the whole thing, it’s more complicated than that, I think. But do you know what I’m saying? It’s your brain’s fault, but it’s not you. Am I making any sense at all?”

“I’m not sure I’m following,” he says, “but I think I understand what you mean.”

“I don’t think I quite have the words for it,” she says. “It’s just that—you’re worth so much more than you tell yourself that you are.”

He looks down at his dough. He’s pretty much cut out as many circles as he can, which means pushing the remainder together and rolling it out again. He does so, and then it’s back to making circles. Steady, rhythmic.

“I’m still having a hard time with that,” he says. “But it’s. Easier, I think. To try and accept it, than it was before.”

“And we’re with you,” Niki says. “We’re not leaving you. We’re all here with you.”

They are. Niki with her unflinching kindness, Tommy with his brashness and devotion, Tubbo with his matter-of-fact loyalty, Fundy with his awkward, honest support, Jack Manifold with his determined friendship. And lately, Phil, too, who has fit in with the rest of L’Manberg easily, smiles and laughter and a gleam in his eyes, and always a word of support when he needs one, and even when he thinks he doesn’t, always a safe haven to return to, always shelter under his wings.

They’re here. They’re with him.

They’re going to stay.

“I’m very glad,” he says, words halting, “that you all didn’t just up and decide that you’d had enough of me.”

“Wilbur,” Niki says, “we would never.”

He looks back at her. She’s smiling at him again, open and honest, concerned, but glad.

And he believes her.

“Let’s get these in the oven, shall we?” she says, and they do. They go pan by pan, one of them on each side, sliding them in to be baked. And then, they are left with no more dough and a mess of ingredients, and he’s too slow to move when a light enters Niki’s eyes, too slow to dodge when her flour-covered fingertips swipe across his cheek.

He can only retaliate from there, of course. It’s only fair. And he pays no mind to the state of his uniform as they start flicking baking ingredients at each other, pays no mind to the way his hair dangles in front of his face, pays no mind to the fact that he’s going to look a mess when he finally leaves. He’s got flour all over his clothes and sugar on his face, but Niki looks the exact same way, and when they finally have enough, when they slump against the counter side by side, a breathless laugh escapes him, and Niki looks delighted by it, so really, isn’t it all worth it?

“You look ridiculous,” he manages, and she smacks him on the shoulder.

“You look worse,” she says. “You look like you decided to wear the bakery instead of cook in it.”

“Oh?” he says. “And who started it?”

“And who decided to go along with it?” she returns, but she’s laughing, too.

And here he is, the president of L’Manberg, covered in baking ingredients, avoiding his duties so he can have a food fight with his best friend. No guilt accompanies the thought, and for the first time, he toys with the idea that perhaps, he does not need to be president forever. Maybe one day, he’ll work up the ability to set down the burden, to hand it to someone else, to let the possibilities open up before him, unconstrained by doubt and self-hatred and the cage he built for himself. Maybe his guitar will stop collecting dust.

Not yet. But maybe one day.

For now, this is enough.

So he stands in the bakery, warm as any hug, with white in his hair and the scent of cookies baking, and allows himself to feel, for the first time in a long time, that he is allowed this, and that life is worth living after all.

[a-dusty-emerald]

Till it sinks in: Draco x Reader / Hurt-Comfort, Fluff Fic

A hurt-comfort fluff fic, with a slytherin Y/n being the girlfriend of the softie-who-hates-to-be-called-softie-so-he-bitches-all-day Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Where Umbridge uses her quill on you.

_____________________________________________

Dolores Umbridge, maybe the most hated teacher to set foot at Hogwarts, had a special dislike against anyone who disobeyed. And while that may be all teachers, not all teachers dismissed sobbing students from their detention. Every single student that got detention with Umbridge looked broken afterwards, but no one knew what she said to them; it was a mystery.

Professor McGonagall, for instance, made sure the students that misbehaved researched a wide topic for a few hours during the week, with the intimidating presence of her self. Professor Snape, on the other hand, locked students in the Potions classroom and let them out after the successfull brewing of a potion of his liking. Hence, it must be something similar.

Y/n strolled into class, her curls bouncing around the embroided slytherin crest of her robe. Defence against the dark arts was her worst subject, she only thought it was interesting when Professor Lupin taught it, and had done surprisingly well. Then, it was a hands-on, useful and fascinating module, while now, Umbridge followed the Ministry's policy to teach the students in a "risk free" way, by only reading through the theory. Not only were the lessons incredibly boring, the whole book was utterly useless.

"As if Voldemort will ask you the theory of Merlin's rule of categorisation of spells when he Avada-Kedavra's your ass", Y/n had scoffed when she saw the chapters. Draco had laughed, but told her that his father had owled him that Umbridge was a family ally, and hence he could not be out of line in her class.

"When did you become such a nerd?"

"Oh shut it Y/n", Y/n recalled.

She had also implemented some stupid rules, like "no touching between boys and girls, and a six feet distance at all times", and reduced the hours that students could go out of their dorms. While Dumbledore wanted the students to be at their dorms by 10pm, Umbridge thought that 6pm was acceptable.

As if.

Y/n entered the class, the only class she did not sit with Draco. Apparently, boys and girls could also not sit with one another, since they would eventually touch. And in a doomed world controlled by Umbridge, that was a sin.

Draco spotted his girlfriend entering the room, wearing a bored look on her face. He was not excited about DADA either. His parents might have told him that Umbridge was the best thing that could happen in this school, but he was not blind or stupid. The stuff being taught were useless and her teaching method was more boring than 5 hours of Divination with no breaks in his eyes. At least then, he could laugh at Trelawney. Now he just was supposed to stay silent and listen Umbridge reading the most basic book ever again and again.

He realised he got lost in his thoughts and was staring at Y/n longer than intended. She seemed bored as hell, but her eyes always intimidated him - yet, he would never admit out loud. Even the plainest of her looks had such passion beneath it, her deep dark orbs had a fire in them, surrounded by thick eyelashes, making her look coy and mischevious even when she was not planning to.

Y/n noticed him looking and smirked back at him.

"Stop staring, people might think that you like me" she mouthed silently to him. He grinned and shook his head. 'She is something else', he thought.

An unpleasantly familiar trotting of heels approached the creaking floor at the centre of the classroom, making students focus on the short, evil woman that was tormenting the school; Umbridge.

"Hello, my dear students" she smiled in a sickly manner. "Today we are learning about the theory of protection spells."

Y/n groaned, thinking other students would join her, however, it was this uncomfortable and awkward moment that everyone had decided to stay deadly silent, making her disapproving groan loud and clear to be heard.

"Is there an issue, miss Y/l/n?" Umbridge smiled in the evilest way she could.

"No, no, of course not. I always wanted to listen about the theory of protection spells." Y/n smiled in the fakest way possible.

"Is that irony I am sensing, Y/l/n?" Umbridge had a more serious look now, her smile not decieving anyone.

"Nope." She said, emphasising the "p" sound in her lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she quickly glanced to Draco, who had a warning glare. "Don't aggravate her!" He mouthed. Y/n rolled her eyes, and unfortunately for her, Umbridge saw that, taking it as it was directed at her.

She scrunched up her nose and stomped her heel lightly on the floor, when she exclaimed: "Detention after class, miss y/l/n! That attitude of yours is no match for a young witch!"

Draco did not know why everyone was saying Umbridge's detention was horrible, he had heard she only requested some lines. Even so, her detention had gained a horrible reputation, and he didn't like it one bit that his girlfriend would be the one going there.

Even so, he was angry at her, he had warned her so many times. She was such a brat every time she spoke to Umbridge, when he had told her that every student that was leaving her detention was crying.

The DADA lesson had finished, when Y/n saw Draco stomping towards her, stopping around the 6 feet limit, keeping his distance.

"Why do you never listen?!" His angry hissing voice aggravated her even more.

"I rolled my freaking eyes, Draco, chill."

"You were sarcastic. You know you were. Are you happy now?" His glare was piercing her soul.

"I am not, actually. I would prefer no stupid rules, but I guess my boyfriend is too much of a wuss to think for himself and see how ridiculous Umbridge is."

"She just wants order. Besides, its temporary!" He half whispered, half yelled.

"Sure. Tell that to yourself to feel better, darling." Now she was mad at him. "Now excuse me, I have a detention to go to." She closed the gap between them - breaking the rule- just to bump on his shoulder angrily, and stomped past him, going to detention.

"Fine! I don't give a fuck, then!" She heard her boyfriend's voice. She knew he didn't mean it at all, but she silently prayed he changed his mind after her detention, he had an hour to think by himself after all. She was hoping for an apology.

Y/n lightly knocked on her door, listening to Draco's advice for once. She should be polite, calm and collected no matter what she said to her. She couldn't risk an expulsion. Umbridge's sickly laugh was heard. "Come in, y/l/n."

Y/n opened the door, fighting back her urge to laugh or roll her eyes. Her least favourite colour, fuchsia pink, was plastered everywhere, cats trapped on the walls, and a heavy, sickly, sugary aroma filled her nostrils, she did her best to keep her pokerface.

"Sit", the teacher ordered. "You will do some lines today, Y/n."

Relief passed through her. That wasn't that bad. She grabbed a piece of paper and moved to grab her quill, when the fuchsia toad in front of her stopped her. "Oh no, dear. I'm afraid you wont need that." She smiled, and handed her a large black feathered quill from her own collection. "Use this, please. It is one of my favourites."

Y/n grabbed the quill and moved again to reach for her ink. "Oh, silly me, I forgot." She heard the professor giggle. "You won't need any ink, dear."

She looked at Umbridge confused, her tamed eyebrows furrowing to her words. Still, she went with it. She grabbed the quill and before she started, Umbridge directed her "you shall write the line: I must not be arrogant." Y/n resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"How many times, Professor?" She said.

"Hm... let's just say... till it sinks in." Umbridge giggled once again, sipping her tea.

Y/n scoffed silently and started writing the lines, red ink magically appearing on paper. Her left hand was uncomfortable the whole time, but she ignored it. As soon as she finished the first line, though, the discomfort became a burning sensation, and hurt so much, like someone was creating small cuts in her skin. She looked at her hand to see what was going on, only to see the line she wrote engraved in her hand.

'You evil bitch' Y/n thought.

Every time she would rewrite the sentence, it was like the invisible knife digged deeper and deeper in her skin, twisting at each twist of the quill. She looked at Umbridge with teary eyes, a silent plea to stop this torture. Blood was seeping out of her wound uncontrollably now, staining her robe. Umbridge just glanced at her and said "one more page."

Through silent tears, a wrecked bloodied hand, trembles and gritted teeth, she finished her torture without making a sound. She excused her self, said goodbye to the professor, and closed the heavy door behind her, exhaling with a trembled sob escaping her lips. An exhale that she was holding for an hour.

She contained her tears and hid her hand from plain sight. She did not want to worry anyone, and she sprinted with all the energy she could muster to the dungeons. She just wanted to wash it off, wrap it in a clean cloth, and have a good cry.

As she was approaching the dungeons, it dawned on her: she could run up to Draco there. What should she do? On one hand, the thought of making him feel bad enticed her, she was still mad about his behaviour. On the other hand, she knew he meant no harm, and that he would make her start a legal war with Umbridge. She really didn't want to do anything right now, as much as she hated her guts.

She hid her hand better, wiped her eyes, took a few deep breaths and prayed that her boyfriend was not in the common room, as she opened the door.

Unbeknownst to her, Draco was waiting restlessly at the common room all this time. He didn't like the fact they fought before, he hated not being on good terms with Y/n. He didn't think he was entirely on the wrong though. 'Maybe if she listened to me once in a whi-'

His thoughts came to a halt when he saw a trembling Y/n enter the common room. Her eyes were red and glassy, and she was crouched in a weird position. He instantly forgot everything he was thinking of and sprinted towards her. When her eyes fell on him, she inhaled sharply, sttaightening her posture. He was terribly worried and she could feel it.

"Darling?" His soft voice was music to her ears.

Her eyes avoided his, refilling with tears just from his worried voice.

"I-I need to go to my room." She said with a lowered gaze.

"Tell me what's wrong please-"

"I thought you didn't give a fuck." Her voice was low when she said it, her teary eyes finally meeting his. She did not mean to snap at him, but everything was too much.

He finally locked eyes with her now, the emotion he saw in her overtaking him. He pursed his lips and looked down.

"I'm sorry. You know - baby you know thats not true. I want to know what happened. What did she say to you that made you cry? You don't cry easily, I know that. If you want I'll report her!" He was frantically searching for her gaze again, his grey irises full of concern.

"She said nothing bad to me. She instructed me through my lines." She avoided his gaze once again.

He lowered his gaze as well, and broke the -for once- uncomfortable silence, his voice slightly broken.

"Do you not trust me?"

His words echoed in her head. She did. She did with her life. She could not stay mad at him, no matter her anger. "I do. I'm sorry, I'm a-a bit of a m-mess, i'll tell you, j-just give me a few m-minutes..."

His hand grabbed hers to pull her into an embrace, to hold her close, to calm her. As soon as his hand grasped her own, though, a strong wave of stinging pain shot through her, a hissing sound escaping her lips as she yanked her hand away. She was holding it close to her heart, a few hot tears escaping her eyes. There was no escape now.

Draco looked at her wide eyed, a blank expression of confusion mixed with worry resting on his features. "What-"

He looked down on his hand. Blood.

He inhaled sharply. Blood? His heart was pounding in his chest now, his fury for Umbridge boiling. What exactly happened in her detentions?

"Darling." He spoke. His voice was low and steady, and Y/n could swear she could hear her own heartbeat. "Your hand. Please." He extended his own to signal her to give her hers. Slowly, she put her bloodied palm on his own.

"Did she do this?", he hissed angrily. Y/n nodded but winced at his tone, not ready for facing an angry Draco. He saw that, and his features calmed down.

He grasped her shoulders carefully, gently pulling her in a hug, lightly kissing her forehead and letting his lips linger there. He tilted her chin up, pressing a quick peck on her lips.

"Im not mad at you". He said steadily, to show he meant every word. "I'll kill her, honestly" he mumbled, as his eyes examined the wounds.

"I must not be arrogant?!?"

He felt his anger rise again, as he managed to read the cuts that were filled with blood.

"She h-had a black quill. I would write on paper and it would transfer the letters in m-my hand. Must be c-cursed." Y/n said between small sobs.

His one arm cradled her head and she felt him moving the other one on her waist, urging her to move. "Come on, lets get you cleaned up. I'll send a letter to my father. She will be out of her position tomorrow."

Y/n's eyes widened "No n-no I-"

Draco didn't let her finish "Y/n, I love you but please shut up."

For the first time in a while, Y/n giggled, music to Draco's ears.

He took his time being extra gentle on her wound, making sure it is clean, before putting a few healing spells on it, muttering apologies whenever Y/n would wince.

"Tomorrow your hand will be good as new. Trust me."

"I trust you Draco. Thank you."

His eyes looked up from her wound, and Y/n was sure she could melt. He had the softest gaze ever. They fell asleep in each other's embrace, soft kisses taking away the pain.

The next morning, Y/n could hardly stiffle a laugh at the annoucement of Umbridge being suddently fired. She turned at her boyfriend, who looked smug as ever.

His eyes glimmered and his eyebrows wiggled with smugness, as he said:

"She should not have been that arrogant. Guess karma is a bitch." He shrugged.

That Malfoy boy was your everything and you knew it.

FEEL FREE TO LIKE AND SHARE!! Feedback is always welcome, love you all!

[arcadejohn127-9]

How would the demon brothers [+ undatebles if you can no biggie tho if not] be with an MC who is plus sized and is super insecure about it? Like they try to get skinnier but can't and they get upset about it or get teased by other demons for being bigger. Side note: your writings are INCREDIBLE. Just like you 🤗💜🎆⭐

Thank you for the request and the compliment! You're too kind!

Oof weight lose and being bullied for my size is something I know abit too well, I always feel sad when I see plus sized people Insecure about their weight

I'm all for people wanting to lose weight to be healthy or just wanting change but when it stems from self hated and an unhealthy mindset - I just can't stand it

Demon brother's with a plus sized MC who's insecure

Warning: angst with fluff

Lucifer:

He isn't a man who's to shy away from being rude and blunt to people

He wouldn't date someone for pity or lie

When he learned you were trying to loose weight

He and the other brothers all treated it how Asmo's diets go, he tries and fails and everyone makes no real effort to not tempt him with food

When he found you crying in your bedroom however

"What's the matter? You're crying, what has upset you?"

"You." Was all you said, trying to calm yourself

He, of course, wanted to know what he did

He kept pestering you until you finally snapped at him

"You're treating my wants like it's a joke! I want to lose weight and none of you are being supportive of it! Why can't you just let me do something for myself?!"

He was taken back

He sat beside you, taking your hand in his

"Why do you want to lose weight? This plan has come rather unexpectedly."

"Because I'm too big! Everyone thinks so! No matter what I do all nothing works! Don't you think I'm ugly?"

"Since when did being big equate to being ugly? Are your height makes you ugly?"

"my height...? What does that-"

"Weight isn't something we can always change like our height, some people just can't change their physical appearance, it can only happen naturally and even then it may be a small amount gained or lost."

"I think I get what you mean."

"I hate admiting this but- I'm not good at this kind of thing but I think you look wonderful, if you really wish to go on a diet I'll support you but it needs to come from a healthy and non destructive mindset."

He poked. your forehead before kissing your hand

Mammon:

"Mammon? Don't you get embarassed when you're out with me."

"You are pretty embarassing sometimes."

He wasn't pay too much attention, not catching up on your tone

"Oh.....I see....maybe I shouldn't come out with you tonight."

You already didn't want to go out, the outfit Mammon got you - whilst it looked expensive - was tight on you

"HUH?! now what's this all about? You trying to quit on the great mammon?!"

"Well- I'm much bigger than the demons you hang around with, aren't you ashamed? They're way more attractive than-"

He rushed to your side, gripping your arms

"Don't even finish that sentence, ya hear?! Who told you - you didn't look fucking fantastic?! No one talks to my baby like that!"

"But it's true-"

"I swear on Goldie that isn't true! You are the most stunning jewel I've seen, I'm so lucky to be with someone that looks like you! You're personality is already top notch - your body is like a shiny bonus I don't think I deserve!"

He pulled you into a hug, holding you like you were the most valuable thing to him

"You're gorgeous, just tell me who's been bullying you and I'll make sure they know their place, I never want you to feel like that."

