#Would it even be my writing without the angst?

[raven-dor]

illicit affairs

in which you distance yourself from bucky barnes, and he won’t rest until he knows why

PAIRING: congressman!bucky barnes x fem!reader

WARNINGS: fluff, morning sickness, pregnancy, miscommunication (but ig it's more like refusing to communicate), given last name! (Clark), arguing, ANGSTY ANGSTY ANGST, more arguing, kissing, fluff ending

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

🎶 : illicit affairs - taylor swift

AN: 🩵♥️💗 - this is like my favorite angsty fic of all time, like it's up there with me and my husband (gwayne hightower) EEEK HAPPY READING!! also i might write a part two where the use the house she bought if that's something you guys would be interested in

The sun shone through the curtains, yellow and bright. You stared at the man dead asleep beside you, a contented smile creeping on your lips. He looked so peaceful, not at all like how he looked awake, always stressed, always worrying over something. If it wasn’t Congress or the team, it was you. Worry was Bucky’s main emotion, you would say when you teased him. He worried over your safety the most, often trying to convince you to stop working in the office, practically begging you to work from home. 

You glared at him every time. 

You could never bring yourself to stay angry, though. He was caring, more than most had ever been with you. You were fragile, something he cherished. 

It made you feel valuable; your cheeks warmed just thinking about it. 

He grumbled, burying his face further into your torso. His arm was lazily wrapped around your waist, and he smiled in his sleep, pulling you closer. You hadn’t wanted to wake him, but he had a meeting in forty-five minutes, and he still needed his routine cup of coffee. “Buck. You have to get up.” 

“Five more minutes.” 

“Bucky…” You laughed, running your fingers through his hair. “You’ll be late.” 

“I could run there in five minutes.” You knew from the look on his face that he was considering it. Thanks to his super soldier serum, he really could run around the entirety of Washington D.C. in less than an hour. 

“You could, but your hair would be a mess.” You frowned, reaching down to run your fingers through the sleep-tangled tresses. “A lot like it is now. Besides, think about the people who voted for you, who elected you to this office. They wouldn’t exactly enjoy learning that their congressman was late to a meeting.” 

“I hate when you’re right.” He groaned, rolling over and walking toward the bathroom, leaving the door open as he fixed his appearance. “Have I told you how lovely you look this morning?”

“No.”  You playfully glared. “And if you did, you’d be a liar.”

He scoffed. “You’re timeless, Doll. Would’ve took my breath away even in the ’40s.” Your heart fluttered from his compliment. “Are you coming into work with me?” 

You shrugged, biting your lip as you admired his back muscles. “Dunno. I think I’ll take a half day. Probably go on a walk, find a nice cafe to get some work done in.” 

He frowned. “What am I going to do without you?” 

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll be just fine. The world will turn without me running the office while you’re gone.” 

“I don’t know.” He was rather dramatic in the morning. “My executive assistant is important-” 

“We can’t go to work together.” You hissed. “You know that. The press would have a field day-” 

“I don’t care.” He sat on the edge of your shared bed. “Don’t you think it’s time the office knows?”

“Bucky. Think of your career, your position. It would look like an abuse of power, I would have to stop working-” 

“Perfect.” He looked terribly pleased with your last statement. “I’ve been trying to get you to stop working in the office for months.” 

“I like working.” You glared. “And I thought we’d finally gotten past that.” 

“We have.” He smiled, reaching out to hold your hand in his. “I just want you to be-” 

“I know.” You sighed. “But I can take care of myself.” 

“I know you can.” He leaned in, lips brushing against yours. “Doesn’t mean I can’t worry.” 

Your eyes welled up, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “You love me too much.”

He shook his head, eyes darting to your lips. “Not such thing as too much, Doll.”

You leaped up, pulling him down to you, his eyes wide as you kissed him senseless. “God, I love you.” You murmured against his lips. 

He grinned, kissing down your neck. “I love you more.” 

He’d been late to work. You had to peel yourself away from his touch and practically push him out the door, waving goodbye until his car had vanished from your sight. 

His townhouse was perfect, warm and inviting. When you first started dating, it was empty, with only the bare necessities. You’d laughed when you’d entered, insisting that he let you take him shopping. He’d agreed, and you would later find out he would agree to anything you asked simply because he loved the way your eyes lit up when you were determined.

 Your stomach lurched, and you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut to try and quell the nausea. Finding your way into the kitchen, you grabbed your favorite mug, one that Bucky had bought with you in mind, and made yourself a cup of peppermint tea. Another wave of nausea, stronger than the last, hit you as the steam hit your nostrils. You realized that this was not something you could solve with a couple of deep breaths and a cup of tea; your stomach once again grumbled as you rushed toward the bathroom. 

Denial. 

That was the first stage, right? 

You stared at the tests on the bathroom counter, too shocked to cry. There was no possible way this was real. You’d been safe, you’d taken extra precautions. The science behind the super soldier serum coursing through his veins was something neither of you understood, and so you decided you’d rather be safe than sorry. 

Apparently, you thought as you stared wide-eyed at the positive pregnancy tests in front of you, your extra precautions had been for nothing. This was horrible timing, plain and simple. He’d finally made a name for himself other than the ‘Winter Soldier’. He was finally coming into his own, and you’d ruined it. 

You had to resign. You had to leave before the press found out. 

No, you reasoned with yourself. No one knew you were dating; if you simply pretended that you were pregnant by some random man, the office would believe you. 

There was one major flaw in that plan. What would Bucky think? What would he think if his girlfriend of almost two years suddenly broke up with him and showed up to work a week later, visibly pregnant? 

You decided to stick with your original plan, resigning from the office and fleeing DC. You ran up the stairs, shoving everything you’d accumulated into the two bags you kept here. Your drawer would be empty by the time he came home.

He would eventually understand that you were saving his job, saving what you’d both worked so hard for him to achieve. Besides, who knew if he even wanted that with you, a child, a domestic life? This was James Barnes, the World War II veteran, Avenger, and congressman. He had no time for trivial things like that. 

Anger. 

Your life was exactly what you’d wanted, perfect in every way that counted. Your relationship with Bucky was perfect.

At least, until now.

He had been the first man to truly love you, to care about you. You weren’t some object, some underling. You were his equal, his great love, his partner. 

You’d finally achieved your dream. You came to DC to head an office, to become a political weapon. You’d done that, you’d seen the potential in Bucky, and you had gotten him into office.

This wasn’t fair. 

You loved him, you loved him so much that it hurt. He was a gentleman. He held the door open, he respected you, he was- Angry hot tears ran down your cheeks as you lugged the bags over your shoulders, locking the front door behind you, leaving your key underneath the mat. 

This really sucked.

You hailed a taxi, smiling gratefully when the driver helped you with your bags. “Where to, Miss?” 

“Doll?” Bucky called out, shutting the door behind him. “You didn’t show up to work! Something wrong?” 

No response. You were probably upstairs, too tired to call back out to him. He set the takeout bags on the kitchen counter, shrugging off his sports coat. “I brought Indian food from your favorite place down on 8th street.” 

By this point, you were typically barreling down the hallway, jumping into his arms and peppering kisses over his face. He frowned, the house much too silent for his liking. “Baby? Are you home?” 

The hallway was dark, too dark for his liking. You were known for leaving the lights on, too scared to walk around his house in the dark. He laughed when you’d told him, but he’d never judged. If it made you feel safer, then he was all for it. 

He’d checked every room, every possible place you could be, but you were nowhere to be found. It was like you’d never even existed. His mind began to cloud, dark and poisonous. 

His first thought was that someone had taken you. That they, whoever they were, had followed the pair of you home one day, found out where he lived, and taken you as collateral. He began to dial Sam’s number when he pushed your shared bedroom door open, frowning at the sight before him. 

Your drawer was open, empty of all the things you’d brought over. He shut the door behind him, pushing the bathroom door open to find that even your products in the mirror above the sink and the shower had disappeared. His heart stopped, hands shaking as he deleted Sam’s number to make way for yours. It had rung two times before you picked up. 

“Hello?” 

“Thank god.” His voice was quiet. “Came home and you weren’t here. Thought something had happened.” 

“I um…” You felt horrible, horrible that he had thought you’d been taken. You almost gave in, almost told him the truth. He loved you, and you knew he would be excited. “I-” No, you shook your head, you had to do this for him, for his future. He loved you, and you loved him, which is precisely why you had to do this. “I think we should stop seeing each other.” 

This was his nightmare; this was infinitely worse than someone taking you. That he could fight, he could win; this was uncharted territory. His heart clenched, on the verge of breaking clean in half. “What?” 

“This has been on my mind for some time now.” Lie. “It would be best, for both of us, for your career-” You willed yourself not to cry, not to break from the sound of his voice, more anxious than you’d ever heard him. “I’m sorry, but-”

“Where is this coming from, Doll?” He sounded desperate, broken. A tear ran down your cheek. “Did something happen? Did I-” 

“Bucky.” You cried, the tears you’d tried so hard to hold back breaking free. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be.” 

“No.” He shook his head. “I am going to make this harder than it has to be, because I love you."

Bargaining. 

His voice broke, desperate for an explanation. “Just tell me what happened, baby.” 

“I’d like to take the rest of this week off, please.” He would be better off without you, without this whole mess. This was for the best, you tried to convince yourself. “I’ll be back to work next week.” 

“Where are you?” If he could just see you, he would know. He was sure of it; he could read you like an open book. It was for that very reason that you did not want to tell him where you were. 

“I’m-” It was only a matter of time before he found where you were. Hell, he’d had your location in his phone since before you started dating, for safety purposes, of course. You’d laughed when he'd asked, giving him yours in return. It had been sweet, the way he nervously bit his lip. You remembered your cheeks flushing, stomach fluttering at the action.

Now it made you want to cry.

“I’m at my apartment.” 

“Your apartment?” He felt like he was dying, his heart clenching so tightly he thought he was having a heart attack. Maybe he was. You hadn’t been to your apartment in months, spending virtually every waking moment at his place. He’d even persuaded you to move in last week. “Thought you were moving in with me-” 

“Things change, okay?” You snapped, slapping a hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- to snap like that.” You wiped your face clean of tears. “We were never going to last forever.” Lie number two. “Please, just let me do this.” 

“No.” He shook his head as if you could see him. “I can fix this, we can-” 

“I’ll see you in a week, Congressman.”

True to your word, he hadn’t seen or heard from you all week. The radio silence made him jittery, and he began to lose focus in meetings, his peers growing more and more annoyed by his apparent lack of care regarding the nation’s interest. 

He wished he could tell them that his life turned upside down on a random Tuesday, that the love of his life had left him out of nowhere, but he knew better. 

They wouldn’t care. 

He’d been counting down the days, staring at his door for some form of life, for your familiar frame. 

Your desk was right outside his office, and he often found himself watching you through the glass wall. Now he just stared at nothing, at the empty desk that turned his mood sour. He frowned, dropping his face into his hands, wallowing in misery.

“Congressman?” 

His heart skipped, head whipping up. “Ms. Clark.”

You hadn’t wanted to go back to work, but you couldn’t just quit over the phone. 

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. You could have, probably should have, but your heart craved him, your eyes had to see him once more. 

Then you could hand in your resignation letter. 

You waved hello to the office as you walked toward your desk, almost laughing to yourself at the sight before you. There sat Bucky Barnes, in all his glory, with his head in his hands. If this were normal circumstances, if you hadn’t just broken up with him and were planning on moving across the country, you would have laughed. 

You draped your coat over the back of your chair, pulling your resignation letter out of your bag. “Congressman?” You cleared your throat, heart thumping hard against your chest.

“Ms. Clark.” His head whipped up, eyes wide as he stared at you. “You’re back.” 

“I am.” You reminded yourself that you were in the office and thus had to behave professionally. Placing the letter in front of him, you mustered up the weakest smile known to man. “Here is my resignation letter.” 

“Resignation letter?” Bucky rubbed his eyes, like you weren’t real, a figment of his imagination. “Ms. Clark-” 

“Thank you.” You whispered, not having the strength to look at him any longer. “For understanding.” 

“Wait just a second-” He stood up, practically racing toward the door to shut it before you could leave. “Don’t thank me for understanding.” His cologne threatened to overpower your senses. “Don’t thank me because I don’t understand.” He looked miserable, hands twitching like he was forcing himself not to touch you. “You haven’t given me any real reason.”

“Bucky.” Your voice was like a warning, a plea not to escalate things.

He didn’t happen to care, because he couldn’t let you go. Not without a fight, or at the very least, a reason for your sudden end of an otherwise happy relationship. 

He whispered your name so faintly you could have sworn he’d never said it. “I can’t let you go.” 

“This is highly inappropriate. We are at work, anyone could walk in at-” 

“I don’t care.” He hissed. “I love you? Do you know how much I love you?” 

“Of course I do.” You whispered, scared of someone overhearing. “And I- I loved-” 

“Bullshit.” He shook his head, refusing to believe it. “We were happy. You were happy. You told me you loved me that morning. What happened in nine hours?” 

“If there’s nothing else you need…” You straightened your posture. “I’ll be just outside.” 

“I need you.” He said it like it was a fact, like it was certain, etched in stone since the beginning of time. “You might not need me, but I need you.” 

Oh, how you wanted to correct him. You needed him like air, like the very oxygen that filled your lungs. You’d been in love with him for so long that you’d forgotten what it had been like before him. “Congressman-” 

“Don’t.” He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t hear you reject him one more time. Not when he knew that you still loved him. He knew it, even if you didn’t. “That will be all.” 

“Fine.” You nodded, turning on your heels like you hadn’t just broken his heart. Like you hadn’t just broken your own heart.

Depression.

You were actively fighting through it, fighting against crumbling into ash and letting the Earth swallow you whole. You’d been to a total of two doctors’ appointments, and even that had done nothing to improve your mood. 

If anything, it made it worse, knowing that Bucky would never be there, holding your hand and whispering sweet nothings in your ear. He would never see her first steps, her playing in the front yard, her first dance recital. 

And that was fine, because he would be doing great things, he would be changing the world. 

You didn’t even know if it was a girl or a boy. You had a feeling that it was a girl; your feeling was more of a wish than intuition. You’d always known you’d have a girl; it was something that had been part of you for as long as you’d loved playing with dolls. 

Your hand fell to your stomach, caressing it gently as you whispered. “Hello, my darling.” It was too early to tell if it was a boy or a girl, too early for kicking, too early for most things. 

You felt crazy when you talked to your baby; it wasn’t like she (or he) could hear you or show you that it could. “You’re going to be so loved, so deeply loved.” 

The bed in your apartment was comfortable, but you missed your bed, the one you’d been sleeping in for almost a year. Bucky’s bed. You missed his smell, his warmth. You slept in the one shirt he’d left over here every night, pretending as if nothing had gone wrong, that you hadn’t broken the one thing that kept you sane. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” You whispered again, eyes tearing up as you thought of him. “I miss your father.” 

Only two more days until you leave DC. 

Technically, one and a half. 

It felt surreal. You’d come here with such big dreams, and now, here you were, leaving with your tail tucked between your legs.

It was fine, not everyone was made for this life. 

You thought you had been. 

You’d already put a down payment on a modest house in a small town somewhere in Pennsylvania. It was pale blue, with three bedrooms, two stories, and it took everything in your savings. 

The front yard was perfect for playing in, for growing up. The large oak tree that shaded the house was perfect for climbing, even a tire swing. 

Maybe this was it, acceptance. 

It felt like it, in some horribly strange way. You’d finally reached the last stage of grief, of mourning your past life.

Mourning your great love. 

The office was relatively quiet, a nice reprieve from a normally chaotic environment. You’d decided to make the most of your last two days to finally organize the file system, hopefully enough so that his next executive assistant had an easier time finding things than you had. 

You wondered as you flipped through a folder labeled ‘The Superhero Support Act’ if he and his next assistant would fall in love, if she would make him forget about the pain you’d caused. 

You hoped she did; he deserved happiness.

By noon, you’d already organized all the digital files, your desk, and Bucky’s office. It was time for the white whale - the file closet.

It was dingy in here, the one hanging light doing nothing to brighten the space. You groaned, knowing that this would take longer than you thought. The files were dusty; they had obviously been neglected since the invention of the computer. Deciding to organize the files chronologically, you began your last mission.

 “Thought I’d find you here.” 

You cursed at the sky, wishing that Bucky would just leave before either of you said something you’d regret. You continued to face away from him, still sorting through the files as diligently as before. “Just doing my job.” 

“Mhm.” You imagined he was leaning against the doorway, looking as handsome as always, his jacket unbuttoned. “I see that.” He didn’t speak for a while, simply watching you organize. You wished he would leave once more. 

Wishes, apparently, are not granted on Capitol Hill. 

“I love you.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Congressman-” 

“Don’t call me that.” He frowned. “C’mon, Doll-” 

“Don’t.” You stood up, finally facing him. “We are at work.” He raised an eyebrow, stepping forward and letting the door fall shut. Your eyes widened, and you stepped forward, trying to open it. “If someone finds us in here-” 

“What will they do?” Bucky laughed. “You're leaving, as you love to remind me.”

“Why are you being so difficult?” 

“Funny.” He took in your face, trying to memorize it before you left. “I was about to ask you the same thing.” 

“Stop looking at me like that.” You whispered.

“Like what?” He whispered back.

“Like you still love me.” 

“Of course I still love you.” He scoffed, following after you as you walked backwards, desperate to put distance between the two of you. “I’ll always love you.” 

Your eyes welled. “You don’t mean that.” 

“Stop telling me what I mean.” 

Your back hit the file shelf, gasping. “I-” 

He was barely a breath away from you, eyes darting toward your lips. “When will you understand that I love you? That I’m here, and I’m not leaving. That I’ve loved you since you walked into my campaign office, all frazzled, barking out orders?” His hand came up to your cheek, wiping away the tears that had fallen against your will. “That I wake up in the middle of the night, and the first thing I do is look over to make sure you’re still there, that you’re breathing, that you're real?”

“Bucky-” You were sobbing, fighting every instinct that screamed to let him in, to tell him the truth. “Stop.” Every time he spoke, it softened your resolve, made you want to tell him what you’d been carrying by yourself. 

He shook his head, leaning his forehead against yours. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m not going to leave you alone. I know you love me, I know-” 

You place one hand over his mouth, the other on his chest. “It’s for the best, trust me. You said you love me, so just let me do this. Let me do this for you.” 

He raised an eyebrow, delicately peeling your hand away from his mouth. “Do what? What’s going on, baby?” He grew more and more worried every second you sobbed, every second you refused to open up to him. “Did someone-” 

“No.” You shook your head. “No, it’s nothing like that. Bucky, I love you so much-” 

He grinned, a glimmer of hope breaking through his otherwise melancholy face. “I love you too-” 

“But this is for your own good.” Both of your hands were on his chest, pushing him away like he was temptation itself. “You’re meant to do great things, and you can do those, but I can’t be the person who slows you down.” 

“Is that why you broke up with me?” He laughed. “I appreciate you looking out for me, really I do, but you can’t make that decision for me.” 

“Too late.” You cried, his shirt wrinkling under your hold. “It’s too late.” 

“No, it’s not.” He shook his head, his hands holding your face like it was precious. If you had asked him, it was. “You’re scaring me, baby. What’s got you so upset? Talk to me.” 

“I- I can’t-” 

“You can-” 

“You don’t get it-” You sobbed. “I-” 

“C’mon, Doll.” His lips brushed against yours as he spoke. “I’m right here.”

“I’m pregnant, alright?” You sobbed. “There you go, there it is.” He staggered back, staring at you in disbelief. You felt jittery, manic with fear from his reaction, or lack of reaction. “I’m sorry, I just-” You hugged yourself, rambling as you tried to explain the reasoning behind your decision.

“I found out after you left for work, and I-I couldn’t live with myself if I slowed you down. You’re amazing, you’re really making a change for these people. And I’m so proud of you, so so proud. You’re my finest achievement, and I-I couldn’t see it all go to waste. I knew if I told you, you’d drop everything, and I couldn’t have that. Because you care too much, and it scares me. It’s horrifying how much you love me. I’m not used to it. You’re supposed to be more selfish, you have to be more selfish, especially in this-” 

You tilted your head, glaring at the man in front of you. “Are you even listening?” He had that same glazed-over look in his eye, still staring in disbelief. “Are you serious? I know I messed up, but the least you could do is say something.” Bucky slowly walked back toward you, like a predator stalking its prey. “I’m sorry, I really am. Just please, say something, say anything-” You gasped when his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you carefully into his hold. “Bucky-”

His lips dove to yours, your eyes fluttering shut as your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer. He grinned, your teeth momentarily clashing, neither of you wanting to let up. Your knees weakened, glad that he had an arm around your waist, holding you up with ease. “We can’t-” 

“Are you sure?” He pulled back, breath heaving as he spoke. “Are you sure that you’re pregnant?” 

You nodded, smiling timidly. “Eight weeks yesterday.” 

“Eight weeks?” His eyes welled with tears as he stared at your stomach. “Oh, baby…” 

“I’m so sorry.” You whispered. “I didn’t want to-” 

“I love you.” He grinned, peppering kisses all over your face, your laughter bubbling in waves as you squirmed under his attack of affection. “I love you so much, and I-” He fidgeted with something in his pocket. “This is horrible timing, I know that.” 

“What?” Your heart dropped as he lowered himself onto one knee. “Bucky-” 

“Before you say anything, just let me get this out, and then you can scold me or kiss me, whatever you want.” He smiled, pulling out a small velvet box. “I’ve been trying to find the right time to say this, and now seems as good a time as any.” The ring inside was old, simple, but elegant all the same. “This is my mother’s ring. Rebecca still had it.”

“Bucky-” 

“I want to marry you. So badly it hurts. Marry me, and I swear you’ll be happy as long as you live.”  

“You know my answer is yes.” You cried, leaning down to kiss him. “A million times, yes.” 

He smiled, placing the ring on your finger. “Thank god. If you tried to leave again i was just going to blurt it out, and I didn’t think that-” 

“This is perfect. You’re perfect.” You grinned, staring at the ring as he stood up. “I’m sorry.” 

“No need to apologize, Doll.” He kissed the back of your hand, smiling when he saw his mother’s ring. “I do have one request.” 

“Yeah?” You raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?” 

“Next time you’re pregnant…” Your heart skipped at the way he so casually said ‘next time,’ like it was inevitable. “Tell me before you do anything rash.” 

You nodded, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind his ear. “Sounds reasonable enough.”

taglist: @milesdrift @eddiemunsons-lover @maryjaneeeee

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO JOIN!!

[inseobts]

Hello! I'd like to please request a little scenario for multiple characters if possible; I'm especially interested in your take on this with Law, Sanji and Ace given their backstory. If you're open to writing for the ladies as well then adding Robin into the mix would be appreciated! My idea is simple; an S/O with a child, and the aftermath of discovering that fact. I don't mind if it's an established relationship and there just wasn't an opportunity to meet the kid before or something else, I just like the idea of these characters dealing with the concept of surprise family/parenthood, the angst that may arise from dealing with the role of a stepparent if they want a relationship (and its happy ending if possible!) Good luck with all the requests, I hope you have fun with them!

Found Family (Reader with a Kid)

gn!reader

characters: law, sanji, ace, nico robin

tags: under each character + secret child

a/n: I started it with a fem!reader in mind and changed it to gender neutral only later since the post didn't mention the gender, so please if I missed some changes please tell me

words count: around 0.8k - 1.7k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Law:

Tags: Established Relationship, Surprise Family, Angst to Comfort, Fluff

The wind blows soft through the port town. Law steps off the ship, coat flapping behind him, hands in his pockets. He’s quieter than usual, eyes scanning the street ahead. He’s not here on a mission. He’s here for you.

You sent a letter three weeks ago.

Just one line: “I need to talk. Come if you can.”

Law doesn’t like surprises. But he comes.

He finds you standing outside a small house with peeling paint and flower pots on the windowsill. You smile when you see him, but it’s tight, like you’re scared.

He frowns “You alright?”

You nod “Yeah… I just—can we go inside? I don’t want to do this out here.”

Law follows you in. It’s warm. Smells like soup and soap. A small jacket hangs on a hook by the door. Not yours. Too small.

His sharp eyes catch it, but he doesn’t say anything yet.

You lead him to the living room and sit. He stands. Watches you.

You look down “There’s something I never told you.”

Law’s voice is low “I figured.”

You breathe in deep “I… have a kid.”

Silence.

You look up. His face is unreadable. Like ice. You hate that expression, it means he’s trying to think without feeling. To stay calm.

He speaks finally “How old?”

You blink “She’s five.”

He does the math. That means before him.

“She yours?” he asks, even though he already knows.

You nod “Yes. Mine. The... other parent's gone. Completely.”

He nods slowly. His voice is cold, but not cruel “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was scared.” You twist your hands “We met during a war. We never talked about kids, or… futures. Then we got together, and things felt good. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You thought this would ruin it?”

“I thought you might walk away.”

He looks away “You didn’t trust me.”

“That’s not fair,” you say, standing now too “I’ve been through things. I didn’t know how you’d react. You’re not… You don’t talk about family. You barely talk about your past.”

His jaw tenses. You hit a nerve.

You try softer “I wanted to wait for the right moment. But there never was one. Until now.”

Silence again.

Then small footsteps.

You freeze.

Law turns just as a tiny figure walks into the room, clutching a stuffed rabbit.

“Who’s this?”

Her eyes are big, curious. Law stares.

You kneel “Sweetheart, this is Law. He’s… He’s my friend.”

Law doesn’t speak. He just looks. She hides behind your leg.

You don’t blame her.

“She’s shy,” you say “But she’s smart. She reads pirates like storybooks.”

Law kneels too, finally, lowering himself to her level. His voice softens.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he says “I’m just… surprised.”

Your daughter peeks out “You talk funny.”

Law blinks.

You laugh nervously “He’s from the North Blue.”

“Oh.” She tilts her head “Do you have a boat?”

Law nods “A submarine.”

Her eyes widen “Cool…”

She steps forward. He doesn’t move.

Then she offers her rabbit “You wanna hold Mr. Bun?”

You almost cry.

Law takes it. Careful. Gentle. Like it’s glass.

He looks at you over her head. Still unsure. Still quiet.

But he’s here, and he’s not walking away.

The rabbit sits on the table between you.

Law hasn’t said much since dinner. He eats quietly, politely. Your daughter sits beside him, munching rice balls like they’re treasure. She’s talking to him. A lot.

“Do submarines have beds?”

“Yes.”

“Do you sleep in them?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you dream of fish?”

“…No.”

You nearly laugh into your cup. Law sends you a look. It says help me. You shrug. You’re doing fine.

When she finishes eating, you ask her to brush her teeth. She runs off with Mr. Bun in her arms. The house falls quiet again.

Law leans back in his chair.

“You didn’t even flinch,” you say “When she offered you the rabbit.”

He shrugs “She trusted me. I didn’t want to break that.”

You nod, chewing on your lip “That means a lot, Law.”

He looks at you. Eyes sharp but not cold “I’m not angry.”

“Really?”

“I’m hurt.” His voice is honest now “You didn’t tell me. I could’ve helped. Been there. Or at least known what I was walking into.”

“I know,” you whisper “I was scared. I didn’t want to push you away.”

“I’m not made of glass, Y/N. I’ve lost family. I’ve lost everything. But I never said I didn’t want to build something new.”

You look down at your hands “She’s my whole world.”

“I can see that.”

“And now that you’ve met her… what do you want?”

He pauses.

That pause stretches long and sharp between you.

Then, softly “I don’t know.”

You nod. You expected that. You’re not mad. Just scared again.

Law stands and walks to the window “She’s a good kid. Brave. You raised her well.”

You smile a little “She’s got my temper.”

“I noticed.”

You walk over to him. You both stare outside. The moon is bright tonight.

“I’m not asking you to be her father,” you say “You don’t have to… take that role if you don’t want it.”

He turns “What if I want to?”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he continues “A father. A parent. I’m… I’m a surgeon. A pirate. I know how to fight, how to cut, how to survive. Not how to raise a child.”

You place your hand over his “She doesn’t need perfect. Just present. Just kind. Even I didn’t know how to be a good parent.”

He watches you. Something cracks in his expression.

“I want you.” he says.

“I want you too.”

“But I can’t lie to you… I’m afraid. I don’t want to mess this up.”

You squeeze his hand “We’ll learn together. She’s not looking for perfect either. She just wants someone who doesn’t leave.”

That hits hard.

He nods and then tiny footsteps again.

Your daughter peeks from the hallway “Hey... can he read me a story?”

Law blinks “Me?”

She nods “You have a cool voice.”

You laugh softly “What do you say?”

He hesitates. Then walks over.

“Alright, let’s try.” he says “But only one.”

She beams.

You stand in the hallway, listening through the door. His voice is low, slow, careful. Reading a picture book about sea creatures. She’s tucked in, eyes half-closed. The rabbit is between them on the bed.

Law finishes the page. She murmurs, “You’re not scary like someone said.”

You gasp quietly. Betrayal.

Law chuckles “Someone said that?”

“Mhm. They said you’re all sharp eyes and brooding. But you’re kinda soft.”

Law mutters, “I am never going to live that down.”

You grin and walk back to the living room.

He stays. Finishes the story. Even tucks her in.

When he comes out, he looks… changed.

“You did good.” you say.

“I didn’t even sweat.”

“Liar.”

He sighs, then smirks “Okay, maybe a little.”

You take his hand again “So…”

“So.” he echoes.

“You staying the night?”

He raises a brow “You asking?”

You smile “I have tea. And a couch. Or a bed, if you behave.”

He smirks “I’ll try my best.”

── .✦ Sanji:

Tags: Flirting Sanji, Soft Sanji, Humor, Fluff, Unexpected Bonding, Found Family

Sanji flirts with you every time he sees you.

At the market “Ah, Y/N! Did the sun rise just to see your face today?”

At the docks “Want me to carry those for you, my love? Your hands are far too lovely for heavy lifting!”

Even after the battle in your city, where the Strawhats helped “You’re even more beautiful covered in blood. Should I be worried about how much I love that?”

You never fall for it. You roll your eyes. You walk away. You don’t even blush.

It drives him insane.

“You’re difficult to get,” he says one afternoon, following you through town “but I like that.”

“I don’t fall,” you say flatly “Especially not for men with hearts in their eyes.”

“Ahhh, but my heart is sincere!”

You stop and face him “Sanji. You don’t even know me.”

“I want to.”

You pause. He’s annoying, yes. But not bad. He’s never pushed you too far. Never said anything mean. Just flirty. Charming. Too charming.

You sigh “Fine. You want to know me?”

He lights up “Yes! Of course!”

“Then come with me.”

You lead him through town, away from the market, away from the noise. Into a quiet part of the island. A garden path. A small house tucked in the trees.

He’s still smiling “So this is where the beautiful Y/N hides. A date, then?”

You don’t answer. You open the door. Inside, it’s neat. Warm. Lived-in. There are toys in the corner. A tiny pair of shoes by the door.

Sanji frowns “Is this… your house?”

“Wait here.” you say.

You go into the back room. A few seconds later, you return, holding a small child. Sleepy-eyed. Holding a stuffed whale. While another lady leaves the house as if her job there is finished.

You look Sanji in the eye.

“This is my daughter.”

Sanji freezes.

Dead silent.

You wait.

You expect a nervous laugh. A fast goodbye. A dramatic “I’m not ready for this!” speech.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead…

“Her hair’s like yours,” he says softly “She’s beautiful.”

Your daughter rubs her eyes, looks at him “Who’s that?”

You answer “Just... a friend.”

Sanji kneels slowly “Hi, sweetheart. I’m Sanji. Can I say hello?”

She shrugs. He waves. She waves back with the whale.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Whale.” Sanji says seriously.

You blink.

She giggles.

You didn’t expect this.

You make tea. Sanji helps. He insists, actually.

“She can’t have sugar this late.” you say.

“Then honey,” he says “Gentle on the stomach.”

You watch as he puts her cup in front of her like a butler. Bows. She bows back. You nearly choke on your tea.

“Do you cook?” she asks.

“Oh yes,” he says “Better than anyone.”

She claps “Make us dinner!”

Sanji glances at you. You nod. Why not?

He makes a simple meal. It smells amazing. Your daughter eats two full plates.

After, she sits in his lap and shows him a book of sea animals. He listens. Really listens.

You don’t understand what’s happening.

You were trying to scare him away.

Instead, he’s… perfect.

When she falls asleep, he carries her to her bed. Quiet. Gentle.

He tucks her in, fixes her whale beside her, and kisses her forehead.

You follow him back to the living room in silence.

“Well...” you say, still confused “That wasn’t what I expected.”

He smiles but smaller this time. Softer.

“I flirt because it’s fun,” he says “But I stayed because I wanted to see you.”

You stare at him “You weren’t scared?”

“I was shocked,” he admits “But not scared. You’re a single parent. That’s strong. She’s lucky to have you.”

You look away “I thought it would make you leave.”

“I’m not that easy to get rid of.”

You smile at that and look at him again. This time longer.

Sanji isn’t just charm. He’s heart. He’s warmth.

And… maybe you were wrong about him.

Your daughter’s asleep.

Sanji’s sitting on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest like he belongs there. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled up, and a soft smile on his lips.

He looks so… calm. Like this is normal. Like he wants this.

You sit across from him, legs tucked under you. You sip your tea. Your hands are shaking just a little, but you hide it well.

“Thanks for dinner,” you say “She loved it.”

“She’s adorable,” he says, smiling “And polite. You’ve done an amazing job.”

You stare into your cup “I didn’t do it alone. But… it’s been a long time since I shared her with someone.”

Sanji watches you quietly. No teasing now. Just listening.

You swallow. Here goes nothing.

“So,” you say “I’ve decided something.”

He leans forward “Oh?”

You lift your eyes to meet his “I’m saying yes.”

His brows lift “Yes to what?”

You smile “A date.”

He freezes “Wait. A—really?”

You nod.

“I mean, I’ve been asking for weeks, but I thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” you say “I just didn’t believe you.”

“And now?”

“Now I do.”

He stares at you for a second. Then a slow, beautiful grin spreads across his face. Like he’s won a war. Like the clouds finally moved for the sun.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“You—you have no idea what this means to me, Y/N.”

You chuckle “I might have some idea.”

“Do you want flowers? Candles? Music? Should I wear a suit? I’ll cook, of course—”

You laugh softly “Just come as you are.”

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly flustered “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

You sip your tea again. Calm on the outside.

But inside? Your heart is thundering. So loud it feels like it echoes in your chest. And he doesn't even know your heart is actually beating faster than his own.

You’ve had to be strong for so long. For your child. For yourself. Love always felt like a luxury you couldn’t afford.

But Sanji… he’s something else.

Not because he’s charming.

But because when it really mattered, he stayed.

And now, you let yourself fall a little deeper.

You stand. Walk over. And press a soft kiss to his cheek.

He goes still.

You pull back and say quietly, “Can't wait for the date.”

His eyes widen, then fill with something warm surprised, happy, maybe even a little nervous.

“You… really?” he asks, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

You nod “Don’t make me regret it.”

His laugh is breathless “Never.”

You smile, heart pounding, but you don’t let it show. He doesn’t need to know yet how much this means.

A few nights later for your first date Sanji goes all out, but not in a flashy way. It’s thoughtful. Intimate.

He sets up dinner on the ship’s deck. Small candles, soft music from a den den mushi radio, and a view of the sea under stars. He cooks something warm and comforting, not fancy, just full of love.

You talk for hours. About silly things, quiet things, your pasts and dreams. It’s easy. He listens more than he speaks, and when he does talk, it’s gentle.

No cheesy lines. Just Sanji. Real and warm.

After dessert, he walks you home in silence. Not awkward, just peaceful. The kind of quiet where you don’t need to fill space.

At your door, he looks at you with hopeful eyes but doesn’t move in. He’s waiting for your choice.

So you step closer.

You kiss him.

Soft. Sure. Just once. But it’s full of everything you’ve been holding back.

When you pull away, he blinks like he’s just been hit by a wave.

You smirk “You were taking too long.”

He laughs, dizzy and full of stars.

And for the first time in a long while, so do you.

── .✦ Ace:

Tags: Friends with Benefits, Angst, Humor, Emotional Reveal, Mutual Feelings Hidden, Teasing to Serious, Marine Conflict

The sun burns above you. You’re lying on the deck of your ship, one leg over the other, a half-empty bottle between your fingers. Ace is beside you shirtless, grinning, sweat on his brow, flame flickering off his fingers like it’s breathing with him.

“You always steal my rum.” you say, kicking him lightly.

“You always keep it warm,” he shoots back “I’m doing you a favor.”

You roll your eyes “Your idea of favors sucks.”

He leans closer, his voice lazy and smug “You didn’t say that last night.”

You groan “Get a new line, fire boy.”

He grins wider. You punch his arm. He fake-winces, like it hurt. It didn’t.

That’s the two of you: teasing, biting, half-fighting, half-kissing. No promises. No labels. Just good fun and bad timing.

Pirate life is rough. You take what joy you can.

“Hey,” you say after a long silence, watching the sky “Wanna hear a secret?”

Ace smirks, eyes still closed “If it’s about that thing you did in the galley with the honey—”

“No, dumbass. A real secret.”

That makes him open his eyes. He turns to look at you “Alright. Hit me.”

You sit up. Serious now. The bottle rests on your knee.

“I have a son.”

Ace snorts “You what?”

You nod, eyes still on the horizon “Yeah. He’s five. His name’s Ren.”

He blinks. You go on before he can interrupt.

“I had him before all this, before the piracy, before you. I got caught in something messy with the Marines. To keep him safe, I left him with my parents. Changed my name. Ran.”

Ace stares.

You keep talking “I go see him when I can. Disguised. Just for a day or two. He thinks I’m some traveling doctor or something. He doesn’t know who I really am.”

You pause. Swallow.

“It’s hell, leaving every time. But I’d rather he grow up safe than have him hunted.”

Ace starts laughing.

You blink “What the hell?”

He’s full-on laughing “Holy shit, you got me! I thought you were serious. What is this, some new kink? Roleplay? Mommy pirate stuff?”

You just look at him.

Dead quiet.

No grin. No tease.

Ace’s smile dies instantly. The flame on his fingers goes out.

“…Wait,” he says “You’re not joking?”

You don’t say anything.

His expression changes fast… shocked, confused, then something close to guilt “You really…?”

You nod once “I’m not playing around.”

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly tense “Shit.”

“Yeah,” you say, dry “That’s usually the first response.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again “Why are you telling me this now?”

You shrug “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the closest thing I’ve had to a real connection in years. Or maybe I just got tired of lying all the time.”

He stares at you.

You look away “I didn’t expect you to laugh. That sucked.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“No,” he says quickly “I’m serious. That was a shitty reaction. I just… I didn’t think you were the kind of person to hide something that big.”

You exhale “Turns out, I’m full of surprises.”

The silence between you is heavy now. Not like before.

Then Ace says quietly, “What’s he like?”

You blink “Huh?”

“Your kid. Ren. What’s he like?”

You smile a little “Stubborn. Smart. Messy. Loves drawing fishes. Hates carrots. Thinks I have the coolest boots in the world.”

Ace nods, quiet. He looks down, then up at you again.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs “I’m sorry for laughing. And I’m… kinda honored you told me.”

You raise a brow “Didn’t peg you for the emotional type.”

He shrugs, eyes soft “Didn’t peg you for someone with a child.”

Touché.

Ace doesn’t talk much for the next few days.

No flirting. No teasing. Just quiet looks when he thinks you’re not watching.

You try to act normal with some old jokes, same smug grin as always, but you feel it too. Everything changed with that one secret. The space between you now holds more than just fun.

It holds truth. Real, heavy, warm truth.

You’re standing at the helm when he walks up beside you.

“I want to come.” he says.

You glance at him “Come where?”

“When you go see your son.”

Your hands tighten on the wheel “Ace—”

“I’ll stay out of sight. I swear. I just… want to see him. I want to understand what you gave up. What you’re protecting.”

You study him for a moment. His eyes don’t waver. There’s no joke. No smirk.

Just Ace. Real. Honest.

You nod.

Months later — The island is quiet. A small village with stone houses, chickens in the streets, a little bakery that still smells like your childhood.

You pull your hood low. Ace wears a cap, sunglasses... he looks ridiculous, but no one’s looking at him. Just another traveler.

Your parents’ house is at the end of the road. Garden full of wildflowers. Paint peeling on the fence.

Your son is playing outside.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s chasing butterflies. Laughing. Barefoot.

Ace stops walking.

“That’s him?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod “Ren.”

Ace just stares. His hands slowly curl into fists.

You call out softly, “Ren?”

The boy turns. His face lights up.

He runs to you screaming. You drop to your knees and catch him in your arms. He’s warm. Real. Solid.

Ace looks away.

Inside, your parents keep things short. They know who Ace is. You warned them. They’re not happy, but they trust you.

You all sit outside. Ren sits on Ace’s lap by accident. You try to grab him, but Ace just holds him steady.

“It’s okay,” he says “He’s light.”

Ren shows him a toy ship made of sticks “I made this!”

Ace chuckles “Really? That’s better than some ships I’ve sailed on.”

You stare.

Ren grins proudly “My parent used to tell me stories. About pirates and fire powers. Did you know there’s a pirate who can set his fists on fire?”

Ace raises a brow “Sounds dangerous.”

Ren gasps “But so cool!”

You laugh softly. Ace sends you a small look. It’s gentle. A little sad.

Later, when Ren naps, you and Ace sit on the back porch.

“He’s amazing.” Ace says.

“I know.”

“You’re amazing,” he adds “You left this. For his safety.”

You stare at the grass “I think about quitting all the time. Just staying here. Being at his side full time. But… the world’s not kind. And if they find me—”

“I get it,” he cuts in “You’re doing what you have to.”

You glance at him “I didn’t expect you to care so much.”

He shrugs “Neither did I.”

Then he adds, “But now I can’t stop.”

Your heart stumbles.

“He’s got your eyes.” Ace says softly.