Levithan:

Levi was showing off this cast of anime style chatacters from the game he was playing

All of them were so thin and muscular

Everyone had the perfect curve and ideal bodies

"We should cosplay these characters! Don't worry, you don't need to know everything about them - I think you'd really pull off this one, you two already have the same personality."

You looked down at yourself and then back at the Character

You frowned, clutching your stomach

"Really....? But they're so- well look at me!"

He looked at you, raising a brow as he tried to find what you were getting at

"They're a warrior who saved the universe with a knife, it's not supposed to be realistic-"

"I'm talking about my shape, levithan! I'm fat! I'm disgusting! They're built like a god!"

"YOU'RE built like a god! There's plenty of Gods from your worlds stories that are shaped like you! What's the issue?"

"you didn't even deny I was disgusting, those demons were right-"

"What demons?! Are you seriously letting some normies tell you you're gross? What do they know? I'm the luckiest demon alive to be with you and those demons can choke on salt water - you point them out and I'll get my army on them!"

"you really think that? You wouldn't like more if I looked more like your smile chatacters?"

"Media is based of toxic media where they focus on only one type of beauty standard, it's a problem within the game world that they don't add plus sized chatacters."

"i- yeah I guess so....I didn't expect you to really care about that."

"of course I care!"

You both sat in silence, you were processing his words and leaned against his shoulder

"Do you still want to cosplay together?"

You paused before nodding

You both went through the game he's playing, whenever the overly vain chatacter came out levithan would argue with them

Claiming you to be the most gorgeous being in the world not them

Satan:

"I heard some rumours today, have demons been bothering you about your weight?"

You froze as Satan closed his book, shifting in the seat

You stepped back, avoiding eye contact, regretting coming to your room instead of helping mammon with some silly plan

"No...there's been no issue."

"Oh? Then why is there laxatives and diet guides in your school bag? You know I don't like it when you lie to me especially if it means you could be putting your body at risk."

You noticed your bag beside his feet

You immediately grew frustrated as you knew you were being called out

"Why did you go through my bag?! That's my own bussiness-"

"you said I could get my textbooks back, I found them in your bag - I'm sorry I went through your stuff but this isn't fine! You're going to force your body to push itself unnaturally."

"I just- i just want to get thinner, no matter how many times I try it doesn't work! I'm tired of seeing myself in the mirror and people telling me that you don't actually love me-"

"Some people just don't have it easy when it comes to weight lose, going on a diet isn't the best - I can go on cooking duty more often and make sure you have healthier meals."

He was at your side now, stroking your face

"Do you love me....? Truely?"

"of course I do, I've never loved anyone as much as I love you - you make me feel things I never thought i would, your size is the last of my concerns, I'm just scared you're going to hurt yourself."

You nodded, tearing up as you let him hold you closer

You tried to apologize but he silenced you, telling you that your emotions are valid

Asmodeus:

"Darling~! Let's take a bath together, I just got a new bath bomb and some soaps!"

He shook the mini basket filled with bath product's

"really...? Are you sure you want to do that, I'm not sure, I feel really bloated today-"

You were desperate to avoid getting naked Infront of him

Every once and a while he would ask to take a bath together, he respects your discomfort but wants to keep the offer open

"Oh, that's no issue~ we can have some tea Barbatos gave me, it's great for bloating!"

"why do you wanna see me naked so much? I'm not anything to see - wouldn't you be uncomfortable?"

"Uncomfortable? Why would I feel that?"

"In not the smallest person around-"

"Means you got more to love! I love your body!"

"But you're so gorgeous and slender, why would you ever love my body?"

He couldn't understand your feelings; confused on how you could see yourself in a negative light

"because I love you more than myself, I'm still the most special demon around but you're just something else, something I could never stop adoring!"

Beezlebub:

"Do you want to go eat with me? hell's kitchen is having a party."

Beel peered into your room, showing the hell's kitchen site

"I'm not sure about that, I've been trying to cut down on my eating."

"what? Why? Are you sick?"

He immediately got concerned, shuffling over to you

He placed the back of his hand on your forehead

"No- I'm not sick, I just think I should loose some weight."

"oh....then you can still go eat with me, I'll just eat more of your portions."

"you don't have any issue with me losing weight?"

Your insecurities started to chew at you

You weren't really sure what you wanted; you wanted him to be cruel and straight forward about hating your body

It would make your feelings feel more grounded

But you couldn't bare it if he didn't like your body

"It's your choice - should I be concerned?"

"no way! It would be for the best anyway, right? Atleast then I'll look better-"

"What does your weight have you to do with your looks? I think you look fine."

"you don't think I'm too big? Wouldn't you prefer someone more petite? I know you like small things-"

"I like you, I don't see any issue with your body."

It did feel a little ridiculous to think the avatar of gluttony would be bothered by your size but you still couldn't help but feel worried

He suddenly picked you up, kissing your cheek

"I can hold you in my arms just fine, your size will never stop me from liking you, I think you're beautiful."

Belphegor:

He was laying on your thigh's, watching a video comp of people falling over and getting hurt

"Should I loose weight?"

His phone was suddenly dropped on his stomach, staring up at with you surprise

"Why do you ask? Besides, it's not my decision to make - it's your body."

"yeah but wouldn't you prefer it if I was, ya know, thinner?"

He looked at you as if you just said something stupid

Adjusting his position snuggled against your thigh's

"Why would I prefer that? You wouldn't be as comfy."

"is that all you care about? If I'm comfy? Would you be upset if I did lose weight?"

"No, because I love cuddling you so I don't care about your size but I like you the way you are."

"it can't be that simple, there's no way you just like me when I look like this."

"I'm not sure why you're thinking of it like it's complicated maths, I like you- no I love you and very happy with the way you are."

You wanted to argue, trying to find a way to figure out how he's wrong

But you couldn't

"You're my favourite person in this house - don't tell Beel - I wouldn't trade you for the world."

[cosmicbash]

I'm hesitant to post this, because??? Honestly?? I'm not 100% sure I haven't already posted it. I was perusing my Google docs trying to relabel stuff as posted and such to better organize and found this, which @lemon-coke and me both can't figure out if I ever posted. So.

Better to repost it and give you all something to reread then not post it all I assume.

Sorry!

It starts out as a misunderstanding, of course, because how else would their relationship begin?

A series of short tentative chats that somehow blossom into a full on dinner together, Colson sweating and more anxious than he's ever been in his life. It just doesn't seem real, that not only could he be mending this feud with his idol but also sitting across from him at some fancy restaurant table learning Eminem eats his steaks well done like some child. And laughing about it. 

He's actually laughing. With his idol, his rival, his highschool crush. Long legs kicking out under the table at his own bad jokes, Em half smirking back at him. Their feet brushing one too many times for the color to leave his cheeks even after he's done giggling.

By the time Colson is talking Em into splitting some crazy good looking chocolate cake he actually feels better than he has in years. Since before the beef. So of course something has to go wrong. It really would have to be a dream for things not to sour.

He wants to pretend the first few flirty comments are in his head. That Em reaching across the table to roughly rub some chocolate off his cheek is a Detroit thing. But by the time they're finished eating and waiting for the check Colson's creeping suspicion has turned into full on alarm bells blaring. There's just no way to excuse the nervous looks or Em's almost hesitant invitation up to his hotel room. 

It feels like a slap to the face. Everything suddenly makes sense. Why they're eating in the other rapper's hotel, why Em is even speaking to him. None of this is to repair their relationship or end the beef. It's all just some poorly hidden buttering up before Em asks him to get down on his knees. 

Colson should blow up. He should just lash out and throw his fist into Em's face. Storm out and flag down the valet. He's not some escort that the rapper can rent for the night and feed a fancy dinner to.

But there's that guilty feeling that has settled into the pit of his stomach. The one that's been there since he first lashed out and ruined everything with his diss track, the comments about Hailey, his childish bitching in interviews. It's only doubled since they first sat down to eat. Every muffled chuckle and weakly hidden smile from the older man digging that pit deeper and deeper. Showing him what he carelessly threw away in some desperate grab for attention.

It's got a small voice in the back of Colson's head warning him how if he says no and storms out he's just doing the same thing all over again, cutting Em out of his life. This time possibly forever.

So Colson bites his tongue and nods. His fingers anxiously climbing up into his hair to help hide the guilty look he knows must be on his face when he stutters out a "y-yeah, yeah, sure."

The genuine smile Em flashes back at him at his agreement just feels like a knife being jammed next to the shovel.

How can the man look so fucking blissful about something that feels like borderline blackmail?

But Em does. He looks stunned, downright flustered even at first at his response. Then happy. A happy that isn't hidden by some fake cough or behind a delicate yet strong looking hand for once. It gives Colson something precious to hold onto in the sea of uncomfortable and nasty emotions twisting up his stomach while the older rapper pays. 

The knot just twists itself up tighter once they're in the elevator, his silence thankfully brushed off as nervousness by Em. The almost shy glance of steely blue eyes his way making him feel so small while buttons are pressed. Usually Colson would blame this kind of nausea on the ride itself, but for once his phobia of the small metal deathtraps is actually being overpowered. A new fear worming its way through his guts as each floor number blinks to life.

He doesn't want to freak out. To run away, but hes too goddamn sober for this. Avoiding smoking and turning down the offer of wine at dinner just to try and impress his idol was threatening to be his downfall. If he'd known Em was going to show such little respect and consideration to his being like this he would have lit a fat one up right there at the table. Hell, maybe that would have changed the older man's mind about propositioning him in the first place. Surely a druggie asshole was less appealing to make drop to their knees instead of his current carefully put together primped and meek self.

"Only a few more floors. Don't go green on me just yet Kelly." 

Colson didn't know whether to take the playful nudge as comforting or creepy. Maybe, a little flattering? If Em had actually looked into him enough to learn about his problem with elevators and the man just wasn't guessing off the apparent discolor of his face that is.

"Y-yeah."

Imagining Eminem of all people actually following his interviews or caring about his personal life that much felt like a pipe dream though. 

Outside of the next 20 minutes or however long it took for the bastard to get his rocks off he highly doubted Em would put much thought into his existence at all. Which would be fair. After all the shit he's said and done he really doesn't deserve the time of day from his idol. 

A ding and the elevator doors were opening. Colson's legs feeling numb beneath him when he finally lets go of the railing in the elevator to stumble forward. Thankful that Em's focus was on digging his room's keycard out of his wallet and not his clumsy steps. Each one bringing them closer and closer to their destination, making the whole situation so vividly real he couldn't help but panic again. The other man's forced small talk about how he "Doesn't usually book the penthouse suite-" falling on deaf ears.

It’s ironic, how often he had dreamed for this exact scenario. For Eminem to be leading him up to some fancy high end hotel room, promising to shower him fully in his attention and gaze. Only now, with his dream coming true right before his eyes he can’t help but feel bittersweet about the heated gaze holding him frozen just outside the door. Em’s final offer for him to back down before they both step through the threshold clear as day in the look.

The twist in his gut tells Colson to take it, to just spin around on his heel and run away with his tail tucked between his legs. Accept he’s too much of a coward and too full of himself to actually mend their beef.

But the desperate need he feels for forgiveness and absolvement pushes Colson forward instead. Sheer will alone giving him the confidence to twirl his idols hoodie strings around his fingers to drag Em inside with him. The loud beat of his heart completely smothering the other man’s flustered outburst. 

Just like in church the blonde finds himself on his knees not too long after entering. Mouth open and hands clasped together, ready to ask for forgiveness. Except this god he’s praying to is running it’s fingers through his hair, and there’s a stiff cock separating his palms. A chorus of curses and “Holy fuck, K-Kelly just wait a second, shit, your tongue is-“ tickling his ears instead of hymns.

He’s never sucked a cock before, and it’s embarrassing how quickly he finds himself choking. But Colson doesn’t give up, even when his jaw starts to ache and the grip on his hair grows a bit too tight. His discomfort doesn’t matter here. He just needs to make Em happy, earn the forgiveness he doesn’t deserve.

“Can I- fuck, can I fuck your face?” Both of the older rapper’s palms are holding his bangs away from his face, tilting his head back just enough to force their eyes to meet. The shame in his chest doubles but so does the surprising tightness in his jeans when he sees the uncharacteristic flush to Em’s cheeks.

He isn’t experienced, the smart thing to do would be pull off and admit that. He’s seen first hand how disastrous things can go but his head bobs in a yes anyway. Eyes already starting to water from how the action jabs the other rappers cock right against his gag reflex.

A low groan is all the warning he gets before Em’s fingers are knotting in his hair, forcing his head down to meet the thrust of strong hips. Stuffing that hard dick down his throat so fast it burns and his hands can’t help but flail, helplessly grabbing onto the meat of the older rapper’s thighs through his sweats. Unable to even steal another gasp of air before it happens again. Em’s hips pistoning forward to fuck his mouth like some cheap replaceable toy. 

Even after he gags and gurgles spit the rapper doesn’t stop. 

The harsh pants of praise and encouragement burning his ears just as hotly as the tears in his eyes. “Ah, so good. So fucking good baby, the best, ah-“

Colson doesn’t know what’s worse, how quickly his heart skips at the surprise tern of endearment or how pathetically his cock jerks in his underwear. Not that he has much time to think on it with how Em abruptly forces his face right down to the bone, soft and scratchy pubes tickling his nose. Startling him before the other man’s blowing his load, Colson’s eyes widening and nails cutting deeply into Em’s legs while he chokes. There’s too much, even with his throat reflexively swallowing it still fills up his mouth and bursts out the sides. Dripping down his chin and out onto his shirt when Em finally pulls him off.

It’s salty, and thick. Nothing like the eggnog Rook’s joked to him it tastes like. There’s nothing sweet about this thick cream, even if the lightheaded feeling he’s got from milking it out still makes him feel drunk. 

“Shit. I wanna take a picture.“ Em’s palm is tilting his head back again, dragging his glassy eyes up away from the twitching spit slick cock in front of him. Thumb forcing his tongue down flat to flash what he can only imagine has to be a white mess before the hand in his hair is fumbling out a phone. “Can I?”

He almost wants to laugh at how the brunette doesn’t even wait for his answer before there is the unmistakable flash of a phone light temporarily blinding him. A curse and then another two, these ones at least allowing him the chance to shut his eyes tightly.

The shame within him is boiling, burning through his veins like lava and making his heart drop down into his stomach.

“So pretty-“ Em’s fingers are releasing his tongue and jaw to rake through his bangs yet again. Exposing his face even though Colson wants nothing more than to hide. A stifled sob tearing at his aching throat while he swallows what he can inside his mouth without completely gagging.

He can’t cry. That would ruin the mood wouldn't it? And if it doesn't, Colson doesn't know how he would handle having Em laugh at his tears. The almost soft demeanor and shy quality to his tone is all thats keeping the blonde from running away as it is. 

The shuffle of shoes and curl of strong fingers pulling him up startles Colson's eyes back open. Lashes fluttering to blink away the brief flash of wetness that's blurred his vision before he realizes he's being kissed. That Em's palms are cupping his jaw yet again, helping him to his feet. 

It's scratchy, and softer than he expects. Not that he was expecting Eminem to be kissing him in the first place, but the man doesn't relent. Just keeps kissing him, even after he's grown to his full height and the angle of their heads has switched. Em's tongue snaking its way inside his mouth while they stumble back further into the room. Until Colson's head is feeling fuzzy and his knees weak, the cushioned crash of his body hitting a mattress barely felt.

It feels wrong when Em's hands smooth up over his chest and down inside his jeans. The uncontrollable kick of his hips up into a tight hand around his cock almost blasphemous. There's no reason for Em to even be bothering with touching him there, he doesn't deserve it. But the rapper is sucking and nibbling along his neck, up into his ear to whisper a dozen filthy praises and compliments. None of them possibly true.

"So pretty-" "Perfect-" "Wanted to touch you for so long-" 

"Stop-" Colson's hands feel shaky as they drag his idols face back up to meet his in a messy kiss. Breath tight while he tries to speak between pecks. "Just- fuck, just hurry-"

When he winds up on his stomach some point into the night, Em's too big cock pressing hard against his entrance he can't help but cry out. The pitiful fist he shoves between his own teeth doing nothing to stifle the sound.

It hurts, more than the thin fingers he'd taken only moments prior. But not as much as the soothing shushes and affectionate run of hands through his hair. 

[cheeriecherry]

Space Between [Aizawa Shouta x F!Reader x Yamada Hizashi] [3/9]

EraserMic x Reader

Part 2/9 (Planning has added another part)

Warnings: panic attacks, reader being a little awkward

A week passes in the blink of an eye. You’ve tried to keep busy while your friends are away at work, but you can only clean the house so many times before it becomes monotonous. 

You’ve also checked out a few apartments that are renting, but every single one you’ve visited so far has left you disappointed: too small, in the wrong neighborhood, no yard, wrong vibe. A little piece of you knows you’re making excuses to stay with Shouta and Hizashi longer, but you can’t help that you want your new place to fit your needs perfectly.

In the same breath, you’ve also done what you promised you would, and looked into a few of the resources Shouta provided you with, for counseling and therapy services. You thought it would be easy enough, check out the websites, set up an appointment, etcetera etcetera, but the moment you open one of the tabs your throat closes up.

You’ve been trying for three days to look through everything, trying to push through your discomfort and underlying panic, but so far the only thing it’s done is make you tired and cranky and stressed.

You close the laptop for the fourth day in a row, having spent the last half hour reading through yet another counseling site. Maybe it’s your anxiety, maybe it’s your fear of admitting you’re struggling, maybe it’s because you know you’ll have to talk about things you really don’t want to talk about...but none of these places feel like the right fit. Just like the apartments.

You glance at the clock on the wall, sighing deeply when you find that it’s barely past noon. 

Maybe you should get out, go for a walk or something? You don’t have very many clothes, so maybe you could go to the mall. Shop around a bit, get something to eat. Treat yourself.

It’s a good idea, you decide, and you need the fresh air.

----

When you walk into the mall, you instantly wish you’d stayed home.

It’s busy, and uncomfortably so. Elderly folks meeting up, parents pushing strollers with small children, a couple of highschool kids ditching class.

Surely no one would pay you any mind if you just turned around and walked right back out?

No, you think, taking a deep breath, I can do this. It’s just people.

You try to walk normally, and look like you’re not wincing at every step you take further into the crowd. It’s just people.

...People I can’t protect.

The thought pops into your mind faster than you can catch it, and your gait stutters. You push it away and keep walking, but it’s as if the psychological floodgates have been opened.