“Don’t get attached.” you warn “This life… it’s dangerous.”

“So is mine,” he says “But that didn’t stop you from letting me in.”

You look at him. Really look.

“I didn’t plan for this...” you whisper.

“Neither did I.”

But here you both are.

And suddenly, fun doesn’t feel like the right word anymore.

The sound of quiet laughter wakes you.

You blink against the morning light, still groggy, still warm under the blanket. It takes a second to remember where you are... your parents’ house, back in your old bed.

And then you hear it again.

Ren’s voice.

And Ace’s.

You sit up, heart skipping.

You slip out of bed, still barefoot, and pad toward the living room. And there they are.

Ren sits cross-legged on the floor, his little wooden ship in one hand, while Ace sits across from him, mimicking an enemy pirate voice.

“Noooo! You got me again, Captain Ren! My ship is sinking!”

Ren giggles and throws a pillow at him “That’s what you get, bad guy!”

Ace dramatically falls back, hands in the air “Ughhh… defeated by the mightiest pirate on the seas…”

Your heart squeezes.

Ace looks so natural. Hair messy. Eyes full of warmth. Like he belongs here.

But then your parents come in.

They freeze when they see the scene.

Ace doesn’t notice at first, he’s laughing with Ren, his smile unguarded.

“Ren.” your mother says, sharply.

Your son turns.

“Come away from him,” your father says quickly, stepping forward “Now.”

Ace blinks, confused “I—”

“Ren,” your mother repeats “Come here.”

Ren looks at you, unsure.

You step in “What’s going on?”

Your father’s jaw tightens “We don’t want him near the child.”

You stare “Excuse me?”

“He’s a pirate,” your mother hisses “A famous one. Fire Fist. He’s dangerous.”

“He’s also sitting on the floor playing ships...” you snap.

Your parents say nothing.

“You trusted me enough to come here with him,” you continue, voice rising “Now you’re trying to pull Ren away like he’s some kind of monster?”

“We’re protecting our grandson.” your father says coldly.

“From what? A man who’s been nothing but kind to him?”

“You don’t know what kind of life he brings.”

“I do,” you shout “I live it too. If you forgot. And yes, it’s dangerous. Yes, it’s hard. But Ace has done nothing but respect my family, protect me, and treat Ren with more care than anyone ever has!”

They go silent.

You’re shaking now, fists clenched.

“And for your information, I love him.”

The words fall like a hammer in the room.

Ren blinks.

Your parents’ eyes widen.

Ace just stares at you.

You don’t move.

You didn’t mean to say it... not like this, not loud, not angry... but it’s out.

And real.

You look at Ace, heart thundering “I love you.”

A beat.

Then Ace stands slowly, eyes locked on yours. He walks to you, quiet. The room holds its breath.

He stops in front of you.

“I wasn’t sure if I should say it first,” he says, voice low “Didn’t want to scare you off. But you beat me to it.”

You blink.

“I love you too.” he says.

He reaches out, gentle, and takes your hand.

Your parents stay silent. Ren looks between the two of you, then claps once like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Can I have pancakes now?” he asks.

You and Ace laugh at the same time, breathless.

And just like that, the tension cracks.

── .✦ Nico Robin:

Tags: Established Relationship, Soft Confession, Emotional Intimacy, Bittersweet Past

It’s late.

Most of the crew has gone to bed, except you and Robin. You're both in the library room. She’s reading. You’re not. You're just holding the edge of a piece of paper... frayed, uneven, and pulsing with life.

A vivre card.

You don’t have to look at it to know it’s still there. Still pointing somewhere far away, where you can’t be.

Robin closes her book softly “Is that what’s been on your mind all day?”

You glance over.

Of course she noticed.

You nod “Yeah.”

She tilts her head slightly “Can I ask who it’s for?”

You hesitate.

You’ve never told her. Not because you didn’t trust her, but because it always felt like a story that belonged to a different version of you. The you from before the sea. Before the Straw Hats. Before her.

But she’s already part of everything now.

So you answer.

“My son.”

Robin says nothing but her gaze sharpens. Attentive. Careful.

“He’s with his other parent now,” you continue, voice quiet “I raised him alone before I joined the crew. He’s the one who said it was okay. Actually, we were always together, in another small crew. Then he wanted a different kind of life. One with… peace. So we contacted his other parent.”

Robin nods, slow “He sounds mature.”

“He was always like that. Smarter than me, I think.”

There’s a short silence.

You look at the vivre card “I haven’t seen him since I joined. We talk through letters, sometimes den den mushi. But I don’t know when I’ll be able to see him again.”

Robin’s eyes soften “Do the others know?”

You shake your head “No. Just you.”

She reaches out. Her fingers brush yours, just enough to touch the vivre card “Thank you for trusting me.”

You smile, small but real “I didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t want you to see me differently.”

Robin hums “I already see you. Clearly.”

You blink.

She looks at you steady and kind “You carry something heavy. And still laugh with the crew. Still help cook. Still stand beside me in battle. That’s not weakness.”

Your chest aches in the best way.

She pauses, then adds, “If one day… you want to try and see him again, I’d go with you.”

Your voice catches “Really?”

She nods “Of course. I’d like to meet him. He sounds like someone I’d admire.”

You look down at the vivre card.

Still warm. Still burning.

Maybe not as far away as it feels.

It’s just past dinner.

You’re with Robin as she asked you to stay close. A soft excuse about helping her with some documents. You're both sitting on the floor, back against the wall, a soft lamp between you.

You have the vivre card on the table. You don't always keep it out, but tonight you felt the need to hold it.

You glance at the Den Den Mushi nearby.

You hesitate.

Then pick it up and dial a number you’ve had memorized since your hands first held his.

The snail blinks sleepily… then perks up.

“Hello?”

Your chest tightens at the voice.

You smile “Hey, kiddo.”

A pause, then, “IT’S YOU!!”

You laugh, caught off guard by the pure excitement.

“Oh my god—FINALLY! You didn’t forget me, right? You didn’t sail into a storm and disappear forever, right?”

Robin lifts an amused brow, watching you with quiet interest.

“I didn’t forget you,” you say softly “You know that.”

“Just making sure. I’ve been drawing so many sea monsters lately you would not believe. I made a kraken with three hats.”

You laugh again, voice cracking slightly “Three hats? He must be important.”

“Very.” He pauses, then adds, “...I missed you.”

You shut your eyes “I missed you too.”

Robin looks away respectfully, but stays close.

Then, from the snail: “Hey, wait—who’s near you? Are you with someone?”

You glance at Robin, who blinks, caught.

“She’s... a friend.” you say carefully.

Robin speaks, her voice soft “I hope I’m more than just a friend.”

The Den Den Mushi mimics a shocked face.

“...OH MY GOD. IS THIS YOUR GIRLFRIEND??”

You bury your face in your hand.

Robin chuckles lightly, graceful even when embarrassed “Hello. I’m Robin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

There’s a long pause.

“...You sound really cool.”

Robin smiles “Thank you. So do you.”

“Wait—how much do you know about them? Like... do you know about the time they tried to cook without instructions and set the wall on fire?”

You groan “Don’t tell her that.”

“It was a microwave! The noodles caught on fire!”

Robin’s shoulders shake with laughter.

You shoot her a glare that holds no heat “I regret this entire call.”

“No you don’t.”

And he’s right. You don’t.

Not even a little.

Later, when the call ends, you sit in silence.

Robin’s hand reaches for yours “He’s amazing.”

You nod, voice soft “Yeah. He really is.”

She squeezes your hand gently “He has your spark. And your chaos.”

You smile through the ache in your chest “He’s better than I’ll ever be.”

Robin rests her head against your shoulder.

“You’ll see him again. When the time is right. And I'll be with you... if you want me.”

"Of course I do."

And somehow, with her beside you, that feels like a promise you can believe in.

[bewitched-hours]

ANGST IDEA: (if you write it uh.. he/they pronouns for reader)

Two-Time gets so enamored with y/n, they start following them around, until they get the idea,, that y/n would be the best sacrifice for The Spawn. And stabs them mid round (it could be anything, just as long as Two-Time or any other sentinel ends up killing y/n)

And 1x ends up being the killer..

While casting Necromancy, She summons y/n without realizing it, and while they’re checking their minions, he senses a new being under their control.

Revealing Y/n as a minion, somewhat still aware, like a sleepy person, kinda wobbling around and whatnot.. and feels a bit .. bad..

I don't do he/they but I can offer They/Them as the closest to male pronouns as stated in my ruleset(again, nothing against guys but I honestly write a bit more on relatability and for my fellow gals because I see mostly AMAB reader fics-) Also I may have misunderstood the request, I apologize if this isn't what you wanted-

Reader has They/Them-

It wasn't supposed to be even possible... But the Spectre seemed to have been bored.

And by the stars, Two Time's infatuation with you gave it an idea.

You thought it was innocent at first and that you could handle them despite not reciprocating their feelings. You were just kind like that, not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings.

Hell, you even went out of your way to apologize to killers and make sure they didn't feel discouraged by a missed attack... Even though they wouldn't be in the first place...

But what no one could've seen coming was Two Time suddenly backstabbing you and successfully killing you..?

That wasn't right. Something was up, especially when you were nowhere to be found after that round. Even your cabin was completely destroyed which only meant...

You were actually dead dead. Gone from existence entirely.

Obviously, the blame was on Two Time. They stabbed you after all and all they could talk about was the Spawn possibly giving them a third life to better protect everyone.

It left a sour taste in their mouths but the Spectre did grant them a third life to keep them insane.

The next round was when things got interesting.

1x1x1x1 was chosen as the killer and in the middle of it, she chose to use necromancy. Raising minions from the dead to help him with taking care of the pesky survivors.

Although you horrified the survivors with your appearance, 1x failed to realise it until much later while checking on the minions because she felt a new presence among them.

And there you stood. Not entirely stable as you looked more like someone fighting off exhaustion and being on the edge of collapsing. It looked pitiful enough.

So when the round ended and you were taken to the killer's cabin with them, 1x merely picked you up and explained what happened quickly before hauling you off with them.

Did you even know what was happening? You didn't show any resistance but the vengeance she could feel from you when you spotted Two Time was enough to allow you to be a true minion.

There would just need to be a few modifications...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[i-love-zelda-16]

dear precious lu fandom, this post is for you <3

I LOVE YOU ALL DEARLY! you are all super cool, amazing, and incredibly talented!!!!!!! no, not someone else, you 🫵. <3

but um. i’m not mad at all, i’m just trying to maybe help calm this fandom down a bit. can we please stop the fanon vs. canon arguing?? or dissing others because they ‘haven’t played the games’?

i’ve tried to stay out of this. but when i search #linked universe, it pains me to see my dear fandom and fellow friends upset. this has been weighing on me. i’m not usually this serious, as those who know me probably recognize.

heacanons are amazing. headcanons are cool. i want to be able to headcanon that Hyrule is a sweet lil bean and Wind is a chaotic lil sailor pirate boy without being flamed, but recently we’ve been dissing each others’ headcanons. just because you disagree with someone’s headcanon does not mean you can ‘correct’ them or tell them it’s a bad headcanon. they love the blorbos too. in the nicest way possible, mind your own business please.

second, let’s not diss people for ‘not playing the games’. for example, i haven’t beaten Link’s Awakening. does that mean i can’t write Legend/Marin angst? no, of course i can write Legend/Marin angst, i love writing that! or even simpler, i’ve seen just straight up teasing, bullying, or saying someone’s ‘not a true fan’ because they haven’t beaten all the games. again, in the nicest way possible, this is ridiculous; not everyone can afford to beat all the games and not everyone has the time to beat all the games. from what i’ve seen, it seems almost like some people won’t be satisfied until the person they’re conversing with has 100%ed all the games— again, a crazy expectation. i personally don’t care if you’ve played all 21 canon games or none at all and you barely know anything about Zelda; i will treat you with kindness and respect, and i really hope others would do the same. shouldn’t we be trying to be kind and encourage new fans to enter the fandom?

everyone, please consider this your wakeup call. and please stop arguing. <3

again, i love you all dearly, and this fandom is the best thing that has ever happened to me. but please consider what i have to say <3

THANK YOU SINCERELY IF YOU READ THIS FAR!!!!!! <3

[itoshiierae]

⋆ ˚｡ 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 . ݁₊ ✶ ˖

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

ᡣ𐭩 ft: suna rintarou x f!reader

ᡣ𐭩 summary: you’ve been tangled up in a situationship with suna rintarou for the past six months — late-night texts, secret dorm visits, and sex that feels a little too intimate for something that’s “not serious.” he never calls you his, but he touches you like he owns you.

ᡣ𐭩 cw: minors dni, situationship!suna, cliché trope ngl, college-setting, explicit sex, oral (f! & m! receiving), toxic!suna, fingering, overstimulation, dirty talk, slight lingerie kink, creampie, nipple play, aftercare, emotional tension, slight angst (wc: 2.6k words)

ᡣ𐭩 notes: my very first hq post on this blog and of course it had to be suna <33 writing this lowkey felt like time-traveling back to 2020/2021 — back when i’d stay up way too late reading suna fics on ao3 😩 anywayyy this one’s extremely filthy 🥵😵‍💫 (not proofread bc i’m just lazy like that)

it always starts with a late-night text from him, and then you’re off sneaking out of your dorm room. your roommate doesn’t even bother stopping you anymore. she knows exactly what you’ve been up to, but at this point??? she’s too tired to keep repeating advice you’ll never take, especially when it comes to him.

you’ve been “seeing” suna rintarou for the past six months now — or more accurately, tangled up in a situationship with him. how it started? kind of unexpected. but somehow, it unraveled into secret rendezvous and quiet nights in his bed. he was one of those effortlessly popular boys on campus; reserved but well-known. he’s not as loud or “chaotic” as compared to his friends, but he still stood out without even trying. you, on the other hand, were more lowkey — kept to yourself, quiet, and definitely not the kind of girl anyone would expect to get tangled up with someone like him.

but despite that, girls like you are exactly his type: the soft-spoken ones, the ones who seem innocent until they’re not. it’s the contrast that gets him every single time. you’re quiet, reserved even, but the second he gets you alone??? now that’s a whole different story.

so tonight when you walked in wearing that little red set: a sheer crimson slip with lace teasing over your skin, and a matching robe slipping off one shoulder with delicate bows untied just enough to make him twitch beneath his boxers??? yeah… safe to say he was gone the moment he saw you. he’s barely said a word since, too busy drinking you in the way the fabric clings to your body and the way you look.

“…shittt, baby you look good..”

he doesn’t give you time to respond. the words barely leave his lips before his hands are on your waist, mouth hot against your neck, dragging you into his room like he’s starved. your robe slips off with ease and then it’s just his touch all over you.

the way he’s touching you right now; it almost feels like he owns you. but not once has he ever officially called you his.

your back hits the mattress with a quiet thud. the sheets are cool, but his body is burning. he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize your taste; slow at first, then rougher when you kiss him back harder. his hands roam without hesitation, slipping beneath the fabric of your lace top, fingertips skating across your familiar skin like he’s claiming it all over again.

he pulls back just long enough to strip off his boxers, cock already straining and flushed — the second he hooks his fingers under the band of your lace panties, he yanks them aside with zero patience and then he’s inside you in one deep, ruthless thrust.

“fuckkk— you’re so warm… it’s only been a week, did you miss me that badly baby??”

he doesn’t let you answer — just buries himself deeper, hips rolling with slow, punishing thrusts that make your whole body arch.

“you wear that slutty little robe,” he breathes, voice low and ragged, “lookin’ all innocent… and then act surprised when i lose it??”

then his hand smacks your thigh, the sound echoes through the room. your moan’s barely muffled by the sheets and the way he’s grinding into you like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out.

“fuck,” he mutters against your neck. “why do you always do this to me...”

you want to ask him what he means, but you already know. it’s the same reason you keep showing up at his door in the middle of the night; because even if it’s temporary, even if it hurts, this is the closest you’ve ever felt to being wanted. especially by someone like him.

“ahhh rin—s’too good, i can’t handle it—”

you were barely keeping it together, body arching beneath him, moans spilling out like second nature the rougher he got.

“oh?? that’s the spot, isn’t it? look at you...” he groans, already slowly falling apart from the sensation.

“… you gonna be a good girl and cum for me?? or should i keep playing with you until you cry??” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear as two fingers circle your clit in slow, taunting circles.

“you’re too deep, rinn, i can’t—” you gasp, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s useless. he’s got one hand pinning your thigh wide open, and the other??? still circling your clit, taunting and precise, like he wants you to fall apart faster.

he groans, low and guttural, leaning down to kiss your jaw. “then take it,” he growls.

his pace falters — not out of mercy, but to lean in close and whisper, “you feel that? that’s mine.” and just when you think he’s about to break you completely, he pulls out with a slow drag of his cock, watching the way you whimper at the loss. before you can whine, his hand grabs your jaw, forcing your eyes back to him.

his thumb swipes across your bottom lip.

“mouth now, baby,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “be good and let me fuck your throat too.”

your lips part instinctively, breath hitching as he presses his thumb down on your tongue, just enough to make you look up at him through your lashes. “that’s it,” he breathes, thumb still resting on your tongue as he strokes himself slowly with the other hand. “look at you… already so obedient.” after he removed his thumb, you don’t even wait for a cue before you lean forward, tongue sliding along the underside of his cock as you take him inside your mouth — inch by inch, until your lips are flush against his base. his breath stutters.

“shittt—” he hisses, hand tangling in your hair. “you missed this, huh?” you hum around him, and the vibration makes him curse under his breath. his hips jerk forward once, then again — and that’s when he starts thrusting, slow at first, but steadily deeper.

“yeah… now that’s my good girl,” he groans. “so fucking good with your mouth… look at the mess you’re making.” your eyes water, as he rocks into your throat with more force now, hips snapping forward. the stretch, the weight, the sound of his breath unraveling—it’s all dizzying.

“… hands on the mattress,” he mutters, voice low and dangerous. “i wanna see you take it without touching me. just your mouth... nothing else.”

your fingers curl into the sheets, knuckles tightening as you brace yourself, breathing hard through your nose. he watches with that unblinking gaze as you lower your mouth onto him again like you know exactly what he wants.

“… there you go,” he breathes, voice fraying. “look at you… fuck, you’re perfect like this.”

his hips roll forward, testing your gag reflex. you choke slightly, and he grins before muttering, “… breathe through it, baby.”

he starts training your mouth with sharp, precise thrusts — using your throat like it’s his personal project, groaning every time you gag around him. spit starts to drip down your chin, pooling at the corners of your lips, but he doesn’t stop. “eyes on me,” he growls, dragging your head back just enough so he can see your face. “wanna watch how good you look when you’re falling apart.”

you blink up at him, tears streaking, mouth stuffed full, and his voice drops even lower. “ahhh— that’s it... yesss take it like a good girl. fuck— i could come just from seeing you like this.”

his abs flex with every thrust, muscles rippling from years of volleyball training — spikes, drills, sets — and now every ounce of that strength is wrecking your throat. your jaw burns. spit still dripping down your chin. but you take it, just like he told you to. “now… look at you,” he pants, hips snapping forward again. “not even touching me, and still being such a good little toy.” he groans when your throat tightens. “bet you’ve dream about this, don’t you??? being used like this.”

when he pulls out, panting, a thin string of spit still connecting him to your swollen lips. he lets out a low chuckle, eyes dark with satisfaction as he takes in the mess he made of you.

but then your voice breaks the silence — breathy, almost needy. “ …. rin,” you whine, cheeks flushed.

he raises a brow, cock twitching again at the sound of your voice.

“oh??? now you’re making requests?”

you nod, eyes wide and glistening. “please...”

he leans in, thumb brushing over your lips to smear the spit there, before slipping it into your mouth again; watching you suck on it, obedient and desperate. “… you taste me so well,” he murmurs, pulling it out with a wet pop. “but you want me to taste you now, huh??”

your thighs press together instinctively, a reflex you barely register but he does — already lowering himself between your legs; eyes low-lidded, soaked in lust — locked onto your every twitch. “spread them,” he says, voice low. you hesitate just for a second, and he’s already swatting your inner thigh. not hard, but just enough to make you gasp.

“now.”

and you do; slowly, shyly, like your body knows better than to disobey him. the second your legs fall open, he immediately sees how soaked you are.

“fuckkk… baby you’re dripping already.”

he doesn’t tease you for long. his mouth is on your cunt in seconds. he eats you out like a mad-man, almost as if this is how he plans to make you pay for making him lose control; tongue dragging slow, teasing strokes before sucking your clit just to hear you cry out. and when your fingers tug on his hair, hips rolling up against his mouth? he growls against you. “keep those legs open for me, baby. i’m not stopping till you scream.”

you’re already close — thighs trembling, breath hitching every time his tongue flicks over your clit.

he knows it, too. knows the exact way your hips twitch when you’re on the edge, how your fingers tangle tighter in his hair, how your moans start falling apart like they’re not even words anymore.

so of course he pulls back.

you whine — broken, needy. “r-rin… why’d you stop??”

he smirks, lips glistening, voice low and wrecked. “you thought i’d let you come that easy??” his fingers slide through your folds, spreading the wetness just to watch you twitch. “nah, baby… not yet.”

he leans in again, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh instead.

“rin, please… i’m soo close—”

his fingers circle your clit again, barely brushing. just enough to frustrate you. “… you’ll come when i say you can,” he mutters. “not when you think you’ve earned it.”

your eyes flutter shut. your breath stutters. you’re dripping, aching; already so desperate that it’s borderline pathetic.

and then he goes all in — tongue dragging over your clit like he’s starving, as his fingers pump slow and deep inside you, curling juuust right. your hips jerk, your back arches, and your moans spill out unfiltered, raw, like a prayer he’s pulling straight from your lungs.

“… that’s it,” he mutters against you. “look at you… so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

you’re shaking, already close to your limit but he doesn’t stop. not even when you scream because now that he’s made you fall apart, he wants to see you do it again and again.

you barely have time to catch your breath.

you’re still aching from your last orgasm, thighs slick and trembling, when he crawls back over you — pupils blown, jaw clenched, cock flushed and still so fucking hard it makes your mouth water. his hands trail up your torso, until they reach the flimsy lace of what’s left of your lingerie top.

he grabs the lace between his fingers then immediately rips it off without warning.

you gasp. “… wait rin—?! that was new—”

he just shrugs, cocky and unbothered, eyes dragging down your now-exposed chest like a feast. “oops,” he mutters with a smirk, not sounding sorry at all. “guess i’ll just buy you a new one.” he tosses the shredded fabric off the bed like it’s trash, mouth already lowering to your chest.

“maybe something even sluttier this time,” he murmurs against your skin. “… something easier to take off.”

you moan when his tongue flicks over your nipple, one hand gripping your waist as the other strokes between your thighs again — fingers slipping back inside like your body was made for him. “… damn, you’re still soo wet after all that we did??”

“rin—”

“you like when i ruin things, huh??” he grins, voice dark. “your clothes... your body… this pretty little pussy.”

when he thrusts into you again, it’s with the full force of a man who plans to ruin a lot more tonight. your legs are already jelly, body wrecked from everything he’s done to you, but rintarou still isn’t finished. not until he’s buried so deep inside you as your walls clench around him like they’re begging him to stay. his hand snakes behind your back, and with one rough pull, he lifts you up — pushes you against the headboard with your knees straddling his thighs.

“…hold on, don’t let go,” he grits, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head, fingers curling around the bars of the headboard.

“fuck—!”

he groans low in your ear, hips slamming up into you, relentless and so deep your eyes roll back. “you’re still gripping me so tight, baby… you gonna let me finish inside??”

you can barely speak. all you can do is whimper, nod — as your hips instinctively rolling to meet his.

his pace falters for a moment — then sharpens.

“say it.”

“yes, rin… fuck—inside,” you gasp. “finish inside me.”

he kisses you sloppy and desperate, hips drawing back just enough before slamming into you one last time — deeper than before, as his release hits; thick and warm, spilling deep inside you. you cling to the headboard like it’s your only anchor, moaning through the aftershocks as he groans your name into your shoulder. and when he finally pulls out, slow and spent, his cum gushes out in sticky waves, dripping down your thighs and staining the sheets below.

“shit…” he breathes. “you okay, baby??”

you nod, breathless before managing a soft little “barely.”

“good… you did well,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple as his fingers trace slow, gentle circles over your hips — right where he held you too tight just moments ago, almost as if he’s trying to soothe the ache he left behind.

“… you always do,” he adds — softer this time, almost like a quiet confession meant more for himself than for you.

and the way he says it??? low, vulnerable, and just a little too tender; it makes you ache in a way that has nothing to do with lust. because even the quietest part of you still yearns for the chance that whatever this is between you two… could one day turn into something real.

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

✶ p.s: found this fanart on pinterest — credits goes to the original artist! // ‘warning’ divider credits to @/cafekitsune ✶

[letteremi]

why, oh why, were you grouped with Satoru Gojo for this group project? It's like he's determined to make your life (and your face) a hot mess. ie. where you've been assigned a roleplay for a university assignment, and you land the 'desired' role of Satoru's partner. he's insufferable, but it turns out that, maybe, just maybe, he's a better partner than you thought.

pairing: gojo x fem!reader

warnings/tags: university au, swearing, suggestive content (16+), creepy man in alley, shoko as buffer, satoru with glasses, gojo is a little shit, protective gojo, banter, group project, satoru has a crush, fluff, slight angst??????

wc: 1.5 k

a/n: so like this was meant to be a drabble but now its a oneshot-ish

When you landed a spot at Jujutsu University’s prestigious radiography course, you were not expecting roleplay to be one of your key assignments. Which brilliant, bright brain decided that play acting was worth 20% of your grade? And then again, which science-driven, ingenious professor made it so the three available roles in this little show were: the radiographer, the patient, and the patient’s partner. 

Shoko, with her quick wit and even faster intellect, snapped up the role of radiographer before you could even protest. And as luck would have it, losing a game of rock paper scissors landed you the prime position of the partner, with Satoru Gojo as the ill-fated patient. 

The man in question is now twirling a pen in his long fingers, legs propped up on the table beside his dimmed laptop, and leaning back in his chair like he’s on vacation, and not the dingy basement library of your university, where the air is stale, and the coffee is ridiculously overpriced and bitter. His glasses are pushed into his snowy hair, the ruffled strands chaotically tousled, as he hums aloud to the tune of we didn’t start the fire. 

Aforementioned, disgusting coffee sits next to your buffering laptop right now, the hot, foul tasting liquid having cooled down — a testament to the hours that you’ve been locked in the study room. 

“Say, my beautiful, gorgeous, amazing, lover,” Satoru drawls, as if on a soap opera stage, his legs sweeping off the table and onto the floor with a finality. “Do you agree with this line in your part of the script?” 

Satoru’s icon flashes with menace and mischief after the sentence he’s clearly just typed. 

“Please save him! Please save my devastatingly handsome husband! I don’t think I could live without the banging se—” You cut yourself off abruptly. 

“Fuck you.”

“So close! Your line is actually: Satoru is the light of my life, my guiding star, my one and only. Doesn’t that give you the chills?” 

You shoot him a look that could kill a lesser man. But unfortunately, your jibes and digs only seem to make Satoru stronger. “Shoko, is it too late to give him penile calcification instead?” 

Shoko sighs like a long-suffering parent, pulling the laptop closer to her like it might shield her from the god-awful exchange between you and Satoru. “Sorry, I’ve already officially locked in our condition, but I like your thinking.” 

An offended gasp escapes the boy’s lips, theatrical and dramatic for his audience of two. 

“Betrayed,” Satoru croaks, slumping dramatically across the table as if mortally wounded. The pen he was twirling clatters to the floor, landing with the softest thud. “And after all we’ve been through together, too.”

You fold your arms, unimpressed. “The only thing you and I have been through together is a terrible bio prac.” 

He presses a hand to his heart, which beats painfully in his chest. “Exactly. A bond forged in suffering.”

Bickering ensues, your sharp comments deflected with Satoru’s carefree banter with ease — the script long forgotten. 

“Okay, you two, take a break.” Shoko cuts through, slicing through the squabbling like its butter. “Get out, walk.”

“Anything to escape script writing,” you agree. “Even if it means having to spend time with him.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, though they lack real bite. “This is not how you treat the love of your life.”

But he doesn’t need any further prompting, leaping to his feet, extending his hand towards you like he’s your knight in shining armour, and not the devil trying to drag your GPA down. With a sigh, your icy-cold hands meet his warm ones, and you’re slipping out the glass door and ascending the steps, following his lead. 

“Where are we going?” “To get some fresh air, genius.”

When the chilly night air meets your cheeks, you retreat into your puffer with a shiver. The neon lights of the cafe beam at you from the distance, reflecting like a beacon of hope in trying times. Satoru takes one look at your shudder-stricken form, and your longing gaze at the $3 coffee! sign. 

“Be right back.” With that, he’s off, hands shoved into his pockets and hunched into his sweater. “Stay here, and….cool off, yeah?”

You stare at his back, slack-jawed. Did he seriously just leave you standing in the cold? Alone? 

Seriously, what kind of man does that? Actually, now that you think about it, Satoru Gojo doesn’t count as a man…more like, your worst nightmares wrapped up in some gorgeous 6 foot something skinsuit. 

The street is nearly deserted at this hour, all damp pavements and the occasional whoosh of a car flying past. You lean against the stone wall, dusted with lichen and moss, rubbing your hands together and wondering if Gojo is buying the entire cafe or just a single drink. 

That’s when you sense it. The all too familiar unease that trickles down your neck, icing your spine with a chill that has nothing to do with the sub-zero temperature. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” His breath is uncomfortably hot, too close, way too close. 

Another creep. The joys of being pretty, female, and young. Woop dee fucking doo. 

You flick your gaze towards the leering man, keeping your eyes sharpened as they could slice him to bits right then and there. An undercurrent of fear strikes you then, but you can’t let it show. You dig your own hands into your pockets, thumb your airpod case, hoping the bulge of your hand underneath your clothes is enough to imply that you’ve got some weapon hidden, and not just your favourite extrovert deterrent — noise cancelling feature for the win!  

“Waiting for someone?” His gaze drags up and down your body in a way that leaves a sour taste in your mouth, the alarm bells in your head ringing with fervour now. 

You straighten up, take a small step back. “Yeah, he’s on his way back.” 

“Oh? Pretty girl like you shouldn’t wait all alone.”

He moves in closer.

Your stomach flips. The street lamp flickers, dousing you in darkness for a brief, fearful moment. When it alights again, he’s nearly on top of you, leering closer. His breath stinks like plaque buildup and alcohol. 

Before you can back up again, a familiar voice slices through the tension like a blade. 

“Pretty girl like her definitely shouldn’t be waiting with you.”

Satoru is there in an instant, his blue eyes glacial beneath his glasses, like he alone could freeze the pervert. He’s holding a steaming beverage like a weapon, one that he’s not afraid to dump onto the man if he takes another step closer. The other hand has found itself wrapped around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as he stares down. There’s a razor-sharp edge to him, a dark glint that sets your unease to rest. 

The weirdo stops in his tracks, something like regret dawning on his face. 

“You’ve got about three seconds to make better life choices,” Satoru continues, his voice light, but his jawline tenses in a way you’ve only ever seen when some guy debates him with the most incorrect facts you’ve ever heard, and his veins bulge in the low light. 

The creep looks between the two of you, at Satoru’s threatening eyes, eyeing his firm body — which you could feel pressed up against you right now. Then, he backs up, hands raised like a child who got his hands caught in the cookie jar. “Whatever, didn’t mean any trouble.”

“Course you didn’t,” Satoru replies breezily, though he doesn’t waver until the guy melts into the dark. 

And then he’s turning to you, expression softening as he holds out a warm takeaway cup like a peace offering.

“Sorry that took forever,” he says. “Didn’t think that’d happen.” Satoru exhales, his breath fogging the air. “You must be frozen by now.”

The cup is blisteringly hot against your frigid palms. “It’s okay. You have a terrible sense of time, by the way.” Fumbling your way back into the easy banter you’ve grown accustomed to when it comes to him, you did not want to rehash the details of that encounter. 

He grins, eyes crinkling. “And yet, I’m right on time when it counts.”

And even though your heart is thumping, you can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. 

You take a tentative sip. “This is my go-to order?” You phrase it like a question, the tail end of your sentence lilting up in confusion, because no way did Satoru Gojo remember your favourite coffee order. 

“Yeah, duh. That stupid drink label is always plastered across the cup when you slam it on the table. We’re well acquainted.” He says it like it’s nothing, but a pink fluster that has nothing to do with the weather, rises to his cheeks. 

“You’re such a good partner,” you tease, and that’s when you realise Satoru’s arm is still wrapped around you. 

“Come on, wife,” he mumbles, turning his cheek to avoid the knowing glint in your eye. “The project calls. Shoko must be wondering where we are.”

And so you walk back to the dusty library, descending the staircase with your hands warm and heart full. 

And Satoru? Satoru never lets you go. 

Not now, not ever. 

Maybe it’s not so bad, being paired up with Satoru Gojo, after all. 

© 2025 letteremi. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise/copy, translate, or repost my work to any platforms 

[dayasfilms]

Chapter Nine - The Beginning of the End

Summary: You defeated Vecna but Hawkins is left destroyed. Thinking that it’s over, you all soon realize that it’s far from that, and that this was just the beginning of the end.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of Y/N, blood, death, gore, choking, murder, hospitals, broken bones, mentions of being brain dead and being blind, thoughts of self harm, depression, feeling worthless, mentions of sex, weapons, angst, fluff, heartbreak, crying, insecurity, making out, mentions of menstruation, pregnancy, and children, descriptions of getting naked to shower but nothing happens, surgeries, fire, little bit of changes in the plot but nothing too drastic

Word Count: 12.1k

Note: Reticent is finally finished! Until ST season five releases, this series is done! I had such a fun time writing and sharing all of my ideas with you all. It makes me delighted that so many of you have read this and ended up liking it, it truly warms my heart. I want to say that I will be posting Reticent one shots when I have the time so you can delve deeper into Star’s story. Many of the storylines cannot be integrated in the original series, so these one shots happen outside of the regular timeline. If you would like to read them, you can click on this link or even go back to the main Reticent Series Masterlist below and find them there. Thank you so much for letting me share this story with you all!

Series Masterlist

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Steve parked the RV just outside the trailer park after dropping off Lucas, Erica, and Max. All of you remained inside, gathered around to go over the plan one last time. Standing at the front, your gun and sword secured in their holsters, you faced the group. “Alright. Let’s run through it again. One more time. Phase one.”

“We meet Erica at the playground,” Nancy said. “She’ll signal Max and Lucas when we’re ready.”

“Phase two,” you continued.

“Max baits Vecna,” Steve added. “He’ll go after her, which’ll put him in his trance.”

“Phase three?”

“Me and Eddie draw the bats away,” Dustin said with a nod.

“And phase four?” You asked, eyes sweeping the group.

“We head into Vecna’s newly bat-free lair and…flambé,” Robin finished, shaking the bottle in her hand.

You let out a breath, gaze serious. “No one moves to the next phase until we’ve all copied. No one deviates from the plan. No matter what. Got it?”

“Got it,” they echoed in unison.

You all stood and exited the RV, making your way toward Eddie’s trailer. Through the darkness, you slipped inside without any of the neighbors noticing. Steve then flicked on the light and shrugged off his bag.

“Be careful,” Dustin told him.

“Thanks, buddy,” Steve replied, grabbing hold of the rope. He climbed up and disappeared through the gate. A few seconds later, he looked up at them, shrugging with his arms out.

“Woah, what does he want us to do? Applaud?” Robin muttered to you and Nancy. You chuckled softly, unable to help it.

On the other side, Steve dragged a mattress beneath the opening. “Alright, let’s go.” You took off your bag and weapons, tossing it through the gate before grabbing the rope and climbing. The moment your body hit the mattress, Steve reached a hand out to help you stand. “Gotcha.”

His hand lingered on yours. You looked at each other, just for a second, and then you both looked away, releasing your hands. Nancy came next, using Robin’s knee as a boost. She landed with a thud, and you helped her up and away from the gate. One by one, everyone followed, tossing their gear through and climbing after it. Dustin was last, with Steve and Eddie grabbing each side of him, pulling him up.

Once everyone was through, you slung your bag over your shoulder, picked up your weapons, and headed out of the trailer. Just before you left, you and Steve turned back to face Dustin and Eddie.

“Hey, guys, listen,” Steve said seriously, locking eyes with them. “If things here start to go south, I mean, at all, you abort. Okay? Draw the attention of the bats. Keep ‘em busy for a minute or two. We’ll take care of Vecna.”

The boys stared back, silent.

“Don’t try to be cute or be a hero or something. Okay? You guys are just–”

“Decoys,” Dustin finished. “Don’t worry. You can be the hero, Steve.”

“Absolutely. I mean, look at us,” Eddie said, gesturing between him and Dustin. “We are not heroes.”

Steve gave a short nod. You stepped forward and pulled Dustin into a hug. “Be careful,” you murmured.

“You too,” he said, hugging you tightly.

You and Steve turned to leave when Eddie called the latter out. “Hey, Steve?” Steve glanced back. “Make him pay.”

Steve nodded firmly, falling back into step beside you. You, Steve, Nancy, and Robin walked away together, flashlights sweeping the path ahead as you made your way to the Creel House.

Yasmin, Joyce, and Hopper were inside the dimly lit church, trying to catch their breath from everything they’d just been through. Hopper rummaged through a stack of old boxes tucked in the corner, searching for fresh clothes. After a minute, he found a few pieces that looked somewhat wearable and tossed them onto another box beside him.

He turned to face the two women, holding up a couple of shirts and pants. “Yeah, these were the smallest I could find.”

Yasmin let out a tired sigh and stepped forward, taking the bundle from his hands. There was a coat too, the same kind Hopper had picked for himself. He handed another pair of clothes and a jacket to Joyce. The three of them glanced around the church, eyes scanning for a bit of privacy.

“I think there was a bathroom in there,” Joyce said, nodding her head toward the back of the room.

“You can go, Joyce,” Yasmin offered gently, before motioning to another corner. “I’ll change over there.”

Joyce gave her a grateful smile before heading toward the bathroom. As Yasmin made her way past Hopper, she bumped into him lightly, both of them letting out small, tired laughs. She went behind a shelf, casting a quick glance over her shoulder as Hopper moved to the opposite corner. Then she turned back to the shelf in front of her and began setting the clothes down.

Finally free of the worn, filthy outfit she’d been stuck in for days, Yasmin pulled her shirt and pants off, left in just her undergarments. She exhaled, grateful to breathe without the tightness of fabric clinging to her. She quickly slipped on the new shirt and pants, pulling them up just as she turned and froze at the sight of Hopper.

He was facing away from her, wrapping a bandage around his injured arm. Her eyes fell on the marks covering his back. Her heart clenched in pain.

She stepped toward him, her eyes tracing the scars. “What did they do to you?” Yasmin whispered, her voice trembling. Hopper turned slowly, his back now pressed against the shelf. “Oh my God.”

He gave a small shake of his head, clearly trying to not worry her. “No, it’s not that bad. It’s…” He let out a slow breath. “You know, I needed to lose weight anyway.”

Yasmin frowned, giving him a stern look.

“It’s given me time to think, you know?” He said, eyes moving away from hers. “About who I’ve been…and what I’ve done.” He met her gaze again. “I never should’ve sent you that message.”

“No,” she said quickly, cutting him off. “You didn’t know what was going to happen.”

“I knew it’d be dangerous.”

“So did I.” Yasmin’s voice was firm. “I’m glad you sent it. I made the choice to come here, to find you. And I would choose it again, even knowing everything I know now.”

He stared at her, like he still couldn’t believe she was standing there. Yasmin tilted her head slightly, a teasing smile forming on her lips.

“Besides…we have that date to get to. You remember?” She said.

“Remember?” Hopper scoffed, smiling for real now. “I’ve been dreaming about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve got it all planned out,” he said with a nod.

Yasmin laughed under her breath. “Oh? Let’s hear it.”

“I’m getting two orders of breadsticks. Two,” he said, pointing a finger. “Those things knock your socks off. Enzo puts some spice on ‘em, I don’t know what it is, but it’s good. And when you dip it in olive oil? Forget about it. And for the main course…I’m torn between the veal and the lasagna, but I think I gotta go with lasagna, right?”

She looked at him, half smiling, half aching. “You’ve been dreaming about breadsticks and lasagna?”

He nodded without hesitation. “I’ve been on a diet of watery soup, moldy bread, and maggots, so yeah, I’ve been dreaming about breadsticks and lasagna. I mean, sue me.” She laughed, eyes glimmering. Hopper straightened, stepping closer to her. “Should I have been dreaming about something else?” He asked, voice softer now.

She shrugged, a little breathless. “You tell me.”

“Well…there’s wine.”

“Oh, well, wine’s good,” she said, playing along.

“I was thinking a nice Cheeanti.”

“It’s Chianti,” she corrected.

“Chianti. Right.” He nodded, unbothered. “Then there’s dessert.”

“Of course. Gotta have dessert,” Yasmin said, crossing her arms.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

There was a pause before she spoke again. “And after that?” She asked, lips barely parting.

Hopper couldn’t help it. He smiled again, wider than he had in months, taking another step until there was no space left between them. “I don’t know.”

“Use your imagination,” she whispered.

“Who needs imagination?”

And then, he finally kissed her. His lips met hers like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, his hands sliding around her waist as she rose to meet him, arms wrapping around his neck. Their laughter tangled between kisses as Hopper accidentally backed into a stack of boxes, nearly knocking them over. They couldn’t stop touching each other. His hands moved to her hair, her fingers cupping his face, and for a second, they drowned out everything around them. They waited too long to have this moment.

Suddenly, the phone rang. They broke apart, groaning in irritation and half out of breath. Then they realized that the call could be from them. Hopper immediately pulled away and rushed toward the phone, Yasmin staying behind, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

“Remember, they’re listening!” She told him sharply as he picked it up.