A villain could attack right now, and I wouldn’t do anything.

Your chest tightens.

I’m a useless excuse for a hero.

Your hands start shaking.

I would just stand there and watch them die. Just like-

You squeeze your eyes shut, and beeline to the nearest bench, sitting down to try and take a few calming breaths. 

It starts to work, and you can feel your body relaxing slightly, until an elderly woman decides to take up the seat next to you. Your skin buzzes with electricity, hyper-aware of her presence beside you. When you glance over at her, you find that she’s smiling kindly at you.

“Are you alright, dear?” she asks, reaching out to rest a dainty hand on your knee. 

You resist the guttural urge to snap away from her. She’s just checking on you, you tell yourself, don’t be rude.

“I’m- yes. I’m okay,” you say with a shaky voice, “Thank you.” You can tell she doesn’t quite believe it, and you don’t blame her. You probably look a mess, a trembling, blanched, wide-eyed mess.

You track her movement as she reaches into the purse tucked under her arm, expecting something, anything, any kind of threat to appear, but she only pulls out a small red lollipop. She offers it to you with a wrinkled hand, gently pressing it into your palm.

“A distraction, perhaps?” she suggests, “Sweets always make me feel better.”

You thank her quietly and unwrap the treat, sticking it in your cheek. You try to focus on the overwhelming flavour, the sickly sweet synthetic cherry, the way it burns against your tongue.

Another woman calls out to the lady beside you, who squeezes your knee softly. “I hope you feel better soon, dear,” she says, standing. “Have a lovely afternoon.”

You smile and nod at her, and the moment she’s out of sight you spit the candy out and bolt towards the exit.

----

You finally stop running about a block away from the mall, heart beating erratically and chest so tight you can barely breathe. You find a nearby empty bench and fall onto it, and let your head hang low. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your vision is blurry, and it doesn’t help the threat of oncoming nausea.

Thankfully now that you’re out in the open, you begin to calm down again. You wipe at your eyes to rid yourself of your tears, and try to focus on the feeling of the bench pressing into your legs. Warm from the sun against your skin, sturdy and unwavering metal slats holding you steady, slight tremor when someone sits down next to you…

Not again, you think, shrinking away from the person.

“Rough day?” they ask. You eye them cautiously, taking note of every detail.

You can’t tell if they’re a boy or a girl, not that it really matters to you. They’re young, maybe sixteen, clad in dark baggy clothes. Their posture is casual, comfortable, hands shoved in pockets, and they don’t look old enough to have graduated school. You wonder if they’re skipping class, but you don’t really care.

“Yeah,” you mumble, “Something like that.”

The kid turns towards you, slinging an arm over the back of the bench.

“That’s too bad,” they say, genuinity unsettling you, “Nice lady like you shouldn’t be lookin’ so sad.”

Your stomach roils with anxiety, and you’re sure your blood pressure has skyrocketed again. “I’m sorry,” you say quickly, standing, “I’m not really in the mood to talk. I’m...I’m gonna go-”

A slender hand shoots out and grabs your wrist, holding you in place.

“Wait, please! I’ve been looking for you for days-”

Pain shoots up your arm, and you glare down at the teen, fury overtaking your mind. “Let go of me before I rip your fucking arm off.”

“Please, let me explain-”

You rip your arm out of their grip, and take a few weak steps backwards. “If you’ve been looking for me, then you know who I am, and you know what I’ve done. Don’t think I’ll hesitate to break you into pieces if you come near me again.”

The kid stares at you with wide honey-brown eyes, an inkling of fear flashing behind them.

Good.

You waste no time turning around to run back home, leaving your assailant behind.

----

Ten o’clock finds Shouta and Hizashi walking through the front door, the latter talking animatedly about something you couldn’t quite hear. 

You stir the ladle around the pot a few times, judging the thickness of the stew you’re preparing, while you listen to them chatter back and forth. A sad smile graces your features, and you wonder if this is the way they usually come home; tired, but always happy to have each other.

“Something smells really good in here!”

You crane your head to the doorway right as Hizashi traipses in. He zeroes in on you in an instant, coming over to wrap you in a tight hug. It surprises you, even though it shouldn’t. In years past, he was always the most open with physical affection, often greeting you and Shouta with touches and hugs and kisses on the cheek.

“You guys are right on time,” you say, reaching across the stove to flip the burner off, “Dinner’s ready.”

Hizashi makes haste in preparing a bowl for himself, dashing out to the dining room to find a seat. You shake your head and fix some stew for yourself and Shouta, following in suit shortly after. The two of them are already set up around the table, making smalltalk with each other while they wait for you.

Shouta thanks you when you set his bowl down in front of him, but waits until you sit to start eating.

“So how were your days?” you ask, stirring your meal absently, “Did anything interesting happen?”

Hizashi shrugs, and doesn’t even bother to swallow before answering. “Not really. Between teaching and hosting a radio show, it actually gets pretty repetitive.”

You have a hard time believing that. Before you’d left, his stories about his students and his shows were endless and hilarious, and he’d talk about them for hours on end if you let him.

“What about patrol?”

“Eh, same same. Stopped a couple small timers, you know, convenience store robbery, purse theft, that kind of thing. Nothing big.”

You nod. “I’d consider that a win. Smaller villains means smaller paperwork…” 

The three of you break into an uneasy silence, tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. You eat your meal slowly, and avoid looking at either of them. Something was on their minds, and you had a feeling you knew what it was, but if you didn’t look at either of them then maybe they wouldn’t ask you…

Finally, Shouta sighs. “This is idiotic.”

“Sho,” Hizashi hisses, but doesn’t get much else out.

“There was something we needed to talk to you about, but you seem like you’ve had some kind of day. It might be easier to talk about it later.”

You think back to your eventful afternoon filled with panic attacks, and mask the worry with a smile. “It wasn’t too bad,” you assure them, “Besides, you’ve got me curious, now. Spit it out!”

Shouta sets his spoon down. “I was wondering if you’d consider being a guest speaker for the first year hero classes at Yuuei. They need to learn about all the possibilities of hero work, including undercover missions.”

“And I figured that since you’re here now,” Hizashi interrupts, “you’d be a perfect candidate!” 

You’re surprised, to say the least, and it’s obvious. 

“Take some time to think about it. You’ve got a couple weeks, still, so you don’t need to decide right away.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You’re grateful for the buffering period, because as much as you’d love to say yes to them, you’re not sure if you could handle speaking in front of a bunch of teens. Especially if your afternoon was any indication of your coping abilities.

What would you even talk about? Would you have to prepare a presentation? A speech? Or would they simply ask you questions? And god, how would you answer said questions? How could you tell a bunch of young hopefuls that undercover missions are almost always riddled with violence and PTSD?

You take another bite of stew. “I’ll...consider it.”

----

The rest of the dinner is more comfortable, filled with idle conversation and a couple of old jokes. It’s nothing compared to how the three of you used to be, and a little piece of you wonders if you’ve done something to upset the balance the two of them had created together.

Of course I have, you think, I showed up after disappearing for years and now I’m taking up their couch.

Still, there seems to be something more, some kind of tension beyond the stresses of recent events. Maybe it just felt different because you were different, more closed off to the world, to people, but it’s not like you could help it.

You couldn’t bear to lose either of them, if they were to find out what really happened on your mission. The things you saw, the things you did.

You could foot a little bit of awkwardness if it meant you would get to keep them in your life.

The three of you bid goodnight after you eat, each of you tired after a long day. You know for a fact that you won’t be able to sleep yet, not without nightmares, but you dim the lights anyways to keep your friends from questioning you.

You get comfortable on the couch and pull Shouta’s laptop over, flipping the screen open to continue your search about counseling services. You’ve gone through every suggestion on his list, save for one.

And so far, as you scroll through their website, it seems to be okay. The staff members and doctors seem to be knowledgeable, and the numerous patient reviews praise them for their compassion, kindness, reasonable prices, and short wait list.

You scroll around a little more, picking out whatever contact information is available. Most of it is done through email, it seems, which you’re fine with.

You open a new email document and start typing, asking what kind of information you need to provide and how the process works, and what steps you need to take in order to get a consultation appointment.

You don’t expect an answer until tomorrow, so you’re pleasantly surprised when a reply pops into your inbox not five minutes later.

‘Hello, Miss Y/N,’ it reads, ‘Thank you for contacting us. I’m Nurse Yumi, a member of the practising night staff. It’s a big step to seek help when you’re struggling, so we appreciate you reaching out to us. If you’d like, we can set up a consultation appointment for tomorrow afternoon. I’ve attached the preliminary forms to fill out before your visit, if you could please have them completed before then. If this is agreeable for you, let me know and I'll give you the time and date.

Well wishes,

Nurse Practitioner Yumi.’

You quickly type up another email, thanking them for their quick notification as well as confirming your availability. 

You set a reminder in your phone before you lay down so you don’t forget about it, and shut down the laptop, placing it back on the coffee table. You’re not quite ready to sleep yet, but you know if you stay up any later then it’ll be harder to wake up on time.

Begrudgingly, you curl up on your side and try to think about nothing as you doze off.

[honeyhan-123]

Say Thank You IX

Series Summary: Nearly five years have passed since Steve Rogers saves your life without so much as a thank you. When he sees you again by chance, he makes sure that he’ll never let you go and maybe teach you some manners in the process.

Series Warning: This will be a dark!Steve fic with stalking, kidnapping and manipulating as well as non-con and dub-con situations. Please don’t read it if you don’t like that sort of thing.

Chapter Warnings: non con/dub-con (If you don’t like that sort of thing or it triggers you please do not read this), somnophilia, handcuffing, cum eating, sexy times, degrading, food being withheld, some serious gas lighting/ Stockholm syndrome elements. 

Word Count: 3.7k

AN: I’m so sorry that it took me so long to finally get around to this, but enjoy a new banner! The last one just wasn’t really doing it for me anymore tbh. Again, I’m super sorry. 

I. New York ~ II. Madrid ~ III. The Apartment ~ IV. The Trip ~ V. The Basement ~ VI. The First Lesson ~ VII. The Waiting Game ~ VIII. The First Attempt

Series Masterlist

My Masterlist

IX. The Darkness Steve had left you like that for hours. Your face pressed against the satin pillows, your hands cuffed to the bed’s headboard, and  your ass screaming in pain. You had no idea of how long it had been since he had disappeared through the door, but the skin on your wrists was rubbed raw from the metal cuffs wrapped too tightly around them as you had tried to get comfortable. All of your attempts had failed however, how could you get comfortable after what he had done to you?

You could feel the cum drying in between your legs, growing crusty as shame filled you at how easily you had caved to him, how easily he had played your body, learning what you liked and giving it to you. Sleep had been heard to come by, even in the complete darkness, but you did manage to get a few minutes? Hours? It was hard to tell how much time had passed in the dark. 

A light flickered on, the fluorescence hurting your eyes as they adjusted, having spent so many hours in complete darkness. When you could finally see again, you saw that the light was positioned over the couch, and you didn’t have to wonder why for long as you soon heard the all too familiar click of the lock as Steve returned. 

Even from your uncomfortable position on the bed you could see he only had one bowl with him on his tray and you figured it must be around dinner time, dread flowed through you at the thought of another night lying awake in hunger. He set the tray down on the coffee table in front of the couch before heading over to where you lay, a naked mess at his disposal. 

He uncuffed your wrists, hardly even looking at you before turned on his heel and walking back over to the couch. No words had to be said, it was clear he wanted you to follow him, and you would do as he wanted. 

Your legs were stiff, a sob escaping your mouth as you tried to move your arms after hours of being restrained while walking over to him. Every step sending a sting of pain up your legs, through your arse and towards your spine. You had tried to cover your body with the bed sheet, tentatively wrapping it around your aching body but one glance from his icy blue eyes had you discarding the satin on the floor, leaving your body bare. 

Trepidation flowed through you as you approached the couch, fear of the pain that sitting on the plush cushions would cause you. However, as you went to sit down, your felt Steve’s had wrapped around your arm, manhandling you to the floor beside him, forcing you into a kneeling position by his feet. 

‘Only good girls get to sit beside me. Until you learn your place, this is where you will be.’ You nodded despite your inner anger and watched as he began eating, cutting up pieces of steak with his knife and fork and shoving them in his mouth. You salivated just watching him, it had been hours since you last ate at breakfast and the rumbling of your stomach had you regretting skipping lunch. 

Steve had clearly heard the growl of your stomach as he paused eating, a smirk crossing over his face as you looked down at you. ‘Awww, is the little slut hungry?’

Unsure of the answer that he wanted, you nodded your head, your eyes pleading with him as you knelt before him. You didn’t have time to register his had swinging back before it hit you across the face, the force of it sending you tumbling to the ground. ‘How many goddamn times do I have to tell you? Use your words.’ 

‘I’m sorry Sweetheart. I am hungry.’ You could barely hear your own voice over the ringing in your ears but he clearly had, pressing a hand against the cheek he had just hit, stroking over your cheekbones as he smiled down at you. 

‘Don’t worry my love, I’ll feed you after I’m done.’ His drastic shift in moods caused you whiplash as he went back to eating his dinner, the only noise in the room was the clink of his cutlery against the china of his plate. 

You had no idea of how long had passed until he was finished, you had no way of telling whether it was minutes, or hours which it had felt like but he finally pushed the coffee table back out, away from the couch, settling his body into the plush cushions. You watched as his hands rested on his abdomen, a confusing smirk sent your way as his hands drifted down his torso before coming to his belt buckle. 

Dread flowed through you he undid the buckle, his fly coming undone, his pants being pushed to his knees, his thick cock slapping against his skin, his eyes never leaving yours. 

‘C’m on baby, don’t be shy. Come get your dinner.’ You wanted to scream in protest, get up and run as far away as you could, but the every present sting in your ass prevented you; warned you against it. Steve could sense your hesitation as you knelt in front of him, his eyes darkening even further at your lack of movement. ‘I’m not going to ask nicely again Doll.’ 

Shakily, you crawled in between his legs, your eyes locked on the small, glistening drop of precum slowly sliding down to his heavy balls. As you positioned yourself over his cock, ready to take it in your mouth, you were minutely aware of the crusty dried cum in between your thighs. You could feel the bile rise in your throat yet you tried to hold it in, swallowing it back down. 

‘Hurry up girl. I haven’t got all day.’ You locked eyes with Steve only to see an unrecognisable stranger sitting in his place. Gone was the tender, loving Steve who only wanted you to behave. In his place was this new cruel Steve, determined to break you down. 

Biting back your palpable resentment, you liked your lips before opening your mouth and forcing yourself to take him in. The sheer girth and length of him had your jaw already aching as you half heartedly began the descent down his cock.

Steve apparently wasn’t having it though as he bucked his hips up, forcing himself deeper. ‘C’mon slut. I know you can do better than that.’ His voice was a growl as he shoved both hands into your hair, tangling themselves in it as he controlled your new pace. 

The only sounds in the room were that of your gagging and spluttering on his cock as you tried to breathe around him and his own heavy breaths as he relished in the warm wetness of your mouth. 

His hands tightened their grip in your hair, yanking at the strands. ‘You said you were sorry Doll. Prove it to me.’ He practically spat his words at you as you knelt before him, eyes locking with his and you realised that he was serious. He wanted you to do better than you already were and you had no intention of what you happen if you didn’t. 

You breathed as deeply as you could before forcing yourself all the way down him, swallowing around his thick length, swirling your tongue along the underside of his shaft as you came back up. You repeated the motion several times, each swirl of your tongue earned you a deep moan from the man above you and as fucked up as it was, you loved hearing that sound. You loved the way it seemed to reverberate through the air and down inside of you, deep inside, making your thighs clench in need. 

You could tell that he was close, the tensing of his immense thigh muscles gave it away just before he came, deep inside into your mouth, a loud groan falling from his lips as his hold in you hair loosened. He didn’t have to tell you what to do next, you knew that he expected you to swallow whatever he gave you and so you forced the salty liquid down your throat, feeling the way is slid down into your stomach. 

His hands started playing with your hair, an action that would normally make you incredibly irate but under the circumstances you couldn’t find it in you to care. You were far too tired from the beating you had taken earlier that day and the events that had just transpired to care about what his hands would do to your hair which no doubt looked a hot mess right now given that you hadn’t had the chance to properly dry it after your attempted shower.

You just closed your eyes and tried to find comfort in your current position, ignoring the way your knees shouted in discomfort against the wooden floorboards. You didn’t even open your eyes when you felt him shift, his hands moving away from you, the crackle of a wrapper echoing through the quiet room. 

‘Open your eyes Doll.’ You did as he said, your eyes falling on the small protein bar he held out to you. Cautiously, you raised your hands to clasp around the wrapper and when he didn’t try and take it back or get angry at you, you took it from him, laying it in your lap. 

‘What do you say when I give you something?’ His voice was expectant, hinting at the icy turn it could take in seconds. Your eyes quickly snapped back up to his while you tried to find your voice. It was raspy and was barely more than a whisper, but you knew he would be able to hear it. 

‘Thank you Sweetheart.’ 

+

Steve had left you after that, saying he would be back later, leaving you alone once again. The light above the couch had stayed on, illuminating the rest of the room well enough and as tempting as curling back up in bed sounded, you desperately wanted some clothes, something to at least give you the idea of modesty and so you had trudged back towards the closet, wincing at every step. 

However once you had reached the closet, no matter how hard you twisted, pulled or pushed, the door remained in place, keeping you from your one hope of protection. You banged your head against the smooth wood, fighting back tears. Deep down you knew that in the grand scheme of things, not having clothes definitely wasn’t the worst thing to happen to you, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt any less. Being dehumanised like this was one of the worst things that man had done to you, it made his future intentions crystal clear. 

That night you had curled up as tightly as you could in a ball, cocooned in blankets, fighting the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes, waiting for the light to click off to leave you in peace. When it finally did after what had felt like hours had passed, sleep was still hard to find. Your body sought comfort, not only for the physical pain he had caused, but also for the emotional pain. And the most fucked up thing about it, was that as your eyes drifted closed, you realised it was his comfort you craved. Barely a day in and you were already breaking. 

He really was going to break you down to nothing. 

+

Steve checked his phone as he made his way into the kitchen, watching as his girl slept, the picture of serenity. It broke his heart, having to do this to you but it was a necessity. If this was going to work, you needed to be broken, to be rebuilt by him. It went against every moral fibre in his body, but this is what he wanted; what he needed. 