The four of you continued through the woods, but the longer you walked, the more unsure you became about your direction. The worry about getting lost crept in your mind. Robin seemed to be thinking the same.

“Uh…I don’t mean to freak anyone out, but I swear we’ve seen this tree before,” Robin said nervously, pointing.

“That’s impossible,” Nancy said, shaking her head.

“That would suck, right?” Robin muttered. “If Vecna destroyed the world because…because we got lost in the woods?”

“We’re not lost, Robin,” Nancy assured her, walking up behind. “Robin, hey. Watch out for the vines! Hive mind!”

“Careful, Robin!” You called, watching the two girls ahead. You stayed beside Steve, your eyes drifting to the ground as you tried to find something to say.

“Don’t worry about her,” Steve said. “She’s just stressed. You know, scared.”

You gave a small chuckle. “Yeah. Believe me, I know the feeling. It’s just…”

“She’s a super klutz?” He asked with a grin.

You tilted your head, amused. “She did tell Nancy and I that it took her longer than most babies to learn how to walk, so…”

Steve laughed. “I really shouldn’t laugh. When I was a baby, I actually crawled backwards.”

You blinked. “What? Crawled backwards? Why am I just now hearing about this?”

“Yep,” he said. “You know, I’d push with my hands like this.” He motioned forward with his palms. “Beep, beep. Always in reverse, you know?” You stared at him, lips parted in disbelief. “Come on, it makes sense,” he insisted. “You push to move, right?”

“No,” you said, laughing. “No, it absolutely doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, it did to my tiny little Harrington brain. That is, until I reversed my baby butt down a flight of stairs and thumped my head really good.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh my God. That explains so much.”

“Yeah. I think it kinda does.” He gave you a sheepish smile. “I think, like, right out of the gate, like, I’m super confident. But I’m also, like, an idiot. Which is just…I mean, it’s a brutal combination.”

You frowned. “You’re not an idiot, Steve. Don’t say that.”

He chuckled, softer this time. “Nah, I definitely am. But, I mean, the good news is, I get a big enough thump on my head, I can change, you know? I can learn. I can crawl forward.” He slowed, turning slightly toward you. “Listen, I guess what I’m trying to say in a really stupid, roundabout way is, um…is thank you.”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “Thank me?”

“Yeah.”

“For what?”

“For giving my head the biggest thump of its life two years ago.”

You paused, the memory hitting you at once. The Halloween party, the bathroom, the words you said when you revealed the reason why you ended things with him in the first place. Steve had never forgotten. Neither did you.

He started walking again, and you followed. “I needed it. It’s changed my life. And now I’m crawling forward. Slowly.”

Your chest tightened. He still remembered. He still thought about it.

“I just wonder sometimes…you know, if some other girl had given me a proper thump before we’d met, would things have been different?” He turned his entire body to look at you again. “Like, if we were meeting together for the first time right now, part of me…I dunno, part of me thinks we would’ve made it.”

You felt the heat rise in your chest, heart pounding. His words made your throat close up. You couldn’t move, eyes locked onto him. “Steve…”

“Remember the dream I told you about?” His eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes. “About the Winnebago? Seeing the country with my six little nuggets?”

You nodded slowly, a small smile forming.

He smiled too. “It’s all true. Every last word. But I left one part out. It’s the most important part.” He stepped closer, his voice soft. “You’re there. You’ve always been there.”

Your breath caught. You could feel the words rising in your throat, but they wouldn’t come out. You just stood there, stunned. “Steve…I–”

“Hey, guys!” Robin’s voice cut through the moment. “Awesome news! Looks like we weren’t going the wrong way after all!”

Nancy stood beside her, watching the two of you carefully. Her gaze lingered on you, noticing how you stared down at your boots. “Let’s go,” Nancy said, turning away.

Robin took off running, prompting Steve to shout. “Robin! Slow down!”

You and Steve followed, walking in silence. As you made your way to the Creel House, your mind was still back in that moment, still playing his words over and over again. You’d have to talk to him later. If you all even made it out alive.

You reached the edge of the woods, your eyes landing on the old house in the distance. The blue tinted sky flashed with red, and the air was filled with high-pitched screeching. As you turned your head, you caught sight of the playground, its lights flickering.

“Erica…” Steve breathed out.

You rushed toward the playground, giving Erica the signal that you had arrived. Now all you could do was wait for the next phase.

It didn’t take long for Erica to speak. “Okay, the lovebirds have copied. Max is moving into phase two: distracting Vecna.”

“So far, so smooth,” Robin said nervously.

“Yeah, we’re not even at the hard part yet,” Steve replied.

Your gaze shifted back to the house, brows furrowed. “Take the bait, you son of a bitch,” you mumbled to yourself, thinking about Max. “Take the damn bait.”

Then Erica’s voice came through again. “Okay, she’s in. Initiate phase three.” Your chest tightened. Max was in the trance again, under Vecna’s spell. You had to get this done as soon as possible.

Robin quickly radioed Dustin and Eddie. “She’s in. Move on to phase three.”

“Copy that. Initiating phase three,” Dustin answered. Soon, the distant noise of metal music filled the air, and you saw the bats swarming toward it, away from the house.

“Okay, it’s working. Let’s go,” Nancy said.

The four of you stood up and moved toward the house. You led the way, the music growing louder with each step. Screeches from the bats echoed in the night as they went toward the sound. Steve picked up his pace until he was walking beside you. The two of you reached the front door, and he pushed it open. Your breath caught. Vines covered nearly every inch of the house’s interior.

“Oh shit,” Steve muttered. “That’s not good.”

You exchanged a look with him. He gave you a quick nod, then began hopping in the small spaces between the vines. You turned to check on Nancy and Robin. Robin was trembling.

Nancy reached for her hand. “It’s okay. You got this.”

Robin met her eyes, still unsure. You stepped back towards her and gently took Robin’s other hand. “Don’t worry. We’re here with you.”

Robin gave you both a small, grateful smile and nodded. You all turned back to face the vines, stepping carefully through the little gaps. The stairs were the worst, with it being completely covered. You tried to control your breathing as you made your way up, dodging all the vines.

At the top, Steve reached out to help pull you up. You took his hand, letting him steady you. He helped the others too, and soon all four of you stood at the top. Your eyes went straight to the attic door. Vecna was in there, no doubt in a trance. You glanced between your friends, preparing yourselves. One by one, you drew your weapons, your hand tightening around your shotgun.

But before you could move, the entire house began to shake violently. Steve and Nancy grabbed your arms on either side as the floor shook beneath you and all four of you tumbled back.

After a long minute, the ground stilled. You scrambled upright, your breaths ragged.

Then, suddenly, a vine wrapped around Robin’s ankle. Her eyes went wide with terror. She was pulled backward and slammed into the wall. Vines surged forward, wrapping around her legs, arms, and throat, pinning her in place.

“Steve! Y/N! Nancy!” She screamed, her voice cracking.

You and Nancy jumped forward, smashing your shotguns into the vines to break them off. Steve swung his axe, cutting into them, but another vine wrapped around his weapon, ripping it from his hands and pulling him to the other wall. He struggled to retrieve it when one coiled tightly around his throat and slammed him into the wall. More vines followed, pinning his limbs.

Nancy cried out as she was struck next, thrown across the floor before being slammed against the wall beside Robin. Vines constricted around her limbs and throat just as fast.

Your heart pounded in terror as a vine wrapped around your ankle, throwing you off your feet. Your shotgun flew out of your hands as you were dragged across the floor. You fought to get free, clawing at the ground.

Reaching behind you, you grabbed your sword and swung it blindly. The blade sliced through the vine, freeing you. But before you could get up, another vine tied around your arm and slammed you against the wall beside Steve. Your head hit hard against the surface, pain exploding at the same exact spot you’ve hit so many times, already aching and throbbing.

The vines continued to twist around your arms and legs, locking you in place. One tightened around your neck, choking you. You tried to fight it, but it was no use. Your airway was cut off. You felt yourself slipping, darkness creeping in as your vision blurred.

You weren’t ready. You still had to finish Vecna, you had to save Max. You still had so many things you wanted to say to everyone. So many unspoken words to the people you loved. But your chances of surviving this felt terrifyingly slim.

“You shut off this fence, right?” Hopper asked, glancing between Yasmin, Joyce, and Murray as they stepped into the prison yard.

“Yeah,” Joyce replied with a nod.

“Good,” Hopper said, turning to face them. “So you can turn it back on again.”

Murray chuckled dryly, throwing his arms up. “Jim, you wanna clue us in on what you’re thinking here, or are we supposed to read your mind?”

Hopper looked around the empty yard, jaw clenched. “This pit was designed to trap monsters. We get ‘em in here, we lock it up, we rain fire from above, and we hope to hell that gives El, Y/N, and the others an upper hand.”

They had already snuck back into the prison, only to find everything destroyed. The tanks that once held the frozen creatures were shattered, glass littering the ground. Most of the Russian guards were dead.

One guard had been barely clinging to life, long enough to warn them that the shadow had entered the creatures, making them come alive. They’d watched the surveillance monitors in horror, seeing the demogorgons stalking the halls. The monsters had already killed the rest of the guards. There was no one left. They knew there was only one thing left to do to help everyone back at home.

“Okay,” Murray said, nodding slowly. “I’m with ya, except the whole, uh…‘getting them all in here’ part.”

“It’s a hive mind,” Hopper explained. “You draw one, you draw ‘em all.” He tossed a flamethrower to Joyce, the second already in Murray’s hands. Then he pointed at both of them. “You two are the grill masters.”

He turned to Yasmin next. Her brow was furrowed with confusion.

“And you,” he said. “You’re the jailer. Get that fence turned on. Once they’re all in here, lock the door behind ‘em.”

Yasmin didn’t move. Her eyes narrowed slightly. She had a feeling about what he was going to do, but she didn’t want to say out loud. “What about you?” She asked. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m the bait.”

The words hit her like a punch to the chest. She could barely breathe. She followed him silently back toward the security room, where the monitors and gate controls were. Her stomach twisted. Her throat burned. The only thought echoing in her head was that he was going to lure the demogorgons himself.

Hopper pointed to one of the monitors. “That one there,” he said. “See him? In the laundry room? It’s not far from here. He’s all alone. He’s our target.”

Yasmin couldn’t move. All she could think about was the people she lost. Her daughter was gone. She lost Hopper months ago in the mall. She had survived that grief once, barely. Now she had him back. And she had you after her daughter. She couldn’t do it again.

“Hey,” Hopper said softly, pulling her back. His hands landed on her shoulders. “I’m gonna die someday. But not today.” He gave her a gentle smile. “I’ve still got a date to make. Remember?”

He was trying to keep it light, but nothing about this felt light. Yasmin shook her head, her voice shaky. “I don’t know, Hop,” she whispered.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers, his hand rising to cup her cheek. “This time,” he said, his voice certain. “It’s gonna be different.”

She sucked in a shaky breath, eyes slipping shut. “It better be,” she whispered. Then she opened them, locking her gaze with his. “Because I am not having another funeral.”

He kissed her then, softly, telling her that it would be okay. And when he pulled away, Yasmin was still holding her breath, praying that this time would be different.

Yasmin stayed glued to the monitor, barely breathing as she watched Hopper head down the corridor, searching for the demogorgon he’d chosen to target. Her fists clenched at her sides. Every second felt too long. She saw him come to a stop, whistling to get the creature’s attention. The demogorgon let out a low growl before chasing him.

Her heart climbed into her throat. She kept watching, unable to look away. He ran, dodging into different hallways, trying to keep his distance, but she knew he could only keep it up for so long. She glanced around the security room in a panic, eyes falling on the taser prods hanging on the wall. Without hesitation, she grabbed one and bolted out the door, the grip of the weapon tight in her hand as her boots pounded against the floor.

Her breath was heavy as she turned a corner, praying she wasn’t too late, and then she saw them. The demogorgon had Hopper pinned, mouth split open and ready to feast. He was using everything in him to close its mouth.

She ran at full speed, raising the taser and jamming it into the creature’s side, electricity crackling as it screamed in pain. The demogorgon thrashed once and then collapsed.

Hopper stood up, chest heaving as he looked at her with wide eyes, relief flooding his face. “Yasmin,” he breathed, pulling her into his arms.

Thudding footsteps echoed through another corridor. They were loud and heavy, and they were getting closer to them. They both turned at the same time, eyes landing on the wave of demogorgons charging toward them. Hopper immediately grabbed her hand and ran, pulling her down the hall and into the open prison yard. He used his shotgun to shoot at them, trying to slow the creatures down.

But the monsters were still right behind them, they were too fast. They went into the closest cell, Hopper slamming the door shut just as the creatures reached them. His arms wrapped tightly around her, both of them bracing for impact as the gate was broken away.

One of the demogorgons roared and stepped through, snarling and ready to kill. Yasmin froze, her entire body going numb. This was it. They were going to die.

“HEY, ASSHOLES!”

Murray’s voice rang out and the demogorgons paused, heads snapping up toward the sound. Flames burst across the yard as Murray and Joyce opened fire with their flamethrowers, lighting up everything in sight. Hopper pulled Yasmin to him, shielding her away from the heat. The demogorgons screeched, burning as the fire consumed them, one by one.

As soon as the last bit of hope slipped from your mind, you felt the vines release you. All four of you dropped to the ground, gasping for air. You coughed harshly, bringing a trembling hand to your throat, trying to ease the soreness as your chest heaved with every breath.

“I don’t believe in a higher power or divine intervention,” Robin croaked, her voice rough from the pressure on her throat. “But that was a miracle.”

You grabbed your weapons, sliding your sword into the holster on your back as you held your shotgun tight in your hand. You turned toward the door, your body still shaking. “Then we better not waste it.”

“Phase four,” Steve said under his breath.

“Flambé,” Robin added.

You walked into the attic, your eyes locked on Vecna who was in his trance just like you’d hoped. Robin lit the bottle in Steve’s hand, and without wasting a second more, threw it straight toward the monster. The flames immediately engulfed Vecna’s body. His eyes snapped open, his scream echoing through the room as he fell to the floor.

Thousands of miles away, there was still another monster. After Joyce and Murray lit all the remaining demogorgons in time, they all turned into a blob, the fire sizzling out on the prison field. Smoke thickened the air as Hopper and Yasmin exited the cell, both of them shaking. But Yasmin’s eyes caught onto another demogorgon that was still moving. It staggered to its feet, injured but alive, a low growl coming from its mouth. She also noticed a sword a few feet away from Hopper’s feet.

Before he could reach for it, Yasmin stepped forward and grabbed it herself. Hopper paused, looking at her, but her eyes were on the creature. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, anger burning beneath her skin. She had enough of this.

Back in the Creel House, Vecna let out another cry as Robin lit the second bottle and threw it, more flames burning him. You and Nancy raised your shotguns, stepping forward. The two of you fired in sync, bullets tearing into Vecna’s chest, the force knocking him back. He stumbled but didn’t fall. He locked eyes with you both, and you didn’t hesitate to fire again, making him scream in pain.

Yasmin slid forward, the sword slicing through one of the demogorgon’s arms. It roared and stumbled but didn’t stop. It swiped at her with its remaining arm, but she ducked, spinning low to the ground before slashing again, this time cutting off the creature’s leg. Blood splattered across her face, but she didn’t flinch.

Nancy stepped back and watched as you advanced toward Vecna. He tried to step forward again, but your next shot hit his shoulder, throwing him off balance. His body shook as his legs almost gave way, though he still remained standing.

With a full turn of her body, Yasmin swung the sword a final time, cutting the demogorgon’s head off. It dropped to the floor with a thud, blood pooling at her feet as her chest heaved. She looked at the creature that was now turning into a glob. Hopper walked over to her, his lips parted before wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight against him. They then heard the sound of a helicopter, and they looked up to see Dmitri and Yuri waving at them from above. Murray and Joyce yelled in joy, while Yasmin and Hopper grinned, holding one another tight.

And in Hawkins, you took one last shot, this time aiming straight for the center of Vecna’s chest. You held your breath, squinting your eyes before pulling the trigger. The bullet’s force threw him backwards, smashing through the window behind him as his body disappeared from your sight.

You slowly lowered your gun, your chest rising and falling. You turned back, looking at the other three before rushing out of the room. The others followed, running down the stairs and out the front door. But when you reached the spot where Vecna should have landed, your breath caught.

He was gone.

Only his imprint remained, flames sizzling around it. You stared, brows furrowed in disbelief, lips parted as a familiar feeling of dread settled into your gut. Then came the sound you feared the most.

The chimes.

The four of you ran back into the house, eyes set on the grandfather clock. Your stomach twisted as you counted the sounds. One…two…three…

“Four chimes,” Robin whispered.

“Max,” Nancy said quietly.

Your eyes filled with tears, lips parting as your knees nearly gave out. You barely had time to process it before the ground started shaking violently beneath your feet. Steve grabbed your hand as the house trembled again, new openings splitting through the walls and floor. The four of you held onto anything you could, bracing yourselves as the Creel House was torn apart from the inside.

When the shaking stopped, you slowly stood up. You looked around in horror. The vision Vecna had shown you had come true. The Upside Down was now in Hawkins.

You all ran out the house. There was no time to speak. You needed to get out of here. You needed to get back to the gate you came from and find Dustin and Eddie.

As you reached the Upside Down version of Eddie’s trailer, you slowed down. There were new gates everywhere, but your eyes were drawn to the boy on the ground, crying. It was Dustin. Your stomach dropped.

The four of you rushed toward him, eyes widening as you saw Eddie lay there, his body lifeless and chewed up by the bats. Dustin sobbed over him, shaking uncontrollably. You couldn’t breathe.

Steve pulled Dustin back, whispering something you couldn’t hear. You moved beside them, grabbing Dustin’s arm, helping him up. The boy limped in pain after injuring his leg as you tried to drag him away from Eddie. There was nothing you could do but leave him there.

You all went back through the gate, escaping the Upside Down, but it didn’t feel like you won. The trailer park was split apart by gaping red cracks, some things swallowed into the ground. You stepped out of Eddie’s trailer and finally fell to your knees, body trembling as sobs overtook you.

Your hands pressed to your face, palms digging into your eyes, but nothing could stop the emotions that poured out. You cried harder than you ever had in your life.

Nancy, Robin, Steve, and Dustin, who were silently crying, looked at you, watching you tear yourself apart. Steve walked over to you slowly, his own eyes red and glassy. He knelt beside you, reaching for your shoulder, but you flinched away violently.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” you croaked, voice hoarse.

His face fell but he didn’t say anything.

“I told you Max shouldn’t have gone. I begged all of you,” your voice broke. “And none of you listened to me.” Steve tried to speak again, but you stood up and stepped forward, pointing a finger at each of them. “I told you,” you said louder. “And none of you fucking listened!”

“Y/N–” Steve tried gently.

“No!” You shouted, eyes burning. You shoved him hard in the chest, your fists hitting him again and again. “It should’ve been me! I should’ve gone in! I should’ve been the bait!”

Your legs gave out as the sobs took over again, and Steve caught you instantly. You collapsed into him, gripping his jacket with everything you had. He held you close, one hand tangled in your hair, the other around your back as he buried his face into your shoulder, letting you take it out on him.

Tears rolled down his cheeks. He could feel you falling apart in his arms, and it broke him in a way nothing else ever had.

Steve took you to his house after you refused to let go of him. You clung to him like a lifeline, barely breathing, unable to speak. Every time Max crossed your mind, your eyes welled with fresh tears.

The hospital had been chaos. You’d all rushed there to get Dustin checked out, and deep down, you knew Max would be there too. Your suspicion was confirmed when you saw Lucas and Erica sitting in the waiting room. Max was in surgery.

The moment your eyes met theirs, you pulled them both into a hug, all of you sobbing together in the middle of the room. Lucas told you what happened, that Vecna got to her. That she died for a whole minute. You broke at that, falling apart in his arms. But then he said she started breathing again, one minute later. The doctors called it a miracle.

You collapsed into Steve again, his arms wrapping around you tightly as you cried into his chest. Around you, the waiting room filled with more people. Many were hurt due to the collapse of Hawkins. All you could think about was Max. You were so close to saving her, to saving Hawkins. But now, she was almost gone, and you didn’t even know if she was still alive. You failed again.

Eventually, a surgeon came out and explained Max’s condition. She was alive but in a coma. You followed the group to her hospital room, legs barely carrying you, until you saw her in the bed. The sight made your knees buckle, but Steve caught you before you fell.

She was wrapped head to toe in bandages, her body broken and eyes closed. They said she was blind, as well as braindead. The odds of her waking up were slim. You couldn’t look at her anymore. You ran out, choking on your own sobs as your hands covered your face.

Steve followed you out. Not because he thought you were fragile, but because he was scared. After hearing you say you wished it had been you instead of Max, he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know what you might do.

He pulled you into him again, holding you tightly, his hand moving up and down your back as you cried harder, letting your weight fall into his chest. He didn’t say anything, he just held you.

A few minutes later, Nancy stepped out of Max’s room and saw the two of you. Her own eyes were red, tears staining her cheeks. Steve met her gaze as she walked over to the two of you and he shook his head. “I’m going to take her back to my place,” he murmured, gently tightening his hold on you.

Nancy nodded, understanding instantly. “Okay. I’ll bring her stuff over in the morning.” She looked at you one last time before turning away, heart breaking not only for Max, but for you too. She knew you’d carry the guilt, even though none of it was your fault.

By the time Steve reached his house, you had stopped crying. You didn’t say a single word but your red, swollen eyes and tear-streaked face said everything.

He helped you inside, taking you straight to his room. You sat down on the edge of his bed without a word, staring at the floor as he searched for something comfortable for you to wear. He returned with a stack of clothes and set them beside you. You didn’t move.

You were still replaying everything in your head, the way you’d snapped at everyone, the screaming, the guilt. You made a mental note to apologize later, but not now. Right now, you didn’t want to feel anything. You just wanted to shut it all out.

Steve kneeled in front of you, placing a hand gently on your cheek and guiding your face to meet his. “Hey,” he said softly. “You think you can take a shower?”

You didn’t respond. You stared at his chest, avoiding his eyes. He reached out again, tilting your chin up.

“Come on, honey,” he coaxed. “Just a shower. Or a bath. Whatever you want. You need to get out of these clothes. You’ll feel better once you’re clean.”

Your eyes brimmed with tears again, but you nodded faintly. That was all he needed. He stood and helped you to your feet, walking you to the bathroom. You stood silently as he turned the shower on, waiting for the water to warm.

“I’ll be in the other room,” he said gently, just as he was about to step out. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?” As he reached for the doorknob, your hand suddenly shot out and grabbed his. He stopped, looking down at your fingers curled around his, then up at your face. You didn’t meet his eyes at first.

“Stay,” you whispered. Your voice was so soft he almost didn’t hear you.

Steve’s heart clenched in his chest. For a second, he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right. “Are you su–”

“Please,” you said again, louder this time. Your voice cracked, your eyes glistening. The look on your face broke him all over again.

He didn’t hesitate. He stepped back toward you and nodded. His eyes lingered on your clothes, unsure of what to do next. “Can you…take off your clothes?”

You shook your head slowly, lips trembling. You took his hands gently and guided them to the zipper of your jacket, trying to show him what you meant. His eyes widened as realization hit, but he didn’t say anything. With careful fingers, he unzipped your jacket, still trembling slightly as he began to undress you.

The moment was intimate, but it felt right. You let him peel off your layers, jacket, shirt, and then the rest, your eyes never leaving his. You stood bare before him, vulnerable in every way, but he only looked at you with so much care it made your chest ache.

Steve didn’t hesitate to undress himself next. He kicked off his pants, pulled off his jacket, and the only thing left was the makeshift bandage wrapped tightly around his torso. The second you saw it, your throat closed. You swallowed hard, your eyes beginning to sting again.

Steve stepped forward and cupped your cheeks with both hands, his thumbs brushing away the fresh tears before they could fall. “No, no, no. Don’t cry, honey,” he whispered softly. “I’m okay. Doesn’t even hurt that bad anymore, alright?”

You nodded slowly, even though you didn’t quite believe him. The tears still came. “We need to clean it,” you said, voice cracking. “Your wound.”

“We will,” he murmured, his eyes gentle. “And we’ll clean your wound too, on your arm.”

You blinked in surprise, as if remembering it for the first time. The wound still stung faintly, but you barely felt it. Your body was too numb, too overwhelmed by everything else. The physical pain didn’t matter anymore. But Steve noticed. He always did.

He reached for the edge of the bandage and slowly began unwrapping it from around his waist. You watched, your stomach twisting as the dried blood peeled away with it. His movements were careful, and when the last bit was off and the wound was exposed, it was worse than you remembered. You reached for him instinctively, resting your palm lightly on his ribs, your thumb brushing near the edge of the wound. He leaned into your touch.

Without saying anything more, he took your hand and led you into the shower. The bathroom filled with the sound of running water as steam slowly fogged the glass. He stepped in first, holding out a hand for you. You took it, letting the water run down your bodies, washing away the blood, the grime, and the dirt from the Upside Down.

The heat of the water grounded you both. Steve winced as it hit his wound, but didn’t complain. You reached for the soap, lathering it between your hands before gently, carefully washing the dried blood from his body. Your touch was featherlight, scared of hurting him more, but he didn’t flinch. He just watched you.

He reached for your arm next, silently asking for permission. You nodded. He took your injured arm in both of his hands, washing around the wound delicately. The pain made you hiss under your breath, but you didn’t pull away. His eyes met yours, searching for signs to stop, but you just nodded your head, letting him continue.

You both moved slowly, his hands roaming over your arms, your shoulders, down your back. You turned to face him fully, pressing your forehead to his chest as the water poured over both of you. His arms wrapped around you again, tighter this time. He didn’t care that it hurt, he just needed you close.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, lips against your hair. “I’ve got you.”

After the two of you got out of the shower, put on fresh bandages, and changed into new clothes, you felt a little bit better. You definitely felt refreshed, and for a second, you forgot everything. It wasn’t until Steve left you alone in his room to get you something to eat when the emptiness started creeping back in again. That familiar heaviness pressed against your chest, crawling its way up your throat.

You took a deep breath. In and out. In and out. But it didn’t help. Ever since you’d climbed out of the Upside Down hours ago and started crying, it was like something inside you had cracked wide open. The crying hadn’t stopped. You didn’t even know you could cry this much, but the tears kept coming.

Every time you thought you were done, it would hit you again. It was as if a dam broke and the water wouldn’t stop rushing out. You used to be good at hiding your emotions. You were the one people leaned on, the one who didn’t break. It was hard to show emotions when you were trained to be emotionless. You didn’t want to be seen as weak, never letting anyone truly see you. But now you couldn’t even stand upright without feeling like the world was tilting.

Your thoughts spiraled to Max. You weren’t there but you could imagine the sound of her bones breaking, the way her body went still in Lucas’s arms.

You needed your mom. She was always the one who could bring you back when the panic attacks started, when the world got too loud for you to handle. After that prison, after everything you’ve been through, she’d be there to hold you through the nightmares. You thought you’d grown past needing that. But tonight proved you wrong.

Steve moved quickly in the kitchen, trying to make something fast. He didn’t want to leave you alone for long. He settled on scrambled eggs and toast, the one thing he knew you’d eat no matter what time it was. It was easy and fast, and he’d made it for you countless times before. He moved around the kitchen in a rush, barely waiting for the bread to pop from the toaster before throwing everything on a plate. He hurried up the stairs, wanting to get back before anything happened.

As soon as he walked into his room, his stomach dropped. You weren’t there. He stopped cold, eyes scanning the room, his breath catching. You’d been sitting on his bed. You were right there.

He quickly set the plate of food down on the nightstand. He looked toward the bathroom, thinking maybe you’d gone in there, but then he heard your tiny, broken cry.

He turned his head, heart pounding, following the noise around to the other side of his bed and found you there. You were curled up against the frame, knees pulled tight to your chest, your back pressed to the edge of the mattress. Your hands were covering your ears, your body rocking ever so slightly. Your lips were moving, whispering something he couldn’t make out. It hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Hey,” Steve said softly, immediately crouching down in front of you. You didn’t respond and he didn’t want to push. He didn’t want to startle you so he moved slowly, lowering himself onto the floor beside you until he was at your level. “I’m here. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You blinked, like you were just now realizing he was there. And without a word, you shifted forward, collapsing into him. Steve wrapped his arms around you without hesitation, holding you close, letting you melt against him as your tears soaked his shirt. He rubbed gentle circles into your back and pressed his cheek to your temple. You clung to him like he was the only person left in the world.

Steve managed to get you to eat after calming you down. You forced him to eat with you, knowing he hadn’t eaten either. You felt terrible for being so difficult. For clinging to him. For being a mess. You weren’t even together anymore, yet he still did everything for you, held you when you fell apart, cleaned your wounds, fed you like you hadn’t just broken his heart a few months ago. That reminded you that you still needed to talk to him, your mind going back to what he told you in the woods.

The two of you lay under his blankets, facing each other in the dark. You could hear the sound of his breathing, the slow rhythm of it matching yours.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” you whispered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

His finger came up and brushed lightly against your lips, shushing you before the guilt could spill out. “I don’t want to hear you apologize,” he whispered, voice soft. “You didn’t do anything wrong. And nothing’s wrong with you. Your feelings are normal. You’re allowed to break down. You don’t always have to be the strong one, you know? And I’ll always be here. Whenever you need me.”

You blinked slowly, your chest tightening. You hated crying again, but it still came, just quieter this time. You breathed out, voice trembling. “Thank you. For everything. You don’t have to be so kind, yet you’re always taking care of me.”

He gave you a small smile, his thumb brushing your cheek. “You’d do the same for me.”

You stared at him, the words on your tongue, waiting to be said. “I still think about us,” you said. “A lot more than I want to admit.”

He didn’t say anything right away. His eyes flickered between yours. “Me too.”

“I hated how it ended,” you confessed. “I thought breaking it off would be easier, but it just made everything harder. I tried pretending like it was the right thing, like letting go was the mature choice, but all I’ve wanted since I left was to come back. To you.”

Steve let out a breath, one he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I thought I was doing the right thing too. I didn’t want to hold you back. You had this whole new life starting in California. And I–I didn’t think I fit into it.”

“You did,” you said, reaching for his hand under the covers. “You still do.”

His hand tightened around yours. “I meant what I said back there. You’ve always been there. I never stopped loving you.”

You nodded, voice barely audible. “I never stopped loving you either.”

Steve looked at you like you were his entire world, like nothing had changed even though everything had. “So what now?”

You moved closer, pressing your forehead to his. “Maybe…we stop pretending that letting each other go was ever going to work.”

And when his lips met yours, your heart exploded. It was soft and warm. You’ve been dreaming of this ever since you left, dreaming about him being yours again. It felt like coming home after being gone for too long. He was your home.

That night, you fell asleep wrapped in the arms of the man who never stopped waiting for you.

It was two days after everything happened. You had visited Max again at the hospital, with Steve by your side. The guilt coursed through you as you silently cried. You hated seeing her like this, her entire body covered in bandages.

You kept trying to calm yourself down, but every time you did, the guilt came rushing back. You still believed it should’ve been you instead of Max. At least then, she would be safe. You had failed to protect the kids again, even after promising yourself you would always be there.

The only good thing you could think of was having Steve back. Nancy dropped off your things the next morning, and Steve gave the two of you some time alone while he made lunch. You apologized to her for breaking down in front of everyone. But your best friend didn’t even blink, she was there for you, reminding you again and again that none of this was your fault. You were grateful for her. For all of them. You just wished you could believe it.

Now, you were at the Wheeler’s house, helping them sort through boxes of items to donate. You still felt awful for blowing up on them that night, screaming at everyone about what happened to Max. Maybe it came from years of pent-up frustration, or maybe it was just from being so exhausted. Either way, you apologized to them afterward, and they all shook their heads, offering soft, reassuring smiles like it hadn’t changed a thing.

Steve had handed you a letter from Max that was addressed to you, one of the ones she wrote in case she didn’t make it. You didn’t know how long you cried, only that it was long enough. You hated letters ever since Hopper’s.

You saw more and more people packing their bags and leaving Hawkins, realizing that the town really was cursed. You watched as car after car left the city, not once looking back.

You loaded one of the last boxes into Steve’s trunk. You were all headed to Hawkins High, where the donation center was set up. So many people had been hurt, so much had been destroyed. Everyone was trying to help however they could.

You and Steve arrived hand in hand, and though most of the group, except Nancy who already knew the morning she came to drop off your stuff, was surprised to see the two of you back together, they were happy. You tried your best to stay joyful, laughing along with the others, your hand constantly finding Steve’s. He never minded. He liked keeping you close. In fact, he kissed you whenever he could, even when Dustin groaned about the two of you ‘sucking each other’s faces off’ in front of the Wheeler house.

Steve only narrowed his eyes at him, tightening his hold around your waist. “Shut up, Henderson.” And instead of stopping, he pressed even more kisses to your face, just to annoy him. Dustin gagged dramatically, making you giggle as you gently shoved Steve away and returned to packing the last box into the car.

You heard a vehicle behind you, but didn’t think much of it until Karen’s voice rang out. “Did someone order a pizza?”

“Pizza?” Dustin repeated, confused, as you all turned to face the pizza van pulling into the driveway. You knew that van.

Your lips parted as you watched the doors open and saw the people you hadn’t seen in a week. Jonathan, Will, Eleven, Mike, and Argyle. They stepped out one by one, and everyone around you broke into smiles. You didn’t hesitate, running straight to El and wrapping your arms around her tightly.

“Oh my God, El!” You squealed, pulling back to cup her face in your hands. Your eyes drifted to her head, widening in shock. “Your hair?!”

Eleven laughed, nodding. “I missed you,” she said, voice soft.

Your heart swelled. “I missed you, too,” you grinned, pulling her in for another hug. When she glanced over your shoulder to see Dustin, you let her go, letting her run to him.

Turning back around, your eyes landed on another familiar face. Jonathan gave you a small wave, and you jogged over to him, throwing your arms around his neck. He wrapped you into a big hug without hesitation. Nancy lit up at the sight of her best friend and her boyfriend.

You smiled into his chest, relief washing over you. You’d been so worried about them, especially after they hadn’t answered any of your calls.

When you pulled back, you lightly punched him in the chest, making him blink in surprise. “Why the hell weren’t you answering the phone?! We were all so worried!”

Jonathan sighed. “I know, I know. I’ll explain everything, okay?” He glanced at Nancy, who gave him a tiny smile. “I’ll tell you all everything.”

“You better,” you muttered, and then realized you had your own explaining to do about your past. “I’ve got some things to say, too.”

Jonathan furrowed his brows, glancing at Nancy. She only shrugged, knowing it wasn’t her place to say anything.

Steve then walked up, wrapping his arm around your waist. Jonathan raised a brow at the gesture, and your cheeks flushed. “Jonathan,” Steve said with a tight-lipped smile.

“Steve,” Jonathan replied with a small nod. The two of them were trying to be civil.

You still didn’t understand why they hadn’t tried harder to get along. As far as you knew, whatever differences they had years ago were long behind them. You and Nancy exchanged a look, both rolling your eyes at your boyfriends’ awkward tension. Neither of them noticed.

You then saw Argyle standing nearby, grinning at the group.

“You’re here too!” You said, pulling him into a hug.

“Yeah, dude!” He grinned, giving you a light shake. “It’s wayyy different from good ol’ Cali, but still super cool. Not how I pictured spending spring break, though.”

You laughed. “Try moving away from here to California. Talk about different.”

“It’s crazy!”

You moved on to hug Will and Mike, holding the former a little longer. You missed them so much more than you’d even realized.

Dustin filled the California crew in on Max’s condition, and their faces turned somber. You and Nancy knew it would be best to take them to the hospital, to let them see Max, Lucas, and Erica, even though your heart still ached at the thought. You knew Lucas would be happy to see them.

You looked at Steve, not wanting to leave him. You’d already packed the donation boxes into his car, but now it seemed like you’d be splitting up. But then you had an idea. Your eyes flicked between his BMW and Argyle’s van, your mind racing.

Steve caught the look on your face, tilting his head. “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

You turned to him. “I think I’m going to go to the hospital with them. Do you wanna come?”

You saw the hesitation in his face, how much he didn’t want to be apart from you. He glanced at his car. “I want to,” he admitted. “But who else is gonna take all these boxes to the school? Robin can’t drive.”

You smiled before looping your arms around his waist. “What if we move all the boxes into Argyle’s van? That way, we all ride together, drop off the stuff, and whoever wants to stay at the school can. Then the rest of us go to the hospital.”

Steve looked down at you, his expression softening. He smiled before leaning in and kissing the tip of your nose. “I like the way you think.”

You all piled into Argyle’s pizza van after moving the boxes from Steve’s car into the back, driving off toward the school. Robin and Dustin volunteered to drop off the donations, letting the rest of you head straight to the hospital. Your chest tightened the closer you got, your heart racing as the image of Max all bandaged up kept replaying in your head. Steve gave your hand a gentle squeeze, a silent reminder that he was right there beside you.

Once you arrived at the hospital, you followed the familiar path to Max’s room. You and Nancy led the way, both of you having already been here a few times. The others trailed quietly behind, while Argyle stayed back in the hallway to give you all some space.

Lucas was sitting by Max’s bedside, reading softly from a book. He looked up as soon as the door opened, his expression changing completely when he saw the group enter the room.

“Oh my God,” he breathed out, rising quickly to his feet and pulling Will and Mike into a hug. “We’ve been calling you guys like crazy.”

“I know,” Mike said, hugging him back. “We came as soon as we heard.”

You didn’t say anything. Your eyes were glued to Max’s motionless figure in the bed, and the lump in your throat grew too large to ignore. You felt your breathing pick up as fresh tears stung your eyes. Backing into the corner of the room, you pressed a fist to your mouth to muffle the sob that threatened to slip out.

Steve noticed immediately. His eyes were on you, full of worry, but he didn’t move. He knew you well enough by now, knew that sometimes you just needed a second to collect yourself, to let yourself breathe.

You wished, more than anything, that they had listened to you. That they had let you be the bait. The guilt weighed heavily on your chest. You couldn’t stop thinking that if you had been in Max’s place, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe she’d be okay. Maybe they’d all be okay.

You glanced around at the pained expressions on everyone’s faces, each of them hurting in their own way. And it crushed you. You could’ve prevented this. You were supposed to protect them no matter what.

You needed to find a place to hide Eleven from the government, so you suggested Hopper’s cabin. It wasn’t in great shape since it had been destroyed the year before, but if you all worked together to fix it, it would work.

Jonathan drove Argyle’s van deep into the woods until the cabin came into view. The sight of it for the first time since July made your heart ache. It looked even worse than you remembered. You glanced over at Eleven, who had stopped walking, a sorrowful expression settling on her face. Gently, you rested your hand on her shoulder. She looked up at you.

“It’s going to be okay, El,” you said softly, offering a reassuring smile. She gave a small nod before the two of you followed the others into the wrecked cabin.

“Oh Jesus,” Jonathan muttered as he took it all in.

“Holy shit,” Mike breathed. “This place is a total disaster.”

“This is crazy,” Steve added, eyes scanning the damage. He wasn’t there with you all when the Mind Flayer destroyed everything here.

“Yeah,” Jonathan agreed, eyes drifting up toward the gaping hole in the ceiling. “Well, that’s a bit of a problem.”

“I get that we’ve gotta hide Supergirl and all,” Argyle chimed in, mouth hanging open. “But this ain’t the Fortress of Solitude, man. It’s more like…a fortress of grodiness.”

“Guys, come on. Positive thoughts, alright?” You said, trying to lift the mood a little.

“Seriously. I’ve seen Mike’s room look worse than this,” Nancy added as she made her way over to the sink.

“Ah, brutal, dude,” Argyle said, laughing as Mike scoffed at her sister’s words.

Nancy turned on the faucet and grinned when water started flowing. “See? Water still works.”

You let out a small laugh and rummaged through the cabinets until you found a box full of cleaning supplies. “And we’ve got cleaning supplies!”

Groans immediately echoed behind you. You turned and glared at the boys, throwing mops at Will and Mike. “No complaining. Get to work.”

You, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve were on window duty. There was just enough wood around the cabin to cover the broken windows. You and Steve took the back while Nancy and Jonathan handled the front.

You held the boards steady while Steve hammered them into place. When the last piece was finally secure, you both stepped back to admire your handiwork. Steve grinned, hands on his hips. “Look at that. We’re all done. We really do make a pretty good team, Kaul.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, teasing. “Why? You had doubts before?”

“Funny,” he said, rolling his eyes. Then he laughed softly, shaking his head. “It’s nice, though. Makes me think of how we could build things together in the future, you know? Like when we start a family. Have kids.”

Your smile faltered. You’d forgotten about that. You needed to talk to him, you needed to be honest before it was too late. You were terrified of his reaction. You had just gotten him back, and now you were scared of losing him all over again.

“Steve, um…listen. About the dream you told me–”

He noticed the hesitation in your voice, and his own smile faded. “Hey, we don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready,” he said gently. “I get it. If you don’t feel the same, that’s okay. I’d rather have you in my life than not have you at all.”

His words softened something in you. You took a breath, heart pounding. “No, no. I…Steve, I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Steve’s head shot up, eyes wide. “You do?”

You nodded slowly. “But…”

“But?” He asked, voice gentle.

“I can’t give you what you want, Steve,” you whispered, turning your face away as tears welled in your eyes.

His brow furrowed. “What? I don’t understand…”

You looked back at him, voice trembling. “You said you wanted a family. That you wanted kids…”

He nodded slowly, starting to see where this was going. “Okay. But the six kids thing? That was just me being dramatic. We don’t have to have kids at all if you don’t want–”

“That’s the thing, Steve. I do want kids,” you cut in, voice cracking. “Not like six kids. But I still want children.”

“I still don’t get it.”

You looked around to make sure no one was near before leaning in. “I…I can’t have children.”

His eyes widened in shock, but his hands immediately landed on your arms. “That’s okay,” he said quietly. His hands slid up to cup your face. “We don’t need kids. All I need is you.”