He hadn’t even realised what he really wanted when he had taken you, but now, nearly two weeks into his operation he knew. He knew that you were going to be his endgame, one way or another. 

Mentally steeling himself, Steve descended the stairs to the basement, his tray of breakfast in one hand, his phone in the other. He watched as you slept soundly, even after he had switched the light over the couch on. He must’ve really tired you out last night. 

There was a stir beneath his trackies as he thought about last night; about yesterday. The way your cunt had felt around him, squeezing him for dear life while he tried to hold on until he felt your walls pulse around him. It had been everything he had dreamt of and more. And then when he had experienced your lips wrapped around him, the velvety warm swirl of your tongue... the bulge that was now evident beneath his tracksuit pants was evidence enough of just how much he had enjoyed it. 

Taking in a deep breath, Steve opened the door, wasting no time in disposing the tray on the coffee table as he had done last night before stalking over to where your sleeping body lay. During the night, your body had unfurled itself from the ball it had been as you fell asleep and now, Steve only had to peel back the blankets to reveal your naked body to him as you lay on your back, as if presenting yourself to him. 

Steve paused momentarily, awestruck by your curves, your breasts, the smattering of curls that hid his true desire from his vision. Slowly, gently, he lay down over your body, careful not to shift the bed too much, knowing that he would never get this calmness, this serenity from you while you were awake. At least not for a little while.

On their own accord, his lips connected with the soft, supple skin of your shoulder, placing soft, open mouthed kisses wherever they could as he moved down your body, latching onto one of your nipples. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive skin as his fingers brushed over the other one, teasing it to a peak while you slept. 

He continued his descent, not staying too long in one anyone place, worried that you would wake up before he reached his true destination and tried to stop him. He brushed over your naval, down on your thighs as his hands separated them, revealing you to him. A smirk came over his features as he stared at your glistening cunt. You might try to deny it, but even in sleep your body couldn’t lie to him. 

He pressed his tongue flat against your slit, licking all the way up to your clit, wanting to taste as much of you as possible, angry at himself for not doing it sooner. You tasted divine. 

He sucked your clit into his mouth, paying the utmost attention to the sensitive bundle of nerves while one of his fingers coated itself in your slick gently before easing in. 

Steve relished in the way your body changed, despite you remaining asleep. He loved the way your breathing picked up ever so slightly, the soft moans that tumbled out of your liberated mouth, the way your hips slightly shifted closer to him. 

It wasn’t until Steve added a second finger that you finally started to wake up, realising that the pleasure coursing through your veins was real and not just a dream. Your eyes drifting open, ever so slowly, and it took you a moment or two to realise what was going on; who the blonde tuft of hair between your legs belongs to. 

You raised your hands, tangling them in his hair with every intention of shoving him off you, but suddenly you felt a third finger being added, all three curled to hit right there and - ‘Oh’. The moan echoed around the small room, Steve’s eyes flickering up to meet yours, the crystal blue nearly black and you threw your head back against the pillows. Thoughts of shoving him off completely abandoned as your fingers curled in an unyielding grip, pulling him more towards you, the feeling of the constantly tightening coil too pleasant to deny. 

You could practically feel Steve smirk against you ignored it, too wrapped up in bliss to care as his fingers continually stroked over your g-spot, his tongue never ceasing its ministrations on your clit. ‘Oh Steve, Stevie yes please, right there, please Stevie.’ 

You felt him groan in response to your words, felt the bed shift as he ground into the mattress. Clearly someone was excited. You couldn’t hold in the smile that crossed your face, some sick part of you was thrilled that you had this much of an effect on the great Captain America. God, what was wrong with you?

You snapped your eyes shut, trying to force those thoughts out of your mind and focus on the intense pleasure that was building up in your stomach. You were so close you could almost taste your orgasm on your tongue, you just needed a little bit more to push you over the edge. 

‘Please Stevie, please. I need to cum. Please make me cum. I’ll be your good girl. Please.’ You felt his grip on your hips tighten even further and with a final flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers, the soil inside of you snapped, your vision went blurry and your body felt fuzzy, writhing on the bed as you slowly came down. 

You could vaguely feel Steve’s lips tracing a path up your body, pausing just before they met yours. As you kissed, you could taste yourself on his tongue as he forced it inside of you, trailing it over the entirety of your mouth. You didn’t realise what he was trying to distract you from until you felt his head poke at your slit before softly easing in. 

Although you did still feel the pain from the stretch of him, it felt good mostly, the way he filled you so completely, taking his time to thrust in and out, a stark contrast to yesterday. 

Even though you had only just come down from your orgasm, you could already feel the coil tightening once more as he continued to grind against you, making sure to always hit your clit with his pelvis as he moved. 

Every time he bottomed out inside of you, you could feel his tip scraping against your g-spot just as his finger had done and it never failed to make you a moaning mess. Your arms were wrapped around his thick shoulders, your legs around his waist, desperately trying to pull him even closer. All the thoughts of how you should hate him for everything that he had done and was doing to you were nowhere to be seen as his lips met your collarbone. 

‘Oh Stevie… god, yes Stevie, yes.’ Your words were barely a breath against his ear as he picked up his pace, the sound of your skin clapping filling the room. You watched in awe as he leant down on his elbows, capturing your face in his hands, forcing your eyes to lock. 

‘You’re gonna be the death of me Doll. The way you squeeze me so tight. It’s like a perfect fit, like you were made for me.’ Your body couldn’t help but respond to his words, your walls clenching around him as he pulled you impossibly close once again. 

‘Stevie please. I’m so close.’

‘I know Doll, I know. I’m nearly there. Just hold on a little longer.’ 

You were transfixed, lost staring into his eyes as his pace increased even further, rutting into you with a fever, chasing his finish. One hand slipped down from your face, tracing the contours of your body until it met your swollen clit, toying with it in time of your thrusts. 

You could barely keep your eyes open at this point, the pleasure radiating through your body was too much to handle and when your eyes started to drift closed, you felt his hand squeeze your jaw. ‘Eyes on my Doll. I want to see them as you cum around my cock. Me a good girl and cum for me baby, cum right now!’

You obeyed his words right on cue, your cunt spasming around his cock as your vision turned black, the pleasure too much to handle. 

When you came too a few moments later, you could feel Steve tracing patterns along your bare back enticing goosebumps wherever his hands roamed. ‘I’m glad your back with me Doll. I thought I’d lost you for a moment there.’ 

‘No, I’m right here.’ As much as you detested yourself for it, you subtly tried to bury yourself even further into his chest, relishing in his heat, in the feel of his hard muscles beneath you, ignorant of the giant smirk plastered on his face. 

+

Steve didn’t know how long you had been lying together, but he knew for certain that he wasn’t about to get up anytime soon. He knew that your cuddliness was most likely just a post orgasmic haze and it would soon turn back into your normal behaviour, but it gave him hope. Hope that this whole mean guy act would soon be over, and you would be truly his at last. 

It was only when Steve heard the persistent chime of his phone that Steve finally let go of you. He had tried ignoring it but it never let up and so he climbed out of bed, hating the piece of modern technology as he disentangled his limbs from yours and fumbled around for his jean pocket, mentally cursing whoever was calling him right now. 

However when he finally located the sleek device he noted that it wasn’t an incoming call, but a security alert that had the phone going haywire. Hesitantly, he opened his security app, clicking on where the alarm had sounded at his front door. 

The image on the screen had his face paling, panic started to overtake him as he stared down at the face of his best friend, standing on his doorstep. 

+

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X. The Truth

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Leech Lord AU drabbles - Most painful or severe event they've dealt with

(TW drug use, gore under the cut)

Troy

Snorting something handed to you with no name on it in an orgy by someone you don't recognise after you've not slept in 28 hours is a really bad idea, and the kind of thing he feels like he probably should have known in advance without needing to experience it.

The trip was bad. Hours minutes maybe, seconds? he's not sure trapped in your own mind, in an empty ship filled with memories you very specifically don't think about is a recipe for disaster, and disaster is exactly what happened.

Hallucination after hallucination of Mom, Pop, Ty, Sei, faces he knew, faces he couldn't pull out of cloying ocean of blood surrounding him as they choked and drowned, not with just one arm. Not when he was so weak.

Laughter, bubbling up through the purple tar that foamed and drooled from the sneering, galaxy sized golden fangs that filled the sky above him as they blocked out the moon, echoing in the pack of snapping gilded jaws surrounding him that sank into muscle and bone and pulled while they called him false God, while they whispered that they knew who he was.

If the Saint who dragged him out of his washroom bloodied and screeching after they burst into his Sanctum saw what he'd done to his right side in his confusion, they’ve never said. Just gave a him a gentle eye through their bloodstained mask and told him he'd "Be ok, boss. Just get that shit out of you. You're alright.."

It took weeks to heal. He'd torn into the skin and scarring with his nails during the trip in some kind of mix of self destructive hatred and terror, and he couldn't fit the bracer over till it sealed. He tried, but the pain was so intense he couldn’t walk without wincing, too obviously in discomfort to hide from curious eyes. For Troy, who can barely register pain, to be that fucked by it? Well, lesson learned. It really had been a bad idea.

Seifa

Sei took great pride in putting her money where her mouth was till she got stabbed over it, and it wasn't even a GOOD stab. It wasn't one of those ones where you bleed out and get to be dramatic and have last words while making a scene. It was a sneaky, cowardly, weak little stab that she's not sure how she survived.

She was 22, and at the pinnacle of her inflated self confidence. Out at a late night deal in Promethea with some slum traders she underestimated, and not enough eyes on her back.

She's not sure if it was the snarky tone of her counteroffer or how she tried to square up to someone twice her size, all predatory grin and flirtatious side-eye, but he hadn't liked it. An upwards pointing knife just under the base of her ribcage had been her payment for getting too close and far too full of herself.

He'd laughed as he slipped it out, smirking at her as he turned to leave with his companions. Completely nonchalant, like nothing had happened even while the colour drained from her face and the pressure inside her chest bloomed. Each shuddering breath out and she could feel air sucking in through the wound, could feel the intense struggle fill her lungs after.

She'd stood for 20, 30 seconds, gasping quietly as her "protection" continued to shout insults at the trader's backs, not even realising his employer had just been shanked till Sei had blacked out and crumpled to the ground like a doll.

She woke up in one of Promethea's fancy medic bays facing a tired, irritable doctor, and a debt she really would have preferred not needing to pay. He'd missed her lung by an inch and pierced her diaphragm. If she hadn't had a hired thug with her, she'd have choked to death in that alley. Guess he'd been worth his fee in the end.

Tyreen 

Gore warning

Got straight up disemboweled once, funny story! Second year on Pandora and their small war party had faced slightly more resistance than expected while assimilating a minor bandit camp into the family. She doesn't remember pain per se, she heals too fast for most pain to really register, but she remembers the sound of the slice, and the sudden bizarre loss of strength in her stance as her stomach muscles lost tension.

Troy screaming "Tyree-OH FUCCCCKKK!!!??" and the look of horrified disgust on his face as she glanced to her right and met his eyes was the next thing she remembered, then echoing his statement with as much fervor when she looked down to see ropes of intestines and something large and flat and much darker red than she was expecting sliding freely out of her lower torso.

She grabbed the writhing wet mass and just... pushed it back in, half wanting to laugh, half wanting to pass out at the sensation of the sucking flesh sealing around her hands as the bandit holding the machete stood in complete shock inches in front of her.

The wound closed within a second of pulling her hand out of her open stomach, and she'd taken a pause to really appreciate the humor of the moment before husking him. The burst of energy helped make sure she doesn't even have a scar, really neat.

She wonders sometimes if she actually... fit... everything back in right, but it's not like she eats much anyway. No harm. Was kinda cool to be honest. Your insides feel really hot.

Asks are Open, feel free to send in prompts!

[friendlylocalwhumper]

six and a half hours

It’s a long, slow process, Lux being broken down. Emory’s seen all the different stages of it. He’s seen the beginning, when discomfort builds up until Lux starts to get overwhelmed, grows restless. He’s seen loud, messy sobs wracking Lux’s body as he reeled in the aftermath of being hurt, his mind lost in a mess of grief and horror and shame. Over enough years with Lux he’s seen it all.

Now, though, he’s being forced to see it all at once, in order, the whole process. They’re at the point, now, where Lux is taking quick shaky breaths, pinned between hands and the table, a knife pressing into his abdomen. Lux is making soft panicky sounds. Those are the sounds he makes when he’s been pushed past his limits, when he’s in so much pain that he can’t process it all. When he’s scared, when he knows there’s no way out, and he’s going to scream soon.

Not the yell that comes with sudden pain - no, he’s already let out a few of those. The kind of screaming that’s coming is the kind that makes Emory want to crawl into a small dark space and hide from the world. It’s a sound that hurts his heart, makes everything feel hopeless and pointless because that’s how Lux feels. It’s such a raw sound, so rich in distress. Emory’s skin crawls in horrified anticipation.

There’s blood on the floor, dripping from the edges of the table. Not a crazy amount, not spilling and splashing, just falling in fat drops to plop into little puddles below. Dried blood cracks along Lux’s side from the first cuts hours ago. There’s so much blood on his chest, pooling at his navel, that the man with the knife has to take a cloth and wipe it away to see where to push the knife in next.

There’s a diagram on a laminated piece of paper at Lux’s side. A diagram of a body, and lines drawn along it. Smaller diagrams along the side and in the corners that go into more detail about how to cut, what to do once incisions are made.

He’s experimenting on warlocks. Lux shuddered when they were told that, when he was first being strapped down - said something about a lab, and an angel, and that he couldn’t do this again.

There are still things Lux hasn’t told Emory, ways he’s been hurt, but that sounds like a big thing to keep secret.

There’s a clock on the wall in stopwatch mode. The seconds flick by, milliseconds running tirelessly, as they pass into the fifth hour. The pleading stopped before the first hour was up.

The thing is, Emory can tell Lux has accepted this. He was being hurt in the mindfucker’s cellar for a year - and thinking on that for any longer than in passing yields some awful realizations. Like that if Lux was chained up long enough for his shoulders to be as bad as they are now, then he must have been kept chained up even when he was asleep, not even able to lie down. And how he perks up, scarcely breathing, when a door opens or someone approaches unexpectedly, as if an echo of when he must have waited all day only for the cellar door to open, his torturer finally in the mood to hurt him again.

So he was in that place for a year, being hurt at someone else’s whims, in their house, on their time. That probably means every day, every day for a year, he had to lie pinned or sit restrained or hang from chains, withstanding whatever was done to him. His mind must have gone places, his thoughts must have been on a short loop of pain, half a thought interrupted by a flinch, pain again.

The sixth hour comes. It’s terrible, but Emory is bored. Still horrified, still devastated and angry and worried, but bored. His arms are getting sore from the ziptie keeping his wrists together behind his back, and his legs are numb from staying kneeling. He’d stretch if his ankles weren’t tied together too, and a tie looped between his wrists and ankles to keep him sitting like he is. His knees hurt, and his neck is stiff.

Lux is lethargic, nearly passing out here and there only for his expression to crumple and a whine to escape him as the knife is pressed in harshly to startle him back into awareness. There’s no screaming, and no more pleading. Emory is probably the worst person in the world for this, but he almost wants it to be over more for his own sake than for Lux’s. Almost.

He shouldn’t need the reminder. He shouldn’t be bored, shouldn’t be mentally listing all the ways in which he himself is having a less than comfortable time. But a shuddering gasp comes out of Lux, new enough to catch Em’s attention, and then there’s that scream. The one that makes Emory want to curl up and hide. It took - he glances at the clock, blanches - took six and a half hours to get that scream out of Lux. Just enough pain, enough time spent pinned and struggling to cope, enough exhaustion and overstimulation in the form of being sliced into.

The pleading has returned, too. Screams and choked-out sobs and no, no, no no please, s-s-stop I can’t, please no more I can’t I can’t, ple-e-ease sto-op!

Emory shudders. The knife trails up to Lux’s throat, the point tapped against the underside of his chin. “I can make you quiet for good, you know,” Says the man with hands drenched in blood, and Lux keens, the begging dying out again. His limit, his hard limit, has been reached. There’s something like madness in those teary blue eyes. Deep, desperate need for it to end, and the conviction to do something about it.

A faint glow comes to Lux’s palm, out of the torturer’s line of sight. Emory stares in shock. If Lux hasn’t used his magic by now, it’s because it’s not safe to, there’s something Emory doesn’t know that’s kept him docile. And besides, Lux’s instinct when pushed past his limits isn’t to fight, it’s to break, to show he’s broken, to crumble and obey.

And yet the magic works, grows brighter in his hand as the knife drags along his skin again, opening maybe the last scar left healed closed on his whole front. The knife presses in again, somehow not tearing open anything inside that’ll kill Lux in the next few hours - bloody fingerprints smudge the diagrams as the man keeps true to their guidance - and then the knife is out, its bloody tip pressed lightly to Lux’s cheek, the man above him letting out a sigh.

“I’ve learned all I could without causing damage that’ll kill you. Guess it’s time to let you and your man go.”

The magic flickers out in an instant. “Le-et… let us go?” Voice small and rough from hours of tension and pain noises, Lux watches with wide eyes as the man unlocks each restraint.

“Yes. I’ve learned all I could. Followed my template here, didn’t find anything much. Hmm, maybe I should stitch you up, this is a lot of blood.” A hand presses to Lux’s sternum to discourage the warlock’s attempt to push himself up.

“Nnh, I, m-most of it’s dried, I can - do it m’self, please let, let us go n-now.”

Wrists and ankles free, all Lux has to do to get out is convince the uncertain man above him. It must be his eyes that do it, big and sad. He didn’t fight very hard, didn’t lose his mind screaming or anything. He’s as good a victim as a sick fuck could hope for.

The hand leaves Lux’s chest to slip around under him and help him up. Two hands grip onto his shoulders to keep him from swaying so hard he topples to the floor. Lux is released to stumble across the room to Emory; the man follows to crouch beside Em and cut open the zip ties.

And then it’s done. Dizzy, Lux clings to Emory, eyes empty with a kind of shock at being allowed to go. Blood sizzles and pops as the man pours something onto it from a bottle, sponges and a mop bucket getting pulled out to clean up. Emory has to stop walking, face twisted up, to let the pins-and-needles feeling that comes after resting his weight on numb legs. Poor Lux, pale and barely keeping himself conscious, holds a trembling hand over the area of his stomach with the most concentrated stab wounds.

“I’m sorry,” Gasps Emory as they start walking again before the pins-and-needles sensation is completely gone. He knows he’s wasting time, being selfish. He got bored while Lux was being tortured. “I’m sorry, Curls. Let me carry you.”

Each step Lux takes is punctuated by a soft whimper. He shouldn’t be up on his feet, shouldn’t - this is so fucked up, all of this - he’s been brushed off, sent to stumble away from where he was strapped down and cut into for six and a half hours. What the hell is that?

With all the blood, all the times that knife dipped into Lux’s body, Emory is so glad that the man had diagrams and patience and a plan to let them go. There’s no way Lux would be alive otherwise.

The warlock doesn’t protest the idea of being picked up. Maybe he’s on the verge of fainting; he seems to be drifting, now that he doesn’t have to focus to make sure he’ll get out of there alive. Emory scoops him up as smoothly as he can, cringing at the raw keen it draws out of his boyfriend.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay. Hurts to get picked up but now you don’t have to walk, isn’t that… better?” Emory’s words falter as he looks down to see Lux pass out, eyelids fluttering shut, breaths slowing, head flopping back. Lux’s whole front, chest and stomach, is an awful thing to see. Seeing it up close, Emory wonders how someone could stay awake for six hours while that was being done to them. That’s like, a quarter of a whole day. He walks, rolling his steps, starting to worry worse now that Lux is unconscious. Lux shouldn’t have to wake up, feel the pain of the stab wounds, and work up the courage to heal himself. No, Emory’s going to get ahold of a healer and let Lux wake up to a friend watching over him, fixing the damage, taking away the pain. After - he can’t even wrap his mind around it - after six hours of a knife pressing into him over and over again, Lux deserves to be taken care of.

[cherryrogers]

bittersweet {5}

pairing: boxer!bucky x rogers!reader

warnings: some angst, mentions of illness + death, swearing.

synopsis: The world of boxing wasn’t something you knew much about, but after a certain boxer with blue eyes and an irresistible charm wove his way into your heart, you soon learned that it went far deeper than red gloves and gold medals — you thought that the boxer happening to be your brother’s best friend was bad enough, but darker affairs had only yet to come to light.

a/n: ok so the story is lowkey gonna take a turn with this chapter, but i’m excited! italics indicate a flashback, and if you’re confused with some of the things going on, that’s ok! all things will be explained with time :) ,,, anyway, please enjoy and feedback is always appreciated.

Series Masterlist

Daylight poured through the blinds, and a groan of discomfort escaped your lips as your eyes blinked open. Lazily, you reached over to pick your phone up from the beside table, groaning again to see that it was only nine o’clock.

You’d stayed up until at least one in the morning watching the first two Star Wars movies with Steve, shocked that he had never seen any of the franchise in his twenty three years of living. Towards the end, you could see him growing more and more tired on the other side of the couch until he was passed out before the end of the second movie. If he hadn’t have had training early in the morning, you would’ve swatted him awake to see the end, but instead you decided to save the last twenty minutes to watch another time.

Steve didn’t say anything else about the ‘mystery guy’ you were seeing either, which you were thankful for. The guilt was setting in yet again, knowing that Steve was completely unaware that the guy you were talking about was indeed Bucky Barnes, but you pushed it away just like you always did. You would tell him eventually, you made a promise to yourself. Especially since things were really looking up with Bucky, you imagined that it couldn’t be kept a secret for much longer.

After prying yourself out of bed, you tugged on the hoodie that was slung over the back of the chair next to your dresser. Written on the back of it was the name of some random sports team, and you guessed it was one of your brother’s hoodies that you’d stolen from him when you were younger.

With a long yawn, you left your bedroom and began to plod downstairs, the sweet scent of chocolate-chip pancakes filling your nose instantly. Steve usually had training the next morning whenever you stayed over, but that didn’t stop him from making sure you had a tasty breakfast to wake up to. He’d always been a good cook, just like your mother. It was definitely a nice change from the cereal bars you usually opted for before rushing off to class or work.

The sizzling of the pancakes wasn’t the only sound coming from the kitchen, however. There was talking, and it seemed like Steve wasn’t in the kitchen alone. You paused your movement on the stairs, curiously listening in on what you could catch from the conversation.

“So, he was just outside? Not doing anything?” You heard your brother ask.

“Yeah, one of the guys said he saw him. Seemed pretty sure it was Rumlow.”

The other voice was too familiar. Christ, did that mean that Bucky was in your kitchen?

“Shit,” Steve sighed. “He shouldn’t be around here, Buck. D’you think he wants something?”

“I don’t know, but you had a deal with him. If he’s back, that must mean...”

There was a silence between the men, and your brows knitted together in confusion. What ‘deal’ were they talking about? And who was Rumlow? What did it mean if he was back?

“Look, we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. We don’t even know if it was him for sure.”

“Steve,” Bucky pressed, a seriousness to his tone that you’d never heard before. “We can’t just sit around and hope that it wasn’t him. This could be dangerous—”

The sudden heavy slam of a cup on the counter made you jump, and your brother’s voice filled with frustration soon followed. “Well, what are we supposed to do? March down to his gym and ask him what his deal is?”

Bucky exhaled calmly. “No, of course not, but—”

“But nothing, Buck,” Steve interrupted, his voice quieter than before. “Look, I’ll cross this bridge with Rumlow when we get to it. My sister will be awake soon, and she can’t hear us talking about this.”

Well shit. There was an uncomfortable feeling in your chest; this guy — Rumlow — sounded like someone that neither Steve or Bucky were very fond of. He was outside of somewhere... and one of the ‘guys’ saw him. Assuming ‘guys’ meant another boxer at the gym... oh. Were they talking about that guy? The guy that you unfortunately bumped into the day before? The one that knew Steve?

Bucky must’ve told Steve and changed the fact that it was his sister that saw the guy outside, but why didn’t he tell you who he thought the guy was? And what was so dangerous about him?

Hearing the conversation come to a close, you took that as your cue to walk down the rest of the stairs and into the kitchen, causing both men to turn their attention towards you.

“Mornin’, kid,” Steve chirped, as if he wasn’t just having a heated conversation with his friend. He placed the final pancake from the pan onto the stack he’d already prepared before dousing them with golden syrup. “You hungry?”

“I could smell the pancakes from upstairs,” You moved over towards the counter, taking a seat on a stool next to Bucky and resisting the instinct to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Hi, J-Bucky.”

Bucky suppressed a smirk. “Hey, (Y/N).” The boxer glanced at Steve, who was in the process of putting the pancake ingredients away, his back facing the two of you. His eyes returned to you, nudging his shoe against your bare calf.

“You look cute.” He mouthed, eyeing you up and down, heart swelling slightly at the hoodie that was obviously Steve’s engulfing your body.

Biting back a smile, you mouthed back a playful ‘don’t I always?’ before directing your attention to your brother, who was placing the stack of pancakes in front of you.

“I’m just gonna grab my gym stuff from upstairs, then Bucky and I are heading out, is that alright?” The blond passed you a knife and fork as you gave him a nod, before pacing out of the room, his heavy footsteps on the staircase indicating to Bucky that it was safe to move his stool a little closer to yours.

There was still a level of discomfort in your chest; you were curious to know what they’d been discussing before you came into the kitchen and why you weren’t supposed to know about it. Bucky could sense your shift in demeanour as you clutched your knife and fork tightly, cutting a slice out of one of your pancakes and quickly bringing it to your mouth.

“You okay?” The boxer asked gingerly.

Swallowing the food, you hesitated for a moment. Pretending that you hadn’t heard their previous conversation wasn’t going to do you any good. Plus, if either Steve or Bucky was in some sort of danger, you hoped that Bucky would trust you enough to tell you what’s going on.

“Who’s...” You started, pausing your eating. “Who’s Rumlow?”

The soft smile that was comfortably sat on Bucky’s lips disappeared at the question. He could try to play dumb, pretend that he didn’t know what you were talking about. You weren’t stupid, though, and he respected you enough to not lie straight to your face.

His jaw clenched slightly. His name wasn’t something he ever wanted to hear in your voice. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough to know that the guy sounds like a problem.” You continued on eating, eyeing Bucky questioningly after a few moments of his silence.

He let out a sigh, rubbing his jaw in thought. “He’s not someone you need to worry about.”

The statement made you narrow your eyes the the man. “You and Steve seemed pretty worried about him.”

“Well, you don’t need to be,” Bucky retorted, immediately regretting his too-harsh tone when he noticed a flash of hurt in your eyes. He didn’t mean it like that, fuck, of course he didn’t. But the whole situation to do with Rumlow... it wasn’t someone he wanted you involved in. “I’m sorry, babydoll. I didn’t mean—”

“No, I think I know what you meant,” You interrupted, your tone too calm for Bucky’s liking. “If you don’t wanna tell me, then don’t. But if it was the other way around and I was in danger, you wouldn’t let me leave the room until I told you what was going on.”

Bucky tightened his jaw, contemplating your words. You’re weren’t wrong; if he overheard you saying that you could be in danger, then he wouldn’t rest until he knew what was going on. He trusted that you wouldn’t tell a soul about the deal with Rumlow — what he didn’t trust was that you wouldn’t try to take matters into your own hands. Sure, you liked to wear pretty skirts, and you had all the colourful stuffed animals Bucky had won you at the carnival on display in your bedroom, and heat flooded your cheeks whenever he’d call you an endearing pet name; but that didn’t mean you couldn’t hand someone’s ass to them if you wanted to. He was just afraid that you’d underestimate how dangerous Rumlow and his clan of assholes really were.

Soon enough, your brother had returned to the kitchen and was motioning for Bucky to get going. The blond ruffled your hair as he said goodbye, much to your annoyance, before pacing out of the front door, leaving his friend around thirty seconds to begin to sort things out with you.

“What time do your classes end today?”

“Six, why?”

The boxer raised his hand, moving his thumb to the corner of your mouth to wipe away the drop of syrup there, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’ll pick you up, alright? We can talk about everything then.”

You couldn’t help but relax into Bucky’s touch, nodding gently. “Alright, I guess. I’ll see you then.”

“Good.” He rose from his seat, grabbing his gym bag from the floor. A light kiss was pressed to your forehead before Bucky rushed out after Steve, and you were soon left alone in the house, anxious and confused.

If you’d asked Steve the same thing, he would’ve immediately shrugged you off. There wasn’t any way in hell that your brother would tell you about something that could possibly put you in danger. While you appreciated his concern, it bothered you that he didn’t think you could handle the things about life that weren’t so easy. Maybe you weren’t a six foot boxer with biceps bigger than your own head, but you were smart. That’s what you liked about Bucky; he could see that you weren’t a naive nineteen year old. After watching your mom get sicker by the day and ultimately losing her, your skin had thickened. You weren’t oblivious to the evil in the world after experiencing it first hand, and you weren’t sure that there was a lot more that could hurt you after being told that you were going to lose your mom, and that there was nothing anyone could do about it.

You hadn’t heard Steve so stressed in a long time, however. Whatever was going on with Rumlow, it had your brother’s mind whirring with worry.

You guessed you’d just have to find out later.

* * *

Steve had been on edge all day.

His muscles were more tensed, palms more sweaty, lips staying in a straight line, a smile never pulling at them.

All because of him — Rumlow.

It was only a matter of time before he worked his way back into Steve’s life, the blond knew he’d come back. It was part of their deal, after all.

The bastard wanted something. What that was, Steve wasn’t sure of, but if he could make Rumlow disappear as fast as he showed up again, Steve was going to do what he had to to make that happen.

Scorching water ran down the boxer’s body, an attempt to distract his thoughts from the man he despised so much. There was nothing he could do at that moment in time, all he could do was wait for Rumlow to make his first move.

After getting changed and towel drying his hair, Steve wrapped up his training for the day and left the building, about to make a beeline for his car, until the outline of a figure in the dark caught his eye; a figure leaning against the lamppost just opposite the gym entrance. Wisps of smoke swirled amid the fresh air from the tip of the dark figure’s cigarette, the scent alone causing the hairs on the blond’s arms to stand up.

He could recognise the smell of that shitty brand of cigarettes anywhere, and he’d only ever known one person that smoked them.

The figure noticed Steve eyeing him cautiously, and a dark chuckle escaped from their chapped lips.

“Steve fuckin’ Rogers. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

The blond was reluctant to approach him, but Steve needed to know what this guy’s deal was.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, Rumlow?” A hard look spread across Steve’s face as he neared the brunet.

After taking one final puff from his cigarette, Rumlow flicked the stick to the ground and crushed it under his dirty boot. “Now, that’s no way to treat an old friend, is it?”

“Cut the shit, man.” Steve talked lowly, voice laced in anger. “What do you want?”

“You remember our deal, don’t you?” Rumlow crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, it’s time, Rogers. And the faster we get things done, the faster I’ll get outta your hair.”

Steve considered the man’s words. He’d been waiting a long time for Rumlow to finally give him an offer. An offer that would hopefully stop him from having to see Rumlow ever again. An offer that would cut all strings with him, and allow him to live without the weight of the deal on his shoulders.

Jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, Steve darted his gaze around the area, making sure nobody else would hear their conversation, that it was only him and Rumlow.

“Alright.” The blond’s eyes turned to pierce into Rumlow’s dark ones. “Tell me what you want.”

* * *

It had barely been five minutes since your class ended, but you weren’t surprised to already see Bucky’s car parked on the sidewalk in your direct line of sight outside of the building. He always arrived early when he picked you up, never wanting to leave you waiting alone for long.

It was one of the little things about Bucky that you wholeheartedly appreciated.

Throughout the class, Natasha had noticed that something was off with you. You had been repeatedly clicking your pen in the quiet room, earning yourself a number of unhappy looks from those sitting around you. If you ever got nervous, you never usually showed it - Natasha knew well enough to know your confidence was a trait that guys tended to be attracted to. However, she’d never seen you so out of it, especially not when you were simply sitting in class.

When she asked you if everything was okay, all you could offer her was the most reassuring nod you could muster up. Natasha was normally the person you’d talk to about everything, but you knew that you couldn’t even mention the situation with your brother and Rumlow to her. If even you weren’t supposed to be apart of the secret, then you weren’t about to drag your best friend into it to.

You told her you’d call her the next morning, and by that time you’ll had hopefully made up a bullshit excuse about being ‘tired’ or ‘stressed with work’.

For now, you just needed to talk to Bucky.

Quickly approaching his car, you climbed into the passenger seat, the warm air in the vehicle easing your anxiety a little.

Natasha wasn’t the only one who’d sensed your nervous demeanour; Bucky could see it clear as day from the way you were clenching and unclenching your fists and nibbling on your bottom lip. It pained him, really. You were never meant to know about Rumlow, you just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And Bucky blames himself for that.

“I’m sorry.” He apologised suddenly, causing a furrow in your brows. Exhaling deeply, Bucky continued. “If I knew that Rumlow was making a reappearance around here, I wouldn’t have even let you-”

“Please don’t be sorry, James.” You shot him a pleading look, turning to face him as best as you could in the car seat. “It was just a shitty coincidence that I got off the bus at the same time he was stood outside of the gym. You can’t blame yourself for something you don’t have control over, so please don’t try to.”

Bucky wanted to argue with you; explain that you were at the gym for him, and that you wouldn’t have even ran into Rumlow if he didn’t invite you down to the gym once a week. But he knew you were stubborn, and that you wouldn’t back down until his ass stopped apologising.

So with a sigh, the boxer nodded and began the explanation that he’d been dreading all day, adjusting nervously in his seat.

“His full name is Brock Rumlow. Like he told you, he trains at a boxing gym across town. They compete in professional matches like every other place, our guys box against theirs from time to time.” Bucky’s eyes hesitantly meet yours. “But they’re more than just another boxing gym in New York. They’re... they’re part of a business - an illegal fighting ring. It’s nothing like boxing; it’s violent, brutal fighting where both guys barely make it out of a match alive. They have guys flown over from different gyms around the country, have them knock the shit out of each other while they egg ‘em on, and the champion... wins.”

You began nibbling harder on your bottom lip. “Wins what?”

“Well, they don’t care much about trophies and titles outside of boxing matches.” His voice wavered the smallest bit, as if even just thinking about his next words was difficult. “Stupid amounts of cash, drugs, girls, guns - it’s a dirty business, made up of some of the cruelest bastards on the planet.”

Though you hadn’t noticed it yourself, Bucky instantly recognised discomfort wash over your features. One of his hands came to rest just above your knee, his thumb grazing over the skin soothingly.

A number of thoughts and emotions had emerged inside of you as Bucky spoke; worry, sadness, rage. Trading off objects like money and drugs was one thing, but girls? Making them the prize of a fight and selling them to groups of men like they weren’t people?

The fact you’d spoken to Brock Rumlow himself for only two minutes made you uneasy. He’d had his hand on your arm; a hand that had probably inflicted great pain on others and accepted the cash for it like the sick son of a bitch he is.

“And Steve?” You hated how quiet your voice was, but it didn’t matter around Bucky. “Where does he tie into all of this?”

“I can’t tell you.”

You were about to object, but Bucky was faster than you when he intervened. “It isn’t common knowledge that that gym is full of criminals; if you know something, you’re a threat to them, and they don’t take too kindly to threats.”

The boxer moved his hand from your thigh to your own hand, interlinking it with his. His eyes locked with yours, and you weren’t sure you could pull your gaze away if you tried.

“(Y/N), I need you to understand how dangerous they are. The less you know, the safer you are. When this is all over, I’ll... I’ll talk to Steve; he should be the one to tell you everything else, his side of things.”

Bucky had seen Brock Rumlow destroy lives before. One of the boxers at his gym - Pietro Maximoff - had originally been part of Rumlow’s gym, just wanting to train and compete in matches one day like every other boxer. He eventually got sucked into the ring when the guy’s decided he was strong enough to fight in their matches. According to the man behind it all at Rumlow’s gym, Alexander Pierce, Pietro was one of the best fighters they had. So when Pietro rightfully wanted out after being subjected to bloody, agonising fights and watching as they exploited vulnerable women left and right, they weren’t planning on letting him go so easily.

They threatened him; they swore they’d find his sister and sell her off as a prize if he left. Pietro wouldn’t let them get the chance, however. He made sure his sister, Wanda, left the country and never came back. Made her change her identity and start a whole new life without him to make sure she was safe when Pietro inevitably left Rumlow’s gym.