“No, you don’t understand.” You shook your head as tears slipped down your cheeks. “When I was in that place, they performed surgeries on all the girls. We were getting our periods and it was interfering with our training, so they…”

His thumbs stroked your cheeks gently as he listened, never looking away.

“They forced us to get hysterectomies.” You took another shaky breath. “That’s why I can’t have children.”

Steve’s heart shattered. It all clicked for him now. All those times you brushed off the need for condoms, telling him you were on the pill to regulate your cycle. He’d never questioned it. But now he saw the truth, and it made his stomach turn with fury at the people who hurt you.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” you cried. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“Would you just shut up?” He whispered, resting his forehead against yours. “Stop apologizing. You’re all I want, okay? You’re everything I need. I don’t care about anything else.” He pulled back slightly to look into your eyes. “Do you understand that I can’t even breathe without you? All those months away from you…it nearly destroyed me. I felt like I was falling apart. I don’t ever want to feel that again. I can’t live without you.”

Your lip trembled. “But what if, years down the line, you grow to resent me? What if you end up miserable because we can’t have kids? I’d rather you spare me now than you end up hating me. It’s your dream after all.”

“I will not hate you,” he said firmly, hands still cupping your face. “The first thing I think about when I wake up is you. The last thing I think about before I sleep is you. You’re stuck in my head permanently. If anything, I will be miserable without you. I love you.”

A shaky but relieved laugh escaped your lips as you leaned your forehead against his chest. “I love you,” you whispered. You looked up again, noses brushing. “I love you so much.”

His hand slid to the back of your neck, his other still gently holding your cheek. His eyes were soft, full of love. “I love you more.”

You smiled, wanting to freeze time and stay in this moment forever. “I know I said I can’t give birth, but…maybe we could adopt.”

His face lit up. “We can definitely do that. When we’re ready,” he said with a playful grin, giving your side a little pinch.

You squealed, laughing as you swatted his shoulder. “Steve!”

“But I mean, babies are kind of overrated anyway,” he teased. “They’re loud and messy and they poop in their pants.”

You gave him a mock-serious look. “You used to poop in a diaper too, Steve.”

Steve fake-gagged, turning his head dramatically. “Ugh, I can’t believe I did that.”

“I thought having a family was one of your dreams?” You giggled.

“Dreams change!” He said, grinning at your laughter. He tugged you closer, one hand slipping to your waist, breath warm against your lips. “Besides…I think I’d rather just stick to practicing.”

He kissed you before you could respond, pulling you flush against him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, lips moving in sync with his. He spun you so your back hit the cabin wall, but all you could feel was him. His hands roaming your body, his lips kissing you like there was no tomorrow.

You weren’t sure how long the two of you had been making out, but eventually, reality crept back in and you realized you were still outside. Breathless, your lips swollen and puffy, you gently pushed Steve away. “Okay, we need to stop before we actually start practicing out here.”

He just shrugged, grinning as he watched you walk off. “I don’t mind.”

You rolled your eyes, rounding the side of the cabin to head back to the front. Steve followed close behind, still wearing that silly smile. You were just about to tell Nancy and Jonathan that the two of you had finished your job when your eyes landed on a familiar face.

“Steve and I just finished putting up all the wood–Mom?”

Yasmin turned at the sound of your voice, a wide smile on her face. You ran straight into her arms, shocked but overjoyed to see her.

“I missed you! What are you doing here?” You asked, pulling back. But before she could answer, another familiar face caught your attention. “Joyce, hi! Wait–Joyce?” You blinked, utterly confused. She waved at you warmly, smiling from ear to ear. You even spotted Murray nearby, making the situation feel even more confusing.

Yasmin laughed gently, placing her hands on your shoulders as she turned you around. “There’s someone you should see.”

You let her guide you, brows furrowed in confusion. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words caught in your throat the moment your eyes locked with his.

Hopper stood in front of you, holding Eleven in his arms. El let go of him to rush into Yasmin’s arms, but you remained frozen, stunned into silence. Hopper opened his arms, and that was all it took for you to move. You launched into him, wrapping your arms around him tightly as tears flooded your eyes. He laughed softly, hugging you just as tightly and rubbing your back as you cried into his shoulder.

You finally pulled back, and Hopper cupped your face with both hands. “I told them,” you said through tears, a smile breaking across your face. “I finally told them everything.”

Hopper grinned, eyes full of warmth and pride. “I knew you would. I’m so proud of you.”

You let out a small laugh, wiping your tears away as you took a good look at him. “You’re…smaller now,” you teased.

He chuckled, nodding. “Guess I am. And you’re still shorter than me.”

You scoffed, playfully punching his arm. He smiled, then turned to glance toward a woman standing by a black car. He gave her a subtle nod. She returned it before quietly getting in and driving away.

It felt like a piece of you was being stitched back together. You never thought this moment would come. Hopper being alive felt like something out of a dream, and even now, standing in front of him, it was hard to believe.

You turned back to your mom and hugged her again. Yasmin kissed the top of your head, having missed you more than words could express.

“I didn’t think you could bring a victim home with you, mom,” you joked.

She laughed, shaking her head. “He was a special case.”

You looked around, your heart full. Despite everything that had happened, this moment brought you peace. You had your mom. You had Hopper. You had Steve. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to go back to California.

But you should’ve known that happy moments never lasted long.

An odd sensation started crawling up your spine. Your brow furrowed as you looked at Yasmin, who noticed the change in your expression.

You turned your head and locked eyes with Will. He was already touching the back of his neck. You both slowly turned to the sky to see dark clouds spreading. Everyone noticed the sudden change in your demeanor and followed your gaze, eyes lifting to the sky as soft white flakes began to fall.

You held out your hand, catching one in your palm. Your breath hitched, knowing it wasn’t snow. It didn’t look like snow.

Everyone grew quiet, concern spreading through the group instantly. Hopper took the lead, walking out of the woods to see what was happening. Joyce, Yasmin, and Murray followed close behind. You walked with Steve, Eleven, Will, and Mike, while Nancy and Jonathan followed. As you stepped into the open field, your breath caught.

The odd sensation within you increased. Your mouth parted slightly as you took in the scene. Dark clouds could be seen from a distance. Red lightning streaked across the sky. There was smoke in the air.

Steve squeezed your hand tight, pulling you closer. You stood side by side with him, surrounded by the others. Will and Mike. Nancy and Jonathan. Joyce and Murray. Yasmin and Hopper. All of you were frozen in place. Eleven walked a little further ahead by herself, pausing only to pick up a dead flower from the ground. She stood slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon.

The Upside Down had collided with Hawkins. Everyone’s lives were in danger. You knew Vecna wasn’t done. He wouldn’t stop, not until he got his revenge. This was just the beginning.

It was the beginning of a war and you had already lost.

[kaysfanficcorner]

The Camgirl and the Millionaire, Part 3

Pairing: Harry Castillo x Camgirl Reader

Summary: Things get more complicated.

Author's Note: Well here we are. I had so much fun writing this chapter and I am incredibly proud of it. These two have captured my heart and I cannot wait to see this little story through to the end. Harry and his camgirl have been the highlight of my summer so far. Thank you for being along for the ride, and please enjoy one of the most explicit things I've written to date.

New note, 6/25: Also, I went back and made one small edit to part 2. In it, Harry said it was June. For the outline I have planned I needed to move things up two months to August, so now I just made Harry make a vague reference to it being summer. You’ll understand when part 4 comes out!

Warnings: Alcohol consumption; Mentions of THC consumption; Cursing; Flirting; Lying, which I assure you hurts to write just as much as it hurts to read; Angst; Fluff; SMUT in the form of unprotected sex, oral, cum eating, anal; A lot of feelings; Reader is thic; Reader is sort of goth; Reader has pierced nipples; Reader is a sex worker; I gave Harry an appendix scar, don't ask me why

18+, Minors DNI

Ao3

*****

Harry can’t quite believe himself, feeling legitimately nervous as he waits for you near the entrance, but still inside the events venue. Women don’t tend to make him nervous, not at this stage of his life at least. Somehow, someway, you make him incredibly nervous. Perhaps it’s because you’re nothing like anyone he’s ever felt attracted to before. With you everything feels strangely different. So different that he let himself go during the concert, not giving a single damn if anyone who he may know was paying any attention to him or not. But now, after coming down from his multiple highs, Harry’s sure he’d overdone it and he’s sure people will be talking come Monday morning. The question is, though, should he really care all that much?

Shortly after you both agreed to get food together, you declared that you needed to use the restroom and grab your things from the employee area in the back. You explained how you and Vanessa were able to get into the event in the first place with the help of that guy, Charles was it? The venue’s owner, evidently. Apparently Vanessa is usually at these events as an employee, which is in all honesty not much of a surprise. It all makes sense. As he stands there thinking about it, the puzzle pieces of how his evening ended up going in this direction have started clicking together. You’re not from this walk of life and you certainly would have never attended this event without the promise of the musical guest. Harry was only able to meet you due to some wild stroke of fate. Or luck. He’s not sure which. 

Harry himself doesn’t care, but your lack of status makes things even more scandalous when he really thinks about it. He knows that his brow must be riddled with worry as you’re approaching him once again, looking much more casual than you had when you walked away. When he really sees you, though, the worry in him fades away. 

 You’ve lost about three inches to the tasteful black Jimmy Choos you’d been wearing, which you’ve now replaced with short ankle-high black socks and a pair of black and white checkered Vans. The classic slip ons, a shoe Harry hasn’t noticed anyone wearing in a long while. He supposes that they are still popular if you’re wearing them, but most of the people he interacts with on a regular basis would not go for skateboarding shoes even in the most dire of circumstances. It’s an intriguing choice, much like the rest of you.

Your hair is back to being drawn up from your neck and shoulders, though the look is much messier than the bun Harry had ruined in the heat of the moment. You’ve got a black sweater slung over your forearm, and the straps of the heels are looped through your index and middle fingers on that same hand. Your free hand comes to rest on his arm as you move in beside him. Somehow being shorter makes you even more adorable to Harry, and he’s once again thanking himself for taking the plunge to enhance his own appearance. Your height difference is exactly what he imagined for himself when the surgery was possibly just a disastrous idea. At his true height the two of you would be nearly eye to eye.

“There you are,” you say with a little grin. “I bid farewell to the lovers back there so I’m good to go when you are. Van says you better not murder me or kidnap me, or she’s gonna come after you. I told her I’d be fine with the latter and she better not try to save me and ruin our good time.”

Harry nearly chokes at the suggestion, the very notion of it shocking, but your giggle at his reaction is enough to calm him. “You really aren’t like other girls,” he says, at a loss for more to say than that. 

“The highest compliment a girl can receive,” you agree, leaning into him slightly.

Harry looks around the room, noticing a few eyes on them, and he’s suddenly wildly ready to leave. His driver should be pulling up any minute, but he hasn’t heard the ding of a text or felt the vibration of a notification in his pocket yet. His eyes narrow a little as he regards you seriously.

“Listen, I want you to know that I don’t normally behave like that when I’ve only just met someone. I don’t know if I’ve ever behaved like that, actually. I apologize if I came on too strong on dancing with you, or singing those crass lyrics.” Harry says this with a self conscious little pit in his stomach. 

A moment ago he felt very confident that dancing with you in such an erotic way had been the right call, but suddenly he’s not so sure. It’s not enough to throw him off his game completely, but thinking back on how sultry the last hour and a half of his life has been, in a very public place, a wave of true embarrassment surges through him. People like Harry aren’t supposed to act like that, at a charity event no less. He finishes the water in another large gulp, mostly as a way to avoid looking at you directly while you respond. He could really use the next liquid he consumes to have an alcohol content. 

The look you send him is clearly one of gratitude. “Harry, you were great. You are great. I appreciate your concern for me, but I truly had the time of my life with you out there. I wouldn’t be standing here right now if you made me uncomfortable. No apology needed.”

What a relief washes over him. “As long as you felt safe and respected,” Harry adds, nodding once.

You’re nodding in return, smiling unfalteringly. “I felt very safe and very respected. A little worshiped, even. Singing those lyrics was absolutely the right call and at your handsiest you were still very respectful. Thank you for being a gentleman. That’s rarer than you may think these days.”

“Mhm, I’m aware that men in general suck,” he agrees, looking around the room nervously again. 

Now that his integrity has been cleared up with you, he’s not so sure it will be for anyone else who was paying attention to him tonight. As Harry glances around, he catches the gaze of a haughty looking blonde woman whom he knows he went out with once, but can’t possibly recall the name of. Cynthia? Cheryl? Something with a C? Harry remembers thinking it was a fitting letter because she’d certainly been a bit of a cunt, the way she’d spoken down to their waitress being enough evidence of that. Someone like her is the antithesis of what Harry wants in a life long partner. 

The unpleasant woman notices Harry looking and frowns deeply at him, clearly still scorned by his rejection. Then she sees you, how closely you’re pressed to him, and she gives you a once over which suggests exactly what she thinks of you. Her eyes land on your worn pair of streetwear shoes for a long moment, and her upper lip curls in an ugly sneer. 

“Some women suck too, though,” he says with distaste, frowning a little. “Wait, that sounds sexist. What I mean to say is: I think most people suck.”

“Sucking as a person encompasses all genders,” you agree.

Your gaze follows his to the woman across the room, and Harry watches your brow raise, but then to his great surprise you blow the woman a kiss and lean into Harry even more as you lift up on your tiptoes to place a chaste peck to his neatly trimmed jaw. He’s certain it was one of his gray patches, and his chest swells a little. Normally he’d be horrified that you just did that, but seeing the other woman huff and walk off strikes a chord within him and that warmth he felt spreading through him earlier on in the evening comes back. 

What a curious feeling. 

Once you’ve clearly had your fun you ignore the woman completely, looking back at Harry with a sugary sweet smile on your lips as you rub your bare shoulder into his upper arm. “I may have some money compared to most but I’m not one of these stuffy broads. Maybe I’m wrong with this read, but I don’t think you would be hanging out with me if I was.”

“You’re not wrong,” Harry breathes, pleased to know that you’re actually seeing him. That feels new for some reason. “I have a feeling that people like her are going to talk, because we definitely gave them something to talk about…” he trails off, a smile creeping onto his lips as he remembers how your body fit against his so well. 

“See, that’s the spirit! We had fun, so fuck those other people. And your reputation is safe with me. I’m not going to run off and tell the ‘who’s who’ that Harry Castillo is an incredibly sexy dancer. Or that his hands were all over me and it was the most amazing I've felt in another’s company since I can’t remember when. Or that his lips are addictive. I won’t even say that he’s quite handsome. Very bite-able.” 

As you say that last bit, you’re leaning over to gently nibble at his shoulder through the white dress shirt. Harry could care less that you probably just stained it red with rouge. He’s never met a girl who wants to openly gnaw on him before, and his stomach flutters in response to it. 

Harry’s shaking his head, wanting to reassure you that he wasn’t thinking about you like that. “It’s not you I’m worried about when it comes to my reputation, it’s the rest of these sharks. I’m sure at least one of them caught a whiff of blood in the water.”

You grin widely, laughing. “Yeah, well, my favorite character in Jaws is Captain Quint, so let the bastards try and take a chomp at you while I’m around.”

His left brow raises curiously. “Doesn’t the captain get eaten by the shark at the end of that movie?”

“That’s neither here nor there, but if it would make you feel better I’ll change my favorite to Sheriff Brody,” you giggle, then you change the subject. “Is our ride here yet?”

At that moment, Harry feels a vibration against his right thigh a barely audible ding goes off. “Actually, I think it is.”

*****

Harry links arms with you as the two of you descend the stairs leading down to the sidewalk, and the feeling of guilt slowly eating away at your gut gets a little worse. You really like this guy, and starting things out with a lie feels like it’s suddenly a huge mistake. But what if you come clean and he ends the night before you’re ready for it to end? Isn’t it best to see the rest of this night through and then see where things go with him after that? There’s still a good chance that he’ll disappear from your life after tonight and then you will have embarrassed yourself for no reason. And, again, it’s not that you’re embarrassed about your profession, but you’re starting to feel embarrassed for being a liar and a coward. That stings a lot, especially when the spark you’re experiencing with Harry feels like it's not nothing. 

Apparently you got so lost feeling guilty and anxious just now, that you completely missed the fact that you and Harry have made it down to the crowded curb. As well as the fact that your favorite musician is no less than twenty feet away as he gets ready to climb into his limo, surely off to some club or afterparty. You also hadn’t realized that you've been staring directly at the handsome celebrity, or that you’re wearing a displeased look on your face, until Harry looks at you with an expression of worry on his own.

What Harry doesn’t realize is that you’re deeply displeased with yourself at this moment, but he must think it has something to do with him. He seems a little self conscious as he looks over at the famous man climbing into the white stretch, frowning as his chocolate eyes meet yours once more. “You know, I can probably find out what party he’s going to.”

Your eyes widen, shocked that he thinks you’re worried about that . “I didn’t even notice him, Harry. I was distracted by something else.” 

“What is it? You seem upset all of the sudden.”

This is it. Your chance to tell the truth. Do it, do it, do i-

“The heels killed my feet,” you lie, adding a wince for effect, though your feet really do ache.

  Apparently lying is just your fucking thing now, you think, shame filling you for a moment. Coward.

“ Oh ,” he looks utterly relieved, and you can’t help but wonder how he can be so confident at one moment and almost vulnerable at the next. It makes you wonder if he’s been a little deprived of certain things emotionally in his life, thinking that makes two of you if it’s an accurate read. 

Just then a sleek black car pulls up behind the leaving limo, and Harry’s opening the door to the back seat for you. “Let’s keep those feet off the ground, then”

“Are you planning to sweep me off of them, Harry?” You flirt effortlessly, feeling a sense of calm wash over you again when he grins handsomely in response, fingers slipping in between yours. That’s it, just get your groove back.

“If you’ll let me,” Harry says, the air of if completely honest. 

As he guides you down into the leather seat, your hands remain joined. He leans down to kiss your knuckles once before letting your hand fall down into your lap. Then the door shuts, and a moment later the door on the other side opens. You’re grinning at him as he slides in beside you. Literally right beside you, not just in the other seat. He’s even using that weird middle seatbelt that no one likes, body pressed closely to yours as you buckle yourself in too. 

*****

Soon the two of you are instead seated across from one another in a twenty-four seven diner splitting a whole cheesesteak and a couple of cheap beers. Both of you remark that neither of you really eats food like this anymore, and that you’ll both regret it when you feel like shit the next day. But damn does it taste amazing. It also helps that you both took some generous hits on the dab pen again before entering the restaurant, making the greasy subs all the more alluring. 

You’re grinning at him between bites and sips, practically moaning. “I’m so glad that they put cheese wiz on this the real Philly way. Fuck, I’m in heaven.”

He nods in agreement, chewing a hefty chomp of his own. “This is very delicious, which means it could definitely kill me. Are you from the Philadelphia area, then?”

“No, the Baltimore area. A dinky town outside of the city. Close enough to Philly, though. I still know a good cheesesteak when I taste one. I just know a good crabcake better.”

“I knew your accent was from one of the two. Philly didn’t feel right though.” 

You smirk, “It’s the weird ‘o’ thing we do, isn’t it? I’ve never been able to shake that.”

Harry shrugs into another bite of his sandwich. “I think it’s cute.”

Downing the rest of your beer, you’re blushing as you tell him, “Well I like your voice a lot. It’s handsome and smooth, like rich caramel in my ears.”

Harry snorts into his own beer, shaking his head with a cartoonish grimace. “Caramel in your ears doesn’t sound pleasant. Come on, Miss author . Is that the sexiest thing you could come up with?” 

“It sounded like a good phrase in my head,” you’re forcing yourself to laugh, ignoring the sick jolt of anxiety he just caused. There are a few bites of cheesesteak left on your plate, but your appetite is long gone.

Harry seems to notice how fake it sounds, frowning. “You know what? I’m going to quit teasing you about that. We don’t have to talk about your writing unless you bring it up. That was rude of me. Shit . I’m not doing a very good job of earning that trust we talked about, am I?”

Deflect, deflect, deflect. Be fucking cool about it. “It’s okay. I’m not that upset. I’ll admit that wasn’t one of my better turns of phrase, but I can’t help it that amber is the color of your energy, Harry.” Joking as an attempt to re-lighten the mood, you’re grinning when he makes a scrunched face at the reference. But then that lovely face of his morphs into a relieved smile, and your anxiety settles.

“You’re too funny,” he chuckles. “I like your sense of humor. It’s refreshing.”

With a fake scoff, you’re feigning surprise. “You mean to tell me that blondie from the venue back there wasn’t a funny person? I never would have guessed.”

“Shocking, I know,” he agrees, grin handsome as ever. 

A wave of emotion rolls over you when you take a moment to really look at his face, at how beautiful he is and how lucky you feel to be here with him in this moment. The need to speak from the heart strikes you, and you let yourself go a little. “I’m having a really good time with you tonight, Harry. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think meeting you is the thing I’ll cherish more than the actual concert.”

“I feel similarly,” Harry says, reaching a hand across the table for you. You slip yours into his easily, and he gives a gentle squeeze. “Do you want me to take you home to your place after this?” Harry asks, eyes darkening a little as he waits for your answer. He looks both nervous and hopeful.

You reply honestly, “If I say no, that I’d like to go home with you instead, will you think I’m an easy slut? I don’t make a habit of going home with strange men, usually.”

Harry shakes his head fervently, laughing. “If anything I’m worried that you think I’m an easy slut. I typically go on a couple of dates before I bring someone home. I’m not twenty-five anymore.”

“Me neither. I can’t explain it, but this feels different for me. You feel different. You keep saying I’m not like most girls, but you’re not like most guys. Do things feel different for you tonight, Harry?”

He nods, “They do. You’re more than welcome to come home with me, if it’s truly what you want.”

“It’s what I want,” you say honestly, scared of what telling the truth in this regard means considering how much you’ve lied about everything else. Every time you’ve had the opportunity to come clean before it’s too late, fear has halted your mouth. Nothing’s stopping your wicked, traitorous tongue this time around, though.

“I like you a lot, Harry.” Confessing this with real emotion behind your words, you’re willingly making this more complicated. It’s as if you’re suddenly uncaring of the consequences you may eventually face for it, stepping blindly into a situation that simply can’t end well because you have to see where it goes regardless. You desperately need Harry Castillo to know exactly what he does to you, and for you to understand what you do to him. You need it more than you need to breathe. 

“I like you too,” Harry agrees, smiling at you genuinely as he wipes his hands and discards with his napkin on the empty plate. He downs the rest of his beer, eyes darkening as the slice of lime slides down the neck of the bottle with the final drops of golden liquid. The way he looks at you feels almost predatory for a moment, like he’s deciding when to pounce. 

“Now, tell me,” he says your name, letting it melt ever so slowly on his stupidly alluring tongue, “if this were one of your stories, what would happen next when we finally establish that the two main characters like each other?"

*****

Harry’s tongue is buried so deeply in your cunt that the end of his broad nose is simultaneously and unceremoniously kneading into the sensitive, swollen nub begging for attention just above your wanting slit. It occurs to you that you very well could get off from his nose if he keeps this up any longer but just when you think that, his appendages disappear, and the airy chill on your soaked mound is enough to sober you up a little. You’ve half a mind to complain that he stopped, beginning to prop yourself up on your elbows to look down at him. 

But then there’s a swift, nonpainful swat to your inner left thigh.

“Lay back down,” Harry commands, growling in a voice dripping with a dominating tone that could send you off to the other side if you let it. “Nowhere near done tasting you yet.” 

 You’re on the kitchen island in Harry’s insanely lavish apartment, the skirt of your red dress pushed up over your waist to expose the lower half of you. Your black thong is hanging from the faucet on the kitchen sink, where it landed perfectly when Harry threw it behind his head without looking. You’d wanted to laugh at the bullseye, but Harry’s determination to get between your legs stopped you from being silly. Instead, you let him spread you, wailing and moaning as he proceeded to eat you out better than you’ve ever had it in your entire life. That you can confidently say, and you’ve had a handful of mouths bring pleasure to your body over the years.

Harry’s a pro beyond pros, knowing every little nuance to a woman’s most sacred of needs. 

He proves that when you follow his orders, laying back down to give him full access. His tongue runs from the base of your slit slowly up to your aching clit, stopping to swirl around it a few times before suckling lightly. Then he stops abruptly, repeating the entire pattern all over again. Each time he shows extra attention to your engorged nub, your body heats up even more and the cries of elation spewing from your wanton mouth echo through the apartment’s high ceilings.

Harry Castillo is secretly a madman, you’re sure of it, and his sexual vigor is right up your alley. The man is still fully dressed. You have no idea what his dick looks like, or the rest of that surely inviting body, and he hasn’t even seen your tits yet. They are still firmly secured in the bodice of your dress. 

Upon entering the apartment, Harry told you that if he didn’t get a taste of your pussy before the two of you did anything else, then he was liable to explode. 

Hearing him say that as he effortlessly lifted your ass up onto the gorgeously finished wood countertop? That made you start to fall for Harry Castillo before he ever put his mouth to your flesh. 

“Been thinking about this all night, sweetheart. Ever since we danced,” Harry says into your folds, hot breath and facial hair causing your back to arch in anticipation. He’s practically nuzzling your vagina with his entire face, spreading your wetness and his own saliva all over himself. You keep yourself neatly trimmed and waxed at all times thanks to your secret profession, and Harry seems to appreciate this immensely. “It’s even better than I imagined. So pretty and soft and wet for me, aren’t you?”

“All for you,” you breathe, pushing your hips forward to try and coax his mouth back onto you. “ Please , Harry,” you’re begging, voice husky and needy, “I was about to cum before you stopped.”

The chuckle Harry lets out is low and handsome, nearly sending you over the edge with the very sound of it. You feel his hands grip your thighs, spreading them even more. Then his tongue starts trailing each of your labia majora, one after the other. 

“I’m well aware of that, sweetheart. I just wasn’t ready for you to cum yet.” A kiss to your inner thigh. “Soon, though, I promise. Just be patient for a little longer.” A kiss to the opposite thigh. “Let me take care of you how you deserve to be taken care of.”

Then, without warning, two of his thick fingers enter you at once. They wiggle about a few times, getting fully coated in your fluids, and then he’s pumping slowly.

Wide-eyed, your head tilts up so you can look to where he’s seated between your legs on the footstool he’d pulled up when this encounter began. “ Harry ,” you breathe.

“Yes?” He asks, grinning devilishly up at you.

“You’re amazing,” you say dreamily, grinning widely to yourself as your head lay back down. 

Soon your orgasm is steadily building again, core tingling from the combination of his fingers curling sharply into your g-spot, and the darting flicks from left to right of Harry’s expert tongue. This time he doesn’t deny you, boring into your clit with more intensity as a third finger finds your entrance.

“Let go for me, sweetheart. Show me what you can do,” Harry coos lasciviously, then digs into his meal with a ferocity which finally tips you all the way over the edge.

Grunting and shaking, your body convulses with your hands braced against the countertop. It’s as if you’re trying to push all of yourself into Harry as the orgasm rocks through you, and then suddenly everything feels too sensitive and you’re hissing at him to lay off a little bit. 

He does, and as you breathe heavily in the aftermath of your bliss, he trails kisses all over your stomach before laying his head down on your belly button. Hands shakily prying themselves from the wood, you snake them into Harry’s soft brown hair and begin to comb your fingers through it. 

“You were so lovely,” he remarks, voice almost dreamy. “You came so beautifully for me, sweetheart.”

Your own voice sounds throaty, almost foreign to yourself. This isn’t like the fake voice you put on for work, this is real sexual tranquility. “Thank you, Harry. That might be my best orgasm to date. Not joking. I’ve received oral from a handful of people and I’ve never felt anything remotely close to what you just did."

“Well I will always try to ensure that your next one is still your best to date, then.” 

Fuck. He’s talking like this isn’t going to be a one night thing. And after the tonguing of a lifetime, you know you don’t want it to be either. You’re so royally fucked, and he hasn’t even actually fucked you yet.

Realizing this, you begin to sit up a little, causing Harry to lift up from your belly and look at you curiously. So you quickly explain, “I need you, Harry. All of you.” 

Harry stands, lifting you to sit up more with your ass sliding off the edge of the counter. He’ll have to clean that massive wet spot in the morning, but you pay that little mind as your bare feet touch the cool ground. Your knees begin to give out as your skirt falls to rest below them. Harry catches you easily as you wobble into him with a soft moan, and then without a word he’s sweeping you up into his arms bridal style. You’re a little nervous, given that you’re a few jean sizes up from someone like Vanessa, but he’s kissing you on the forehead as he easily carries you from the kitchen to the master bedroom with little strain.

There he lays you down on a bed of white satin, a bed so ridiculously huge that you can’t help but giggle at how tiny you feel laying in the center of it. 

Harry’s unbuttoning his shirt, smiling down at you fondly. “What’s funny?”

You’re shaking your head, laughing. “This bed is ginormous, Harry, and I haven’t called something ginormous since I was a kid. But it’s an appropriate adjective, this thing is cartoonishly big.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” He asks, smirking. His shirt is gone, now his undershirt. The body hidden beneath is one well maintained with diet and exercise, defined lean muscle tone showing you as much. Naturally tan, with dark body hair and an appendix scar, he looks so utterly beautiful to you. His hands are going for his belt, and suddenly you’re up on your knees, scooting forward towards the edge of the mattress. “Wait, please let me,” you ask sweetly, hands already reaching for the black leather strap and silver buckle as Harry’s hands instead move to find the zipper leading down the right side of your red dress. 

As you unbuckle him and slide the belt from its loops, discarding the thing to the side, Harry is simultaneously unzipping you. He lifts the fabric, tugging upwards, and your arms lift to accommodate the rising garment as it’s peeled from your body. Harry, aware of how nice the dress is, gently hangs it over the back of the stylish black accent chair across the room. As he turns to really take in your fully nude appearance, a warm smile so sweet crosses his features. There’s lust in the expression, sure, but his eyes wash over you several times and each time it looks as if he’s almost overwhelmed by what he sees. 

“I’ve never seen pierced nipples in real life before,” he remarks, mesmerized by them as he leans forward to cup both breasts in his hands. The pad of each thumb runs gently over the black barbells, stimulating the raised nubs of flesh nestled between. 

For a moment you’re self-conscious about them, frowning a little. “Are they too much? Ex-goth girl, remember? They’re a relic of the past, but I loved them too much to get rid of them. The lip and the eyebrow had to go, though.”

Shaking his head, Harry frowns a little too. “Please don’t be embarrassed. I love them. It’s just a little new for me, that’s all. Will I hurt you if I play with them?”

Relieved, you smile at him with a shake of the head. “No, as long as you’re careful not to yank too hard, obviously.”

Harry takes that as permission to dive in, and both his hands and his mouth spend a good few moments ravishing your ample breasts. Squeezing, pinching, licking, biting. 

“You’re so lovely,” Harry says your name, “what a prize you are. Though, I don’t entirely know what I did to win.” 

“As if you’re not a prize too,” you say, rolling your eyes a little as finally he moves his crotch back within reach. You make quick work of undoing his trousers, and then he helps you yank them down his legs, stepping out of them. Gripping the elastic waistband of his black boxer briefs, your movements are slow and deliberate as you pull down and forward. The trail of dark hair below his belly button is growing wider and thicker by the inch, trimmed neatly but still prominent. Slowly the base of him becomes visible, and then in one swift move his erection is springing free. 

A little gasp escapes your lips at the sight of him, not only pleased to see his foreskin still intact but truly shocked by his size. You’re not entirely sure how long he is, certainly long enough, but the massive girth of him is really what makes your mouth water. The anticipation of that thing stretching your walls is enough to make your core heat up again, ready for round two. 

“You like him?” Harry asks, smiling down at you as one of his hands strokes your hair. 

“I love him,” you agree, licking your lips as you lean forward to take him into your hand. Harry moans, hips bucking slightly. Having worked with an uncircumcised cock before, you know how to grip him and gently pull downwards, unveiling his swollen head and the delicious little bud of precum waiting for you. “Now this is a prize. You even get to unwrap it,” you say with a flirtatious giggle, adding, “and dare I say it's ginormous . There I go using that word twice in one night.”

When your tongue flicks out to lick that offered drop, Harry’s whole being seems to melt into you a little. Grinning, you widen and slowly take him into your mouth. Adding a little bit of pressure and suction, you slowly begin to work him in and out as the hand gripping him continues its rhythmic pumping. The little whimpers he’s making for you are music to your ears. 

“Oh shit , sweetheart, you’re doing great, keep going,” Harry’s encouraging, both hands in your hair now as his eyes slip closed and he throws his head back a little. “ Fuck .”

You’re gagging, trying your best to fit all of him down your throat as a bit of drool dribbles down your chin, when suddenly he’s stopping you. He’s pulled out and he’s trying to push you to lay down. He even leans down to lick at one of your pierced nipples, his hand resting between your breasts as he pushes. 

“Wait, I wasn’t done yet,” you pout, reaching for him again. 

Harry growls, a primal noise from a refined man such as he, and he’s urging you backwards onto the white bed more. As you lay out below him and the gorgeous man is crawling between your legs, they instinctively bend and come to wrap around his hips a little. Your hands come to rest in the middle of his back, fingers gripping in anticipation of what’s to come. Then you feel the tip of his cock pressing into your entrance and, still slick from Harry’s treatment of you in the kitchen, your cunt welcomes him into your body easily. 

A great cry escapes you as the width of his cock stretches you out considerably, the line of pain and pleasure blurred as your walls clench and squeeze, half trying to accommodate him and half trying to expel the painful intrusion. 

Three slow, gentle pumps are all it takes for Harry to enter you all the way to the hilt, and when his tip presses painfully into your cervix, the moan you let out is quite guttural. 

Then his lips are on yours, and your legs are hooking behind him at the ankles as he really begins to pound into you. His hands come to your ass, sliding below each cheek. With the leverage this gives him, Harry lifts your hips from the mattress completely. Thrust after thrust he’s relentless, and another orgasm is already starting to build deep within your needy core. 

“You’re going to make me cum again,” you whine between heavy breaths. Head lifting up to bite into his bicep, the need to cling to him for dear life has taken over completely. The only thing you have left to grab him with is your teeth, and so you do.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Harry’s mouth is against your ear saying, “taking me so well like a good girl. I was right when I sang that to you earlier; Little pussy fits my dick so perfectly.” He pulls your ear lobe into his mouth, nibbling on the soft flesh as you writhe and whine for him. “You’re going to cum again, this time with my cock buried all the way inside you, sweetheart. Need to feel you contract around me. Then, if you’ll let me, I’m going to fill you up with mine.” 

Fearful, you practically start to push him off of you, terrified of the consequences if he were to cum in you. “I’m not on the pill! Or anything!” 

He stops thrusting for a moment, looking down at you seriously as he brushes hair from your eyes and kisses your forehead. “I had a vasectomy a few years ago. It was my forty-fifth birthday present to myself when I decided I definitely don’t want kids.” After he says that, he begins to slowly gyrate his hips into yours again, and you’re lifting to meet his movements in tandem. 

Then you kiss him with everything you’ve got. 

“ Fuck, Harry ,” you moan, “I think you might actually be fucking perfect for me.”

And with that, he fucks you until you’re practically braindead, completely stupified by his cock. You ride him a little, and then he’s on his knees taking you from behind off the edge of the bed. For a moment he migrates things to the bathroom, where he props you up on the sink and pounds into you standing up. 

Then it's back to the bed with your legs straight up his body, crossed ankles resting on his right shoulder. He’s holding them in place with his right hand, and his left is gripping into your thigh so hard you’re sure to have five small bruises where his fingers are indented into your smooth, damp skin. Harry’s done an expert job of edging you once more, changing positions each time you start to get close, his own stamina and restraint a marvel. It’s starting up again, though, and this time he’s not stopping to switch things around. 

“Close again, Harry,” you spout out through thick moans, a small part of you wanting him to prolong this more even though the rest of you is screaming in agony for release. 

“Go ahead,” he says sweetly, smiling as he kisses your calf and looks you right in the eyes. “Let me see that face while you cum for me. You look so beautiful stuffed with my cock, sweetheart. Show me .” 

Then he bites down on the same spot he just kissed, and your second orgasm overcomes you. Your muscles clench around him so hard, clinging to the very thing causing them to do so. Harry lets out a gorgeous sounding moan, leaning more of his weight into your legs as the pleasure of it seems to take hold of him. 

He’s parting your legs as you come down, twitching against him as he readjusts into a more basic missionary position. Your arms come to wrap around his neck, just as your legs move to wrap around his waist. Shortly after that, Harry’s own grunting cries of culminating ecstasy are ringing throughout the high ceilings of the bedroom. He’s convulsing against you and you’re instinctively cradling his head, peppering his cheeks and forehead with little kisses to guide him through it. A few more gentle pumps and he’s eventually sliding out of you with a great sigh. There’s almost instantly a distinct leaking sensation running down the crack of your ass. 

He’s kissing your forehead, then looking right into your eyes as he gets comfortable beside you. “You okay?”

“I’m great. How are you?

“I’m perfect, sweetheart. Just perfect.”

“Your body felt so good, Harry,” you’re sputtering out, grunting as your own body is again twitching in a brief aftershock of sexual bliss. “Everything felt so good.” 

Harry is nodding in agreement, looking up at the ceiling with this handsome little grin playing at the corner of his mouth. Shaking his head, his eyes are filled with wonder as if looking up at a star splattered night sky. He looks so youthful to you at that moment, de-aged ten years for a split second. “I haven’t had sex that great in- Fuck . I don’t know if I’ve ever had sex that great, and I thought I was having great sex pretty regularly. You’ve single handedly and irrevocably changed my life tonight. I hope you know that.”

You’re also looking up at the ceiling, deep breaths causing your breasts to rise and fall. What Harry just said is so true that it almost hurts to realize it. Things have changed, feeling suddenly like so much more than the one night stand you’d been anticipating. It doesn’t seem like the high endorphins is making you think this way, though. You’re well aware of what that feels like. Something about this night with Harry Castillo feels real. More real than anything you’ve ever felt with another. “Same goes for you, handsome. Ruined all other men for me in a single night together. It’s practically criminal.”

As you look over at Harry, his hair mussed and face flushed, a blush creeps into your cheeks at the notion that the wetness you feel running down you is actually him . Allowing him to finish inside was a genuinely new experience for you, and the thrill if it is so unlike what you were expecting. If anything you assumed it was going to feel gross. Cum always equalled babies in your book, so you never thought it would ever feel this amazing to know some of it is buried deep inside you and the rest of it is dripping onto the bed below. To know it’s the cum of this man in particular? That adds an extra layer to the feeling. 

It felt so different to embrace your lover in the heat of his orgasm, being so used to the empty, cold sensation of a pull-out and the inevitable warm spray to some other part of your body. There’s always been this sudden disconnect right before the moment of a man’s climax, but with Harry you got to ride it out with him, completely connected all the way up until the end. Connected in a way you never have been before, not even with a female partner. The notion of this stirs something deep within you, and your heart swells for the man placing kisses to your shoulder while he’s catching his breath. 

The most satisfying peacefulness washes over you as you tell him, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me before.”

His brown eyes darken slightly, and Harry looks both surprised and a little pleased with himself. “Really?”

“Really,” you’re grinning, “I don’t want kids, so that shit was always very off limits. I’m not sure how to explain it in a way that you would understand, but that was very special for me. Thank you, Harry.”��

He leans over, grinning like a madman before kissing you passionately. “It was an honor to fill you up, sweetheart. I’d do that every single day if you’d let me.” 

*****

You and Harry ended up spending the entire weekend together against your better judgement. The longer time you spent in his company, the more the stupid fucking lie was hanging over your head. But your weekend with Harry proved to be downright magical, and the more the two of you got to know each other, the less easy it started to feel to come clean. You thought about doing it so many times, and each time your anxiety would stop you. What if he truly hates you after he learns the truth? He might not, you never know. But even after so many long talks and lovely sex and shared laughter, the truth is inevitably going to change the way he looks at you. The very thought of that sends your nervous system into an overload, and strikes a deep crack through your already straining heart.

Harry Castillo makes you feel the way the romantic novels that you most certainly do not write make you feel, and your greedy ass wasn’t about to go and fuck up what was turning out to be the best seventy-two hours of your life thus far. Morally gray as it may be, Harry could know the truth after your beautiful weekend together. You felt that you deserved at least that before you light the fuse that will blow this situation to hell whether you want it to or not. 

It’s as if you’re using your budding feelings for Harry to bargain with yourself for victory, but either way you’re liable to lose and deep down you know that.

The charity concert was on a Friday, so when the two of you woke up late into the morning on Saturday, Harry asked you if you wanted to stay for a while. He’d already taken the liberty of having his assistant drive over with a few different outfit options for you, and one swimsuit. All correct sizes, and all something you would have picked out for yourself, which gained Harry even more points in your book.  

‘A while’ started with french pressed coffee and a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs and avocado toast, all made by Harry himself. Then ‘a while’ progressed into having sex again, this time on the living room couch, then once more on top of his washing machine after he’d started a load of laundry. You’d joked about how you could use another load too, and Harry ran with it. He ate his own cum out you while the machine whirled to life under your body, just before filling you up with even more of him. 

After that, the two of you went down to the lavish pool in Harry’s building. An over the top extravagant amenity with a gorgeous view of the city, and probably the nicest pool you’ve ever had the pleasure of swimming in. Once the two of you started to horseplay, however, things very quickly took a turn for the sexual once again. Harry’s finger had slipped inside of your tastefully high-waisted bathing suit under the water, and when his hidden erection pressed up against your bare leg, the pool was a thing of the past. 

That time he fucked you in his shower, bent over at the waist as hot water cascaded around your already enflamed body. When you begged him to take your ass in lue of your pussy, the man in question had moaned into your shoulder, “you’re a dream come true, sweetheart,” and he delivered what you asked for beautifully.

His assistant also brought you a small handful of basic beauty products to choose from. As you were later lathering on a serum nicer than any brand you’ve ever bought, even with your recently raised standards, it dawned on you that Harry probably spent at least five or six hundred dollars, if not more, on all of these things for you. That kind of casual spending, on you no less, made your head spin a little. 

You may pamper yourself all the time, but it’s wildly different when a man like Harry Castillo is the one doing the pampering.

In the evening Harry ordered takeout from his favorite place in Chinatown, and given that the both of you didn’t have a single bodily fluid left to give, the night was filled with conversation, snuggles, and soft touches. He let you pick out a movie, and the two of you fell asleep spooning on his couch (also ginormous, by the way) halfway through Bram Stoker’s Dracula from 1993.

On Sunday, after breakfast and one more go around in the oversized bed, Harry took you to the Central Park Zoo. His almost boyish energy around all of the animals was so endearing to you, especially when he lit up for you around the bats. Given that the winged animals played an integral role in the events which led to your dalliance with Harry, he felt the need to commemorate the weekend by purchasing you a stuffed one from the gift shop. You never even saw him go for the register, preoccupied by a rack of silly t-shirts. So when he presented it to you upon exiting, you’d thrown your arms around his neck and kissed him right there in the middle of central park. All the while your mind was screaming at you to tell him the truth, but you listened to your body instead. 

From there he took you to a ridiculously nice Italian restaurant, where he confessed to you over pasta that he’s never been in love and he’s scared that he never will be. That confession had shocked you, even more so when he quickly followed it up with a warning that if you said yes to what he was about to ask, then you were taking on the risk that he’s incapable of the feeling all together. The notion of him being incapable seemed silly, considering how affectionate he’d been with you thus far, but you kept that thought to yourself. 

Then Harry reached across the table, and the next confession came pouring out of him. He told you that he wanted to try to feel love, and he felt something with you that he honestly hadn’t before. Not love, not when you barely know each other, but that spark that they talk about in the movies. One little spark, but enough to grab his attention and hold it fast. 

After making your head spin with his honesty, he proceeded to say that the last couple of days truly meant a lot to him and, with the deepest sincerity in his chocolate eyes, Harry Castillo asked if you would let him see you again. Seriously, and exclusively. 

Your answer was the easiest one to give in the world, and yet instead of shining bright like the sun as it should have been, your heart suddenly felt much more like the moon hanging ominously over the city. While the front facing side of your heart swelled a bright, glorious red for the possibility of a relationship with this man, the side cast in shadow was already starting to shrivel and turn gray with guilt. 

*****

As you finish frantically pacing the floor and vividly telling a couch faring Vanessa everything about your weekend with Harry, sparing her the gorier sexual details, your stomach lurches and your heart sinks. While you’ve been wildly wrapping up the story, a great, ugly scowl has been slowly encompassing her normally beautiful features. There’s no hiding from your best friend, that’s just a fact. 

“Listen, I know what you’re going to say,” you try to diffuse, hands up.

“Listen my ass ,” she says your name sharply, stabbing you right where she wants to. 

You wince .

“I’m glad that got your attention, bitch.” With that, Vanessa pats the cushion beside her. “Sit down, your energy is stressing me the fuck out .”

“Sorry,” you say, complying.

“We are both grown-ups here, so I’m going to speak plainly.” Vanessa bores into you with her dark eyes, making your throat seize up. “You know what you need to do, or you’re going to fuck up what is potentially the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“I know,” you breathe, frowning. “I’m going to have to finish one of my novels and get it published."

Vanessa groans ferociously, hands clawing over her face. Then she whacks you in the head with a pink throw pillow. “No, you stupid slut! Tell him the fucking truth! If you let this go on too long the damage will be too severe to repair.”

“Yeah, I know that,” you say, hanging your head. You’re going to have to hit the bong several times in order to sleep tonight, the horrid pit in your stomach will make sure of that. “Fuck, Van. I really am stupid aren’t I?”

“You are. But I love you, and maybe if you handle this situation correctly then Daddy Warbucks will love you too,” she says, grinning a little as she uses the silly nickname. You can already tell she’s going to drive that into the grave with over-use. 

Her change in mood warms you, and the anxiety melts away a little. Feeling more like yourself, you send her one of your signature, Vanessa exclusive eyerolls. “Are we really going to call him that?”

“If you’re really going to date him I am,” Vanessa giggles. 

“What if he really can’t feel love, Van?” You ask her, frowning. 

Vanessa shrugs. “If that’s even a real thing. Sounds to me like he just hasn’t been in real love yet, not that he simply can’t feel it. But if it is true, then at least he was an interesting chapter of your life and a good lay. Date him for a few weeks before you worry about that, anyway. What if you’re the one who doesn’t end up loving him?”

As she says this, your phone buzzes against the coffee table. Reaching over to grab it, your eyes bulge a little at the name associated with the text notification. He just dropped you off a few hours ago, surely you’d assumed it would be a few days before you heard from him again. But here he is, making your heart flutter from the other side of the city. 

Harry Castillo: Two nights with you beside me and I’m spoiled rotten. You were right. This bed is ginormous. Sleep well, sweetheart. 

“I think he’s going to make not loving him incredibly difficult, Vanessa.”

*****

Monday morning Harry’s seated in his office doing the complete opposite of working. He’s on his phone, which makes him a hypocrite considering he recently instructed the management team to start cracking down on that with the associate employees. 

He simply can’t help it. You’re literally all he can think about, to the point that he’s a little worried that something is wrong with him. You’d responded to his text last night, but you haven’t said anything to him since and he’s fixating on whether or not it’s appropriate to text you again so soon if you haven’t texted him first.

Fucking cellphones, Harry thinks bitterly, chiding himself for behaving like a teenager as he sits the phone face down on the glass top protecting his cherry desk. He looks at his computer, opens an email, reads the first three words of the subject line, and then he’s picking up his phone again to check it despite the fact that he knows it hasn't gone off.

Nothing. He groans, feeling like an idiot as he reaches for a sip of coffee. He doesn’t put the phone back down, though, instead he pulls up his camera roll and the couple of photos of you he snuck over the weekend. 

The first is of you, in nothing but one of his black t-shirts and a lacy black thong, your back mostly to the camera as you sip on a mug of creamy coffee. You’re looking contently at the view from Harry’s kitchen window, sunlight streaming all over you. He loves your profile in that one, and the way the light accentuates your features. 

The next is a photo of your naked silhouette in the frosted glass of his shower. 

The third photo is of you at the zoo, happily captivated by the animals and paying no mind to the fact that Harry just had to capture how beautiful and carefree you looked in that moment. 

He’s never taken candid photos of a lover before, nor has he obsessed over receiving a text from one. He certainly never paid this much mind to when Lucy would or would not contact him, and he’d been prepared to marry the woman for Christ’s sake. 

Harry also never once called Lucy ‘sweetheart.’ Or any pet names, now that he thinks about it. Never a ‘baby,’ or a ‘honey.’ Not once. He would always greet her with a simple, somewhat awkward ‘hey you’, and he mostly just called her by her name. 

You come into his life and suddenly he’s throwing around the term of endearment like his life depends on it, and somehow not hearing from you yet is driving him mad with anxious energy. Harry Castillo is a man who is very rarely anxious. 

What is wrong with him? 

There were a lot of people at the charity event, and at the zoo. Maybe he’s coming down with something. Yes, surely he’s getting sick and that’s why his head’s not on straight.

Then the phone vibrates in his hands, and your name flashes just above the image of your grinning face. His heart leaps from his chest, breath hitching. He taps it before it can swoosh away with the rest of his notifications, and a feeling of calm washes over him as he reads the message.

You: Missing your avocado toast this morning. :(

It shows that you’re typing, and then a second message pops up. This one is a photo, however. In it, you’re wearing a black graphic t-shirt advertising what he’s certain is the band Type-O Negative . Your hair looks insane, adorably so, and you’re pouting cutely over a sad looking cup of yogurt.

Harry’s got half a mind to cancel his meeting and take you out for brunch, but before he can even think of a response to text you back with, his younger brother is barging into his office without knocking. He’s the only person besides their mother who can get away with that .

“What, Peter? I’m busy,” Harry says, not looking up from his phone. 

“You don’t seem very busy to me. Is that her you’re texting?” His brother’s voice is saying. 

Harry looks up sharply, glaring. Words aren’t necessary.

Peter grins, plopping himself into the chair across from Harry’s desk. He takes a long sip of his own black coffee, eyeing Harry the entire time. “I originally came in here to complain that I missed the surprise Bad Bunny show, which I’m very upset about. Charlotte being pregnant is ruining all my fun, but don’t you dare tell her I said that. Anyway, then I heard a rumor that you found yourself a new woman at the show, and that the two of you got to know each other very well on the dance floor. I just had to come hear all about it.”

Harry’s eyes narrow even more at his annoyance of a sibling. He loves him, but he could also strangle him at any given moment. “Get out of my office, Peter. I need to prep for the meeting at eleven.”

“Yeah cause you were doing that so dutifully before I walked in,” Peter laughs, taking another generous sip. “So is that her you’re texting, then? What’s she look like?”

Harry groans, “Yes, it’s her.” Then his eyes flick back down to the open text thread, and when they land on the adorable photo of you with your pathetic yogurt, the joyful little smile which creeps onto his lips simply can’t be helped. 

Peter’s jaw drops, “ Oh . Oh fuck , Harry. This is a wild development. I wasn’t expecting this today.”

Harry’s gaze moves back to his brother, eyebrow raising at the look on his face. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

Peter’s sharp laugh is one of disbelief. “She’s the one, man! I’m calling it. You’ve never looked like this before. Not once in my entire life have I seen that fucking look on your face. It’s the only explanation!”

“Bullshit, Peter,” Harry scoffs, looking away but not back down at your image. He has to consciously make himself not, knowing Peter would notice and use the impulse against him. “You know my opinion on that.”

“Whatever, big brother. Suit yourself. As the one of us who has fallen in love, I think I know what I’m talking about. But I’ll let you figure that shit out for yourself. Wait until Charlotte finds out, she’s going to go nuts.” As he says this, Peter is already getting up to leave. “See you in the conference room. Please actually prep for this though. I need you out there. Text her back and then think about her later. Trust me, it gets easier the more you get used to it. Love is fucking weird, man.”

“I am not in love with her,” Harry argues, shaking his head. If anything, what he’s feeling is infatuation more than anything else, right? 

“Keep telling yourself that, bro. And for the love of Christ, get your shit together for this meeting.” And with that, Peter is gone as quickly as he came. 

Harry looks around his large office, at his view of the city below, and wonders if there’s any validity to what his brother just said. Another vibration goes off in his hand, and the excitement he feels is like a jolt of caffeine straight to his heart. 

Only, it’s just his calendar reminder letting him know that his next meeting is in fifteen minutes. The deep disappointment he feels leads him to conclude that Peter doesn’t need to get Harry’s hopes up like that, but there’s a nonzero chance that his baby brother actually knows what he’s talking about for once.

*****

Next

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Masterlist

*****

Taglist: @cheyxfu @notahappystan

[rori-is-writing]

Conflict of Interest

A The Pitt Drabble Series.

Drabbles | Teen | Dr. Robby x Nurse!Reader | 669 words ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Summary: An unwanted visitor walks into your E.R. ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Tags: Angst, Doctors Behaving Badly, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Nurse!Reader

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

[ A/N: Yes, this is longer than 500 words and I'm technically breaking my own rules about what a drabble is but this idea hit me like a freight train the other day and I couldn't not write it. So shhhhhhhhh. ]

You have always been a standout nurse. A tough nurse. You’ve been hit, pushed, spat on, and groped and all of it you’ve taken in stride and continued on like some stoic Buddhist warrior. 

But not today. 

Because today…he came in. 

The moment you walk into the room and see his face it’s like you’re an animatronic that had glitched mid-loop. Your skin feels hot. Your heart thunders in your ears. Your brain goes all staticky. 

“Oh would you look at that!” The older man says with a delighted smile. “I didn’t know you worked here sweetheart—“

But you don’t hear the rest because you’re already backpedaling out of the room and back into the hallway. 

You can feel your skin tingling like thousands of tiny spiders are skittering over it. You want to throw up. To cry. To run out of this hospital and never return. Instead, for possibly the first time in your entire career, you march up to Dana at the nurse’s station and say, “I need someone to switch patients with me.”

Dana frowns. 

“Excuse me?”

“I need a different patient. Any patient. I’ll even take Princess’s fecal impaction.”

“You will?!” Princess gasped hopefully. Nobody ever wanted the fecal impaction cases. 

“Why do you need a different patient? What’s wrong with him?”

You swallow. “He’s my uncle.”

If anything, Dana looks even more confused. “I know nobody is supposed to treat their family and friends but you know nobody here is going to rat you out to admin if you decide to do it anyway right?”  

But you’re already shaking your head. “That’s not why. I just…I can’t treat him. Please get someone else to do it.” And then, without another word you walk away, heading straight for the hallway that leads to the stairwell. 

You need some air. 

Now. 

Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Santos finds you. You stare up at her from your perch on the bottom steps, waiting for her to tell you to get back to work. That you’re pathetic for hiding back here instead of just doing your damn job and treating the harmless old man like you’re supposed to.

Instead, she surprises you. 

“He did something to you.”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to. It’s written all over your face. 

Her lips thin. 

“I thought so.”

You glance away, wringing your hands to keep them from shaking. 

“Want me to take him?”

You blink.

“…What?”

“As a patient. I’ll take him.”

Your eyes blink even faster. Did…did you hear her right? “But…why?”

“Because you need someone to be mean to him. And I’m amazing at mean.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or throw your arms around her in an embrace. 

“Okay,” you croak instead. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” She said, strangely kind, before a glimmer appears in her eye. “So…how mean we talking?”

You can’t help but laugh, a strangled, pitiful sound if you ever heard one. “Mean enough that he never comes back here again?” 

This time, she smiles.

“You got it.” 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It’s only later—when you’re finally off the clock and indulging in a greasy, well-deserved dinner with Robby—that you hear what happened. 

“Do you know anything about the patient we had today who stormed out of the E.R.?” 

“Oh?” You say casually, knowing immediately who he’s talking about. You hadn’t been there to see it—having been assisting with a complicated trauma case at the time—but you’d heard plenty about it afterwards from your fellow gossipy nurses. 

“Yeah, apparently Santos decided to do a rectal exam. Even though, according to his symptoms, he had no need of one.” He eyed you carefully. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”

“Did she?” You say innocently. “Well, she’s the doctor. She would know better than me.” 

He sighed. 

“Do I wanna know?” 

“Not today,” you tell him as you steal his french fry. “Let’s just…enjoy this. Okay?” 

His eyes soften. 

“Okay.” 

Next Drabble | Drabble Masterlist

Thanks for reading! 💙

[kotonoba]

Make Stupid Choices, Win Stupid Prizes (Katakuri/F!Reader)

Summary: Oven convinces Katakuri to try a new "trending" prank on the reader.

a/n: Been writing a lot of angst recently, thought I should lighten up the mood with something lighthearted. I also love this sixteen-something feet of a man.

Warning(s): slightly ooc, fluff, comedy, established relationship

Inspo.

Posted on AO3

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“I don’t think that’s smart, I don’t think she’ll like that very much,” Katakuri fussed over with his siblings. The recently hot and trending topic was to do a ‘current girlfriend vs. next girlfriend,’ and a lot of different responses came; most of them were rather violent. As the second son of Big Mom, everyone expected perfection from him, everyone but you. You knew he still had to be human enough. And human he was to you, aside from being several feet taller than you, and several times stronger than you. You’re more than grateful he hasn’t ‘accidentally’ killed you in his sleep yet. 

“You love her, don’t you?” Oven questioned; Katakuri answered with a nod, but beneath his calm demeanor lay a worried demon. “Come on, I’m sure it’ll be okay, she loves you, and you love her too, I’m sure she’s aware it’s just a joke and would love to play along. Playing is a sign of a healthy relationship!” Oven exclaimed happily, as Katakuri mulled over those details, Oven glanced off to the side at his other siblings, “Right?” There was a light discourse before they nodded and gave him a thumbs up. 

Some time had passed by the time you had gotten home from helping with the shipment and intake of materials for your next big project. You had a big dream and an even bigger ambition to succeed. You returned home to your shared abode with your boyfriend, who seemed more jittery than usual. You were hoping for something more intimate when he had said he wanted to do something with you. What you didn’t expect to see was a small transponder snail looking back at you as you turned to face your boyfriend, who knelt to get to eye level with you, “what’s the snail doing here? Who’s watching?” 

“Just my siblings, I wanted to talk to you about something,” you saw through his calmness, and saw how much he was fiddling with his scarf with his fingers. He was a friendly giant in your eyes, though not everyone agreed with you. He probably only showed you that side of himself because he fancied you. 

“Hm…” you side-eyed it a few times before turning your attention to your boyfriend, “alright, what is it?” 

You watched him closely; it seemed whatever he planned to do was weighing on him too much. As you were about to move to comfort him and relax, you heard him speak. You smile, and watched closely in response, “as many of you are aware, this here,” you watched him leisurely wrap his arm around you, “is my current girlfri–” you’re not aware of what you were thinking. But when you heard the words ‘current’ slip out of his mouth hidden beneath his scarf, you felt a vein pop, and all rationality fled you in the blink of an eye. You’re a normal civilian trained in self-defense originally because your parents worry that you would get kidnapped, and again because your boyfriend says he fears for your safety.

Without a second thought, a burning sensation rushed through your body, gathering at your hands. For a second, you recognized that to be Armament Haki. Still, you didn’t even process how you knew how to use it, you throat-chopped your boyfriend, which caused him to fall back in the middle of his introduction. A stupid one at that; the transponder snail widened its eyes as you turned towards your boyfriend, who was gasping for air. Trying to crawl back to you to calm you down, “you want to say that again, Charlotte Katakuri?” 

The color drained out of Katakuri’s features as he saw what could be his future with his Observation Haki, a future where he sustains more wounds than in his fight with Luffy. “I– ack–” he massages his neck through his scarf, reaching over to the snail to turn off the transpondance, “Oven just– he said it would be fun to try the trend with you, I–” he cleared his throat, a tinge of metallic liquid tainted his tongue, “I didn’t want to–”

“But you did,” you hissed, raising your hand again, Katakuri quickly protectively clasped onto your hand, “was that fun for you?” 

“No, respectfully, I didn’t think it was a smart decision either, but I couldn’t just say no to my siblings.” You knew Katakuri loved his siblings, no matter the hardships they put him through. You let your anger subside a little, watching him kneel back to your height, “I’m sorry for making such a stupid decision, but you sure are strong, maybe my next girl–” you didn’t give him time even to consider finishing that question when you placed him in a head lock this time.

“‘Current’ now ‘next’? You have a death wish, Charlotte Katakuri.” Katakuri’s features paled as your headlock tightened around him. He could easily break through, but he didn’t want to; to him, this was a sign of a healthy relationship. 

You let go of him after a bit of suffocation for him as you head back towards your shared bedroom, “where are you going?” 

“No kisses, no cuddles tonight,” you hissed, moving to close the door behind you.

Katakuri moved to hold onto the door knob, a look of distraught painted his features, so much so that his mouth was left agape after his scarf had fallen to the ground from the shock, “wh-why!?” 

You pried his hands off the door knob, “make stupid choices, win stupid prizes,” you growled, slamming the door behind, locking it after it was closed shut. 

Katakuri had never regretted listening to his siblings as much as today. However, it confirmed that your feelings for him were genuine, but you were stubborn enough to leave him in shock, standing outside the door to your shared bedroom for the entire night without opening it, no matter how he apologized.

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[cinnamanz]

CINNAMANZ'S 1K FOLLOWER EVENT

hey eyekons!! thank u all so so much for the love, being here w me and making this happen!! i never rly thought that this blog wld grow this big and reach this far, esp when i only made this acct to give birth to katseye fics that i saw were lacking in tumblr LMAO thought i'd take matter into my own hands nd by doing so, i was so incredibly touched by how welcoming and awesome this community is, and having the opportunity to watch our fandom grow bigger and bigger here in tumblr each day.

as a thank you, i'm planning on opening my inbox for any reqs from you for a whole week straight—possibly even longer, depending on how much reqs have been sent. pls also note that some reqs may take longer than expected, due to life outside tumblr and unfortunately, i do have the tendency to move from one fic to another, so there wont be any scheduling for the fics. also pls keep in mind to check the rules before reqing and that i'll only be writing for katseye. no nsfw!!

note that these r still wips nd can be subjected to changes!

happy reading :)

I'LL ENVY EVEN THE EARTH THAT WRAPS YOUR BODY — sophia laforteza.

⤷ on the night of her debut, sophia gave her heart to the one girl she was never meant to love in silence. they'd promised each other forever, a lifetime of warmth and love. but a kingdom is bound to have enemies. bound to lose men, treasures, have casualties. bound to break promises. sophia just didn’t think it would be hers. ❆ angst, slight fluff, character death, princess x knight, oneshot, 14.9k words

CRUSH — sophia laforteza.

⤷ in a sun-bleached southern town where everyone knows everyone, sophia is the preacher’s golden girl—sweet, proper, and untouched. she sings in the choir, smiles like she means it, and never steps out of line... except when it comes to you. you're the girl their mothers warned them about—leather jackets, cigarettes, and bruises on your knuckles. no one knows that sophia's been slipping out her bedroom window just to feel your hands on her hips and your cigarette smoke on her lips. in a world that worships purity, she’s been craving the ruin of you. ❆ fluff, mentions of homophobia, oneshot, ___ words

SNAP OUT OF IT — sophia laforteza. (req)

⤷ you and sophia are star volleyball players. rivals and sworn enemies. until a booking mishap on a tournament trip lands you both in the same room and the same bed. oh, things are sure about to get messier than your confusing feelings. ❆ fluff, rivals to lovers, oneshot, one bed trope ___ words

SHINE — sophia laforteza. (req)

⤷ you were the complete opposite of the girl who sat across from you. sophia laforteza, the popular girl, most sought-after by both genders, campus crush, cool without even meaning to, sat across from you with a sickeningly sweet smile on her lips and asking a question you knew she definitely didn't need help with. oh, you are so fucked. ❆ fluff, popular x loser, oneshot, ___ words

THE PROMISE — daniela avanzini.

⤷ jocks are as dumb as they look, and daniela will die on that hill. not only that, she was proven even more right when the campus jock, captain of the women's soccer team, came to her of all people about needing help with her declining grades. god, she hated jocks. but when money's involved and the jock's kind of cute, she might just be able to tolerate them. ❆ fluff, jock x nerd, oneshot, ___ words

MARGARET — lara raj.

⤷ lara believes in fate, in signs. you believe in keeping your head down and not getting hurt. but when your paths cross—quite literally—it feels like something meant to happen. ❆ fluff, stranger turn lover, oneshot, ___ words

HOW YOU GET THE GIRL — megan skiendiel.

⤷ smau wip.

GABRIELA — megan skiendiel. (req)

⤷ megan prided herself in keeping her jealousy in check, that, or the lack of material provided to her by her girlfriend to actually get jealous over. she's content. doesn't think she'd like the feeling of jealousy crawling up her torso and settling in the deepest pits of her brain and controlling how she acts. but when a particular incident at a party she'd dragged you to sparks up how possessive she acts, you ought to get her jealous more. ❆ fluff, established relationship, oneshot, ___ words

THE GIRL IS MINE — manon bannerman and megan skiendiel. (req)

⤷ manon and megan never expected to share an ex. even more so, never expected to share the plan of getting the said ex back. after countless of sabotages and petty schemes, the two end up teaming up. however, somewhere along the way, they start to realise that maybe, just maybe, their ex wasn't all that to be fighting over about. ❆ fluff, crack, love triangle, oneshot, ___ words

SOMEBODY ELSE — yoonchae jeung. (req)

⤷ hey siri, how do you deal with feelings for your bestfriend who you're fake dating because she wants to get her ex back? ❆ fluff, fake dating, oneshot, ___ words

A HARD DAY'S NIGHT — ot6. (req)

⤷ you wanted nothing more than a chill chat and gaming with the eyekons. foolish of you to think you'd ever get that living under the same roof with six other girls, who'd somehow ended up using you as a supplier. god, you should get paid for this. ❆ fluff, crack, oneshot, seventh!member, ___ words

masterlist.

[illustrate-her]

@that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction posted about wanting to read at Merlin/Musketeers crossover fic with Merlin in the 17th century timeline, and for some reason it just jumped into my head, and I wrote this thing in about two hours whilst trying to convince my stubbornly awake toddler to gtf to sleep.

Un-beta’d, very quick and dirty.

Tags: angst, insanity, mentions of serious injury, stuff like that.

___

Time slips on, and on occasion, Merlin will let his sanity slip with it. He keeps half a finger pressed against the magic inside of him, because he knows it will tell him when Arthur returns. Alright - he hopes it will tell him. His opinion on the trustworthiness of magic tends to ebb and flow with the years, and whether or not he is in a particularly bleak period at the time.

Merlin allows himself that too: a decade here or there to really wallow in the awfulness, the loneliness of it. After a couple of hundred years he begins to realise a pattern, that he makes himself Emrys when he is feeling miserable, and allows the hopefulness of his younger body to propel him back into purpose and the will to carry on. 

The sanity though, that is a different thing. Sometimes it just becomes too much to learn the new ways, to assimilate into the societies of the time and not look like, well, a lunatic. And when that happens Merlin seems to give a mental shrug and let himself descend into the swirl of magic inside of him, because when Arthur died, when the prophecy came to pass it was like all of the magic in the world came rushing through him like an open floodgate, and everything that made him Merlin got swept away in the deluge.

So the time slips on. And Merlin lives. Some times he lives better than others, though famine or self-inflicted starvation, injury or cold or despair doesn’t seem to hinder him for long.

Time slips on, but, he reflects one day, slipping almost implies a certain degree of speed. And the time fucking drags.

At some point around the 15th century he decides to leave the land that has now been named Britain: when Arthur returns it would do him well to be advised by someone who knows a little bit about the countries that now encircle Albion across the sea. Every year the world seems to expand, new places and people emerging from the mists, new foodstuff and materials and advances in technology and warfare and medicine and artistry. And despite his oft-experience malaise, Merlin cannot help but find it all absolutely fascinating: he had spent an interesting couple of years learning everything about astronomy and mathematics from a Moorish traveler, found himself moved to tears by the paintings of Caravaggio and the tragic love of Shakespeare. The marvels that can be wrought without even a scrap of magic are astounding, and often it is this undying progress of humankind and their relentless search for beauty and meaning that gives him a reason to keep living.

Sometimes around the early 17th century -  though he has lost count a bit. 1620? 1640? - he finds himself in France, and the magnetic pull of the great and rambling city of Paris draws him inexplicably towards it. It seems to perfectly represent everything that people are: disgusting and beautiful and kind and brutal in equal measure.

He doesn’t care much for the kings of this age, finds them venal and stupid and small-minded. And it’s because of this that the sadness swell within him once more like a horrible dark sucking of water behind his breastbone, because these kings are nothing - nothing - like Arthur, and he feels the loss of the man like an aching in the world. 

What a king like Arthur could do! What peace he could bring, what justice! To see these small men on their thrones when Arthur lies sleeping in Avalon feels like the most enormous of injustices, and Merlin feels the despair slip slowly into his lack of will to try, and his tenuous grip on his sanity loosens like a sail in the wind once more.

So it is in France, in Paris, in the early part of the 17th century - 1610? 1630? - that Merlin finds himself locked within the walls of some castle or dungeon or prison. He cannot remember if he has committed some crime - it does tend to happen, regrettably: an apple taken from a cart or an insult given without meaning, a lack of understanding of social mores of a time or that breeches must generally be worn in public, that sort of thing - but either way merlin is locked within stone walls and iron bars.

He could get out in an instant, of course. If he wanted to. If he had anywhere to go, something to do or anyone who was waiting for him.

Ah, there’s the despair again. What does it matter? He doesn’t need much to live on: the hunger cramps in his belly but he barely notices. It won’t kill him. 

Nothing will fucking kill him.

“Do I…do I know you?” 

It takes a long time for Merlin to respond at all, given that he is so unused to anyone speaking to him but the gaoler, who tends to spit on Merlin more often than speak to him. 

“I’m…I’m sorry?” Merlin says. He looks up, lets his eyes adjust. There is a man on the other side of the bars, clearly having paused whilst walking by this cell.

“Fuck,” Merlin breathes. It’s a word he’s learned of late and it seems to fit a lot of situations. Seeing someone who died around ten centuries ago is probably one of them.

The same brown eyes, that’s the first thing Merlin’s notices: brown eyes warm and lit from beneath like peat water in the sun, framed with lashes that always were a little indecent. He has a neat moustache and beard, fashionable at this time, and his hair is longer, reaching almost to his shoulders in places. 

“Your hair curls,” Merlin says, his voice croaked thin with disuse. “I suppose it was never long enough to before.”

Lancelot puts a hand up to his hair for a moment, his brows pulling low in a frown. “My hair…” he says, confused.

And everything just seems to crash around Merlin as if the whole ceiling were raining down on him because of course, of course: he’s mad isn’t he? This isn’t real. This is just some man. It cannot be Lancelot. 

“What’s your name?” The man who is not Lancelot says. He steps closer and Merlin can see that he is dressed practically but with a touch of frivolity, the lace around the edges of his shirt, the tooling on his doublet. The hilt of his sword is a swirled and elegant thing, just visible hanging from belts slug around his waist with a blue sash. And buckled at his shoulder is a leather pauldron, fashioned with some regimental heraldry that Merlin has not been bothered to educate himself on.

“What is your name?” The man says again, squatting down so that he is on the same eyeline as Merlin. His voice has gone soft, kind.

“Merlin,” Merlin rasps. “Who. Who are you?”

“Aramis. Of the King’s Musketeers.” The man doffs his feathered hat in a gesture of good manners, and his smile is warm and easing across his face.

His smile is not like Lancelot’s. Merlin’s friend had been shy at times, his smile a timid thing, though wonderful for its scarcity.

This man - this Aramis -  smiles too easily and with too much knowing.

“You’re not him,” Merlin says. He feels a lump of something hot and molten lodged in his throat, and only realises that he is crying when the tears scald lines down his cheeks. He doesn’t have the energy to feel shame anymore, dignity is such a pointless thing when you’ve lived as long or seen as much as Merlin has.

“I’m…I’m not him,” Aramis says kindly. “I’m sorry.” He reaches a hand then, through the bars, and lays it on Merlin’s arm without any guile. And Merlin cannot remember the last time that anyone touched him. 

___

Aramis comes back the next day. 

“You know, it’s very strange. I do feel like I know you,” Aramis says, thoughtfully. 

“You look exactly like a man I used to know,” Merlin says.

“And where is this friend of yours now?”

“Dead. Twice over,” Merlin says to the ceiling, because it is too horrible, too strange to say it while looking at this man who is the very mirror of Lancelot.

“I am sorry,” Aramis says quietly. “It is terrible to suffer the loss of a friend. They say that time can heal, a little…”

He trails off because Merlin is laughing, uncontrollable heaves of laughter. “I’m not sure,” he hiccups, breathless, after a while, “A thousand years hasn’t seemed to do much.” He laughs again then, for quite some time. Aramis only sits, a puzzled sort of half-smile on his face.

___

He comes back again the next day.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he says, half to himself. And then he shakes his head as if to rid it of something, and settles down to talk through the bars once more.

“I brought you some food, Merlin,” Aramis says. “You’re terribly thin.”

“I always was,” Merlin says, but he accepts the food that Aramis hands him through the bars. “Arthur used to say that’s why my ears stuck out so much.”

“Arthur is another friend of yours?” Aramis smiles.

Merlin genuinely hadn’t meant to speak his name, hadn’t meant to summon Arthur up from whatever place he inhabited in the depths of Merlin’s heart.

“Another dead friend,” he says, with forced levity.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says. And then, “Will you tell me about him?”

For a moment Merlin hovers somewhere between the desire to keep Arthur close, safe and protected and unknown by this huge and dangerous world he finds himself in. But to speak of him might make him feel as though he were alive once more, and it’s this desire that wins the day.

“He was a King, actually.”

“Huh,” Aramis smiles, though not unkindly, “Like King Arthur himself.”

“What?” Merlin asks, frowning.

“Well, you know. King Arthur. And, who was it…ah…Guinevere?”

His eyes widen a little bit when he sees the look on Merlin’s face. “I don’t know anymore, really. My English is not so good, so I’ve not read it. But Athos sometimes likes to rave about English literature when he’s drunk enough Armagnac. Not wine, funnily enough - that just makes him maudlin - but Armagnac? That’s when we get the Shakespeare, the Chaucer, the rest of it…”

He trails off. “La Morte d’Arthur. It’s a book about a king from Britain called Arthur...” He clears his throat. “I’ve not read it.”

“Fuck,” is all that Merlin can say.

___

“Why are you in here, Merlin?” Aramis asks one day. “What did you do?” He looks as though he’s bracing himself for some awful reveal, but Merlin can only shrug.

“I don’t know. Can’t remember.”

“You…can’t remember?”

“I must have done something,” Merlin elaborates, Nothing, you know, awful,” he hastens to add. “But possibly something illegal. Or mad. It’s likely I’m here because I did something mad. It has happened before.”

“You’ve been imprisoned before?”

“Oh,” Merlin puffs out his cheeks with a sigh. “More times than I could count actually. Never for anything awful.”

“Just something mad,” Aramis supplies.

“Yeah. That.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin says after a while, and stretches out his long legs, and lets his head thunk back against the rough walls of the cell. “I could get out of here right now if I wanted to.”

“And you don’t want to?”

“Not really. I don’t see why I should.”

___

“I’m going to petition the Queen to have you pardoned,” Aramis beams one day, sitting on the floor outside the bars with an alarming clatter of pistols and blades.

“Why do you have so many weapons?” Merlin frowns, “Surely it just sort of gets in the way after a point.”

“I have exactly as many weapons as I need, thank you very much, and if I didn’t I’d be dead by now. Only this morning I narrowly avoided being shot through the head because I had this,” Aramis pats lovingly at a blade in his belt. “Besides, didn’t you hear me? I said I’m going to petition the Queen to have you pardoned.”

“Why would the Queen listen to you?” Merlin says, dubiously. “And did you bring me any more of that apple pastry?”

“No, Constance says there’ll be more tomorrow, and the Queen and I have…well, we are…we speak sometimes.”

Merlin sits up, a rush of something invisible and heavy suddenly falling onto his chest. “Aramis. You should stay away from queens. Take it from me.”

“You’re speaking nonsense,” Aramis says, waving a hand. 

“Frequently,” Merlin nods.

“She gave me this,” Aramis says, pulling out a small crucifix on a chain about his neck, and there is something small and tender in his voice and oh Gods he’s in love with her, isn’t he? He’s in love with the Queen. 

“Fuck, Lancelot,” Merlin moans, screwing his eyes shut. “You never learn, do you?”

___

Aramis doesn’t come back the next day. 

Or the next.

Or the next.

And then there is another man, tall and dark-skinned and looming.

“You him then?” He asks, voice gruff, as though throwing out a challenge before one can be made to him. “Merlin?”

Merlin opens one eye. “The one and only.”

“Huh,” the man says, “Barely more than a boy. You’re the one he’s been comin’ to see every day?”

“Aramis?” Merlin says, sitting up, “You know Aramis?”

“I do,” the man nods. “Yeah I do. He told me to come and see you. He was…he made me promise. Dunno why.” He scratches the back of his neck, awkwardly, and it’s only then that Merlin notices the stretched thin quality of this man, the way his face is drawn and tired.

“What’s wrong,” Merlin says, bolting to his feet. “What is it?”

“Aramis…” the man says, trailing off. He takes in a deep breath. “Aramis got…he was run through. Right in the gut.”

The world spins, settles to a point of excruciating clarity. 

“Is he dead?” Merlin asks, voice very still.

“Not yet,” the man says, and the yet dangles there like a hanged man because it is suddenly very obvious that yet means soon.

“Aliese.” Merlin feels his eyes flash gold, and it’s like a relief singing through his whole body to use his magic after so very long. The lock on the barred door clicks somewhere deep within its mechanism, he shoves it with his shoulder as he steps through. “Where is he?”

___

He can feel the wary shock of the man next to him as they hurry through the streets of Paris, hasn’t failed to notice how the man has one hand on his pistol and one on the hilt of his huge sword, both hanging from his belt, and uses his chin and a snapped word to indicate which direction they must go. 

They had walked right out of the prison. Merlin had only needed to cast a little spell, a small easing of things so that eyes glazed over him and attention settled elsewhere as he passed. They walked right out and no one even said a word, and is it testament to the fear and shock - not of Merlin but that Aramis’ death is imminent - that stops the big man who walks beside him from asking questions or demanding to know what exactly Merlin is doing.

He is led through a doorway and into an internal courtyard, up some worn stone staircase and into a suite of modest rooms. A young man startles to his feet beside the bed, and another is leaning heavily against the wall with his back to them and a half-drunk bottle of wine hanging from his lax grasp.

“Who’s this?” The young man says.

“Aramis’ friend.”

“Send him away, Porthos” says the man leaning against the wall without bothering to turn. “If he is truly his friend he will not want to witness what comes next.”

The big man - Porthos - crosses to the bed and drops to his knees beside it, and it’s only then that Merlin really looks. Aramis is lying there, his face a sweating and awful shade of spoilt milk. His eyes are closed and bruised around with blue shadows. His breath comes rattling and sullen.

“Aramis,” Porthos says, and his voice is horrible and filled with a false kind of easiness, “Aramis? Can you hear me? I’ve got someone here for you. Your friend. Merlin.”

The man in the bed does not move, shows no sign of hearing anything that is happening in this room.

Merlin can hardly breathe. He sees Aramis in the bed but he sees Lancelot, dead, laid out in the boat that he sent out into the lake. He sees it all and a thousand years is nothing, is nothing.

“Do you have yarrow?” Merlin asks, crossing quickly to the side of the bed and shouldering Porthos out of the way. “Ah…Achillée Millefeuille?”

“What would we do with that?” the younger man says, dubiously. 

“It’s an old wives tale,” the man leaning against the wall states in a monotone, “Said to stop bleeding.”

“It works,” Merlin insists, “Especially when I can help it along with magic.”

The room falls silent. “Magic,” Porthos says after a moment.

“Why did you bring him here?” Spits the older man, by the wall.

“Because Aramis asked me too, Athos!” Porthos says, jumping to his feet angrily. “Because he is Aramis’ friend and Aramis is dying’!”

“Don’t do this,” the young man says, his voice high with desperation. “Not now.”

“Fuck it,” Merlin says, and rips down the blanket over the dying man’s abdomen, and places his hands where there is a mess of dark blood and bandages. 

It’s not like with Lancelot, or with Arthur. Their deaths had been sullied by dark magic before Merlin could even think to help them. Aramis’ wound is deep and awful but it was made with a mortal blade, untouched by sorcery. 

Merlin couldn’t do it for Lancelot, or Arthur.

He will do it for Aramis.

He closes his eyes and reaches deep within himself, to that swirling maelstrom of power. He reaches further, pulls from the hewn timber of the floorboards that still hold some echo of the trees they once were and the vast forests in which they once grew. He pulls down deeper, reaching through beam and plank and flagstone, through to the earth beneath, alive with living things, alive with a magic that is so simple and so ever-present that it could never die, could never even be noticed.

“Come on,” he spits.

Merlin pulls. Merlin heaves. He feels his body shaking uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. He feels his eyes burning painful and hot with magic until he cannot see anything anymore through the sun flare glow of them. He feels all the air leave his lungs and the way they cramp around their emptiness because there is no room for breath, no room for anything but the magic.

All the glass in the windows blows out, and Merlin keels sideways. He doesn’t hear how the room erupts in shouts. He is unconscious before he hits the floor.

___

The dark is comforting, and warm, and friendly. He doesn’t want to open his aching eyes. He feels like every part of his body has been punched.

“Merlin,” says a voice. “Merlin. Are you with us?”

“Can’t I sleep a little longer Gaius?” Merlin groans, and then memory blooms like a flower, and he understands that Gaius is long dead, and that the man speaking to him was about to be.

“Aramis,” Merlin says, and tries to sit up but the room spins him back to a groaning horizontal. He screws his eyes shut again.

“Easy,” Aramis says. “I don’t know what in God’s name you did but I imagine it rather took its toll.”

“What did I do?” Merlin says, cracking one eye open.

“Well. I no longer have a hole in my stomach,” Aramis says, thoughtfully, “Which I…I don’t want to think about right now.”

___

At the Porte Saint Honore Aramis looks assessingly at him. It’s so much like the kind of look Lancelot would have given Merlin that he can’t help but grin back. It doesn’t hurt so much, anymore, and he’s not sure why but he is very grateful.

“Are you well enough to travel?” Aramis asks, dubiously.

“I’m fine, Aramis.”

“Are you an angel, Merlin?”

“An..a..no. No I’m not, Aramis.”

“Hmm,” Aramis says, assessing him once more. “Well, regardless, I will pray for you at the church of Saint Sulpice this evening.”

“You think I’m in need of saving?” Merlin is well aware that the attitudes towards magic - witchcraft - have not improved particularly despite the passage of time.

”I think you’re in need of protecting,” Aramis says, simply. “I think you’re quite extraordinary and I think I will pray every day for the Lord to watch over you because you saved my sorry, sinful life. Merlin.”

Merlin looks at those brown eyes, those same eyes. “I couldn’t save my friend. I couldn’t save any of my friends. I am glad to have been able to save you.”

“Where will you go?”

The countryside spreads out like a blanket around the city, darned patches of fields and woodlands. But Merlin can feel it again, that little tugging sensation somewhere inside his ribcage. 

“Home.”

“Britain?” Aramis says, and then makes a small moue of distaste at Merlin’s questioning raised eyebrow. “I assumed. Your accent is atrocious.” 

Merlin laughs. And it feels so good. 