Contacting the police was only a waste of time. He’d seen enough police officers come in and out of the gym, inspecting the place to see if they needed to launch an investigation into the ‘fighting ring’ they’d been rumoured to be running. Alexander Pierce wasn’t stupid, though. All records of contact with other gyms were erased regularly, girls were kept in private locations, illegally-won cash was laundered in places all over town...

To most of New York, they were just another boxing gym.

Luckily, they hadn’t ever found Wanda, but Pietro still had to live knowing he was an enemy to Rumlow, and that he’d probably never see his sister again for as long as she needed to be protected from him.

Bucky wasn’t going to let that happen to you. He’d help Steve hold up his end of the deal no matter what it was if it meant keeping Rumlow away.

“Can you take me home, please?” Bucky’s head snapped up at your hushed voice, your eyes no longer meeting his anymore.

He knew it must’ve been a lot to take in for you, but he didn’t want you to feel scared or unsafe; not with him. “Steve’s gonna be fine, you know.”

You scoffed quietly, your hand in his loosening. “He’s somehow involved with an illegal fighting ring that traffics guns and girls; how can you tell me that he’s gonna be fine?”

“Cause he’s Steve. He’s as tough as nails, you more than anyone know that.”

He was right, you did know that. You’d seen his strength with your own eyes more than enough times.

Only minutes had passed since the worst happened, the worst being losing one of the two people you loved most in this world. You could still hear the heart monitor slowing to a long, agonising beep. Your brother’s hands on your arms, pulling you away from the hospital bed with ease as any remaining energy you had left in your body drained out of you.

Steve had went to get you some water, while you were left to sit alone on one of the hard plastic chairs outside of the hospital room. Tears threatened to spill, to trickle freely down your cheeks. But you didn’t want to cry. You didn’t want to sit alone and sob until you couldn’t breathe - you didn’t want to be sad because your mother wouldn’t have wanted you to be.

You didn’t want her to think that you were weak.

A figure sat down in the seat next to you, the scent of a familiar cologne making it obvious who it was. The cup of water in his hand was offered out to you, and you took it shakily. The cubes of ice peaking above the water and poking your lips weren’t nearly as cold as the iciness you felt in your heart.

Uncomfortable pain rose in your chest as you repressed the release of a sob. Steve could see the discomfort in your features, and didn’t hesitate to wrap a strong arm around your shoulders as you instinctively leaned into him.

“It’s okay to cry, kid.” He spoke lowly into the hair that had fallen in front of your face, shielding your tear glazed eyes from him. You shook your head immediately in disagreement, chewing roughly on your bottom lip in attempt to stop it from quivering.

“Don’t wanna cry.” You mustered out, the sob becoming harder to hold back. “Sh-she said that I have to be strong. Can’t c-cry.”

The blond exhaled slowly, tucking your hair behind your ear, making your eyes flick up to his. A crease was evident between his brows, frown lines faint on the corners of his mouth, jaw tensed. He was hurting just as much as you, you could feel it. “Strength isn’t suppressing your emotions, (Y/N). It’s accepting them, and learning how to cope with them so that you can carry on with life. That’s what she wants, kid; for you to keep moving forward.”

Your eyes drifted up to the cream door of the hospital room, blurry silhouettes of nurses moving around through the thin slate of glass. Honestly, you had zero clue whatsoever about how you were going to keep moving forward. This was your mom, your best friend, your rock through everything. You were sure it was going to be next to impossible.

But you wanted to be strong for her, to keep moving forward for her. And for Steve, because if the two of them believed you could keep going, then perhaps you really could.

A hot tear rolled down your cheek, and you didn’t reach up to wipe it away. You let it fall until another followed, and then another, and within seconds you finally let out a choked sob.

Steve’s arm tightened around your shoulders as you buried your face into his chest, all sounds around you being drowned out as you bawled your heart out.

“S’alright, kid. Let it all out.”

You truly looked up to your brother, in that moment more than ever. He was hurting so incredibly much, yet he didn’t let it show as you sobbed into his shirt. It occurred to you then that he was strong, probably stronger than you’d ever be.

And that was okay, because if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have known how to be strong at all.

The ride back to your apartment was silent, but comfortable. On your part, anyway. You could sense that Bucky was worried he’d completely unnerved you by telling you about Rumlow.

So when he pulled up outside of your building, you immediately undid your seatbelt and leaned across the center console of the car, pressing your lips to his needily. Needing to reassure him that you were okay, and that you were going to be okay.

The boxer reacted after a second, eventually bringing a hand to your face and cupping it gently. The kiss wasn’t heated in any way, but it was still filled with passion. With meaning.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen,” Bucky stated hurriedly after your lips parted. “To Steve, or to you.”

“I believe you, Bucky.” Bucky. He’d noticed you only called him that in the softer moments you shared, like when you’d first mentioned your mom to him, and when you were a little shaken from meeting Rumlow. He liked that it was more than just a nickname to you, like a term of endearment. “Steve and I will be okay, we always are.”

Bucky’s hand dropped from your face as you leaned back, beginning to leave the car.

“Call me tomorrow, okay?” You spoke softly, and the boxer nodded with a lazy smile on his lips, like a teenage boy talking to his high school crush. Jesus, he was done for.

“Course.” He reluctantly watched you step out of the car, not wanting you to leave him just yet. But it was late, and he was sure you wanted time to think about everything.

Before you closed the door, you leaned down to look at Bucky through the gap. “Goodnight, James.”

The man was sure that there were stars in his eyes as he gazed at you. “Goodnight, gorgeous.”

You shook your head at the pet name, ignoring the heat rushing to your cheeks. With a shy wave, you shut the door and walked up to your apartment building.

Though those last few moments with you for the night had Bucky’s heart melting with adoration for you, he couldn’t help but still feel doubtful, nervous.

Bucky wasn’t a liar. He wasn’t lying when he said that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you or Steve.

Because if something did happen, he wouldn’t be sure how to live with himself.

* * *

Taglist:

@asgcrds @fiannaofficial @peterparkerbabyyy @bxrnsfeyson

[et-lesailes]

in it together

pairing: ari levinson (chris evans in red sea diving resort, 2019) x reader

themes: light angst n drama but a teensy bit of cute fluff at the end

word count: approx 1900

summary: you and your husband, ari levinson, are a part of a group of agents working to rescue hundreds on hundreds of ethopian-jewish refugees, all while pretending to run the red sea diving resort in sudan, africa. when the colonel comes to check in on you guys, clearly suspicious of your presence there, he gets a little handsy with you and it is safe to say ari is not very pleased.

taglist: @world-of-losers​, @viarogers​

note: requested by @clevercamijo​ // tbh this is nothing too intense, more of a drabble really-- but if you want something even more angsty, i totally got you. hehe, hope you like it though :)

** feel free to send an ask if you would like to be added to my taglist of any chris evans related fics!

You watched from the entrance of the resort with fond eyes as your husband was chatting with some guests, his wetsuit slightly unzipped and his hair blowing slightly in the breeze now that it was drier from his earlier dive. You were grateful for this experience; not only were you helping save lives from a conflict you had been incredibly passionate about fighting against ever since you had first learned about it, but you were doing it with the man you loved right by your side, leading your team. You trusted Ari more than anyone else in the entire world, and you had full faith that along with the other agents, you would succeed in your mission. 

The light smile you wore suddenly dropped from your face, your eyebrows furrowing slightly as you caught sight of the familiar trucks approaching from further away. He turned his head towards the noise and you could see his shoulders barely tense, though not much else in his features or body language gave himself away; considering his occupation, he was good at acting composed, even under pressure. He politely excused himself from the guests he was talking to, wishing them well on their diving tour before making his way to you, subtly squeezing your shoulder. “Go ahead inside, honey,” he murmured, making sure his voice was quiet; as a part of your cover, it was important no one outside the agency knew that the two of you were married, because it could provide more complications and risks. As far as anyone else was concerned, he was resort owner Guy Thomas and you were Lexi Nilsson, a former member of a waitstaff at a Michelin star restaurant and now a hostess at the resort. 

You nodded your head but murmured quietly, “Be careful.” Slipping inside, you found the other agents, discreetly letting them know of the special visitors who were showing up. You watched from inside as one of the soldiers approached Ari, rolling your eyes at the cocky expression he wore as he asked your husband if his men could check out the resort’s trucks. You hated that man since you met him, and you watched his every movement warily; this was a lawless land, and hell, if he wanted to, he could probably shoot down Ari or any one of the fellow agents and get away with it.

Well, perhaps that was a stretch, but you still did not trust him. You watched as his men inspected the back of the trucks- the very same trucks you all used to smuggle the refugees to safety. You couldn’t help but hold your breath. You knew that Ari and the others did a wonderful job leaving behind no traces, but understandably, it did get your heart racing when your team was under suspicion. A small, smug smirk crossed your lips upon seeing the cocky expression fall from the colonel’s face once his men told him the trucks were empty, now only hoping that he would leave. Instead, Colonel Ahmed only invited himself in for dinner, eliciting a small groan of frustration from your lips. All you wanted was to quietly slip into your room with your husband and crawl into bed in his warm arms, to bury your head in his broad chest and let your fingers lightly play with his soft, lengthy hair. 

But instead, the man came inside, quietly informing you to resume your position as hotel staff, giving you a discreet apologetic glance before turning to Ahmed with a smile on his face, encouraging him and his soldiers to come inside and wait at the table while he went to get changed. 

_______________________

It took you everything not to punch these ogling men in their faces as you stood before them at the table, waiting patiently as they inspected the menu in front of them, though the reason they seemed to be taking so long was because their eyes were on you more than the words in front of them. You could tell that Ari could notice; he was not letting his annoyance show in any obvious ways, but you knew him well enough to read the subtle signs. The way his knuckles tensed to white as he held his glass, the slight creases appearing in his forehead the longer the men took to state their damn order, his stunning blue eyes just slightly darker than usual. Still, you avoided eye contact with him. If these soldiers even slightly picked up on the fact that the two of you had a remotely deeper relationship, it could mean trouble. 

“Would you like some more time to look over the menu, sir?” you finally questioned in the best polite voice you could muster, even managing to offer him a light smile. The colonel brought his eyes to yours, looking at you for a few moments before slowly smirking, immediately making you feel uncomfortable. “I think,” he replied with thickly accented English, “that what I want is not on this menu.” Before you could even respond, he had his arm around your waist, his strong hold suddenly jerking you right onto his lap. Your eyes rounded in surprise, your expression one of pure shock as you locked eyes onto Ari’s, immediately starting to squirm. “Hey! P-please, let go of me!” you demanded; normally, you would punch this pervert’s teeth in, but even in a situation like this, you knew you could not risk giving up your cover. You were supposed to be an innocent member of the waitstaff at the resort, and you would commit to your role as seriously as possible if it meant saving lives. 

Ari looked just as shocked as he immediately stood up, eyes narrowed; you could tell it was also taking everything in him to not grab the bastard and throw him onto the floor. “Let go of my employee, please,” he spoke through grit teeth, glaring down Ahmed with a look of disapproval and authority. “Oh, but Mr Thomas,” the colonel spoke nonchalantly, his fingers squeezing your waist only making you squirm further in discomfort as you tried to fight his hold. “How can I help myself? You see, all the native women here look exactly the same-- so boring. When such exquisite foreigners come, I get… excited.” He gave you a sleazy grin, making you practically want to throw up all over him. “How about we make a deal? You let me have the pretty woman, and I leave you and your resort alone.” Your husband looked at the man in complete disgust, not even bothering to hide it anymore. “Listen, Colonel-- I’m not sure how you run things here, nor do I want to know. But if you don’t get your hands off of her, I will take serious measures to make sure you won’t even have the status to come look at this damn resort, do you understand?” You bit on your lip as you felt Ahmed’s grip barely tighten in anger before slowly relaxing, though he still was not letting you go. Slowly leaning into your ear, you felt his warm breath on your skin as he muttered, “Where are you from, beautiful?” You shut your eyes for a second, forcing yourself to remain composed and to not completely lose it as you quietly replied, “I’m from the United States. I was raised in Minnesota.” Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Ari slowly slide the knife beside his plate underneath the table, but you averted your gaze from him, instead focusing on the floor so that you would not have to even look towards the disgusting man violating your personal space at the moment.

He suddenly stood up, bringing you right up with him as he kept his hold on your waist-- and that was when all chaos ensued. Ari was immediately up and at him with the knife pointed at his neck, and Ahmed’s soldiers were all standing with their guns pointed at Ari. Ahmed himself looked thoroughly unfazed, even giving Ari his creepy little smile as he stared him down, still holding you tightly by his side. “You have no power over me, Mr Thomas,” he hissed, and you could see the heat practically radiating from Ari’s anger. “Let. Her. Go. I won’t say it again.” He growled lowly, keeping a firm hold on the knife, his eyes locked onto Ahmed’s fearlessly. The staredown lasted a few moments longer before one of the men behind Ari suddenly whacked him in the head with his gun, a gasp escaping your lips as you watched your husband fall onto his knees as he let out a groan of pain. Ahmed simply chuckled as he let you go, eyeing both of you somewhat suspiciously but scoffing. “I’m not hungry anymore,” he spoke with a casual smirk, barely snickering before turning around and leaving with his men.

_______________________

You sighed softly as you gently inspected Ari’s head, making sure there was no swelling before settling yourself back into the sand next to him, eyes flickering over the waters in front of you. “What a fucking dick,” you mumbled, and he couldn’t help but chuckle, suddenly wrapping his arm around you pulling you close to him. “Tell me about it. I wish I could have just stuck that knife in his fuckin’ throat.” He muttered in response, but you were too busy looking around nervously, already trying to distance yourself from the male. “Ari, we’re outside, we shouldn’t--” you began to whisper, but you were cut off by his lips on yours, one large hand moving to frame the side of your face while his other arm pulled you closer to his body. “Then the guests can start rumors about how the hotel owner’s fucking his waitress. I don’t care. Sweetheart, I was so worried about you today.”

You couldn’t help but smile against his lips, kissing him back allowing yourself to melt in his warm and loving embrace. “I’m okay,” you whispered reassuringly, moving your own hand up to stroke his hair gently away from his face. “We’re both okay. And that’s not going to change.” He gave you a small smile, looking into your eyes with complete love and adoration for a few moments before leaning in and pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “I can’t wait until we’ve succeeded with this mission. When we’ve saved every single refugee, every man, woman, child, family-- and... I can’t wait until we can finally go home together and start a family of our own.” He pressed his forehead against yours, looking down into your eyes. “It’s going to happen soon, baby, I know it.” Your smile only grew wider as you listened to him, gazing up into his eyes almost dreamily as you thought about it. You, Ari, and your little baby, whomever he or she may be. You could only hope that child would have the same passion and bravery that their father had, though at the same time, such a prospect concerned you as a future mother. 

Still stroking his hair, you pecked his lips lightly with a breathy chuckle, murmuring, “I love you so much, Ari Levinson.” It had been a while since you had used his full name, considering the two of you had been undercover for quite some time now. He smiled and suddenly stood up, holding your hand to pull you up with him before wrapping his arms around your waist tightly, your full name rolling off his tongue slowly and delicately as if he simply enjoyed the mere experience of saying it himself. “I love you,” he whispered back, glancing towards the waves shimmering under the moonlight before looking back to you, placing a hand on the back of your neck and pulling you in for a passionate kiss, as if professing his love to you in front of the god of the seas himself. 

[imaginesmai]

Ivar-Quiet days

Requested by anon

Plot: Ivar is in a bad mood and it seems like only you can fix that.

For this one, Aslaug is alive and the boys are working on the great army with her being on the picture!

Warnings: This-This is filthy. Like, a lot of smut and dirty things and nsfw and everything a person who isn’t 18 shouldn’t read. Sex.

It had been a quiet morning. You had woken up late, the other side of the bed cold as it was common lately and your lover nowhere to be seen. You had made your typical chores in silence and had bought some ingredients for dinner. Talked with some people and laughed with the brother. Still, the day had been quiet. Until that moment.

“Have you not heard me? Get the fuck out before I make you!” Ivar shouted without looking at the door.

The crippled prince was in a bad mood. Everyone who had crossed his way had tried to avoid him for the rest of the day; even his mother, who was always around him and tried to make everything easier for him, didn’t bother to help him with crutches that morning. Aslaug had focused her attention on a different son, and that only fuelled Ivar’s anger.

That’s how you had found him. In his room, with his back facing the door and angrily sharpening some kind of arrow or knife. You hadn’t needed his mother’s order to go and see him. As his personal thrall, you noticed when something had hurt him. Or when it had made him angry, sad or he was just having one of his fits. And that morning you just knew his anger masked a deep sadness.

“My prince” you said softly.

“Oh” his voice, that had been rough and loud when you had entered the room, was then merely a whisper. “Y/N.”

Ivar’s blue eyes searched yours for a second, but quickly looked to the wall in front of him again. It was enough to see that they shinned with a hidden emotion. You took two tentative steps towards the bed, as if the threat in his voice was directed to you. Both of you knew that it wasn’t, it could never be.

You had created an strange bond with him, and sometimes you would like to say you were friends, or more than that. Because friends don’t warm each other beds, or kiss on the lips. The first time you laid together, you thought you were just another thrall he was going to use; Ivar was mad because Margarethe had been telling lies about him and he wanted to prove to someone, anyone, that he could satisfy a woman. For two years, he had been proving that to you very thoroughly.

So, deep in your heart, you knew he would never harm you. Physically or verbally. The rest of the walk to his bed was made in silence, and soon Ivar felt the bed sink lightly under your weight. Still, he didn’t look at you.

“I’ve heard you punched Sigurd unconscious” you repeated Ubbe’s words, who was worried about his brother and had been the one who told you about his mood. “He’s okay, just a bump in the head and a terrible mood. Just like yours, it seems.”

Your words didn’t held any reproaching, or disappointment. It was not the first time you saw Ivar fighting with his brother, and you already knew how to treat him. You were giving him a chance to explain to you what had happened, probably what he needed the most. And you were telling him that his actions weren’t so serious, as his brother wasn’t badly hurt. Ivar cared about him, even if he didn’t say it out loud.

“He started it” Ivar scoffed. “Margarethe and Sigurd are fucking behind Ubbe’s back. And that’s not right! He had married her, why Sigurd gets to keep her? It’s not fair for Ubbe, who won her, or for me and Hvitserk, who lost her. We have to have equal conditions.”