“Yes,” Merlin says, “Britain. I can’t be gone for long. I’m waiting for someone.”

The countryside spreads out like a blanket, and time spreads out quite similarly, and perhaps there are bits darned here and there, mends and rips and added patches. Perhaps a person can come again, in a different place and a different time, and Merlin has to believe it’s true because that means he’s still holding on - somewhere, somehow - to the faith that Arthur will come again.

Time spreads out, and Merlin wonders if maybe all these years might be worth something after all, and that for a while at least, he might try being part of the world again.

[aylacavebear]

An Arranged Marriage - Alternate Version

Your parents told you when you were twelve. You’d seen lots of Disney and kid movies up until this point, so you thought you had a good idea of what being married to someone meant and how it was supposed to go. On top of that, you were taught how to be a hunter and use your unique set of abilities. 

The way they had explained why you, it had to do with Bastet and her desire to bridge the world of hunters and monsters. Not all monsters were evil or killed people. Some hunters saw this and acted accordingly, letting those monsters live. However, it was less than a handful, and Bastet was hoping for a better way to bridge the gap.

But what happens when, on your 21st birthday, you meet a stranger in a bar who makes you feel things you know you shouldn't?

Paring: Dean x OCF Reader/You

Word Count: 8593

Warning: Angst, Fluff, Dean being an ass, Longing for strangers at a bar.

A/N: Here's the alternate version I had in my head that I mentioned in the first one I posted. It's not as long as the other one, but no less emotional. I hope you guys like it.

Original Version Here.

----------------------------------------- For a while, you daydreamed about some handsome prince and a fairy tale life. You’d write out things in your personal journal, dreams of a child. When you’d watch movies with a romantic couple, you daydreamed it was Dean, even though you had no idea what he looked like or what kind of personality he had. You were a kid and so very naive. 

After graduating high school, you began going on hunts alone, having honed your abilities over the years. There was a freedom in it, without the politics of niceties during interactions. With other people, it was like a dance of words, testing to see what was okay to talk about and what not to talk about so you didn’t set someone off. Monsters were easy to deal with. Monsters were either good or bad. They didn’t have that gray area like humans did.

It was six months after your eighteenth birthday that you were supposed to meet this Dean Winchester, your soon-to-be husband. You couldn’t help but be excited and had spent nearly an hour in your room attempting to figure out what to wear. Clothes were strewn everywhere, several pieces laid out over different surfaces. You finally went with a pair of jeans and a comfy shirt and pulled a red flannel over that, leaving it unbuttoned. As the time neared, you felt butterflies in your stomach and anticipation coursing through you. It was the phone call ten minutes before the time that made you frown. Then, your mother was apologizing to you, saying something had come up on their end. You brushed this one aside. They were hunters too. It was a viable reason, this time.

When it happened two more times, your fairy tale world shattered. This one, you heard him in the background of the call as you sat near your mother on the couch. “I’m not marrying a monster!” Those had been his yelled words laced with anger, venom, and disdain.

Even being eighteen and technically an adult, you still had that child-like wonder, hope, and optimism. You dreamed of the kind of love they wrote about in stories. You had run to your room before the call had even ended, the tears already falling, then slammed your door. Monster, he’d called you. Technically, you were. You weren’t human, so you fell into that category. As you sat on your bed, trying to wipe away the tears as they fell, you thought back to the movies you watched growing up. The monster was always killed. The monster didn’t get a happy ending. The monster wasn’t loved. 

With that realization, you began packing a bag, your hunting bag. It was at that moment that you started constructing walls around yourself. You knew you couldn’t get out of this marriage and that at twenty-five, it would happen by Bastet’s hand if it hadn’t been done before. 

Seven years. I have seven years to postpone this.

You kept yourself busy with hunts, being home less and less. The next meeting that had been set up, you sat on your bed, dressed in what you called your hunting clothes, far too lost in thought. So far, the Winchesters hadn’t canceled. Your bag sat packed behind you. The sound of an engine pulled your attention from your thoughts as your heart hammered. Then your expression hardened. Fuck this asshole. With the anger welling up again, you grabbed your bag, slinging the strap over your shoulder, and slipped out of your bedroom window. Cats really do always land on their feet.

Moving quickly, you went for the nearest tree, extended your claws, and climbed it till you were hidden by the foliage. With quick thinking, you pulled out your phone and put it on silent, then slipped it back into your pocket. 

Part of you wanted to see your future husband, the curious, hopeful part. So, you had lingered in that tree, but you never did get a clear view of him before the four Winchesters had reached the front door. Only a minute later, your phone started vibrating in your pocket. You knew your parents were pissed, but you didn’t care. You wanted to hurt Dean like he had hurt you.

Yelling had begun coming from your house as you slipped from the tree and walked away, head held high and feeling justified, at least a little. Why? You’d heard Dean yelling and could hear the anger in his tone, as a smirk had found the corners of your lips.

—------------------------ A/N: Here’s where the story changes…

On your twenty-first birthday, you headed to the local bar. You were supposed to be home, getting ready for another meeting, but you weren’t in the mood. What was the point in meeting a man who only thought of you as a monster? The bar wasn’t loud, but it thrummed—low music pulsing from an old jukebox in the corner, the speaker crackling just enough to irritate your sharp ears. Laughter rose now and then in bursts, mostly from a corner table near the pool table where someone had stacked a win streak. Ice clinked in lowball glasses. A ceiling fan ticked overhead with every sluggish spin, keeping time with the lazy rhythm of the room. Somewhere behind the bar, a dishwasher cycled through cloudy glasses that still smelled faintly of hops and lime.

You paused inside the door, instincts bristling beneath your skin. The air was dense—wood, old beer, smoke woven into fabric, the metallic tang of a fresh scrape, and too many people wearing too much cologne to cover nerves or loneliness. You tasted the mix in the back of your throat and blinked slowly, adjusting.

Still better than spending the night pretending to smile for a man who called you a monster.

You chose a stool near the far end of the bar, where the light was low and the press of bodies thin. The vinyl seat gave a soft squeak beneath you, and you crossed your ankles beneath the high stool, back to the wall, gaze sweeping the room behind half-lowered lashes. From here, you could see everyone. No one could see too much of you.

The bartender was already moving your way before you could lift a hand—mid-thirties, with a buzzcut, a crooked nose that had broken at least once, and a towel slung over his shoulder. “ID?” he asked, voice roughened by years of talking over crowds.

You didn’t answer right away. Just arched a brow, then slid your hand into the pocket of your flannel. The plastic caught against the edge of your nail as you pulled it free and held it out—not delicately, but not disrespectfully either. Just… flat. Like a challenge wrapped in casual disinterest.

The bartender took it with a glance, raised one eyebrow, then handed it back.

“Happy birthday, I guess,” he muttered, already reaching for a clean glass.

“I didn’t say it was,” you said, slipping the ID back into your pocket.

“But you didn’t deny it,” he said without looking at you, pouring with the kind of measured experience that told you he didn’t need the conversation, but he didn’t mind it either.

You shrugged a shoulder, watching the amber liquid slosh into the short glass. “Double whiskey.”

“Any particular kind?”

“Whatever bites back.”

That got a small smirk out of him. “You one of those tough types who drinks it just to prove you can?”

“No,” you said, fingers curling around the cool glass as he set it down. “I drink it because I’m tired.”

That shut him up in the right way. Not uncomfortable—just respectful. He gave a slow nod and moved on without asking more.

You raised the glass, let the scent hit your senses—oak, char, just a hint of smoke—and took your first sip like you’d done it a hundred times before.

The burn was real, but you didn’t flinch.

The whiskey burned less the second time around.

You didn’t ask for another. Just gave the bartender a glance and a subtle lift of your glass. He got the message and poured without a word, setting the bottle aside with a quiet thunk.

You cradled the drink in your hands, eyes fixed on the amber swirl, but your ears stayed tuned to everything. Clinks of glass. The scrape of boots. The low murmur of conversation. The couple in the booth to your left were fighting in whispers—about money, probably. Someone near the jukebox had just picked another Springsteen song.

Then—

The front door opened hard, too hard. A gust of outside air rushed in, pulling smoke and bar-stale heat with it. Heavy boots hit the floor with the kind of rhythm that announced a man was either on a mission or just pissed off enough to not care how loud he was.

You didn’t bother looking. You felt him long before he got close—confident stride, broad presence, heat rolling off him like a furnace. And something else. Anger. Not the reckless kind. This was deeper. Focused. Familiar.

He scanned the bar like he was expecting someone specific, and your instincts flickered to attention. Not danger, exactly. Just… tension. Static. He looked right at you. And then moved on.

Just a chick at the bar. Nothing more.

He slid onto the stool beside yours, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, and ordered a beer with a voice that could command a room. Gravel, whiskey, and a little too much mood.

You didn’t look at him. Not right away. But you could feel his eyes on you. Like he was trying to read your story just from the way you held your glass.

Dean didn’t know who you were. Not yet. But you matched the description in his head in all the wrong ways—wrong because you were supposed to be something else. Some monster. Some responsibility he didn’t ask for. Not a woman sitting alone at a bar on her birthday, drinking like she had something to forget. But you couldn’t be her, not with the human emotions swimming in your eyes.

He saw the braid first. Tight. Precise. Like everything about you had been chosen with care. Jeans that fit. Tank top. Flannel unbuttoned and loose enough to say you didn’t care—but not quite loose enough to convince him you believed that.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you sip your drink, the flicker of pain behind your eyes disappearing before it could settle. That sadness? Hidden well. But not well enough.

So of course he spoke.

“You don’t look like someone who drinks cheap whiskey on a Tuesday night.”

You didn’t glance over. Just kept your eyes on your glass, tongue flicking against your inner cheek before answering.

“I’m legal today,” you said, tone cool, casual. “Figured I’d try out a bar.”

Dean’s brow lifted slightly, intrigued. “Yeah? And is it all you thought it was cracked up to be?”

You chuckled without humor. It was a short sound—dry, sharp. “Nope.” You popped the “p” like punctuation, then took another sip before adding, quieter, “It’s just better than being home.”

The sadness wasn’t in your words exactly—it was in the pause between them, the breath you held too long, the way your shoulders dipped the tiniest bit before you caught yourself.

Dean watched you. Not in a leering way. Not even a flirtatious one—yet. Just… studying. Trying to read between the lines like they were salt rings on the table.

“Homelife that bad, huh?” he said after a beat, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not mocking—just trying to pull the weight off the air between you. His voice softened a touch. “Can’t tell if that’s relatable or tragic.”

You finally turned to look at him.

And he was…

Too handsome. That was your first impression, and it pissed you off a little. Messy, short-cropped hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be light brown or gold under the bar’s flickering neon. Stubble along a sharp jawline. Freckles ghosted across his cheeks and nose—just enough to suggest he spent more time in the sun than most. That jaw alone could’ve carried its own arrogance, but his eyes didn’t match it.

Green. Clear. With a trace of something tired at the edges.

Your gaze flicked over him once, quick and cool, before you turned back to your drink.

“I’m supposed to marry someone who doesn’t exactly like me,” you said.

Just that. Flat. Matter-of-fact. No weight behind it. Like it didn’t matter, even though it did.

Dean blinked, lips parting slightly in surprise—but not at the arranged marriage part. That wasn’t uncommon in his world. He was thrown by the honesty. The lack of spin.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, lifting his beer to his lips. “That’s one hell of a birthday present.”

You chuckled again, but it was dry and brittle around the edges. “Tell me about it. I thought I was kinda likable…” You paused, frowning faintly. “…maybe.”

Dean tilted his head, watching you over the rim of his beer. Something in your voice tugged at a thread in him—not pity, not even sympathy exactly. Just… recognition. A familiar ache in an unfamiliar shape.

He leaned an elbow on the bar, turning slightly toward you, posture loose but attention sharp. “Did he say why he didn’t like you?” he asked, voice dipping into something less teasing. Genuine curiosity had crept in now.

You hesitated, brows pulling together. That was the tricky part, wasn’t it? You couldn’t exactly say, He thinks I’m a monster. That kind of honesty didn’t go over well in bars.

“Not really,” you said, voice quieter now, the words dragging a little. “Just that I wasn’t what he wanted.” It was close enough to the truth for you that you could say it and mean it.

Dean let that sit for a second. Took another sip of his beer and weighed his next words carefully. He didn’t know you, didn’t know the story—but something about the way you said it… it didn’t sound like rejection from a bad date. It sounded like rejection of something deeper.

So he tried a different tack.

“Well,” he said, tapping his fingers once against his bottle, “why don’t you tell me about some of the stuff you do like? Might help narrow it down. Maybe I can diagnose the problem.” He offered a half-smile then, all charm and mischief—the patented Dean Winchester smirk that had knocked more than a few hearts sideways.

You didn’t look at him. Just shrugged, gaze focused on the melting ice in your glass.

“You’ll probably just think I’m weird,” you muttered.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and amused, “I already think you’re weird. But in the good way.”

That earned a ghost of a smile. Just a flicker.

You downed the rest of your drink in one practiced motion and set the glass down with a soft clink, nodding toward the bartender without a word. He poured you another with a grunt, and you wrapped your hands around the new one before answering.

“I like classic rock,” you said, still watching the swirl of amber in your glass. “And… some other stuff, but not as much. I like baking sometimes—when I’ve got people around to share it with.” You paused. “I love horror movies, but I also love Scooby-Doo.”

Dean blinked. Then grinned.

“Okay, first of all,” he said, straightening a little, “Scooby-Doo is a goddamn classic.”

That made you look at him again, sideways, with a trace of surprise.

“I’m serious,” he went on, gesturing with his bottle. “Traps, monsters, a dog that talks, and a bunch of idiots solving mysteries in a van? That’s peak entertainment. I don’t care how old you are.”

You shook your head slightly, not quite laughing—but it was close.

“You’re weird,” you said.

Dean grinned wider. “Takes one to know one.”

You didn’t expect the conversation to last past that second drink.

But somehow, it did.

It slipped from music to movies, then food—his favorite was cheeseburgers, and when he said “with bacon… and also just bacon,” you laughed, a real laugh, the kind that caught you by surprise and made him grin like he’d won something. He liked pie. Of course he did. You said you’d die for a good slice of cherry, and he nodded solemnly like that was a universal truth.

He never asked your name, and you didn’t ask his. That felt… safer. Like keeping the moment in a snow globe—perfect, contained, untouchable.

You told him you liked thunderstorms. The scent of wet asphalt and pine. Baking when there were people to eat what you made. The feeling of worn-in cotton. The quiet between songs when you’re driving alone at night. You told him you liked to be outside, barefoot in the grass, stargazing when it was warm enough. He didn’t tease you. He just… listened. Like it mattered.

He shared things too. Bits and pieces. He hated paperwork. Loved classic cars. Said there was nothing better than the sound of a good engine. He talked about music like it was stitched into his soul—told you which tracks were best blasted loud, windows down, the wind trying to steal the sound away. And he asked things, too. Not in a prying way. Just curious. Easy.

The bartender eventually cut the jukebox and called out, “Closing time.”

You blinked, as if waking from a dream. The bar had emptied around you, the seats near you now cold and bare. The quiet hit like a tide pulling out, leaving you weightless.

“Shit,” Dean muttered, glancing around, surprised. “Guess time got away from us.”

You smiled, soft and small, still cradling your half-finished last drink.

He looked at you, and something in his expression changed. Not dramatic—just deeper, heavier around the edges. Like he was seeing more of you than he had at the start of the night.

“Well,” he said, voice lower now, sincere, “hopefully the guy you’re supposed to marry can open his eyes and really see you. ’Cause I think you’re pretty damn amazing.”

The words landed like heat against your skin. You weren’t used to hearing things like that. Not anymore. And especially not from someone who didn’t know what you were.

Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you smiled again—this one shy, a little crooked—and ducked your head.

“Thanks,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against the rim of your glass. “Really.”

You pulled out your wallet, paid your tab with quiet efficiency, and slid off the stool.

His eyes followed you as you walked to the door, but he didn’t call out. Didn’t ask your name. Just watched, like maybe he already knew he wouldn’t see you again.

The night air hit your face like a soft slap, cool and sharp. You tucked your hands into your pockets, the buzz of whiskey keeping your limbs loose as you stepped into the shadows.

You didn’t look back.

But your heart did.

Your mind wandered and argued like it often did when you were alone. Only now, it was worse and better simultaneously.

It wasn’t fair.

He had been kind. Warm. A little cocky, yeah—but in a way that felt earned, not weaponized. The green-eyed stranger at the bar had treated you like you were worth knowing. Like you weren’t strange, or wrong, or less.

Why couldn’t he be the one you were supposed to marry?

You didn’t go home. You didn’t want to hear the disappointment in your father’s sigh or see the frustration in your mother’s eyes. You didn’t want to hear more about duty. About the bond Bastet had set in motion. You didn’t want to hear how grateful you should be.

Instead, you drove until the gas gauge hit a line and the ache behind your eyes became a dull throb. The first motel you found had a flickering vacancy sign and a front desk clerk who didn’t ask questions. You slid your ID across the counter, got a plastic key, and walked into a room that reeked of bleach and regret.

The bedspread was too stiff. The wallpaper was peeling at the corners. And something about the carpet made your skin crawl—but it was still easier than going home.

You dropped your bag on the chair, kicked off your boots, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on your knees. For a moment, you just stared at the floor. The silence roared.

Eventually, you dug your phone out of your back pocket. You hadn’t looked at it since you left home when the Winchesters had shown up. There were texts, missed calls. One from Jess—concerned, but soft. One from your father, short and clipped: We need to talk.

And one from your mother.

That was the one that made your stomach twist.

“The wedding has been moved up. Bastet is stepping in to handle everything. You'll meet him soon. Be ready.”

Your thumb hovered over the screen for too long.

The room suddenly felt too small. Like the walls had leaned in while you weren’t looking.

You dropped the phone on the nightstand and leaned back, staring at the ceiling with wide, dry eyes. Your chest felt hollow and full all at once—grief, confusion, guilt, and something sharp beneath it all.

Because now you knew.

Now you knew what it felt like to sit next to someone who looked at you like you mattered. Who made you laugh. Who didn’t flinch at your weirdness. Who thought you were amazing, even when you didn’t say your name.

And you knew exactly who you weren’t allowed to want. The green-eyed man.

You didn’t sleep much that night in the motel. Dozing came in fits and starts, the hum of the air conditioning unit battling the noise in your head. You kept thinking about the bar. His smile. The way he listened. The ache that had bloomed somewhere deep when he told you you’re pretty damn amazing.

It wasn’t supposed to matter.

And yet, it did. More than it should have.

The next two days blurred past you, a mess of arrangements handled without your involvement. Bastet’s influence was subtle but absolute—vendors lined up, a venue secured, paperwork already signed and sealed in places you hadn’t touched. Your mother looked relieved. Your father tried to meet your gaze and couldn’t hold it long.

You didn’t fight it. You didn’t speak against it.

You just… moved.

Hair trials. Fittings. Table settings. Flowers you hadn’t picked but somehow liked.

The morning of, you woke with your stomach in knots and your head full of cotton. Everything felt distant. You floated through it—the makeup, the hair, the half-hearted small talk from your mother’s friend. You nodded when prompted, thanked people with a voice that wasn’t yours. You sat when told to sit, stood when told to stand.

It wasn’t until you were alone in that room at the church that it hit you.

The mirror didn’t lie.

You looked beautiful.

The dress was elegant—ivory silk with subtle beading along the bodice, a fitted waist that flowed into a gentle train. Traditional, but not stiff. It moved when you did. Bastet’s magic, you were sure. She always had taste. Your hair had been done so it was half-up, half-down—soft curls cascading over your shoulders, the rest pinned back with delicate, silver combs. Makeup light. Natural. Just enough to define.

And yet.

Staring at yourself, you didn’t see beauty.

You heard his voice instead. From that night your parents tried to introduce you.

“I’m not marrying a monster.”

The echo wrapped around your ribs and squeezed.

You sank down into the chair beside the vanity, fingers curling in your lap to keep them from shaking. You didn’t cry. You hadn’t cried since the first time he’d said it.

The door opened, and you didn’t move.

“It’s time, sweetie,” your father said gently from the doorway. His voice was soft. His tie was crooked.

You didn’t look at him at first. Just pulled the veil down over your face and stared into the mirror. Your face had settled into the one you wore on hunts—calm, unreadable, armor behind your eyes.

You stood slowly, shoulders squared, chin lifted. Your father offered his arm. You took it.

The music started.

You didn’t really hear it. Just felt the shift in the room—the silence that fell when the doors opened. The hush that rippled outward as people stood.

Murmurs followed your steps down the aisle. You didn’t register the words. Something about beauty. Elegance. Perfection.

None of that mattered.

Looks faded. What stayed… was how people made you feel.

And then—

Your gaze lifted, moving toward the altar.

He was standing there.

And your heart stopped.

Green eyes. The same messy hair. The jaw you remembered. The mouth that had told you he thought you were amazing. The man who had unknowingly told you everything you’d needed to hear two nights ago.

Dean.

Dean Winchester.

He couldn’t see your face through your veil, and you weren’t sure if you were thankful or annoyed by that. Questions swirled through your mind at a speed that was too quick to think any of them to completion. You wanted to turn around and run.

The steps forward kept happening anyway.

You couldn’t stop walking.

You didn’t breathe.

—----------------

Dean’s POV… Dean stood at the altar like it was a firing squad.

Hands clasped in front of him. Jaw tight. Shoulders stiff beneath the weight of a suit jacket he didn’t want to be wearing. The collar itched. Everything felt too formal, too stiff, too final.

He’d stopped arguing two days ago. Bastet herself had intervened, and you didn’t win fights with gods. Especially not ones that technically meant well.

Didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

He didn’t know her—this girl, this stranger he was supposed to build a life with. All he knew were the headlines. Touched of Bastet. Powerful lineage. Good intentions. Not human.

And that was the part that stuck in his throat.

He’d grown up knowing what monsters could do. What they took. What they cost. Even the good ones—the ones you spared—they still walked the world with something other than human in their bones. Something dangerous. Something other.

So no, he hadn’t been excited.

Not until two nights ago. Not until the bar.

That woman—god, that woman—had sat beside him with tired eyes and a mouth that gave as good as it got. She’d been funny. Smart. Sharp around the edges and soft just beneath. He’d made her laugh. And she’d made him forget.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since.

Didn’t get her name. Didn’t ask. It felt wrong somehow, like naming the moment would pop the bubble they’d found themselves in. A perfect, fleeting night.

He hadn’t expected her to stay with him like that. But she had.

And now here he was, standing in a church that smelled too clean, wearing a tie he hated, waiting to marry someone who—

The music shifted.

Dean’s breath caught.

The doors opened.

And for a moment, time did that weird thing where everything slowed and narrowed.

She stepped into the room like something out of a dream. Long dress, veil drawn, moving like she was weightless. Like she didn’t belong to the world around her. There was something magnetic in the way she carried herself—shoulders back, chin lifted, grace in every step even as her father guided her forward.

Dean stared.

He couldn’t see her face, not yet. But something about her presence scraped against the inside of his chest. A whisper. A pull.

Familiar.

His brows pinched slightly. He didn’t understand it. His pulse picked up. His palms were suddenly damp. What the hell?

He locked his jaw and forced himself to breathe evenly as they came closer.

Three steps.

Two.

One.

Dean didn’t breathe when they stopped in front of him.

She stood so still beside her father, veil pulled down, gown catching the light like moonlight on water. There was something about her posture—regal, composed—that made something in his chest clench.

He could feel Sam’s presence at his side. Could feel the eyes of the crowd. But none of that mattered. Not really.

His focus narrowed the moment her father reached up with trembling hands and gently lifted the veil.

And everything shifted.

Dean’s world dropped out from under him.

Her.

Her.

The girl from the bar.

The one who drank whiskey neat and smiled like it cost her something. The one who liked baking and classic rock and Scooby-freaking-Doo. The one who made him laugh—really laugh—for the first time in longer than he could remember.

She was standing in front of him, eyes wide, lips parted just slightly.

And she was his bride.

He didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t say anything. His body moved on autopilot—reaching out, hands brushing hers as her father gave her away. There was a look on the old man’s face—grief, pride, fear—that made Dean’s throat tighten.

You looked up at him, and your eyes met—really met—and something clicked.

He saw the way your expression shifted. The softness that overtook the armor. The surprise. The hurt.

Dean’s breath caught as your hands slid into his.

He hadn’t known.

If he had known…

The pastor began speaking, voice a soft drone above the roar of blood in Dean’s ears. He couldn’t stop looking at you. Couldn’t stop remembering the way your eyes sparkled when you teased him. Couldn’t forget the way you’d said you weren’t what he wanted.

Jesus Christ.

He’d said that. He’d meant it. Back then.

But now?

Now, standing this close, fingers brushing yours, seeing the fear and strength layered behind your gaze—he wasn’t so sure anymore. Not about any of it.

Your lips moved, repeating the words the pastor spoke. Your voice was strong. Steady. You slipped the ring onto his finger like a vow wrapped in silence. His jaw twitched. He tried not to react, but the emotion burned through his mask.

Then the pastor said something that didn’t track.

“As you hold the ability of his life in your hands…”

Dean blinked.

Sam moved. And from his belt, pulled a gun.

Dean’s body tensed even before he saw it.

The Colt.

The Colt.

Sam offered it handle-first, and Dean took it slowly, weighing it in his palm before sliding it into the holster on his hip.

A single flicker of movement drew his gaze back to you.

Your eyes.

They’d dropped to the weapon. Just for a second. But it was enough.

Your mask cracked—just barely.

Fear. Pain. Resignation.

He’d seen that look before.

It gutted him.

Dean’s fingers twitched at his side, aching to reach out, to offer something—anything—but the pastor’s voice came again, final and full of weight.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

And Dean, who just two nights ago had laughed with a woman he didn’t know, now stepped closer to her—you—with something aching behind his ribs, whispering that maybe fate had a wicked sense of humor…

…but maybe it wasn’t wrong.

The kiss was barely more than a brush of lips—over in a heartbeat, polite and practiced, just enough to seal the vows and nothing more. The church erupted in applause and cheers like they’d all been holding their breath.

Dean stepped back the moment it ended, his expression unreadable. You didn’t even try to match it. You just stood there, staring into a sea of strangers clapping for a love story that didn’t exist.

You didn’t recognize most of them.

It hit you all at once, how many of his people were here. Friends. Family. Hunters. People who had watched this unfold, had participated in it—planning and coordinating and probably even laughing together at rehearsal dinners and meet-and-greets you never attended.

You had your parents. A few distant cousins. Bastet hadn’t come in person—only ensured the details had been perfect, like a divine wedding planner working behind the veil.

It was a reminder.

You’d always been the outlier.

Dean reached for your hand, still wearing that careful mask, and led you down the aisle together like it meant something. Like it wasn’t just survival instinct and obligation. You gave a faint smile to the crowd when they looked your way, something close to gratitude, though it was more muscle memory than feeling.

The door of the limo was opened for you with a practiced gentleman’s gesture. Dean helped you inside with the same detached grace he’d used for everything since the veil lifted. You gave him another soft smile, not quite real, not quite fake.

The moment the door shut and the limo began to move, silence settled like fog.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not yet.

He didn’t say anything. Just sat there, perfectly still, one arm braced on the door, the other resting on his thigh. The space between you might as well have been a canyon.

You focused on the glass, on the shifting blur of city lights and evening shadows. Your thoughts spiraled in all directions—none of them leading anywhere good.

How? How could someone say they wouldn’t marry a monster… and then tell you, not knowing who you were, that you were amazing?

You thought about the bar. About the way he’d looked at you. The warmth in his voice. The way he made you laugh and listened to every damn word like you mattered.

You clung to that night like a life raft—and hated yourself for it.

The reception was worse.

Too many voices. Too many eyes. Too much pretending.

You smiled, nodded, let them hug you. Told people how beautiful the ceremony was and how grateful you were. You laughed in all the right places, clinked your champagne glass when prompted, said thank you and of course like it meant something.

Dean stayed close when necessary, but always with that strained, polite distance.

The only real moment between you came during the dance.

His hand found yours like it had been scripted. His other rested at your waist—barely there, as if touching you too long would burn him. His jaw was locked, his smile hollow. You matched it with one of your own.

Neither of you said a word.

You caught him drinking more than once. Fast shots. No savoring. Just getting through it. You weren’t much better. You found the bar when you could, took your own drinks when no one was looking.

You stopped keeping count.

Eventually, the night ended.

The limo came again, like a hearse for whatever remained of your hope.

He didn’t touch you on the ride. Sat just as stiff and quiet as before. There was space between you—visible space, enough for a stranger to sit between.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

When the car pulled up to the house—your new home, a wedding gift from a goddess—you forced yourself to move. He was already out and around before you reached for the door handle. He opened it. Held out his hand.

You took it.

You smiled.

The moment the limo pulled away, his hand dropped.

He walked ahead without waiting.

Of course he did.

Your heart twisted again, sharp and bitter.

You followed, slower, quieter. The porch light glowed soft yellow, catching the edges of his silhouette as he unlocked the front door. You stepped in behind him and closed it—locking it out of habit.

The house smelled new. Clean wood and sage, maybe a hint of lavender. Bastet had filled it with warmth. She’d tried. There were signs of her everywhere—carved symbols tucked into corners, handpicked furnishings with comfort in mind, a stocked kitchen, thick curtains for privacy.

None of it mattered.

Dean had already shrugged off his jacket and was halfway to the bedroom, tugging at his tie.

Still not a word.

And you didn’t chase him.

You just stood in the middle of the living room in that stupid, beautiful dress with your heart in your throat and that sentence still playing on loop in your head—

I’m not marrying a monster.

Followed by the one that had come after, spoken in another life:

’Cause I think you’re pretty damn amazing.

And for the first time since the veil had lifted, you weren’t sure which version of Dean was real.

You followed, but only because you wanted out of the dress.

Dean was already by the bed, unfastening his cufflinks, his tux jacket tossed onto a nearby chair. His movements were mechanical—precise, practiced. Not rushed, not angry. Just… numb.

You didn’t speak.

Instead, you slipped into the walk-in closet, unable to care if he saw you or not.

You found one of your oversized shirts—a faded Led Zeppelin tee soft from age and wear—and a pair of cotton sleep shorts. They didn’t match. You didn’t care. They were you, and you needed that more than you could explain.

The dress came off piece by piece, fingers careful with the clasps even though part of you wanted to rip it free. The thing had felt like a costume since the moment Bastet summoned it into being. Beautiful, yes. But weighty. Unforgiving.

You hung it in the back corner of the closet, out of sight.

You weren’t sure when—if—you’d ever want to see it again.

Once dressed, you moved into the master bathroom. The makeup came off in slow, methodical swipes. You didn’t look yourself in the eye until the last of it was gone. Even then, you didn’t hold your gaze.

Your hair came down next. The gentle wave stayed in the strands, even as you brushed through it. You took your time. It gave your hands something to do. Something else to do.

When you stepped back into the bedroom, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed. The tie was gone. Shirt unbuttoned halfway. His tux pants wrinkled from where he’d sat.

But it was the Colt in his hands that stopped you cold.

He wasn’t aiming it. Wasn’t even holding it with intent.

Just… studying it.

Turning it in his palm, fingers ghosting along the barrel.

Like he was trying to understand the weight of it.

The tension in the room changed—dense and still, like a thunderstorm waiting to break.

You didn’t say a word.

You just quietly turned and left the room.

Downstairs, the air felt different. Less suffocating. The kitchen was warm, inviting in its simplicity. A farmhouse layout with deep counters, a cast-iron skillet already seasoned and hanging from a rack, butcher block countertops, and a fridge stocked better than you expected.

You were hungry.

But you weren’t the kind of person who cooked for one.

So you pulled out the things for burgers.

Beef. Bacon. Cheese. Buns. Condiments. Onion.

The motions grounded you. The rhythm of cooking was familiar, comforting. Seasoning the meat, forming the patties, laying strips of bacon in the skillet. The sizzle was immediate, the smell intoxicating. You moved with precision and muscle memory, letting your senses guide you.

You didn’t expect him to follow.

But you heard him anyway.

The soft creak of the stairs. The shift of weight as he reached the threshold. He didn’t announce himself.

Didn’t need to.

His presence rolled in like smoke—quiet, lingering, uncertain.

You didn’t turn to look.

You flipped the bacon.

And waited.

—------------------- Dean’s POV…

The limo ride was quiet. Too quiet.

Dean sat stiff in the corner of the seat, one arm braced against the door, eyes locked on the blurred landscape outside. Her wedding dress kept its distance, even in stillness. That should’ve made things easier.

It didn’t.

He’d always been a man of action—shoot the thing, fix the car, patch the wound. Do something. But this?

This was different.

He kept stealing glances out of the corner of his eye. Not to make it awkward. Just… to look. And every time he did, he saw her—not the woman people had warned him about, not the Touched he’d been told he was marrying whether he liked it or not, not the monster he let his mind make her out to be.

No.

He saw her. The woman from the bar. The one who laughed like she hadn’t in years. The one who sipped whiskey like it was armor. The one he’d stayed with until closing just to make her smile one more time.

And I told her she was amazing.God, he thought, dragging a hand down his face. What the hell is wrong with me?

It was easier when he didn’t know.

But now? Now he was stuck in a memory loop, trying to reconcile the person he'd imagined—the threat he thought she'd be—with the woman who'd made him forget his own name two nights ago.

And he was failing.

By the time they reached the house, he was drowning in it.

He didn’t even think—just got out, walked to her side, opened the door, offered his hand. It felt automatic. Mechanical. But when her fingers touched his, something shifted. Just for a second.

And then he let go.

He walked inside first, every step echoing with something between dread and exhaustion. The house was warm—too warm, like it was trying to be welcoming. He hated how it made him feel. Like it was mocking him for not deserving it.

He headed straight for the bedroom.

Untucking his shirt as he went, loosening the tie. His hands moved like they’d done it a thousand times before—except nothing about tonight felt routine.

She followed, quiet as ever. Didn't say a word. Just disappeared into the closet to change.

And maybe he shouldn’t have looked.

But he did.

Just out of the corner of his eye, as he sat on the edge of the bed, fingers fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. She didn’t know. Didn’t even glance his way. She was focused—removing layer after layer of lace and satin, slipping into that old t-shirt like she was stepping into her real skin again.

He swallowed hard.

The curve of her spine. The long, lean lines of her legs. The quiet strength in the way she moved.

It hit him low, sudden, visceral.

He had to look away.

Had to sit.

He braced his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor, willing his body to not respond to her. He’d screwed this up enough already. The last thing she needed was him making it worse with… whatever the hell this was.

She passed by him then—clothed now, but barely. Loose shirt. Those shorts. Hair down. No more veil, no more armor. Just her. Real and raw and completely out of reach.

Dean didn’t even breathe as she crossed to the bathroom. But when she came out, not more than minutes later, she looked like herself. Like that woman from two nights ago, sad and alone.

The door shut softly behind her.

He exhaled like he’d been holding it for years.

Then, like a reflex, his hand went to the holster at his hip.

The Colt felt heavy. Wrong.

He turned it over in his hands, thumb brushing the grooves in the grip.

As you hold the ability of his life in your hands… He shall hold the ability of yours.

The pastor’s words echoed loud in his skull.

He looked at the weapon. At his own reflection in the polished barrel.

And suddenly, the weight wasn’t just metal.

It was her.

Her trust. Her pain. Her goddamn bravery, standing beside him anyway.

He didn’t deserve to carry this.

Not if it meant what it used to.

He got up slowly, walked to the dresser, and opened the top drawer. The gun slid beneath a layer of boxers with a soft thud, and he closed the drawer like he was sealing away a piece of the past.

He couldn’t hurt her.

Not anymore.

Not like that.

He didn’t bother finishing changing. Just padded barefoot down the stairs in his unbuttoned shirt and tux pants, stopping only when the smell hit him.

Bacon.

Grease. Beef. Toasting buns.

He rounded the corner and leaned against the kitchen doorway, and the sight stopped him cold.

She was cooking.

Two plates already out.

She’d made enough for both of them.

He watched her move, focused and steady, turning a burger in the skillet, stacking bacon on a plate lined with paper towels. Her hair swayed gently with each shift of her shoulders. She didn’t glance his way.

She was still trying.

Even after all of it.

And it gutted him.

He stayed there in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, the other clenching and unclenching at his side.

How the hell do I fix this?

He didn’t have the answer.

But maybe… maybe this was where it started.

He didn’t mean to move.

Not really.

But somehow, his feet were carrying him forward—slow, measured steps across the tile. Like his body knew what his mouth still couldn’t find the words for. His heart thudded against his ribs, hard enough he was sure she’d hear it the second he got close.

He stopped just a foot behind her.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin.

Close enough to smell the mix of shampoo and burger grease and something unmistakably hers.

His voice came quiet. Rough with everything he still didn’t know how to say.

“I’m sorry.”

—----------------

You startled, even though you’d heard him move—sensed it. His scent had grown stronger, heavier in the space between you. But when he whispered those words, it sent a tremor down your spine. Your body jolted, lips parting as you turned, only to find him right there. So close. Too close. Not close enough.

Your breath caught.

And then your eyes met.

It hit like a thunderclap—recognition, not just of face, but feeling. All that time in the bar, the easy laughter, the weight of shared silence, the honesty of two strangers who didn’t know they were supposed to be enemies, or worse—married.

In his eyes, you saw the fear you’d buried in your own chest.

The anxiety you’d worn like armor all day.

The guilt that had gnawed at you for years.

And something else, something that made your stomach twist with painful hope—softness. A flicker of care. Something real, fragile, alive.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, barely above a breath.

His hand lifted slowly, cautiously, like he was afraid you'd flinch. But he gave you time, a silent plea for permission. And when he cupped your cheek, warm and calloused and grounding, you didn’t pull away.

His thumb brushed gently under your eye, and his voice cracked on the next words.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

Your heart stuttered, thudding hard enough to make your ribs ache. But you stayed rooted in place, his touch steady, his presence overwhelming.

You should’ve pulled away.

You should’ve walked off and let the silence swallow everything he’d broken.

But instead… you held on.

You held onto the stranger in the bar who made you laugh.

You held onto the way he’d looked at you—like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve, not a threat to neutralize.

You held onto those five words he didn’t even know had stitched themselves into your bones:

“I think you’re pretty amazing.”

You didn’t let go of that.

Not even when your mind screamed monster, not even when you remembered how much it had hurt to hear him say those other words all those years ago. Because tonight, he wasn’t looking at you like you were a monster. He was looking at you like you were a person. Someone special. 

Just you. Just him. Just this moment.

He leaned in, slow and reverent, giving you every second to pull back. You didn’t.

His lips brushed yours—light as breath, soft as regret.

And you let him.

Because this wasn’t a kiss made of passion or desperation.

This was an apology.

This was a confession.

This was a man trying to show you what his words still couldn’t say.

And in that suspended second, with dinner quietly waiting behind you and the weight of years between your mouths, something fragile cracked open.

Maybe it wasn’t love.

But it was something.

Something real.

Dean didn’t deepen the kiss.

Didn’t push for more.

He just let it linger, let it say everything he hadn’t figured out how to say. When he finally pulled back, it was slow… like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the moment. His forehead nearly touched yours, breath mingling with yours in the space of a sigh.

Only a hairsbreadth of air separated you.

You blinked, just once, and your lips curved into the smallest smile. Not wide. Not forgiving. But real. And that made his heart ache more than any sharp word or angry glare ever could.

Then he saw it—the tear, slipping silently down your cheek.

Without hesitation, his thumb moved to brush it away. Tender. Careful.

He opened his mouth, breath catching. “I—”

But your fingertip rose, gentle and sure, and pressed lightly to his lips.

Stopping the apology before it could leave his throat.

Your voice came quiet. Steady. A little raw around the edges.

“I’m not ready to forgive you,” you whispered. “But… I’m willing to give you another chance.”

His eyes searched yours, full of questions, full of guilt.

You held his gaze, unwavering.

“But I need you to be real with me, Dean. I need honesty. No masks. No walls. No doing things just because someone told you to.”

Your hand fell slowly from his lips, resting gently against his chest, where his heartbeat was thrumming under your palm.

“If this is going to work at all,” you continued, voice softer now, “I need it to be choice, not obligation. I can’t be someone you just… put up with. I won’t be.”

Dean didn’t say anything right away. He just nodded, a small motion. But it was full of meaning. Full of weight.

You weren’t asking for everything.

You were asking for truth.

And for a man like Dean Winchester—raised in duty, defined by responsibility—that was the most intimate thing you could’ve asked of him.

The two of you had a long road ahead of you, but in this moment, his breath mixing with yours, hope bloomed inside both of you. It wasn’t like a fire. Or even a storm. It was gentle. Like how a flower slowly parts it’s petals as dawn approaches.

And Bastet smiled gently. She’d done what she could to guide the two of you together that night. Both of you just as stubborn as the other. Then, like mist on a breezy day, she was gone from outside the kitchen window, knowing this was just the beginning for the two of you. 

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battle of britpop [18+] ➶ ➴

pairing: 90s!damon albarn x fem!reader x 90s!liam gallagher genre: smut !!, angst if you squint, hate sex if you squint word count: 9702 (so sorry) warnings: brutallllll edging and overstimulation. most of the fic. spit. lotsa spit. hair-pulling, degradation, choking, face-fucking, cockwarming, unprotected sex, oral—f + m receiving, cumplay maybe ?, crying !!!, begging, just ruinedcore, minors dnii !! summary: damon brings you. liam sees. they hate each other—but they hate the idea of anyone else touching you more. a/n: based of this ! req and literally every other thought i have had about liam and damon.... got extra crazy with this im sorry i dont know why it was like my brain shut off while writing and there was an extra 5k words on the page sorrysorryalert alert ! never written a threesome fic so bare with me !

the room stank of cigarettes, sweat, and ego. velvet couches, cheap wine in heavy glasses, polaroids yellowing at the corners. a warehouse turned scene-spot somewhere deep in camden—half full of people who thought they mattered, and a few who actually did.

you walked in with damon’s hand resting low on your back, rings cold where they pressed against skin, the sheer of your dress no barrier at all. he leaned in as you crossed the threshold, voice a brush of velvet over your ear. “they’ll be watching.”