A pang of jealousy hit your chest, but you brushed it off. Ivar had told you several times that what he had with Margarethe was purely physical. He wanted to lay with a woman, and he didn’t chose you because he saw you as something more. ‘Something more’ that started just after he realised Margarethe was no good.

“Are you angry because what Ubbe might be feeling?” you tilted your head to look at his eyes. “Or because what Sigurd has done?”

“It’s just-“ Ivar closed his mouth suddenly, and breathed through it. It was hard to express his feelings, to talk about something as delicate as his brothers. But it was with you who he was talking to, so it was different. “Rules don’t apply to him. And it’s unfair.”

You kneeled in front of him slowly, your long dress making a soft pillow under your knees. It wasn’t the typical thrall’s dress, it was far from that. Maybe you had dressed one of those a long time ago, when you were a kid or an early teenager and you worked with your mother in the town’s laundry. One day, you saw a little boy being picked on by older one, and without thinking much you went and played with him. It costed you a whipping from your mother.

The next morning, the little boy was back and since then you skipped your duties to play with him. It went like that for years, until he was a teenager and offered you a better life with the queen and the prince. Thrall, was what they called you. But the dresses you wore and the life you had said other things.

Ivar Lothbrok made sure from the first step you took into the great hall that you had everything you could think about. He didn’t let his mother have you as her thrall, and fought with his brothers when they ordered you around. You were his and he was yours, in every sense of the word.

That was probably why you two could understand each other so well. As you liked to say those cold nights were you two laid together in the warmth of his furs, the Gods might have written your destiny linked with his.

“It’s not fair” you said, smiling. “Sigurd has his own rules because he likes to live in his own world, where the decisions he takes don’t affect to other people. It’s okay to worry about Ubbe’s feeling.”

Ivar took your hands between his, and kissed each knuckle. By the end of the first hand, you let out a little giggle and he finally smiled at your happiness. When he was finished, he took your face between his hands and ran his fingers across your cheeks.

Slowly, just as he liked, he pressed his lips against you. It had been the first time that week that you had had some time for yourselves, and you enjoyed it for a while. His lips, you had discovered, could only be compared as the feeling of entering Valhalla. Ivar had a way of doing things that always left you wanting for more. Hugging, touching, kissing. Sex. And you were always disappointed when the lack of something as stupid as oxygen made you tear apart.

You looked at him with pouty lips, ready to develop a full ‘bitchy’ attitude, that would lead you above your lover in seconds. Your plan was frustrated when Ivar talked again.

“I got a feeling that a ‘but’ is missing somewhere, am I right, love?” he touched the spot behind your ear that made you squeal.

You sighed. If you wanted to have more of him, you would have to wait until the conversation was over.

“But you can’t let yourself be carried by his acts. If you think what he is doing it’s wrong, then talk to Ubbe. He’s a grown man, he can handle it. You have more important things to worry about.”

“Like what?” he smirked.

“Like me.”

With the years, you had learned how Ivar’s legs worked, when they hurt and where could you touch them. First, you put your skirts up and slowly you sat on his thighs. You waited for a pained moan, a hit of discomfort on his eyes or a twitch of his mouth to let you know that he wasn’t okay with the position. You had told him that he had the right to be uncomfortable, to be in pain, and that you didn’t care about trying new position. That time, you saw nothing like that on his eyes, just the playful glint that usually appeared when you were close.

One of your hand circled his neck and played with the ends of his braids. Ivar closed his eyes and made a sound of approval, as if he was a meowing cat. You tried to put the other hand behind his neck too, but he caught it and intertwined your fingers. He pulled you closer by your waist, looking at your hands as if them together were a Gods’ gift.

“I like the way our hands fit perfectly” Ivar mumbled. “And I like that you can calm be, Y/N. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Probably forget every important event” You chuckled. “Or leave the room without your pants. Have-“

Ivar cut you off with a kiss, enjoying your warm after so many days of being apart. The problem with Sigurd and the rest of the world went to the back of his mind, all around him disappeared and he was ready to be at your knees. He could keep kissing you for days with no end.

“I know I haven’t been paying you attention for the last week” he sighed, tearing apart and almost smirking when you whined. “The great army is driving everyone mad.”

“I don’t mind, my prince. Men’s things, right?”

“You know why women aren’t allowed in the planning of a battle?” he asked.

“Sigurd might say because there is no kitchen to clean.”

“And Hvitserk would say that they are better warming the beds” he rolled his eyes. “My brothers’ minds are as short as their pricks.”

“And what would great Ivar say?” you shifted on his lap, not missing the way his breath caught on his throat.

“That women don’t need battles” he gave your ass a soft slap when you opened to say something, and waited for him to finish. “Women don’t need battles because they would win them in a day, and you’re smarter than that. My brothers know that if they let you in the battle planning, we would be home by summer with thousands of treasures.”

“I don’t see nothing wrong with that. If it gets us home sooner,-“

“Us?”

The hand that had been rubbing your back softly with darkest intentions stopped abruptly, and Ivar looked at you as if you had grown another head.

You had never talked about it before, but you were ready to do so then. Asking him to take you to Wessex had been always your dream, but it seemed impossible because you were his thrall and he was your king. He had showed you that you were more than that. That, when it came to rights, he considered you as an equal.

Ivar frowned when he was met with silence.

“You-You want to come with me?”

The stories and anecdotes about Wessex had been a constant in your life and, along Ivar, you had thought about what would it feel to be there one day. You nodded and looked down, suddenly aware about what you were asking him. You were a woman, he had every right to ask you to stay in the house and to prepare a hot meal for him for when he came back. Most of the vikings would have done that, but Ivar gripped your chin with the hand that was on your back.

“You’ve never told me that you wanted to come” he said slowly. “You want to… go to Wessex with me? And the great army?”

“I want to go with you” you sighed. “I’ve heard so many tales, and I know it’s not the best time, so maybe-“

“I would love you to have you by my side” he smiled

Ivar put his hands on your both of your thighs, that were fully exposed at his sides, and started to feel each centimetre of your skin that the dress was showing him. Silence had never been a problem in your relationship, or whatever you had, because you understood that one look could hold what words couldn’t say. That’s what you were doing in that moment.

His hands climbed up your thighs, dragging the rest of your dress along with them. The cold of the room hit your legs and made gossebumps appear where Ivar was touching. In a second, his mouth was covering your neck and pressing light kisses to your collarbone and neck. It seemed like he was tracing his own map in your skin.

When his hands finally reached your ass he squeezed them with force, pushing you a few inches forward and giving Ivar the perfect opportunity to suck your neck. You whimpered loudly, wanting to be under him right then.

“I’m gonna make it up to you” he whispered against your neck, his hands moulding your ass as if it was a piece of dough. “You’re going to forget each second I haven’t been paying attention to you this week, and you’re going to remember me for two.”

“I hope so, my prince”

A sound coming from the corridor made you realise that, even if you were in the privacy of Ivar’s room, you had left the door open. His room was in a secluded place of the house, and it was an unusual place to be visited. Still, the possibility of a thrall, or worse, his mother, appearing through that door made you try to pry away Ivar’s head from your neck.

“Ivar” you whispered.

“Hm?” he mumbled, back on his attack to your neck. He ran his tongue across the side of it where you were sure a huge hickie would appear the next day. That cheeky bastard and his possessiveness.

“The door is open”

“And?” Ivar moved his hands from your ass to the hem of your dress, and without any resistance pulled you up and dragged it to your middle. Under the fabric, he started to draw circles on your hips and sides. The room or your body started to feel really hot. “We’re in my room, Y/N. Do not worry.”

“But-But someone could see us” you insisted. Your arguments, though, were weak and Ivar’s hands reaching your breasts were not helping them.

“Then shup up. You don’t want us to be caught, do you?” he whispered in your ear, his hot breath making you tilt your head to the side. Which, consequentially, gave him a better access to your neck.

His beautiful lips curled into a dark smile, and you knew what he wanted.

Ivar Lothbrok was kinky. He liked everything that had something to do with ropes, wax, blindfolds and, sometimes, knifes. It had taken him one year and a half of screwing around with each other to be comfortable with you and tell you about what he really wanted. That was the moment where you started pitying Margarethe. Because once Ivar let loose his inner self, the pleasure got a new name.

You were so distracted by your thoughts and his blue and lustful eyes that you didn’t notice his sneaky fingers reaching your mound. A small yelp left your lips when his thumb made contact with your clit and started rubbing it up and down, the tip of his middle finger in your entrance. It wasn’t in, it wasn’t out. He was just teasing you.

“Don’t tease me” you whined, trying to move against his hand. His pace was torturing slow, the hand that was hugging your back not moving from there.

“Don’t tell me what to do” he warned; deep inside, he wanted to.

“Ivar, please” you almost moaned out loud, but cut yourself when steps appeared on the hallway.

Your breath got caught on your throat as the steps grew closer, but Ivar didn’t stop. If so, he moved the finger slowly, inch by inch, torturing you. You tried to move your body out of his grasp, but Ivar grabbed your waist so hard it would probably leave bruises. He kept moving his finger up and down, his thumb not stopping his pace on your clit. Soon, chubby cheeks and big brown eyes appeared by the door. The redhead, who you remember from the slaves’ dorm, kept looking at the ground until she was inside Ivar’s room.

“Oh!” her eyes widened when she saw the two of you sitting on the bed. It was not an unusual sight; sometimes, when the pain was too bad, you gave Ivar shoulder’s massages and sat on his lap. Beside, you had your clothes on, so the slave couldn’t imagine that, behind your dress, Ivar was pressing another finger against your entrance. “I didn’t know you were here, my prince.”

“What are you doing here?” Ivar asked while looking at you with a huge smirk. Behind that, there was a hidden challenge. He place another finger inside you, working both in your entrance and your clit.

“Queen Aslaug has told me to check on you, my prince” she explained. The slave gave you a weird look when your hips twitched uncontrollably. You smiled at her, trying to swallow your moans.

“Tell my mother I’m fine” he ordered her. “You can leave”

“But-“

“Now” Ivar turned briefly to look at her, making his hands turn with him and the angle from where he was touching you change. Your eyes almost rolled back. “Y/N is taking good care of me.”

You tried to give her a convincing smile, and after a few seconds of doubt, she left. In exactly two seconds, you were on your back and Ivar was crawling towards you like a predator over his prey. As he moved closer to your head, he took your dress with him. With the impossibility of using his legs and the fabric on his hands, it took him a while to reach his destiny; but he didn’t waste the time. Every part of your body that was within his reach, it was kissed and licked until you were sure you were nothing more than melting butter.

“Aren’t you a good girl, my love” he praised you softly when he reached your neck. No words were needed as you put your head and shoulders up, the dress falling to the ground and Ivar’s body covering you completely.  “That girl could have heard you, I bet you wanted to let out some noises, right? But you have been such a good girl, Y/N, for me.”

His words sent direct daggers to your core, and you tried to press your thighs together to make some friction.

“Take off those panties” he moved a little to the right.

You hadn’t moved so fast in your life. Pushing your ass up and placing your hands on each side of them, you quickly dragged them off your legs. The right one came out easily, but the left found some problems. The time you lost between getting up and trying to untangle your underwear was all the time Ivar needed to get naked too.

His warm hand interrupted you when you were ready to throw them to the floor, with your dress. Ivar took them and, lifting them so that you could see them, he threw them to the other side of the bed.

“I’m gonna keep this panties. Just in case we want to repeat this tonight” he kissed the side of your neck.

Your protest were cut short when you felt Ivar’s hard dick on your thigh. You kissed him hungrily, the thought of someone entering the room long forgotten; wanting him to forget about Sigurd’s fight or whatever troubled. You wanted to be the only thing on his mind.

Ivar almost broke the kiss when your curious hand made contact with his hard stomach, and your long fingers moved up and down until they reached his pubic hair. It went like that for a while, you teasing him and him devouring your mouth. His tongue entered your mouth and left no doubts about who held the control; he played around with you until he got tired of your teasing, and grabbed your wrist with a bruising force.

“Having fun, Y/N?” he asked, his breath hitting your parted lips.

“I don’t know, you tell me” you giggled, wrapping your other hand around his shaft. That time, it was him who had his breath stuck in his throat.

“Do not dare to tease me, Y/N” his eyes became ten time darker.

You moved your head up and again trapped his lips with yours in a heated kiss. Involuntary, your back arched when his fingers started rolling one of your hardened nipples, almost asking him to join you in just one body. His mouth moved slowly, and without loosing contact with your skin to the side of your face and to your neck; you had lost the count of how many marks his teeth and tongue had left on your neck and chest.

“I love you” he said against your neck, and looked up to you one last time before entering you. Right then, you saw his vulnerable self through his blue eyes, his insecurities and his desires. You propped up and kissed him, softly and lovingly.

“I love you too, Ivar Lothbrok” you smiled at him.

Let’s just day, from that moment, your day was far from quiet.

“I’m gonna keep this panties” &“I like the way our hands fit perfectly” From my prompt list Smut and Fluff

Want to know more about me? Here is my Masterlist! Feedback is always appreciated!!

[langdxn]

knife kink & crimeboss!DUNCAN AH love it

knife kink & crimeboss!DUNCAN AH love it

MY FEELS I CANNOT CONTROL THEM 🥵🥵🥵 thank you so much anon, I hope this is what you were looking for!

Waking up in your underwear tied to a chair in the middle of a plush hotel room can never be a good thing.

More curious than how you wound up here and how you came to be wearing nothing but your bra and panties was the view outside the window beside you, the skyline of Las Vegas alight with neon vibrance against the black night sky. You were definitely in Washington DC when this day began.

Blinking harshly in the bright light of the room your eyes scoured the room and fell upon a tall, brunette man towering over you. He scratched at the stubble sprawled across his jawline as if searching for the correct opening line.

“Good evening, Miss Underwood. I trust you slept well?”

Of course, you couldn’t respond. The three layers of leather gagging you tightly stole every semblance of speech from you. Whoever your captor was, he knew how to tie a good knot. Regardless, you let out a few incoherent whimpers in the hope his curiosity would set you free from your verbal incarceration.

Sure enough, the man leaned forward and a finger curled around the gag releasing your jaw.

“Your family have given my family and I nothing but bullshit for years,” he seethed, beginning to circle around you like a vulture to its prey. “It’s about time they learned a valuable lesson, don’t you think?”

“Wha—who are you? What about my family?” You panted frantically, unsure if those first words to your captor would be your last. Pathetic last words but necessary nonetheless. “I haven’t spoken to my family in 15 years, my mother disowned me when I was a teenager.”

“Is that so?” He abruptly ceased circling behind you, the withdrawal of his footsteps leaving a thick, tense silence. Suddenly, he lunged toward you and a sharp, cool sensation coursed across your throat. A knife held firmly against your jugular.

“But their blood runs in these veins, right?”

Your pulse thundered in your ears, breaths becoming shallower and sharper as you tried to inch away from the blade. You swallowed harshly.

“The good thing is, if you die here, that’s one less of your precious dynasty walking about in public and fucking up my life.”

Spinning around the chair, he nudged your legs apart and looked you square in the eye, turning the knife to balance by its tip against your throat. The sharp point nicked your skin ever so slightly, replacing the cool metal of the blade with a flood of heat as your blood rushed to greet the wound.

Another source of heat entirely travelled south, between your thighs. You clenched your legs together in a bid to conceal it from your captor, completely ignorant of the fact you were enclosing his legs with yours.

“Oh I see,” he nodded knowingly with a greedy smirk dancing across his lips as he twisted the knife on its point. “This is turning you on, isn’t it?”

You gulped and shook your head, earning a jab of the blade further into your neck so far you could feel your pulse reverberating on the steel.

“I’ll give you one more chance to get that right, kitten,” he chuckled as he slicked back his brunette locks, tongue darting out to the corner of his lips as he concentrated on twirling the knife on your jugular.

“Ye — yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” He sighed deeply before slowly trailing the switchblade down your throat between the valley of your breasts, leaving a delicious, burning scratch in its wake. “Now tell me where you want it.”

You searched his eyes for mercy as your cunt began throbbing against your silk panties, wetness pooling and sinking into the fabric leaving you wriggling in the seat. Your captor’s eyes travelled down to the root of your discomfort, the burning between your thighs.

“Really? As you wish—“

“Wait,” you cut him off, screwing up your forehead as you frantically attempted to decipher his identity. “Who are you anyway? Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“All in good time, Miss Underwood,” he silenced you with the travelling of the knife to the weak point between the cups of your bra, quirking an eyebrow and meeting your gaze with his deep blue eyes. “May I?”

You nodded nonchalantly and with a flick of his wrist, the blade split your bra wide open. Your back arched and a soft hiss escaped your lips as the length of the blade drew blood, a gentle trail of crimson following swiftly behind it. The man sank to his knees in front of you, leaning in to latch his lips onto the scratch, sucking almost greedily while your eyes emphatically rolled into the back of your head.

With a gratuitous pop, his lips left your skin and his blade returned to trace a slick straight line down over your navel, stopping at the waistband of your panties.

“These too?” He hummed, a delicious glint in his eye that evoked a reckless ‘yes’ from your tongue and his switchblade making light work of tearing the silk in half.

His free hand gently peeled the soaking fabric aside to expose your glistening cunt, delicate dribbles of arousal spilling down your thighs that he gratefully retrieved with the tip of his finger traced gently between your folds, his digits raced to drip your wetness on his tongue. A satisfied moan leapt from both of your lips as his brief touch sent you into ecstasy.

“You like that, Miss Underwood?” He cooed, his fingers journeying back to rub lazy, featherlight circles on your clit while he hissed at the way your sensitive spot swelled with every brush of his fingertips.

His gaze travelled up the faint scratch mark effectively splitting your chest in half and discovered your head thrown back in pleasure and your breaths rapid. He reached up and yanked your chin back down to face him, meeting your lust-blown eyes with his determined glare.

“Your pretty little cunt is being very greedy tonight, baby girl,” he drawled. “All of this for a total stranger? Well now I’ve tasted you in more ways than one, I don’t think we’re strangers anymore, do you?”

Your clouded vision darted between each of his deep blue soul-exposing eyes and nodded eagerly. The cool side of his blade landed directly onto your exposed clit, making you keen your hips into the cool touch and ball your restrained hands into fists.

He sighed contentedly as he watched you lose yourself under the intoxicating power of his switchblade, revelling in how he had only touched you with his hands once.

“As you’ve been such a good girl for me, I owe you an introduction.”

He pressed the flat blade deeper onto your swollen clit and smiled from ear to ear.