“let them,” you breathed, already smiling.

and they did. especially him.

liam gallagher saw you the second you stepped inside. slouched on the couch like it owed him rent, legs spread, pint half-gone. that lazy smirk already playing at the corners of his mouth. his eyes dragged over you slow. syrupy. something flickering just beneath it—surprise, interest, then something darker. they met damon’s across the room. and held. just long enough—long enough for the air to shift.

you let damon guide you toward the record wall, tucked half out of sight. he poured something dark and gold into a heavy glass, kissed your cheek as he handed it over. his palm lingered against your hip like punctuation—like a claim.

but you felt the gaze again before you even looked. sharp as heat. sticky as sin.

liam, across the room. still watching. unsubtle, unblinking.

he nursed his drink with one hand, other arm slung along the back of the sofa. too relaxed to be casual. too loud for the silence between songs.

you looked away. and then looked back. he was still staring. you knew he would be.

he moved like he was born to ruin something. halfway through his second drink, slinking through the crowd without looking at it. like they’d part for him anyway.

and they did.

“bit posh for this place, ain’t she?” the voice came before the rest. low, northern, smug.

damon didn’t even blink. ���don’t you have somewhere to be?”

liam gave a grin like he’d just found his favourite game. “thought i’d say hello. be rude not to.”

“you’ve said it. now fuck off.”

but his eyes didn’t leave you. they dipped—slow, deliberate—then rose again. “didn’t know blur were doin’ plus ones now,” he drawled. “what, she sing too?”

you smiled. sweet. wicked. “only when it’s fun.”

that earned you a twitch of his grin. like he’d just decided you were his next favourite problem.

damon’s hand tensed at your waist. the kind of grip that said mine, even without a word.

liam noticed. of course he did. and he looked pleased.

he leaned in, just slightly—just enough to fog the air between you with breath and bourbon. “just think it’s funny, that’s all,” he murmured. “all that posh-boy poetry, and you’ve still got a girl who looks like she wants someone real to show her a good time.”

your laugh came before you could swallow it. small. dangerous. damon turned slightly. said nothing. but you saw it in his posture—the shift, the pull.

liam caught your eye again. tilted his head. “if you get bored,” he said, voice thick with sugar and spit, “come find me. i’ll be ‘round.”

then he was gone. just smoke in the room.

—

you were left standing there, half-cradling your glass, caught between the burn of your drink and the slower, sweeter simmer of something else entirely.

heat bloomed low in your belly. you blamed the liquor at first. but you knew better.

damon let out a breath through his nose—tight, annoyed—then gently tugged your wrist, guiding you toward the back of the flat. somewhere quieter, dimmer. away from the records and the stares. away from him.

his hand stayed on the small of your back like a brand.

“he’s a fucking prick,” he muttered.

the hallway was narrow, lit by a single red bulb, walls covered in posters peeling at the edges. your spine hit cool plaster. damon boxed you in without meaning to—hands braced on either side of your head, breath hot and sharp.

lager. smoke. jealousy.

his eyes found yours, flint behind the blue. “you think i don’t know what he’s doing?” he said, voice low but edged. “think i don’t see the way he looks at you?”

you tilted your chin up, fighting a grin. “he wasn’t exactly subtle.”

damon’s mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh but couldn’t afford to.

he leaned in, nose brushing yours. “yeah, well,” he breathed, “neither am i.”

and then he kissed you. not careful. not delicate. a little frantic, a little bruising.

his mouth found yours like it had something to prove—like it needed to undo the memory of liam’s voice in your ear. his tongue swept deep, his teeth scraped. you whimpered into it before you could stop yourself.

one of his hands tangled in your hair, the other gripped your waist like it might anchor him. or claim you. or both.

your drink was long forgotten, half-spilled on the floor, your body arching toward his like instinct.

you let him have it—let yourself be kissed like a secret, a sin, a warning.

but before you could lose yourself in the heat of it, before you could fall headfirst into damon and the way he made you forget—

you felt it. a prickle. the burn of a stare, dragging slow and deliberate over your skin.

you broke the kiss first. eyes fluttering open, head turning just slightly.

through the haze of smoke and half-shadow, across the living room, nestled into a sunken armchair that looked ready to collapse—liam.

he hadn’t gone far.

legs spread. pint in one hand. a knowing smirk on his lips. and the other?

palming himself through his jeans.

your breath hitched.

damon didn’t notice. too caught in the crook of your neck, lips ghosting over your collarbone now, fingers bunching the hem of your dress.

but liam noticed. of course he did.

his stare burned into you, lazy and electric. he didn’t stop.

his palm rolled slow over the thick bulge at his fly, movements purposeful—performative. like a man alone in a dark room. like he didn’t care who saw. like he wanted to be seen.

your mouth parted, breath shallow. he held your gaze.

and then—just once—he let his head fall back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut. not from boredom. from pleasure.

he moaned. not loud. not obscene. but enough. just loud enough for you to hear it above the thump of the bass and the muted pulse of damon’s mouth on your throat.

your knees went a little weak.

you looked back at damon quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed. but his hand had slipped to your thigh, his mouth warm and biting now.

liam was still touching himself when you looked again.

you bit your lip hard enough to sting.

his eyes snapped open at the motion. he was smirking again.

he mouthed something across the room. you couldn’t hear it. but you didn’t need to.

“mine.”

and then he squeezed his cock, slow and deliberate, before sliding his hand away—back to his pint like nothing had happened.

your thighs clenched of their own accord.

damon pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth again. “you alright?”

you nodded. swallowed. smiled—just a little too wide.

“fine.”

but your eyes strayed, just once more.

liam was gone again.

—

you lost damon’s mouth when someone passed too close—bumping him sideways, drink sloshing down his shirt. he cursed, stepping back to swipe a cloth off the table.

“fuckin’ pricks,” he muttered, blotting at the stain. “can’t even throw a proper party anymore.”

you leaned your head back against the wall, breathing shallow, thighs pressed too tight. trying not to think about the way liam looked at you. trying not to ache for it.

but of course—he came anyway.

liam didn’t wait.

he stood, pint forgotten, hips already shifting behind his fly like he’d been thinking about this all night. maybe longer. maybe since the second he saw damon’s hand on your waist.

he walked through the party like he owned the air—shoulders loose, mouth crooked, swagger spilling off him in waves. like it wasn’t damon’s girl he was after. like he didn’t care.

“you alright there?” his voice came syrup-slow, warm and thick and mean. “lookin’ a bit… bothered.”

damon turned before you could speak. already on edge. already bristling.

“fuck off, gallagher.”

but liam didn’t even blink at him. his eyes never left you.

“that what you want, love?” he asked, too close now. “someone else speakin’ for you? or someone who knows what you really need?”

his fingers ghosted your wrist. soft, teasing.

damon slapped his hand away like it burned. “don’t fucking touch her.”

liam’s grin went sharp. “didn’t know she was yours,” he said, like he meant it. “she didn’t say.”

and you— you didn’t say a word. your breath caught. your eyes fell. and you stayed right where you were.

damon turned toward you, gaze narrowing. he saw it. all of it. the blush high on your cheekbones. the way your knees pressed in, tight. the way you weren’t pulling away.

he spun you back toward him, hands rough at your hips, mouth against your throat—hot and claiming. “you’re mine,” he said, voice all grit and growl.

you barely nodded before he kissed you—fast, fierce, like he could burn liam out of your mouth if he kissed hard enough. teeth and tongue and something just shy of fury.

and liam watched.

you felt it—his eyes on you. the weight of them. the heat. and you felt the second he snapped.

because suddenly damon’s hands were gone— and liam was there instead.

pressing close. hotter. louder. rougher.

“get off her—” damon barked, stepping forward.

“make me.”

and then liam kissed you. filthy. deep. full of teeth. like he was starving for it. like he needed to taste you first.

his hands on your jaw, your waist, one dragging down to grab your ass and yank you closer—right against the hard press in his jeans. you whimpered into it. damon pulled your arm— but you didn’t move. not yet.

not when liam whispered against your lips: “let me have you. just once.”

you could’ve said no. you should’ve. but your body was already leaning in. you wanted it. wanted them both. wanted to be the fire they fought over.

you looked between them— damon flushed and fuming. liam cocky and aching.

and you said, voice barely above a breath: “both.”

—

up the stairs you went—dragged and guided, wrists caught in callused hands. liam’s grip was sloppier. greedy. all heat and whisky and the tremble of too much want. damon’s was iron. steady. like his fingers might leave prints, like if he held tight enough, he could still pretend you were only his.

you weren’t sure who reached for you first. 

didn’t matter.they were both pulling. both taking.

liam laughed under his breath—low and mean, like he’d already won. damon swore under his—over and over, a litany of fucks hissed like a fuse, like he was holding himself back with every one.

the hallway was dim, low-lit and long. music still throbbed from the floorboards below, like some distant pulse you were already falling out of rhythm with. and when the bedroom door shut behind you, it clicked like a lock, like a secret being sealed.

liam was the first to talk—of course he was.

“didn’t peg you for the type,” he said, circling like smoke, like a wolf with a taste for perfume. “lettin’ two blokes drag you upstairs. filthy little thing under all that sweetness, yeah?”

damon shoved him back by the shoulder, a snarl caught in his throat. “shut the fuck up.”

liam didn’t even stumble. just grinned. “jealous, mate? thought she was yours.”

your back hit the wall. you hadn’t even felt yourself moving. but there you were—pinned in place by heat and hunger and the way they looked at you.

two pairs of eyes, both burning. liam’s lit with mischief, amusement, some twisted thrill. damon’s darker. stormier. a glint of something that felt more like possession than play.

“take your clothes off,” damon said, voice low, already wrecked.

“yeah,” liam added, peeling off his jacket and tossing it aside. “let us see what the fuck we’ve been fighting over.”

your heart beat so loud you swore they could hear it. you didn’t move—not at first. just stood there, blinking slow, lungs too full of smoke and want.

until damon stepped forward, fingers finding the top button of your dress. he popped it open slow, deliberate—like he meant for you to feel every second of it. liam came in next, tugging the hem of the fabric higher, knuckles grazing your thighs.

“fuckin’ unreal,” he muttered, like he couldn’t help it. “like a fuckin’ dream.”

“she’s not yours yet,” damon snapped, voice tight.

“not yet,” liam echoed, cocky. hungry. “but she’s not sayin’ no either, is she?”

you weren’t. you couldn’t. you stood there trembling—eyes wide, skin flushed, breath shallow. you could feel the shift, the balance tipping. the second the tension broke and neither of them could pretend it wasn’t about claiming you anymore. this wasn’t about flirting. this wasn’t about fun. this was war, and you were the battleground.

—

damon kissed you first—of course he did. lips hot and possessive, hand at the back of your neck like he needed to anchor you, to remind you who’d brought you here. who saw you first. his mouth moved against yours with a practiced kind of urgency, like he’d done this a hundred times, but tonight was different. tonight, liam was watching.

and liam didn’t wait long to cut in.

“fuckin’ hell,” he growled, stepping in close. his hand curled tight around your waist, tugging you from the wall and straight into him—into the thick line of him through denim, already hard. already pulsing. he crowded your back, rutting up slow and filthy while damon swallowed your moan.

“feel that?” liam muttered into your neck, words smeared against your skin. “fuckin’ twitchin’ for you, and i haven’t even had a taste yet.”

you whimpered. damon’s kiss broke just enough for him to speak against your lips.

“you like this?” he asked, voice lower than sin, thumb dragging along the edge of your jaw. “like bein’ split between us?”

liam laughed under his breath, breath warm against your shoulder. “she’s soaked,” he said, like it was fact. like he could feel it through the heat of her skin. “fuckin’ drippin’ for it.”

“bed,” damon ordered, already breathless.

they moved you together—guiding, greedy. liam’s mouth at your neck, damon’s hands skating down your ribs, over the curve of your waist. you stumbled a little, half-blind with it, and damon caught you by the hips as he sat on the edge of the mattress, jeans still clinging to his thighs. he pulled you into his lap like he’d done it a thousand times.

liam didn’t bother waiting. he came up behind you and unhooked your bra with ease, tossing it aside. “this off too, yeah?” he breathed, already kissing down your spine. you nodded, barely able to speak.

his hands were rough—one on your shoulder, the other sliding low. he hooked a finger into the band of your underwear and pulled. he dragged them down slow, taking his time, eyes locked on the way the fabric stuck to your soaked thighs. you kicked them off and stood trembling in nothing, caught between their stares, stripped bare and burning.

“fuckin’ perfect,” liam groaned. “knew it.”

damon leaned forward, mouth trailing heat across your chest. “you love bein’ watched, don’t you, sweetheart?”

you nodded, dizzy, panting. liam’s teeth grazed your skin, kisses trailing lazy heat down your back.

damon’s hand dipped between your legs, fingers curling inside you without warning. you choked on a gasp and collapsed against his chest.

liam stared, jaw slack. “fuckin’ unreal.”

you were trembling now, suspended between their hands, their mouths. every breath tasted like fire.

“you gonna let us pass you around?” damon asked, voice thick. “gonna take what we give you?”

liam growled, low and possessive. “fuck that. i want her now.”

“wait your fuckin’ turn,” damon snapped, still pumping his fingers inside you—but you were already moving, already climbing off his lap, mindless and hungry and shaking.

you turned to liam. lips parted, thighs slick, legs unsteady.

liam caught you mid-step, one hand wrapping around your throat—loose, not choking, just claiming. his eyes burned down into yours, dark and bottomless.

“on your knees,” he rasped.

—

you dropped without question.

liam didn’t wait. didn’t ask. he fumbled with his fly, dragged his jeans down far enough, and pulled himself free—already thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. his hand moved slow over himself, just once, just enough to watch you watch him—eyes wide, lashes damp, lips parted.

“fuckin’ unreal,” he muttered. “on your knees like you were made for it.”

he brushed the head of his cock against your mouth, smearing precome like gloss across your lips. you opened up—obedient, eager—tongue out, ready.

he slid in slow. just the tip at first. enough to stretch your mouth, to watch your jaw go soft around him.

“jesus fuck,” he breathed. “this fuckin’ mouth—”

you hollowed your cheeks, sucked him in deeper. his hand curled tight in your hair, grounding. holding.

behind you, damon knelt on the floor, his fingers ghosting your spine. he was silent for a second—just watching, drinking it in like a slow drag of smoke. then, calm and low: “slower.”

liam huffed. “she likes it rough.”

you moaned around him, breath caught, throat tight.

“see?” liam laughed, voice already fraying.

his hips rolled—testing. shallow thrusts at first. careful. but not for long. each push went deeper, until your nose was pressed to his skin, your throat stretched full, tight, aching. you gagged. swallowed. gagged again. and stayed there.

“fuckin’ no gag reflex,” liam gasped. “little angel. takin’ it so sweet.”

damon’s hand slid up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. his other hand dipped between your thighs—bare now, slick and swollen. you whimpered. liam groaned.

“she’s fuckin’ melting,” he said, voice thick. “look at her knees. fuckin’ slick.”

he pulled out just far enough to slap his cock against your cheek—wet and sharp. once. twice. again. you gasped with each sting, spit stringing from your lips.

“open.”

you did. he fed it back to you, rougher this time—both hands on your head, fucking in. your mascara smudged. your eyes watered. your throat clenched tight.

“take it,” he snarled. “take what you fuckin’ begged for.”

you choked, coughed, moaned—each breath a broken little prayer. damon’s fingers rubbed lazy circles over your clit, teasing soft and mean.

“she’s fuckin’ soaked,” he murmured. “not even inside her yet and she’s already gone.”

liam grunted, hips stuttering. “gonna ruin this mouth,” he growled. “gonna use her ‘til she can’t speak.”

you sobbed around him, desperate. your lungs ached. your throat pulsed. you were trembling on your knees, caught between ache and awe.

“breathe,” damon said softly, tugging your shoulder.

liam pulled out with a wet pop. you gasped. spit trailed down your chin, your chest, shining under the low light. your throat burned. your eyes blurred.

but still, you leaned forward, stroking him with one hand, licking the tip, kissing it like you missed him.

“fuckin’ perfect,” liam whispered. “look at her. fuckin’ look.”

“on the bed,” damon said, darker now.

liam helped you up—hands on your waist, your tits, everywhere. you swayed, dizzy and glowing.

damon settled behind you on the mattress, palms sliding up your thighs, spreading you open slow. liam climbed on top, his cock resting heavy against your stomach.

“wanna fuck her throat again,” liam muttered. “make her cry on it.”

“you will,” damon said, slipping two fingers inside you, slow and steady. “but not yet. not ‘til i’ve had her too.”

—

liam didn’t wait. didn’t need to.

he just hooked a thumb beneath your chin, tilted your head up, and said, breathless, “mouth, now. c’mon, sweetheart.”

you opened without question.

he eased back in—slow this time, deliberate, savoring the slide. your throat was already sore, drool slick at the corners of your mouth, but he groaned like it was the first time all over again.

“good girl,” he panted. “fuckin’ filthy.”

behind you, damon had dropped to his knees between your thighs. his hands found your hips—firm, steady—as he spread you open like he owned the right. the air hit your cunt sharp and cool, and then you felt the warm weight of his cock sliding through your folds. slow. thick. deliberate.

already wet enough he didn’t need to tease.

“hold still,” he muttered.

you moaned around liam’s cock. a muffled, strangled sound.

damon hissed, low. “she’s dripping. this just from your cock in her mouth?”

liam laughed, voice rough. “’course it is. look at her. made for this. she loves it, don’t you, babe?”

you tried to nod, but he was too deep.

“that’s what i fuckin’ thought,” he growled, fisting your hair tighter.

then damon pushed in. slow, stretching, splitting you wide. you gasped, back arching, and liam held your head steady, hips twitching forward to bury himself deeper down your throat.

“jesus,” damon groaned, breath catching. “tight as fuck.”

“tight everywhere,” liam muttered, voice frayed. “mouth’s fuckin’ heaven.”

and then they started moving.

damon rolled his hips into you with deep, unhurried thrusts, filling you up again and again—while liam fucked your mouth with sharper, shorter snaps, his cock gliding slick through spit and heat. they moved like they’d done it before. like they’d planned this. like they knew exactly how to ruin you together.

you were just caught in the middle, helpless and aching, stretched wide between them—nothing but a body for them to fuck.

“look at this,” liam rasped. “fucked-out little toy. not even blinking.”

damon dragged a hand up your back, palm warm on your spine. “she’s perfect. takin’ it like she was made for us.”

you moaned, voice crushed and wet around liam’s cock. your throat fluttered each time he pushed in, your cunt clenched every time damon bottomed out. you couldn’t think. couldn’t breathe. didn’t want to.

liam slipped out with a wet gasp, slapped his cock against your cheek—once, twice, again—leaving you messy and open, drool slicking your chin, tongue still hanging out.

“open wider,” he ordered. “there. fuck, that’s it.”

he slid back in, deeper. you gagged and swallowed, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes.

behind you, damon grunted. “she’s clenching. fuck. think she’s gonna come.”

“don’t let her,” liam snapped. “she doesn’t get to come ‘til we do.”

“we won’t,” damon promised, pace quickening. “not ‘til she’s ruined.”

you whimpered, trembling, desperate to come, to breathe, to fall apart—but they weren’t done with you.

liam’s hips slapped against your mouth, cock bruising your throat, hands locked in your hair. damon fucked you harder, one hand spreading your ass to get deeper, his breath hot and ragged.

“you feel how soaked she is?” damon panted. “she loves this. bein’ used. bein’ filled.”

“she’ll get filled,” liam growled. “not yet, though. not ‘til she’s fuckin’ beggin’.”

your body burned. your cunt throbbed. your jaw ached. and still, you took it.

—

you barely had time to breathe before he shoved back in, deeper than before—sharp and punishing. you choked, tears spilling hot and silent down your cheeks, mascara smeared and forgotten. it burned, it throbbed, it stretched your jaw until it ached—but still you moaned. still you begged, muffled and desperate, the sound guttural and soaked in spit.

behind you, damon bent low over your back. his hand wrapped around your throat from behind—not squeezing, not yet. just resting there, heavy and warm, palm curved over the flutter of your pulse.

“you like bein’ fucked like this?” he muttered, voice a snarl in your ear. “two cocks stretchin’ you open, mouth full, cunt drippin’—this what you came for, sweetheart?”

you whimpered, tried to nod, but liam’s cock was too deep. your body answered for you—hips rolling, pussy clenching down around nothing, desperate to be filled again. you pushed back against damon’s abs, tried to drag more friction out of the air, and it made him groan—low and wrecked.

“she’s fuckin’ close,” damon gritted out, breath hot against your neck. “feel her shakin’. she’s gonna—fuck.”

“not yet,” liam said, voice sharp, hand tightening in your hair. “hold it, sweetheart. you don’t come ‘til we say.”

your whole body trembled—wrecked, strung out, ruined. they were good at this. too good. dragging you right to the edge only to leave you there, twitching. their cocks, their hands, their voices, all of it too much and not enough. you were gone—somewhere between need and obedience, dizzy with it.

“you hear that?” damon hissed, snapping his hips forward just to make you flinch. “don’t come. be a good girl. hold it for us.”

liam fucked faster, rougher. his cock slid down your throat with each thrust, slick and brutal, and your jaw hung wide just to take it. you couldn’t breathe—but you didn’t want to. you didn’t need to.

then—his hand gripped your chin, thumb pressing into your cheek, and he dragged himself out. spit clung to his cock, thick and glistening, and he slapped it against your face—once, twice, with a little groan each time.

“miss me?” he rasped.

you gasped for air, lips red, eyes glassy.

“open.”

you did. tongue out. obedient. filthy.

“there’s a good girl.”

he slid back in, deeper than before, and your knees buckled again.

behind you, damon’s hand clenched hard at your hip. “fuck—fuck, i’m gonna—”

liam’s eyes narrowed. “don’t.”

“she’s squeezin’—fuck, liam—”

“pull out,” he growled. “we’re switchin’.”

damon cursed like it pained him. slipped out slow, wet, panting. you whimpered, mouth still full, the loss of him sharp and aching—but then hands were all over you. rough and warm and frantic. gripping, flipping, dragging you onto your back.

your head hit the mattress. your thighs fell open. and liam was there—hair a mess, sweat dripping from his neck, shirt pushed up past his stomach as he shoved his cock into you in one long, brutal thrust.

you cried out. back arching, nails raking the sheets.

“that’s it,” he panted, already fucking you. “been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night. watchin’ you bounce on his cock—made me fuckin’ ache.”

he set a rhythm without mercy. deep and fast, the sound of skin on skin filthy and constant. your body rocked with every thrust, breasts bouncing, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan.

damon settled beside you, cock flushed and angry, still slick with you. he brushed a thumb along your cheek, kissed the corner of your mouth.

“you still hungry, darling?”

you blinked up at him—glass-eyed, fucked out—and opened your lips.

he guided himself in, slow and smooth. let you suck him messy, tongue greedy, lips swollen. “that’s it,” he breathed. “my sweet little whore. always so good with your mouth full.”

liam slammed into you harder, fingers bruising your hips. “she’s tighter now,” he gritted. “she likes havin’ both of us. made for it.”

you moaned around damon’s cock, voice warbled, and they just kept using you.

—

liam was pounding into you now, sharp and fast, dragging filthy sounds from your throat even around damon’s cock. it was too much—too full, too wet, too fucking good.

“this cunt’s fuckin’ soaked,” liam growled. “like it missed me.”

“she’s tight as hell,” damon muttered, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. “how’s that throat, love?”

you couldn’t speak. not properly. just moaned, tears slipping sideways into your hair.

liam’s hand found your throat, gripping as he fucked harder.

“don’t you fuckin’ come yet,” he hissed. “not ‘til we say.”

you were right there. stomach tight, cunt squeezing him over and over. your thighs trembled.

and still they didn’t let you come.

damon pulled out again, slapped his cock against your lips—“beg,” he said.

you did. voice barely there.

“say it louder.”

“please,” you choked. “need it. please—”

liam was close too. his thrusts rougher now, sloppy, sweat dripping onto your chest. he gritted his teeth. “fuck—gonna ruin you.”

you begged for it. begged with your body, your hands, your mouth.

and still they held back.

still they made you wait.

your thighs were shaking.

sweat cooling where it gathered behind your knees, on your collarbone, where damon had bitten down hard enough to leave a mark. your body was wrecked—used and soaked and trembling—and still they wouldn’t let you come.

liam had pulled out just when your moans hit that desperate pitch. “nah,” he panted, grinning, breathless. “not yet.”

you sobbed, hips rolling helplessly against nothing, your clit aching. it felt like punishment—delicious, drawn-out punishment—and neither of them had any plans to stop.

“told you not to come,” damon murmured, brushing his knuckles over your throat, your chest, down to the soaked heat between your legs. “and you were about to, weren’t you, sweetheart?”

“n-no,” you lied, barely audible.

liam snorted, crouching at the foot of the bed. “don’t lie, love. we know this cunt like the back of our hands now. fuckin’ pulses when she’s close.”

“yeah?” damon said softly, tilting your chin so you’d look at him. “then maybe she needs to learn how to behave.”

you whimpered—open-mouthed, desperate.

liam slid two fingers inside, slow and cruel. they curled just right, just enough, and you arched again—thinking maybe, maybe this time they'd let you. maybe they'd—

but then he pulled out, smeared the slick across your inner thigh, kissed it.

"not yet."

“please,” you gasped.

damon just leaned in, lips ghosting your temple. “you’ll come when we say. not before.”

they worked you open again and again—hands and mouths and hips grinding into you, cock in your mouth, in your cunt, but never letting you fall. never tipping you over the edge.

liam fucked your mouth while damon stretched you out on three fingers, palm pressed to your stomach to feel how deep he was. then they’d switch—liam between your thighs again, slapping his cock against your cunt, dragging it through your folds until you cried.

and every time your breath hitched—that tiny tell—you were stopped. left empty. aching.

—

“don’t cry,” liam murmured, soft and sticky, brushing a tear down your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “you love this. bein’ our little toy. lettin’ us play with you.”

you nodded, dizzy with it—soaked and ruined, begging without words. you couldn’t lie. not like this. not when you were stretched and trembling, cunt clenching around nothing, mouth too slack to speak.

damon leaned back on his heels, eyes dark as coal, cock twitching where it lay heavy against his thigh. he dragged his gaze over your body like he was trying to memorize every shake and spill of you. “you’re filthy,” he said, but there was heat behind it. reverence. “fuck if you’re not perfect.”

liam didn’t wait. didn’t ask. he pulled you into his lap and sank you down onto his cock in one smooth drag, and you cried out—more from relief than pain, though it was both, both, always both.

“don’t move,” he growled into your mouth. “you sit there. just like that. don’t fuckin’ move unless we say.”

he was so deep it made your vision spark—cock nudging that place inside you that made you feel cracked open, barely human. you shook, hands braced on his chest, but you didn’t move. couldn’t. wouldn’t. you were pliant, obedient, wrecked.

they didn’t fuck you. not yet.

they didn’t let you come, didn’t let you do anything but feel it—liam pulsing inside you, damon’s eyes eating you whole. time dripped like syrup. seconds stretched like years. you floated somewhere between need and nothing.

when you begged again, voice paper-thin—“please, please let me, need it, please”—they shared a look. unspoken. cruel.

then damon leaned in, slow, like he was offering something sacred.

“alright,” he said, voice low and lilting. “you wanna come?”

you nodded. frantic. pleading. your thighs twitched around liam’s hips.

“you’re gonna earn it.”

liam laid you flat again. your back hit the mattress and your legs were lifted, bent, folded—ankles over shoulders. he held them there like handles, then slammed back inside you with one savage thrust. the force of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

“gonna make her come so hard she sees stars,” he panted.

“no,” damon corrected, palming himself slowly, eyes locked on the way your body bowed. “gonna make her cry for it first.”

and they did.

they edged you until your moans turned to sobs—until even the word please sounded broken. your voice cracked like glass, your hips writhing, cunt squeezing around liam’s cock like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the room.

liam’s pace grew mean—shallow thrusts, maddening, barely there. enough to tease, to make you twitch and grind and sob out another helpless whimper.

he studied you. watched every flicker of agony in your eyes like it thrilled him.

“how many times’ve we stopped you now?” he asked, almost dreamy. his thumb dragged across your cheek, smearing tears and spit. “three? four?”

“five,” damon said from the headboard, voice lazy. his hand was wrapped around his cock again, stroking slow. he looked at you like you were a painting. something expensive. something ruined. “poor little thing can’t think straight.”

your thighs trembled. your whole body did. tears spilled freely now, lip wobbling, your breath a stuttered mess.

“she’s close again,” liam muttered. his voice was hoarse. his hips stuttered, cock twitching inside you.

“ruin it,” damon said, cold. “make her wait.”

“no—please—” you gasped, voice gone raw. “i’ll be good, i swear, i’ll—”

liam pulled out.

slow. cruel. deliberate.

your cunt clenched around nothing, fluttering empty, a cry ripping out of you like it had claws. he slapped his cock against your thigh—wet, heavy, hot. you were slick everywhere, thighs shiny, sheets ruined. your body thrummed with denial.

you didn’t even know you were begging again until damon reached down and grabbed your chin—tilted your head up, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“you wanna come that bad, sweetheart?” he cooed. “gonna lose your mind if we don’t let you?”

you nodded, wild. frantic.

—

he smirked. “then crawl.”

you blinked, breath caught halfway between a sob and a moan.

“on all fours,” he clarified, voice low and slick with threat. “between us. show us how much you want it.”

you moved without thinking. knees aching, palms sinking into the rumpled sheets, body flushed all over with sweat and spit and need. everything between your thighs throbbed. everything inside you ached.

liam laughed behind you—dark and delighted. his hands were on you immediately, spreading you open, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your ass.

“fuckin’ mess,” he muttered, breath ghosting over your skin. “never seen a cunt this wet before. it’s obscene.”

in front of you, damon stroked himself lazy and slow, eyes half-lidded as he watched you crawl. “she’s got no idea who she wants more.”

“don’t matter,” liam said, leaning in, mouth brushing your lower back. “she’s gettin’ both.”

and you did.

they made you take turns.

damon in your mouth, thick and rough, hand knotted in your hair as he pulled you forward, feeding his cock past your lips with slow, possessive rolls of his hips.

liam fucking into you again from behind—harder this time, deeper. brutal thrusts that made you jolt forward, made your mouth choke on damon’s cock, made the sheets crease beneath your knees.

and every time you started to shake—every time that white-hot pulse built low in your belly—they stopped.

again.

and again.

and again.

“liam—please, i can’t—”

“you can,” he growled, snapping his hips forward. “and you will.”

damon slapped the side of your face with his cock—gentle, almost playful. “open up.”

you did.

you always did.

mouth slack, tongue out, spit slicking your chin. he slid back in and didn’t stop—fucked your throat slow and deep, his cock dragging against the sore walls of your mouth, fingers tight at the back of your skull.

“such a pretty little cocksleeve,” he murmured. “so eager to please. we could do this all night, couldn’t we?”

liam groaned behind you, pace quickening. “she’s squeezin’ me,” he panted, voice ragged. “fuck, she’s gonna—”

“not yet,” damon barked. “make her wait. make her feel it.”

you sobbed around damon’s cock. it hurt. it burned. you were soaked and shaking and full and empty and used. your whole body screamed for release, but they kept dragging you back—over and over. denial thick as blood in your veins.

liam reached around, two fingers circling your clit—sloppy and fast, just enough to make your hips buck.

“you come without permission,” he warned, voice tight, “we start over.”

and god, you were close.

so fucking close.

you trembled violently, your jaw slack as damon fucked your throat, as liam filled you like he wanted to ruin you from the inside out. your vision blurred. your hands slipped on the sheets. your breath caught.

you wanted to come so badly it felt like your skin might tear.

“she’s crying again,” liam said, gleeful, voice dark with triumph. “fuckin’—look at her. you ever seen anyone this desperate?”

damon pulled out with a wet pop, letting your head fall forward. you gasped, spit pooling down your chin, mouth open and useless.

your body sagged—aching, overstimulated, unraveling.

“please,” you whispered. barely a sound. “please, i need—”

“not yet,” liam snapped.

“just a bit longer,” damon added.

your thighs twitched. your stomach clenched. your cunt fluttered helplessly around liam’s cock, still buried inside you like it belonged there.

—

and then it hit you out of nowhere.

you had tried so hard to obey—to breathe, to take them, to hold yourself back—but then liam’s fingers brushed just right, and damon thrust deep into your throat, and suddenly it was happening. the orgasm ripped through you like a snapped wire.

“fuck—i—i’m—” you choked out a sob as your hips jolted forward, thighs trembling, cunt clenching tight around liam’s cock. your vision whited out. your whole body seized, back arched, moaning helplessly around damon’s cock. you hadn’t even meant to. it was just too much—the teasing, the pressure, the filth of it all, their voices and their hands and their need.

liam stilled behind you, breath going sharp. “she came,” he muttered, incredulous. “she fuckin’ came.”

you slumped forward, thighs twitching, cheek pressed to damon’s thigh. you were still shaking. still dazed.

damon eased himself out of your mouth—slow, wet—then grabbed your jaw and tilted your face up to look at him. “did we say you could?”

you blinked up at him, ruined. slack-jawed. drool and come slick on your chin.

“i—i’m sorry—i didn’t—”

“no, sweetheart,” damon cut in, voice low. “you did.”

liam chuckled darkly, fingers digging bruises into your hips. “fuckin’ greedy.”

“didn’t even ask,” damon said, still holding your face. “didn’t even ask.”

“gonna have to teach you a lesson now, aren’t we?”

“no, please—”

“oh, now you wanna beg?” liam snorted. “bit late for that.”

and then he pulled out. you whimpered at the loss, body still fluttering from the aftershocks. your knees gave out beneath you, and you collapsed back onto the mattress.

—

damon hauled you up by the arm, flipped you over like you weighed nothing, pinning your wrists above your head. your back hit the mattress, body boneless and blinking, already spent—but they weren’t done. not even close.

liam grabbed your knees, spread you open wide, stared down at the mess between your thighs like it was something holy. “look at that,” he muttered, voice gone soft and wrecked. “fuckin’ soaked.”

“she’s gonna be sorer than she’s ever been,” damon rasped, settling between your legs again. “but it’s what she wanted. didn’t you, sweetheart?”

you shook your head, tears in your lashes, the words barely there. “i—I can’t—”

“yes you can,” liam murmured, already shifting forward. “and you will.”

damon stroked himself once, lined up, and slammed back in. you screamed. arched. your wrists jerked in his grip, but it didn’t matter—your cunt was already pulsing, raw and slick, stretched wide for him again.

liam knelt beside your head for just a second—then shifted, bracing one knee over your shoulder and the other beside your ribs, cock heavy against your cheek. “open,” he ordered.

you did.

and he slid in, slow and mean, one hand tangled in your hair, the other braced on the headboard as he started to fuck your mouth again—this time with no softness at all.

now you were helpless. pinned. every hole filled, no room to move or breathe. damon pounded into your cunt like he meant to ruin it, hips snapping, his teeth clenched. and liam used your throat like it was his god-given right, fucking deep, holding you still by your hair as your lips stretched wide around him.

they didn’t stop. not when your legs started to shake. not when your throat burned raw. not even when your cunt fluttered, desperate and full.

“she’s fuckin’ addicted,” liam groaned, thrusting harder, deeper. “look at her—soaked again already. takin’ it like a cockdrunk little whore.”

damon’s jaw clenched. he grunted, sweat sliding down his spine, watching the way your body bowed up for him, how your hips still tried to meet every thrust like you couldn’t help it. “you hear that?” he panted. “she’s squelching. fuckin’ dripping all over me.”

you whimpered around liam’s cock, throat too full to speak, eyes burning with tears. spit smeared across your cheeks, frothing at the corners of your mouth. you gagged again, choked softly—and liam just moaned.

“aw, baby,” he crooned, voice gone almost sweet. “you cryin’? sobbin’ ‘cause you’re that fuckin’ full?”

he swiped your tears away with his thumb—then pressed it to your jaw, forcing you wider. “you love it. filthy little fuckin’ girl.”

damon’s hands gripped tighter at your hips. your arms went limp above your head. all you could do was take it. take it and take it—his brutal rhythm, the bruising grip, the hot breath on your skin.

liam pulled out for just a second—let you breathe—then slapped his cock across your cheek, once, twice, before sliding it back into your mouth.

“fuckin’ born for this,” he muttered. “your mouth was made to be used.”

damon groaned. his hips stuttered. “gonna fill her up—fuck, she’s milkin’ me—”

liam laughed, breathless. you moaned helplessly, tears streaking your cheeks, spit trailing down your chest. your whole body shook—your thighs locked up.

you were so close again it hurt.

“please,” you tried to say, voice broken around liam’s cock. it barely came out at all.

“you beggin’?” damon bit out.

“thinks she deserves it,” liam sneered, his hips still rolling, his cock rutting against your throat like he owned it.

then they both went still. just for a second.

damon leaned in, voice brushing your ear like a threat.

“not yet.”

—

they dragged you off the bed and dropped you to your knees like they were done pretending you weren’t a toy. one hand each, tangled in your hair—guiding, holding, owning. “look at you,” damon sneered, thumb swiping the spit from your lips, smearing it across your cheek like it was warpaint. “can’t keep your fuckin’ mouth off our cocks for five minutes.” “needy little slut,” liam muttered, already unzipping with one hand, cock hard again, heavy in the low light. “go on then. be useful.”

you blinked up at them, mouth already parted like you were starved. you didn’t even wait for permission—you just reached for both of them at once, stroking them side by side like it was all you knew. one hand wrapped around damon, the other for liam, your jaw already going slack as you leaned forward and took damon into your mouth, lips stretching wide.

liam let out a breathy laugh, not jealous—just amused. “always his cock first, huh? fuckin’ groupie.” “she’ll get to you,” damon said, voice low, hand brushing hair from your face like you were something delicate even as you gagged around him. “look at her. workin’ us both like a good little toy.”

you moaned around him, spit starting to slip down your chin, wrist twisting just right around liam’s cock like you’d memorised what made him twitch. they were both watching you like they were starving and you were the only thing left to eat.

and god, you were soaked. your hips shifted, almost on instinct, grinding against the rough carpet beneath you in search of even the smallest relief. it wasn’t enough—never enough—but the pressure was something, and your moan deepened, throat fluttering around damon.

you thought maybe they wouldn’t notice. they noticed.

liam jerked your head back hard enough to make your spine arch, spit trailing from your mouth to damon’s cock. “what the fuck d’you think you’re doin’, huh?” you blinked up at him, dazed. “just—needed—” “needed?” he snapped. “who the fuck said you get to need anything?”

damon’s voice cut sharp, a clean slice. “was that you humpin’ the fuckin’ carpet like a bitch in heat?” you froze.

they stood over you, hard and flushed and furious, and you were still on your knees, dripping and ruined, lips red and shiny with spit. “got two cocks in your hands, one in your mouth,” liam growled, “and you’re still greedy? fuckin’ unbelievable.”

you tried to say something, anything, but damon pressed his thumb hard against your lips, muffling the sound before it could leave. “nah,” he said. “no more of that. not ‘til we say.”

liam leaned in close, his voice rough and thick with heat. “you wanna come that bad?” he said, smiling against your cheek. “then beg. tell us why the fuck you deserve it.”

—

they didn’t even let you finish your plea.

you were on your back in seconds, dizzy from the manhandling, thighs spread wide and trembling, breath hitching in your chest like a sob. but liam didn’t fuck you—not yet. he just sank into you slow, so slow, thick and deep and hot—and still. didn’t move. just held you there, full to the brim, cunt twitching around him from the stretch and the ache and the sheer denial of it.

“shh,” he cooed, already breathless. “you want it so bad, don’t you? thought about this for fuckin’ hours. days.”

you nodded, desperate, nails clawing at his arms.

damon crouched beside you, palm stroking your jaw. “then be good. hold him. just hold him.”

you tried. god, you tried. but your hips twitched, bucking up just a little.

liam growled low in your ear. “what’d i fuckin’ say?” his hand flew to your throat, fingers curled around your pulse—not squeezing, just there. grounding. warning.

“stay still,” he said again. “take me. that’s all you get.”

your walls fluttered around him, slick and hungry, clenching on instinct.

damon chuckled darkly, brushing your damp hair from your cheeks. “she’s barely hangin’ on. look at her.”

your lips trembled. your cunt pulsed. you were so full and so empty at once, stuck in that unbearable in-between.

“please,” you whispered, voice shaking. “just—need to come.”

“you need to?” damon echoed, faux sympathy laced with heat. “oh, babe. this isn’t about what you need.”

liam leaned down, kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and biting.

“you’ll come,” he murmured. “when we say.”

“maybe.”

“maybe not.”

and still—they didn’t move.

you were stuck there, trembling and soaked, cockwarming liam while damon stroked lazy circles over your swollen clit. barely enough to keep you right there—on the cusp, on the edge, begging with your body even when your mouth went quiet. they could’ve done it for hours. you would’ve let them.

your whole body thrummed with tension—hips shaking, thighs aching, cunt clenching desperately around liam, who stayed deep inside. not moving. not giving. just holding you open, stretched and sloppy and so fucking full.

and worse—damon was still teasing. his fingers ghosted over your clit, maddening light. the barest brush, the slowest swirl. never enough.

“hold still,” liam gritted again, low and hot in your ear. his grip on your hips was bruising. anchoring. like he knew you’d try to squirm again. “told you—s’not for you to take.”

you whimpered, trembling underneath them, so full you felt like you might split open. your walls fluttered, pulsing with need.

“but—please—”

damon hummed, gaze locked on your wrecked face. “oh, she’s close again. feel that?”

his fingertips circled your clit slow, cruel. like he was winding you up just to let you unravel.

you writhed—instinct, really—just trying to rock your hips, to chase a fraction more friction, to meet liam’s cock where it rested. anything.