“Miss Underwood, my name is Duncan Shepherd and I think I’ll keep you.”

[bobasheebaby]

Opia- Monsters chapter 4

Pairing: Olivia x Emma (MC); Olivia x Liam

Word count: 2,082 Warnings: Evil Liam, Evil Olivia, child abuse, infected wound, sword (knife) violence, blood, wound treatment Summary: Olivia and Liam take Emma to their hotel. A/N: More evil Liam. This one is severely twisted. This is a collaboration with @sirbeepsalot, so hang onto your seats.

Series warnings: Evil Liam, Evil Olivia, child abuse, character death, abuse, knife violence, blood, unhealthy sexual situations, NSFW content to come. By asking to be tagged you acknowledge you are at least 18 years of age.

Let one of us know if you want on or off the taglist.

Disclaimer: We only own our OC’s, the rest we are just borrowing from PB.

Opia: the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable.

The trio was quiet as the elevator slowly lifted them to the hotel’s penthouse. Liam glanced at Olivia and Emma, surprised at how put together they looked for having just killed a man.

He shouldn’t be surprised. At this point, they were essentially professionals. They could make a killing off of murder for hire assignments if they didn’t have a country to run.

The elevator stopped and they stepped out into the sitting room of their suite. Emma looked around wide eyed as she took in the room, her swollen lips parted slightly in awe. “This is the nicest place I’ve ever been,” Emma said as she ran her fingers along the petals of a deep red cyclamen. She turned her head to look at Liam and Olivia, who were by the door watching her with smiles on their faces. “You have the whole floor to yourselves?”

“We do,” Liam said as he slipped off his jacket. “Are you hungry? I can order room service while you freshen up. Olivia?”

“I’m fine. Emma, darling, what would you like to eat?”

Emma tapped her fingers on her arm. “I’m not sure. What are my options?”

“We’re at the most exclusive hotel in New York City. They have whatever you want.” Liam paused before turning to Olivia. "I'm going to order you a bowl of chicken soup." He met her eyes, the meaning of his statement clear: you will eat what I order you. He looked to Emma, flashing her a smile. "It's her favorite item on the menu."

“Liam, I’m fine.” Olivia said through gritted teeth. “Order something for yourself and Emma.”

The room was quiet while Olivia and Liam glared at each other. Emma shifted her weight nervously; it was the first time she had seen something other than complete devotion and love between them. Her discomfort led her to break the silence. “Chicken soup sounds good. I need a bath.”

“I’ll join you,” Olivia said before turning and guiding Emma to the master suite. She shot Liam a quick glance; he knew exactly what it meant: don’t fuck this up like you fucked things up with Juliet.

--

Emma entered the opulent bathroom and turned on the bath while Olivia collected her toiletries from her room. She handed a bag of vanilla scented bath products to Emma before perching her frail body on the sink. “Aren’t you going to bathe?”

“I am. I thought you were going to join me. We’re both pretty gross after … ” she trailed off, unable to say the words we killed Trey.

Olivia looked down before sliding off the countertop. She walked up to Emma and slowly started picking at the buttons on her shirt. “You are an amazing woman to take your life back from that asshole. I can’t wait to learn more about you.”

Emma stepped back from Olivia’s hands and pulled her shirt closed. “I’m not amazing. I’m just trying to survive. I fell for sweet talk once … as much as I like and appreciate you and Liam, I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.”

Olivia ran her thumbs under her eyes to wipe away stray tears. There was something about Emma that she couldn’t put her finger on but she knew she was different. Maybe it was written in the stars or in their eyes as they worked together to free her from Trey, but it was something special. It was something she didn’t want to fuck up.

“I understand. It is hard to trust others. I’ll leave you to bathe. I should have Liam address this wound on my chest.”

Emma's eyes followed Olivia’s hand as she gestured to her chest, where her right breast had an open bite wound around the nipple. Blood had soaked into what was left of her silk shell as the skin screamed red and angry. She felt heartbroken; Olivia had allowed Trey to violate her and she simply pushed her away.

Her hand reached forward and clasped Olivia’s as she turned to leave. “I need time … just know that I think you are pretty amazing too.”

“Thanks, Emma. I really need to have this looked at. Liam gets worried when I have open wounds.” She looked down and cupped her breast, shifting it up and to the side to get a better look at the damage. “There is a robe in the bedroom. I’ll see you when you finish.” She gave her hand a gentle squeeze before leaving the bathroom and softly closing the door.

--

She has to be okay.

His feet moved at warp speed as he raced through the halls towards the Walker residence.

She can’t leave me. I can’t do this on my own.

Liam didn’t allow himself to catch his breath before he was banging on the door. He was terrified of what his punishment would be for getting Olivia help; he’d been told she was fine and to stop his constant cries for attention. His parents would be angry when they returned but he didn’t care. Olivia was all he had in this world. If she died, he didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself for failing her so horribly.

It was his fault she was sick. He’d begged until the young orphan was allowed to move to the Palace. He didn’t understand why they had been so reluctant to take her in—she was younger than him and left all alone. She would have been safer by herself.

The first time he was ever physically struck was a few days after she moved in with them. He took it with gritted teeth, believing that as long as she was safe they could punish him however they wanted. It was when he found her sporting the same bruises that he’d learned he wasn’t doing her a favor at all. She had also become a victim of their abuse.

He continued to hammer his fist against the solid oak door, panicked about why no one answered. He knew he didn’t have the luxury of being calm or patient; each minute counted. His foot drew back before slamming into the door. His hands curled into fists as he readied them for another barrage of hits. He couldn’t give up when she really needed him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door flew open. Bianca’s brown eyes were wide with surprise as she tried to close the robe haphazardly wrapped around her body. “Liam, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Livvy, she’s worse!” He said as tears streaked down his face. They had promised she’d be fine but she had only gotten sicker. He knew this would likely earn him the worst punishment he’d ever gotten, but he had to do something to try to save her. “She needs a doctor! I think she’s dying!”

Bianca hesitated at the door, her eyes looking back at her sleeping children. She suspected what happened and knew the risk of defying the King and Queen’s orders. She couldn’t turn a blind eye any longer; a child might be dying. She pulled her robe snug around the slight swell of her stomach as she stepped out into the hallway and shut the door. She raced down the marble halls behind the young prince and prayed they could get her help in time.

--

Bianca gasped as she took in the small girl. Her crimson hair soaked in sweat and clinging to her face. Her pale skin was as white as the sheets covering her shivering form. She knew the abuse was bad, but she never thought it would ever get this bad. Her heart broke as she rushed forward, her hand grazing Olivia’s forehead. She pulled her hand back quickly as though she’d been burned; her skin felt like it was on fire. “How did this happen?”

Liam shifted uncomfortably on his feet. It was one thing to get her help, but another to tell her how she got sick. You have to tell her. Livvy could die otherwise.

“She—she was cut.”

“Cut?” Bianca questioned. Surely he doesn’t mean ...

“Here.” He gestured to a spot on the left side of his ribs. “With a sword.”

--

Oliva walked across the penthouse to find Liam changing into his pajamas in one of the other bedrooms. He looked up and smiled as she crossed the threshold. “I thought you and Emma were tak--”

“--Three things,” she said, her voice tight. “First, don’t challenge me on food in front of others. You know better.”

Liam watched her quietly while he waited for her soul to settle. “Livvy, I haven’t seen you eat all day. You will eat when I say you eat. I refuse to watch you starve yourself to death after all we’ve been through.”

She didn’t respond and instead sat on the bed and waved her hand over her chest. “This needs attention. It might need stitches.” She laid down on the bed and watched as Liam went to his luggage and pulled out a small leather case.

“Let me see,” he murmured as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Olivia bit her lip as he started cleaning the wound with an antiseptic wash. “So … he did this?” He looked over to see Olivia’s eyes closed, a small smile on her face.

“You should have seen what we did to him. I’ll tell you once you fix me.”

--

Liam’s feet were rooted to the ground in fear as he watched his father take the requested sword from the servant. He wanted to intervene but he couldn’t let his presence be known; it would only make things worse for her in the end.

“You don’t play with swords.” Constantine growled, his eyes shining with rage as he watched the light refract off the edge of the smooth, sharp blade.

“It wasn’t real.” Olivia whimpered. She realized her mistake too late as his palm struck her face. Tears sprang to her eyes as she fought them back. She never cried. Nevrakis don’t cry.

“Fake or not, you don’t play with weapons.” His blue eyes flashed as his hand slashed the blade across her side.

Olivia cried out in pain as her hands clutched her side; she refused to let the impending tears fall.

“Next time I catch you with a sword you will get worse.” Constantine turned to a servant. “Take her back to her room and don’t allow her to change or dress the wound. I want this to serve as a lesson.”

“Yes sir.” The servant gulped as she carefully took the small girls blood smeared hand in hers.

Liam clenched his small hands into fists as he fought to remain silent. She was his to protect and all he ever did was continue to fail her. I’ll do better, I promise.

--

“I don’t think you need stitches but I’m going to glue it and tape it up. It’s not deep--it just looks bad.” He worked slowly to repair the damaged tissue, gasps spilling from Olivia’s lips each time he touched her. He smirked as he saw her hand travel between her legs. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” she said as she stroked herself, her body already overstimulated from Trey’s assault. She focused on the warmth in her pelvis and the cool burn of the wound as Liam cleaned and bandaged her up. She was taking the experience back for herself.

--

Bianca gulped, her hands shaking as she lifted the sheet and gingerly pulled up Olivia’s nightgown. The air left her lungs as hot tears pricked at her eyes as she saw the large gash covering the small girls ribs. The wound was obviously infected. The skin red, angry, inflamed, with green spreading outward from the cut.  She couldn’t believe anyone could ever treat a child like this. She felt like she was going to be sick.

“Please save her,” Liam said, his voice small and childlike and nothing like the prince she knew.

Bianca nodded. “We’ll get her help--she’ll be okay.”

Please, Lord, let her be okay.

--

"When do I get to hear what happened?" Liam asked as he packed away his supplies.

Olivia stretched as she sat up on the bed. "Depends. You want the short or long story?"

"Hmm," Liam breathed as he walked back to stand between Olivia's legs. He palmed himself as he realized he needed release now. "Short story. I can't wait."

Feedback fuels us, please like, comment or reblog to let us know how much you like it. We can handle the screams, so scream away.

Masterlist can be found in my bio.

Taglist will be reblogged.

[sagiow]

We run a very tight ship - Chapter 4

kickass awesome moodboard courtesy of @jomiddlemarch​

Read the first three chapters here or on AO3

“Welcome aboard, Miss Green. Ready to set sail for the grandest of voyages?”

Emma smiled tightly, forcing her eyes to follow her lips, and knowing they failed. Instead, she averted them, hiding their escape behind a wholly unnecessary adjustment of her glasses. She stood between the First Mate and the chaplain in the haie d’honneur greeting her family aboard the most luxurious ship of their fleet, in the most breathtaking of atriums, by the grandest of staircases - so the heavy-handed brochure said. Captain Summers bowed low to the young lady, and lower to her mother beside her.

“Captain Summers,” she offered her hand daintily, never more the great lady then among her grossly underpaid staff. “I trust everything has been arranged as instructed?”

“To the letter, Mrs. Green. Your guests have been given all the best cabins, the most prestigious reserved, of course, for the bridal party. I must say, your daughter has truly outdone herself with the decoration and planning. Alexandria Line’s future is bright indeed,” he enthused, to Emma’s inner cringing. Dial it down, dude.

“Well she better has!” snapped the bride-to-be. “My wedding is the event of the year in this town and probably all of Virginia: it has to be absolutely perfect in every way. A question of Green family pride, which I’m sure she has very close to heart,” she added sweetly, as a cat offering a cleanly killed prey to its owner, and Emma braced for her to start eating the head. “After all, it’s probably the only Green wedding she’ll ever have the chance of organizing.” Crunch, there it is.

Ignoring her gift, Emma distributed programs to the guests, the embossed letters popping elegantly from the cotton cardstock. “We will let y’all settle in and hope you join the Captain tonight at eight for a welcome dinner,” she explained, her voice pleasant and professional, just greeting regular guests onboard as she did twice a month, every month of the year, year after year since her very first summer job as a stewardess; despite her mother's protests, Papa Green knew the value of learning the ropes from the very first rung up. “Do spend tomorrow getting acquainted with our wonderful Empress Queen and her numerous amenities; I personally recommend our luxurious spa and state-of-the-art virtual golf course. The rehearsal will be held on Tuesday, giving us Wednesday for any and all last-minute adjustments, and we’ll have the ceremony on Thursday. Reverend Hopkins is our onboard chaplain, and will be performing the service.”

On cue, the tall man next to her stepped forward, his hands clasped piously before him, visibly not as comfortable with discomfort as she was. “It’s a great honor to be marrying you, Miss Green,” he said, but cut himself short. Oh no, you beautiful doofus.

“You'll be what now, Reverend?” exclaimed the groom-to-be, his arm wrapping around Alice’s waist possessively. “Maybe buy me a drink or two before you marry my fiancée?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stringfellow,” the chaplain stammered. “I misspoke. I meant-”

“Oh, lighten up, buddy. I’m just fuc- sorry, screwing with ya. Just don’t misspeak – or stutter, ugh-  during the actual wedding, will ya?” 

God, please do, she prayed intently, while Frank turned his devilish dark eyes to her.“Hey, Soon-to-be-Sis, you better have stocked up on that premium bourbon I asked for, and left a case in the Honeymoon Suite. Which, as I also specifically requested, now better have mirrors on the ceiling and a heart-shaped hot tub."

"Oh Frank, no!” gasped Alice, shoving him away forcefully. “I insisted on 1896 Paris Art Nouveau, not 1986 Niagara Falls By-the-Hour Motel!”  

“Just fucking with you, babe,” he replied with a slap to her ass. Always the gentleman, Frank. “No, seriously though, Em, one major problem with that that fancy schedule of yours: when the hell’s the bachelor party?”

“The bachelor party’s anytime we’re not in her fancy schedule, Bro!” shouted a man descending the stairs. He was not clad in the cruise line’s signature green and white uniform, but in the most garish Hawaiian shirt and ostentatious sunglasses Emma had ever seen, as did the rest of the group of young men behind him. This time, she did not bother to hold her irritated sigh.

“Jimmy my boy! I knew there’d be no better best man for me! Finally, some good fuckin’ plannin’!” The two men embraced, slapping each other vigorously on the back. “You,” Frank then pointed to a helpless steward. “Take my stuff to my room, she’ll tell you which. And you,” he added with another clap to Jimmy’s chest. “Take me to the booze.” And without as much as a goodbye to their families, they stormed off across the atrium, a frat boy riot of jeers, shouts and high fives.

Slowly, Emma returned her attention to her overly merry mother, her smug sister, the clueless captain and the confused churchman. “Well, boys will be boys,” dismissed the matriarch, to relieved chuckles all around. “But they are right. There is so much to celebrate! Young love, and such a brilliant match! Alexandria Line and Stringfellow Sails coming together, what a dream! Come, dear, let’s get you settled in.”

With a gracious gesture, she motioned for the remainder of the bridal party to follow them and she closed the parade with a touch to Emma’s arm. “Do come by shortly, darling, I want to review the menu for tonight,” she said. “I do hope you’ve given our family’s famous desert its rightful place of honor.” That ancient apple nightmare? Yeah, rightfully in the trash, Mother, but she only agreed meekly. 

The families gone, the crew followed suit with visible relief, until Emma was left with the silent reverend, who shuffled his feet, perhaps regretting not having managed to vanish along with the rest.

“Uh... my congratulations.” He somehow made it sound like both a question and an apology. “They seem... swell.”

She could only do what she was taught best to do in such cases: smile and nod. And scream internally so loudly that each and every one of her cells shook.

“I can hear that,” he said, startling her. How the fuck- “The hamsters spinning, in your head. Something’s bothering you. Anything I can do to help?”

She looked at him, at the kind concern she’d seen so many times offered to the crew members on their long voyages away from friends and family, now focused solely upon her, and it was both wonderful and terrifying at once. She tucked an imaginary loose wisp of hair back into her bun and shrugged. “It’s nothing. Just the pressure of planning this event. It’s different when it’s... personal." Like your harpy of a baby sister marrying your jackass of a high school sweetheart.  

“I can imagine. Tall order you’ve got there. What was it, 1896 Art Deco?”

“Art Nouveau,” she corrected. “She’d have decapitated you for that mistake. Actually, no, that’s too swift and painless. Eviscerated’s more like it. With a blunt butter knife. Or her bare hands, if she hadn't just gotten her nails done.”

“Lovely. I see why the hamsters scamper thus; you’ve let the viper into their cage. You need a mongoose to chase it off: I might have just the thing.”  

Curious, she let him continue, cradling the leftover programs against her chest to muffle the embarrassingly loud drumming that emanated from it. “I have to cover for José at the jazz bar tonight, you should come by. I’ll make you the special drink I concocted for the occasion: the Blushing Bride. Now I see the name’s totally wrong. And the formula, too; I think it’ll need less subtlety and a lot more bitterness. Will you please help me?” he asked, leaning closer, with that somewhat shy smile of his that just begged to be kissed.

Instead, she pushed her glasses up her nose from the half-millimeter they had slid down, and felt in horror her body do that weird half-shrug, half-nod shuffle that it thought conveyed casual nonchalance. Real smooth, nerd. “If I’m released on time from that sure-to-be-extensive menu review... sure.”

“I’ll have you paged urgently at ten, something about the swan that’s being fattened for the wedding dinner,” he winked. “Or the peacocks they probably requested to act as ringbearers or footrests. Ha, Peacocks... that should be our safeword – uh, shit, no, uh... I meant code word. Code!” Oh no. He’s even more beautiful when he blushes.  

Oh shit. He said safeword... as in sex. Kinky sex. With him.  

Oh fuck. Now I’m blushing too. And my palms are sweaty. That’s gonna stain the paper. And leave marks. That he can probably see. Nooooo.

“I’ll... let you get to it, then,” he stammered again, backing away before waving awkwardly and turning to sprint. Don’t look at his ass, don’t look at.... oh fuck me, I'm staring at a pastor’s ass. I’m going to Hell. I’m getting brutally murdered by my family first and going straight to Hell afterwards.

I just have to find a way to stop the world’s worst wedding first, and have less than five days to do so, and a beautiful chaplain-cum-bartender that’s familiar with safewords to not fuck along the way.  

I'm so unbelievably screwed.