“don’t you dare,” liam growled. “you move again and we stop.”

“fuck, please,” you gasped, eyes shining. “can’t—can’t help it—”

damon leaned in, mouth by your jaw, fingers never letting up on your clit. “then don’t help it. suffer for it.”

and you did. suffer, that is—body strung tight like wire, breaths hitching in your throat. liam’s cock pulsed inside you with every shallow squeeze your cunt gave. and god, he felt it.

“you’re clenchin’ so fuckin’ hard,” he muttered, jaw tight. “like you’re tryin’ to milk me without movin’. cheeky little thing.”

damon snorted softly. “think she’s gonna cry.”

you weren’t sure if you already were.

“you want to come, sweetheart?” damon asked, almost sweetly, rubbing a slow circle just above where you needed him. “you want us to let you?”

you nodded frantically.

but they didn’t say yes.

they didn’t move.

liam shifted just enough to knock the head of his cock against that aching spot inside, and you sobbed, legs trembling violently now.

“fuck!” you cried. “please—i’ll do anything—”

“you’ll do nothing,” liam cut in, voice hoarse. “we’ll do. you’ll take.”

and then damon slid down between your legs, replaced fingers with tongue, licked at your clit while liam stayed lodged deep—cock twitching, balls snug up against your cunt like he was just waiting.

you arched. moaned. seized.

and then damon pulled back, mouth wet, breath hot.

“not yet,” he said.

you were falling apart and no one was catching you.

they hauled you into damon’s lap like you weighed nothing, his back pressed to the headboard, cock already hard and leaking against his stomach. he palmed your hips, thumbs digging in, your cunt still twitching from liam’s tongue.

you whimpered when you felt him line up—thick and hot, head slipping through your folds. your thighs trembled as you straddled him, hands braced on his chest.

“go on then,” liam murmured from the end of the bed, voice lower now—gutted. “show me how you ride him.”

you were too wrecked to answer, only nodding as you sank down slow. damon groaned, head falling back, grip bruising your hips.

“fuckin’ hell,” he hissed. “still so tight, even after all that.”

you rocked your hips, slow at first. it was thick, so thick, and your muscles ached from restraint. from being used. you cried out when he ground up into you, cock dragging that spot that made you see stars.

liam sat just out of reach, legs spread, fist wrapped tight around his cock. he watched you like a starved man—eyes dark, hungry, drinking in the bounce of your tits and the way your mouth fell open.

“look at you,” he breathed, voice broken. “takin’ him so good. so fuckin’ good.”

you met his gaze, even as your thighs trembled from the effort.

“want you to touch me,” you pleaded, eyes glassy.

“you’ve got him,” liam murmured, thumb teasing over his leaking tip. “earn me.”

you moaned at that—keening as damon snapped his hips up rougher now, making you ride harder, faster.

“she’s fuckin’ perfect,” damon growled, hand slipping between you to rub your clit. “look at her, liam. fuckin’ made for it.”

liam groaned, fisting himself faster. “tell her. tell her what she is.”

“cock drunk little slut,” damon snarled, voice ragged. “just a fucktoy. stuffed full, used, begging for more.”

you cried out, clenching around him.

liam stroked himself harder, breathing shaky.

“bet she’ll come just from that,” he muttered. “from ridin’ you while i watch.”

your body jolted with each thrust—damon dragging you down onto him, your cunt wet and sloppy, clit swollen. liam spat in his palm, spread it over his cock with a hiss, eyes locked on the way damon disappeared into you again and again.

“fuck,” he muttered. “can’t wait to split her open next round.”

damon gritted his teeth, thrusts snapping up cruel. “you hear that? you’re not even done yet.”

you nodded, tears streaking your cheeks, moaning like it was the only word you remembered.

“thank you,” you gasped. “thank you—thank you—”

liam moaned. “you love it. love bein’ passed around.”

“so filthy,” damon panted. “but she’s ours.”

you sobbed, cunt clenching around him—right there on the edge again.

damon’s grip turned bruising, his chest sticky with sweat as he slammed into you from beneath. your cries sharpened with every thrust, hands scrambling across his shoulders for something to hold.

“gonna fill you up,” he gritted, teeth clenched. “fuckin’ ruin you for anyone else.”

you nodded, desperate. babbling something half-coherent, gasping with every drag of his cock inside you.

liam stayed at the foot of the bed, fist tight around himself, breath ragged and uneven.

“go on,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked. “fill her up, albarn. let her leak for me.”

you whined—half a sob, half a moan—as damon shoved in deep, hips jerking, cock twitching. his head tipped back against the wall as he spilled inside you, thick and hot and endless.

you shuddered around him, already clenching from the heat of it, cunt fluttering like your body didn’t know what to do with it all.

damon exhaled slow, dragging you down into his lap, pressing his lips to your temple as his hand stroked down your back.

“fuck,” he breathed. “that’s it. took it so well.”

but liam was already moving. already climbing back onto the bed, already dragging you off damon’s lap with hands greedy and impatient.

“my fuckin’ turn,” he muttered, pulling you to all fours.

you gasped, the shift making damon’s cum spill from you in a slow, messy drip.

liam saw it—let out a low, wrecked groan, one hand spreading your ass to watch it leak. “jesus. look at that. fuckin’ full of him.”

you started to say something, but his cock pressed to your entrance—already hard again, already dripping—and the words turned to noise.

“he warmed you up for me,” liam panted, pushing in slow. “that’s sweet of him, innit?”

you moaned, high and cracked, back arching.

“still so fuckin’ tight,” he gritted, bottoming out with a snap of his hips. “like your cunt’s fuckin’ starving.”

he started fucking you immediately—deep and messy, the slick from damon making everything louder, wetter. the slap of skin and the filth of it echoed through the room like thunder.

you sobbed into the sheets, clawing for purchase, body melting under the weight of it all.

“mine now,” liam growled, hand fisting in your hair. “gonna fuck you till you forget his name.”

“c’mon, love,” damon murmured, voice low and coaxing. “give us one more. you’ve got it in you.”

liam groaned behind you, cock twitching inside your soaked cunt. “she’s close. can feel it.”

and you were. soaked and stuffed full, stretched and trembling, your voice unraveling into nothing but choked gasps and ruined little cries. your body felt like a wire pulled too tight, every nerve frayed and raw.

liam thrust harder, meaner, his nails biting into your hips. damon’s fingers never stopped—circling your clit with sharp, deliberate sweetness.

“let go,” liam breathed, voice torn and hoarse. “come for us, baby. now.”

and you did.

like a spark to dry leaves—sudden, scorching, a full-body detonation. your wail broke ragged in the room, your cunt clenching down hard around liam’s cock as he groaned, loud and guttural, hips stuttering against you.

“fuck—fuckin’—take it, take all of it—”

he came deep, hard, burying himself to the hilt, grinding against you as he spilled inside. his whole body shuddered, slumped heavy over your back, breath catching.

—

and then damon was pulling you close again, tugging you back into the pillows, arms wrapping around your shaking body.

you were limp, breathless, boneless. flushed and wrecked and fucked-out beyond words, your lashes fluttering where your cheek rested against his chest.

“that’s it,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “you did so good. took all of it.”

liam stayed behind you, panting, cock still slick inside you as he pulled out with a wet drag. he watched the way your thighs trembled, watched cum spill down onto the sheets. he swiped his thumb through it absently, slow and possessive.

“look at the fuckin’ state of her,” he muttered, not quite teasing. “ruined.”

“we should send her back down like this,” damon said lazily, thumb brushing your jaw. “see how long she lasts out there.”

liam’s gaze sharpened. “fuck off.”

damon chuckled, but there was heat behind it. “what? let ‘em see what she’s good for.”

liam sat up, slow, and dragged the sheets up over your bare skin. tucked them in like a shield. “she’s not goin’ anywhere.”

you didn’t speak. couldn’t, really. you just blinked up at the ceiling, floating on the edge of sleep, every nerve still pulsing.

they were quiet for a beat. the room thick with something taut and silent.

then—damon shifted, pressed a kiss to your temple.

liam wiped between your thighs with a warm cloth he didn’t ask for.

they didn’t talk to each other. just to you. soft little murmurs.

“you’re alright, love.”

“you did so fuckin’ well.”

“my good girl.”

“ours.”

their touches overlapped—careful, clumsy. damon combing his fingers through your sweat-damp hair, liam tracing circles into your thigh like he didn’t realize he was doing it. both of them acting like the other didn’t exist, except for the way they kept trying to outdo one another. gentler. quieter. closer.

you fell asleep tucked between them—liam’s arm slung heavy around your waist, damon’s breath warm against your shoulder.

[lathalea]

Entangled ch 6: The Forge and The Smith

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Dwarf OFC (The Hobbit)

Rating: G (subject to change)

Warnings: ANGST, Thorin in the Forges 😏

Summary: Arranged marriages are common among the dwarven nobility. After reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, the Kingdom Under the Mountain needs to be rebuilt. Thorin agrees to marry a lady from the Blue Mountains, securing a mutually beneficial alliance with the Broadbeam Dwarves. Lady Mista is said to be a practical and hard-working dwarf-woman, willing to give him an heir who would secure the line of succession. A decent queen material, his advisors say. If only Thorin could let go of his past…

You can find this fic crossposted on AO3 (search for lathalea).

A/N: Thank you, my lovely readers, for your patience! I have finally managed to finish this rather lengthy chapter. I hope its contents will make up for my snail-paced writing. Special thanks to all who supported and motivated me in the recent months, and extra special THANK YOU with a cherry on top to the wonderful and diligent @legolasbadass for betaing this chapter and for all our Thorin-related discussions :) I wouldn't have made it so far without you! 💙💙💙

-*-*-*-

KHUZDUL:

Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain

‘Urdêk - local name of ‘the Lonely Mountain’ (referring to the dwarven Halls within the mountain), used by its inhabitants

Itkitî! - “Silence!” 

Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain

Kaminzabdûna - “Earth Queen”, Yavanna

Uzrak - Master, a honorary title given to revered masters of craft (miners, jewellers, smiths, and so on)

Azsâlul'abad - the Lonely Mountain (both the mountain and the dwarven kingdom known among Elves and Men as Erebor)

-*-*-*-

✨ Entangled Masterlist

Mista discreetly stifled a yawn. It was one bell before noon, and her eyes were already drooping. The last few weeks had been filled with intense work. Not only did she have to quickly learn and adjust to her duties as the new Zabdûna undu ‘Urd, but also her days were filled to the brim with countless tasks, each more important than the preceding one. Every morning before the seventh bell, she was already in the royal kitchens, then she would meet her advisors and various officials, then she would plough through the endless paperwork, and after that, a part of her day was spent on organising help for the newcomers. 

Several weeks had passed since they arrived in the Mountain, and some still lacked proper housing or means to fend for themselves. The Lonely Mountain was reclaimed almost a year ago, but the amount of work to make ‘Urdêk a thriving kingdom from the rubble the vile dragon left behind seemed to be gargantuan. Every day was a challenge; a housing quarter would be made livable again, but another one would experience problems with its water supply. The legendary Forges were working at quarter capacity only because the solid fuel conveyor line was malfunctioning and needed modernization — which meant new and complex parts made of steel. The problem was, the only place those parts could be made was… the Forges. There were also various issues with the mines, the geothermal shafts, the air circulation systems, as well as countless damaged walkways, staircases, tunnels, and passages.

It all made Mista’s head spin. She was used to managing her family’s various business ventures; she even knew a thing or two about how a dwarven stronghold like Tumunzagar was governed, but the vastness of the Kingdom Under the Mountain was a constant source of awe to her. That was why her evenings were usually filled with documents, blueprints, manuals, and reports — all of them made for heavy reading and a heavy pillow. Time after time, she would wake up in the middle of the night in complete darkness, with candles burned out, her cheek resting on a pile of parchments, her spectacles skewed.

It was not surprising that Mista found herself stifling yet another of her yawns. Discreetly, she pinched the top of her hand, hoping to keep herself awake for a while longer. She had to — it was the first King’s Council meeting she officially attended as the Queen, and she needed all her wits about her. It was imperative that she took in all the details. The first one she noticed, however, was not some important notion about the state of the kingdom but a piece of dough still stuck under one of her nails. Mista sighed inwardly. She would have to wash her hands more thoroughly when leaving the royal kitchens next time. At least she remembered to take off the apron and change her clothes to something more presentable. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass her lord husband with her ragged appearance, unworthy of a queen. She had to try better next time, she promised herself, stealing a glance at his robust figure at the opposite side of the table.

Dressed in his opulent royal robes, with the Raven Crown over his temples, the King Under the Mountain sat in his gilded chair, looking truly majestic. His dark hair flowed down onto his wide shoulders. The black and golden garments he wore somehow emphasized his warrior’s physique instead of giving him a more distinguished air, similar to the statues of the great kings of old Mista had seen in the throne room so many times. Now, there was a frown on Thorin’s face, his brows furrowed, his deep blue gaze set somewhere above everyone’s heads as he listened to his advisors. The strong line of his nose, the sensual curve of his lower lip, and the thicket of his beard made Mista sigh for the millionth time since she arrived at the Lonely Mountain. She still could not believe that Thorin Oakenshield, the handsomest dwarf under the moon, was her husband… and she was his wife. And thus, she had to act like one.

“... combined with the unusually big influx of newcomers, our food stores are far from sufficient, and winter is almost upon us!” A male voice reached Mista’s ears. It was Storemaster Yagrun, a middle-aged dwarf with a long, finely braided chestnut beard.

“Then why don’t you allocate some funds from the Kingdom’s Purse for this purpose?” said an unknown dwarf at the far end of the table. Mista did not recognize his voice, and even with her spectacles, she could not see him clearly.

Master Yagrun chuckled dryly. “Since when is gold edible, Lord Njall? Allow me to remind you that the people of Dale are not able to supply us with more food. They have barely enough for themselves.”

“Aye, and the merchant barges from the South are over three weeks late.” Mista recognized Lord Glóin’s hoarse voice. “There is no way to be certain whether they manage to arrive before the Long Lake freezes over!”

“Fishing is out of the question either…” chimed in Lord Bori, the royal chancellor, with spindly white hair. His words caused everyone to hum or nod in agreement.

“Why is it out of the question?” Mista whispered to Embla, nervously adjusting her glasses on her nose. It was better to ask about such apparently well-known issues discreetly instead of divulging her ignorance publicly.

“Smaug’s carcass poisoned the waters of the Long Lake, killing most of the fish and other water animals and plants. We managed to get rid of the cadaver, but it will take time until there is enough fish in the lake again,” whispered her secretary, and Mista thanked her with a nod.

“Any ideas?” Thorin’s deep voice filled the chamber. Several whispers were heard, but no one spoke up.

“May I?” Mista heard herself say.

The whispering ceased. All eyes in the chamber were set on her.

Her lord husband nodded politely, his right eyebrow raised slightly.

You can do this. She cleared her constricted throat, trying to stop her hands from trembling. The thought of speaking before all those honourable dwarves made Mista feel almost as terrified as on the day of her wedding. And then a recollection came; the words Thorin said to her on that day: 

During straining official functions, I tend to imagine that there are only stone statues around me, carved in amusing poses.

A hint of a smile appeared on Mista’s lips as she cast a glance around the chamber; this noble lord would indeed look quite comical as a statue of a dancing goblin; that guildmaster would make a perfect figurine of a sitting cat with a fashionable cravat around his neck; and that surly lord on the left made her think of a marble sculpture of a fussy little babe. That was what they were — simply amusing statues and not noble lords and a king. The King.

You know what to say. She rested her right hand over the notes she had meticulously prepared with Embla. It trembled a bit less than before.

You rehearsed it all evening yesterday. She took a deep breath. It had to be now or never.  

“With the newcomers arriving to ‘Urdêk, we have more mouths to feed but also more idle hands,” she glanced at the parchments before her and took. “We are able to double our local dairy production. The herds of mountain goats we received from the Iron Hills are large enough. It’s only a matter of training new dairymasters and herders.”

The whispering returned. She swallowed. It was hard to read the room, but this idea did not seem too unusual to meet strong resistance. Not this one.

Mista lowered her eyes, not daring to look at the crowned figure on the other side of the table; her magnificent royal husband.

“That could work, Your Majesty.” Lord Glóin was the first to address her. “Aye, I think we’re on to something here!”

Several other voices joined him, expressing their agreement.

Among their discussions on how to implement their ideas, Mista finally gathered her courage and let her gaze travel across the table. The King was looking straight at her, his frown gone. Instead, he offered her an approving nod. Were her eyes deceiving her, or did his lip curl up slightly? Her heart started beating faster.

He liked her idea! Mahal, he truly did!

Mista wanted to laugh and dance, and maybe even embrace him, if she dared. But it was neither the time nor the place for such frivolities. This was when she was supposed to reveal her big idea. Mista felt a knot in her stomach as she spoke again. 

“In addition,” she paused, “we could begin growing our own food.”

Her heart beat so loudly, Mista was certain that everyone could hear it.

“Your Majesty…?” Lord Njall looked as if he could not comprehend her words. 

And then the others followed; she saw furrowed brows, gritting teeth, clenched fists. One of the council members stood up and exclaimed: “Growing our food? Do we look like Elves?!” “That’s unheard of!”

“Inconceivable!”

Mista clasped her hands together under the table and took another deep breath, seeking comfort in her notes, where she laid out the matter very clearly and logically. Now, the runes seemed to dance in front of her eyes, and her tongue refused to cooperate, as the voices around her grew louder and louder.

“Itkitî!” The King Under the Mountain uttered, this one word slicing through the cacophony of voices like the sharpest of swords.

In the silence that fell after, one could have heard a pin drop. Mista’s breath hitched at her husband’s commanding demeanour.

“Lord Galar,” Thorin Oakenshield addressed the loudest council member, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “While I understand the urge you feel to address my royal spouse standing up, I believe you can sit down now and listen to all that Zabdûna undu ‘Urd Mista, your Queen, has to say.”

“But… Your Majesty!” Lord Galar protested, shaking his grey mane of hair. “Mahal the Almighty created the Longbeards to be craftsmen, not farmers! Unlike the Broadbeams, we…”

Mista stiffened — both at his insubordination and the way he spat the name of her clan, full of disdain, before his words died on his lips.

“He created the Longbeards to be resourceful and survive.” The King’s voice was now cold as ice, his eyes dark like a winter night. “That is precisely what we did in exile, with the help of the Broadbeam clan, when your family lived in the comforts of the Iron Hills. And that is precisely what the Queen of Longbeards — your Queen — is doing at this very moment. Helping us survive.”

Another wave of whispers washed over the chamber while the King continued.

“But Your Majesty!” Lord Galar added. “It is simply not done!” 

“Not done?” The King did not need to raise his voice. The contempt on his face was unmistakable. “Then pray, enlighten me, what is done? Or even better, what have you done, Lord Galar, while Her Majesty was offering food and shelter to the newcomers?”

Mista could not believe her ears. Immense warmth spilled in her chest; she decided that if she had not loved Thorin before, that would be the exact moment when she would have fallen in love with him instantly.

It took Lord Galar a while to turn to Mista and offer her a stiff bow. 

“Forgive me.”

Only then did he finally sit down.

She decided to play it safe and slightly inclined her head in response. It was not a clear sign of forgiveness, nor did she ignore him — just enough to keep the lord wondering.

That was when King Under the Mountain addressed her.

“May I ask you to continue, Your Majesty? We would like to hear more about this intriguing idea of yours.” His voice was like a sunrise on the first day of spring, and his eyes regarded her with what she hoped was kindness.

Mista was very well aware that the respectful treatment she received from the King served one goal first and foremost: strengthening her position as the Queen. It was not personal; as the wise Dagur Sture wrote, A strong King makes a strong Queen. A strong Queen makes a strong King. It was all about power and securing the royal couple’s ruling position — politics, to put it simply. Yet, Mista was thankful she was sitting down at that moment because Thorin’s words made her knees weak.

“T-thank you,” she whispered, unclenching her hands, and then repeated louder, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

With a very slightly trembling hand, she adjusted her spectacles and began speaking, trying not to mind all the eyes set on her.

“I understand that this idea may seem controversial to some, but I can assure you that underground cultivation of certain plants, highly nutritious lichen, and fungi, was a traditional way of living among our people in the old days,” she allowed herself a quick glance at Lord Galar, his lips pressed into a thin line. “And when I say our people, I mean both the Broadbeams and Longbeards.” 

Mista noticed Balin smiling at her after she delivered that slightest of jabs. Feeling encouraged, she responded with a quick smile and continued. 

“In Tumunzahar, we — they — still produce some food this way. There are no nearby settlements of Men, like Dale here, so the people of Tumunzahar are unable to rely on food from external sources,” she explained. “But even the inhabitants of the Lonely Mountain used to grow their food, centuries before Dale or Esgaroth were established. A quick study of some of the historical records found in the Royal Library revealed that there were food farms deep in the bowels of the Mountain. The Longbeards of old called them ‘Kaminzabdûna’s Gardens’. According to one chronicler’s account in The Golden Age of Azsâlul'abad, the food from those ‘Gardens’ saved our people from starvation during a lengthy Orc siege. Mahal the Almighty gifted us with craft, but his spouse gave us an equally important gift. It is up to us whether we make use of it.” As soon as she finished speaking, Mista swept her gaze around the chamber. Every single Dwarf was staring at her, but she had her eyes only for one of them — their King, Thorin. One glance at her lord husband’s face was all that she needed. Now he was clearly smiling at her. Her heart made a silly flip. His smile was not meant for the Queen, but for her, Mista. 

Or at least that was what she chose to believe in.

“We can’t allow our people to face hunger this winter. This idea is indeed worth researching, Your Majesty,” Thorin Oakenshield announced and added, “Thank you.” “It was my pleasure, my… Your Majesty,” she felt heat creeping up on her cheeks. “I will be happy to develop it further.”

“The Great Library should contain more detailed written accounts on this subject matter,” Balin said. “Unless they were destroyed by the dragon.”

Mista nodded, hoping for the best. It was to be expected: she had already heard that the famous Library Under the Mountain could be in a bad shape after Smaug’s lengthy “visit” in their kingdom. Checking its current state was yet another thing to add to her agenda.

The next part of the meeting consisted of discussions on the specifics of food farming. Mista could not help but feel pride; against her expectations, as she explained the details of food production in Tumunzahar, the concept slowly turned out to be a matter of “when” and not “if”. Perhaps she could truly make a difference here and help the people of the Lonely Mountain, and then maybe, just maybe, Thorin would smile at her again.

Mista had completely forgotten about her sleepiness, eagerly taking part in the discussions, and noticing the sudden respect and deference she was treated with now, especially by Lord Galar. His sudden ostentatiousness was not to her liking, but she needed all the support for this project she could get. Master Yagrun’s calculations clearly showed that if the food issue wasn’t solved quickly enough, half of the current population of the Mountain would have to find a different place to live if they wanted to survive the winter.

The King’s Council’s meeting was coming to an end when Mista noticed Lord Balin giving a discreet sign to a guard standing by the entrance to the chamber. A moment later, the door was opened and a Dwarf entered, approaching the table with a slight limp. Concern was visible on his weathered face, and even though he seemed tired, his black hair and beard were neatly braided. The grey garments he wore looked plain and simple, a stark contrast with the robes of the council members.

“Your Majesties, my lords and ladies,” Lord Balin rose from his chair, gesturing to the Dwarf to come closer. “Allow me to introduce Uzrak Hrothgar, the leader of the miners who recently arrived from the southernmost peaks of the Misty Mountains. He brings news this Council needs to hear.”

Uzrak Hrothgar bowed towards the King and began speaking.

“I am honoured to stand before the King Under the Mountain’s Council. Thank you for allowing me to speak.”

“We are eager to hear you out, Uzrak Hrothgar,” King Thorin II offered. “We welcome you and your people in Azsâlul'abad with open arms. May I ask what made you leave the legendary Silvervein Mines?” 

Uzrak Hrothgar bowed once again before speaking, “I say this with great sadness, but neither the mines nor our settlement are safe any longer. For a while now, we have been enduring an endless streak of orc attacks. At first, we managed to fend them off, but they grew stronger with time. Soon, it was no longer safe to hunt in the mountains and to work in our mines. Merchants stopped arriving to us for the usual trails have become too dangerous. And so, with heavy hearts, we decided to abandon our homes, and seek refuge in the safest place we knew — the Lonely Mountain, if Your Majesty allows.”

“Consider this place your home now. Mahal knows there is more than enough space for everyone here. Besides, our mines need skilled miners like yourselves.”

The leader of the Silvervein miners bowed even deeper, but before he spoke more, he was asked to report all he knew about the current strength and locations of the orc forces in the area. A map was placed on the table, and Captain Dwalin and several other dwarves began asking detailed questions about the threat. Uzrak Hrothgar’s replies were short but precise, and from what Mista was able to make out, it seemed that the orc raids began intensifying in the Misty Mountains. The Silvervein miners were not the only ones affected. This explained why there were more newcomers under the Mountain than anyone expected. The reason for the orc attacks was unknown, but there were rumours — and sightings — of a new orc chieftain. His warbands wore the mark of three red claws. They took no prisoners, killing their enemies on the spot. They knew no mercy.

This matter, the King announced, would be discussed further at a later date. The previous smile was gone from his face, and an even deeper frown marked his features, so that his eyebrows made Mista think of a raven in flight, an impression emphasized by the shape of his crown. While her lord husband was giving a few quick orders to his advisors, she let her gaze linger on his face, fascinated by the way his expression slightly softened as he spoke to Dróri, one of his assistants, only to harden into the stern mask of the King Under the Mountain a moment later. He addressed Lord Galar curtly. She did not know exactly what was said; the only thing she could hear through the murmur of voices around her was the steady rumble of his voice: decisive, commanding, cold. It was enough to make Lord Galar and a few other dwarves lower their heads in agreement — manifesting obedience to their ruler’s orders. The King did not resemble her Thorin — the one who had danced with her long ago in Tumunzahar — but she was certain that this courteous, thoughtful, and honourable prince was still deep inside him, behind that stone-like mask of the ruler of the Lonely Mountain.

When the King’s Council meeting had finally adjourned and everyone began leaving the chamber, Mista directed her steps towards her lord husband, who had just stood up from his chair. His tall silhouette towered over the majority of the council members as he talked with Dwalin and Glóin. She needed to talk to him, too. In her mind, Mista was already putting together all the right words she wanted to say to Thorin, to thank him for giving her the opportunity to speak at her very first King’s Council meeting, for supporting her, and for making her heard. She wanted him to know how grateful she was for what he did.

“Your Majesty?” Her words sounded shamefully quiet as she tilted her head up, trying to catch Thorin Oakenshield’s gaze.

“Your Majesty,” he acknowledged her with a slight inclination of his head.

Seeing Thorin’s handsome face so close before her made Mista’s breath hitch. His eyes were as blue as an afternoon sky, their depth emphasized by the golden sheen of the crown on his head. He was looking straight into her eyes, and she completely forgot what she was supposed to say.

“Thank you for attending the meeting,” he continued in his impossibly low voice, which made her think of the murmur of the winter sea. “I do hope you did not find it too boring.”

“Not at all, Your Majesty.” She shook her head, struggling to find the right words. “Not too boring. It was… good. A very good meeting. Productive.”

“I am glad you think so, Your Majesty. We all appreciated your input. Now, if you will forgive me, I hear there is an urgent matter I have to attend to in the Forges.” The King bowed courteously. “If there is anything you need, my lady, Balin is at your service.”

Before she could reply, her lord husband was already on the way out of the chamber, with a few advisors hurrying behind him, his heavy cloak following him like a dark cloud.

“How may I help you, Your Majesty?” Balin asked, interrupting the silence that fell over the now empty chamber. To Mista it seemed as if some kind of magic spell sucked the air out of the room.

She felt cold.

***

The Great Library of the Lonely Mountain was a pile of rubble. When Balin showed it to Mista, she could not believe her eyes.

“Aye, it’s not a pretty sight,” Balin admitted, shaking his head, and then pointed to the left. “The dragon tore that wall down at some point. The main entrance is buried under those stone blocks.”

“Is there a different way to enter the library?” Mista asked with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“If my memory serves me right…” Balin began, and Mista smiled to herself. He was known for his legendary knowledge of the old Kingdom Under the Mountain, and she took every opportunity she could to learn from him about her new home. 

“There were several entrances to the Great Library but they met a similar fate, I’m afraid,” Balin continued. “Me and a handful of other Dwarves tried finding a way inside in the first weeks after the Kingdom was reclaimed, but we had no luck, My Lady.”

“There is so much knowledge behind those rocks. We can’t afford to lose it.” In her mind’s eye, Mista saw rows and rows of ancient tomes waiting in darkness for someone to open them again after over 170 years of solitude. She could not believe that all of them were destroyed. Some of the books had to have survived the dragon’s destructive frenzy.

“Aye,” Balin nodded. “If we only had more time and volunteers…” Mista agreed, feeling disappointed. Every able-bodied Dwarf was busy with the most crucial matters: repairing their realm and making it livable again. The Great Library simply had to wait. Unless…

“I could write to my Father,” she said hesitantly. That was one of the last things she was willing to do — asking her Father for a favour. “He would be able to hire experienced Stone Masters for us in the Blue Mountains. But it would take time until they arrive.” “At least several months,” Balin agreed.

They did not have that much time.

Embla cleared her throat, “May I, My Lady?”

Mista nodded.

“It so happens that my husband, Sindri, is a Stone Master, and he will be willing to help,” Embla said, giving her one of her vibrant smiles.

“That’s wonderful news but what about his other duties? Will he truly have time for this?” Mista glanced at the nearest heap of large, cracked rocks.

“Of course! He’s only recently arrived from the Iron Hills with all of our belongings — as you know, My Lady, I came here first with my parents and our little Nàli — and Sindri is yet to join a workshop that suits him best.” She grinned again. “And as he doesn’t like to stay idle, he…”

“Mommyyyy!” something squeaked nearby. Mista looked around to see a chubby pebble — a boy of no more than ten years with a tangle of copper curls on his head — running straight into Embla’s outstretched arms.

“What are you doing here, Nugget?” Embla kissed her son on the top of his head. “Daddy taught me how to ride a pony today!” Nàli exclaimed with a huge smile that closely resembled his mother’s, and Mista could not help but smile at his enthusiasm.

His prattling continued until his father approached them as well. Sindri was a big, sturdy Dwarf with kind brown eyes, several thick golden braids and a bushy moustache.

“Your Majesty,” Embla turned to her. “Allow me to introduce my husband Sindri, son of Sigurd, and my son, Nàli.”

“It is an honour to meet you both,” Mista greeted them, but when her eyes rested on the boy, who immediately hid behind his mother’s skirts. “Nàli, where did you go?” chuckled Embla. “There is no need to be afraid of the queen!” Mista gathered her skirts and crouched before him. For a moment, his curious gaze searched her face just before he hid once again behind the flowing fabric. “I’m sure a brave little warrior like you is not afraid of anything,” she spoke encouragingly. “Are you?” Nàli peeked out from behind his mother again, “No!” “That’s the spirit!” said Balin.

“Are you really a queen?” Nàli asked suspiciously.

“Yes, I am,” Mista nodded.

“Then where is your crown?” Nàli’s eyes narrowed.

Trying not to chuckle, Mista looked around conspiratorially and then whispered, “It’s hidden in a very secret place, so no one can find it!” “Why?”

“So I don’t have to wear it. It is very heavy, you know,” Mista replied. 

Nàli contemplated this answer for a moment, nodded slowly and then took a step towards her.

“But then how do people know that you’re the Queen?” “I usually have the King with me. He always wears a crown,” she said. In the corner of her eye, she saw Embla stifling a chuckle. The boy looked around. “So where is he now?”

As far from me as possible, Mista thought wryly, but instead, she replied: “He is working very hard to rebuild our kingdom.”

“Does he like to ride ponies? Because I do!” Nàli stated proudly. Does he? Mista glanced at Balin hesitantly. Thorin was her husband, and yet she could not say. She tried to ignore the sudden lump in her throat.

“He does, laddie,” Balin stated. “His favourite pony is called Cobalt.” While the boy bombarded him with questions about Cobalt, his father addressed Mista. “Forgive us, Your Majesty, for this intrusion. We were on our way home when Nàli heard his mother’s voice.” When Sindri spoke, his eyes rested warmly on his wife, and as their gazes met, it was enough for Mista to be certain of one thing. This is how a loving marriage looks like, she thought, quickly looking away.

Before Embla’s husband and son left, Sindri confirmed his interest in helping out with gaining access to the Great Library and offered the assistance of a group of stone masters who arrived from the Iron Hills with him. Mista could not curb her enthusiasm — it looked like there was still hope to recover some of those precious tomes, and maybe even learn more about Kaminzabdûna’s Gardens. 

When she turned to Embla to speak to her about it, Mista saw that her secretary’s gaze followed Sindri. He carried their giggling son on his back as they walked away.

“You have a son you can be proud of,” Mista said. “And a caring husband. It has to feel good to be reunited with him.”

“Thank you, My Lady,” Embla replied with joy. “It does. I could not ask for a better spouse, and a great father to my son. It took me a bit of work to convince him to marry me, but it was worth it.”

“Don’t tell me that he was not interested in you! I saw the way he looks at you,” Mista said.

Embla giggled, “You are correct, My Lady! And one of his glances was enough to melt my heart like butter. At first, he did not think he was good enough for me, that silly Dwarf. He was too shy to ask me to court him!” “I find it hard to believe,” admitted Mista, trying to imagine the brawny Sindri acting like a shy maid.

“But that’s how it was! I was at my wits’ end when my granny had a talk with me. She told me: ‘Em, Dwarf-men are sometimes as blind as cave bats when it comes to the matters of the heart, so it’s up to us to show them the way.’ So I listened to my granny, and showed him…” Embla giggled again. “…and asked him to court me instead!”

Mista gasped in surprise. She was not certain about the customs of the Iron Hills Longbeards, but if they were similar to the traditions of her people, a Dwarf-woman would never be expected to offer such a thing. It was a Dwarf’s duty to woo the lady of his heart, not the other way around. And certainly not by showing them… things.

“Truly?” she managed to ask.

“Aye,” Embla nodded vigorously and grinned. “And it worked quite well! I was expecting Nàli before the customary courting period ended… We had a very quick wedding!” Now it was Mista’s turn to giggle.

“Then let me offer a belated — but very sincere — congratulations on your successful courting!” Their giggles echoed against the stone walls of the cavern until Balin cleared his throat. “About the library, My Lady, I believe this part seems quite intact…” He began. Mista hoped that he did not overhear much of their scandalous conversation. That was certainly not a decent topic for such a refined Dwarf as Lord Balin.

***

A week later, Mista clutched a bundle of parchments in her hand as she stepped into the Forges. It took her quite a while to find her way there; she had visited the place only once, during her first week as the queen, and now she had to rely only on her own memory. The king’s secretary, the stern Mistress Vigga, assured her that His Majesty was to be found in the Forges. Furthermore, Mistress Vigga insisted that if Her Majesty truly had an urgent matter to take up with the king, Her Majesty should consider having at least two royal guardsmen accompany her, as the fastest route was quite treacherous on account of not being fully renovated yet. Apart from that, the guardsmen would shield her from any dangers Her Majesty might encounter in the Forges: immense heat that would surely ruin her hair, open fire and fumes — disastrous to health, sparks flying everywhere — catastrophic to any lady’s skin, and those rivers of molten metal, and then there was that constant risk of an explosion or even exposure to the Forge Masters’ crude language. It was clear that the Forges weren’t Mistress Vigga’s favourite place.

Mista, however, needed to see Thorin. King Thorin. There was a delicate political issue she wanted to discuss with him, but first, they had to meet. It had been over five days since she saw His Majesty. Every day, he hurried out of his rooms shortly after dawn, before Mista could catch even a glimpse of her lord husband, only to return to the royal chambers when she was already asleep. Today, she waited for the King in his study at lunchtime, but he never arrived, busying himself in the Forges instead, and no one could tell her when His Majesty would return. Something told her it would be late, conveniently past her bedtime, as always. That was, however, not the time to dwell upon his tendency to avoid her, Mista reminded herself. Perhaps she was a bookish, unalluring girl from the Blue Mountains who did not rouse the interest of her husband, but — what was more important — she was the Queen, and she had her duties to fulfil. One of those duties was securing enough food for the coming winter for their people, and that was why she needed to have a talk with the King before the next King’s Council meeting that was to happen the next day. 

As an ancient Dwarvish saying went, if the forge will not come to the smith, then the smith must come to the forge. Or, in this case, the Forges.

Standing at the threshold of the legendary Great Forges of the Lonely Mountain, Mista felt like an ant in a ballroom. The spacious cavern felt like a kingdom of its own. It was filled with the hustle and bustle of massive machinery and countless Dwarves alike, the clanking of metal against metal intertwining with raised voices that echoed against the walls, and the constant hum of the fire in several working furnaces. Dozens and dozens of metalworkers, engineers and Forge Masters busied themselves around the cavern, shouting orders, warnings or curses, carrying or pulling various loads, forging, casting, hammering, smelting, shaping, and doing other mysterious things one was supposed to do at a place like this. Mista did not even try to understand or recognize them. Her knowledge of this craft was mostly non-existent. One thing was certain to her, though. Mistress Vigga was right: this place was hot and dirty, and the air was thick with fumes. Mista looked down at her elegant, opulent, and completely impractical dress and sighed, wishing she could take off at least one layer of her clothes. Unfortunately, as the Queen, she was expected to dress in a proper way and not parade in her chemise across the Kingdom.

It did not take her long to notice Thorin. Or rather, his lush, wavy hair, dark brown with streaks of mithril, gathered into a thick ponytail on his back — his bare back.

Mahal, be merciful.

He was working alongside the other Dwarves, sorting large pieces of metal and rock, and chunks of some ore. Like his companions, he wore only plain work trousers and thick leather gloves, which was not surprising, judging by the heat emitted by the gigantic furnaces. Shamelessly, Mista could not keep her eyes off Thorin, or rather his back, as he lifted yet another heavy-looking piece, his muscles playing under his skin that seemed to glow like molten gold as the layer of perspiration reflected the firelight from the nearest furnace. 

When the king straightened, the muscles on his powerful shoulders and arms bulged, and Mista’s throat suddenly felt very dry. She had never been able to admire his figure in such detail before, as his royal garments usually consisted of layers and layers of fabric. Now, her eyes followed the lines of that strong neck, those broad shoulders, and the wide, wide chest that narrowed down to his trim waist. Many Dwarves his age were proud of their rotund shapes, a welcome sign of prosperity, but she knew by now that Thorin led an active life, and his body reflected it. Mista’s gaze curiously rested on his shoulder blades — there was a tattoo there, partially covered by his hair, but she recognized its shape at once. It was the Durin’s Crown, seven stars etched in black ink, the unmistakable symbol of the King’s royal ancestry. There were other tattoos on his back and arms, too, each of those patterns telling a story of its own. As every Dwarf clan used its own unique symbols, Mista was unable to decipher the meaning of all of them, but she believed she recognized one of the warrior’s marks for valour and something like a symbol of a… swordsmith? Was the King Under the Mountain a Master Swordsmith? Mista promised herself to check this new piece of information later. It was fascinating — as everything that concerned Thorin. She wanted to learn as much about him as she could, to know him better and perhaps find something in common between them, or at least use that knowledge to become a better wife to him. A wife he would talk with, exchange jests with, and spend time with just like he did with his work companions at this very moment as they all tried to move an exceptionally large piece of metal from the pile of rubble before them.

Mista told herself that now, before she completely melted from the heat, was the right time to approach the King. That was why she came here in the first place — but somehow she could not peel her eyes away from his strong back, his powerful thighs, and… his firm buttocks. 

Mahal, why is it so very hot in here? 

She kept on staring indecently at his behind, feeling her cheeks burn, when a male voice said: “M’lady? Yer Majesty?”

“Captain Dwalin!” She almost jumped. “How nice to see you.”

“And the same to ye!” He grinned, his white teeth contrasting with the streaks of dust on his face. “What brings ye here, M’lady?”

“I… I wish to see His Majesty,” she faltered as this mountain of a Dwarf folded his impressive arms — his very bare and very muscular arms — against the thick leather of his apron that covered his chest.

Thank Mahal for the apron.

“His Majesty? Thorin? Now?” Frowning, Dwalin cast a glance towards the King, who was still busying himself with that stubborn chunk of metal.

Mista took a deep breath, trying to keep her eyes away from her lord husband’s glistening back.

“I see he is busy. I had a matter to discuss. But it can wait. I will wait. Here,” she mumbled, looking around, searching for a place to sit. She felt a bit dizzy, perhaps because of that overwhelming heat. Sadly, among the smoking furnaces, pieces of rubble and soaring columns, there was nothing that resembled a bench even slightly.

“Yer Majesty,” Dwalin began, shaking his head vigorously. “That won’t do, ye won’t be waitin’, not here! Gundi! Come ‘ere, there’s a good lad! Run to Thorin — His Majesty — and tell ‘im the Queen requests his presence.”

A young, lanky dwarf with a short chestnut beard nodded, made a wide-eyed, clumsy bow when he saw Mista, and then hurried away. 

“Oh no, Captain Dwalin, not now, I don’t want to disturb…” she began faintly when a screeching sound filled her ears.

Suddenly, Dwalin’s hand closed over her arm and pulled her unceremoniously to the side.

“Sorry, M’lady,” he offered just as a group of forge workers whooshed past them with a screech, dangerously close, wheeling a large cauldron filled with some smelly, fumy substance.

“I’m sorry, I did not see them!” Mista adjusted her glasses nervously, trying to regain her composure.

“When ye’re in the Forges, ye have to have yer eyes around yer head,” Dwalin said.

“INCOMING!” a shout echoed from a distance, and something heavy thudded, making the floor tremble under her feet.

Mista gasped, quickly looking around.

“Nothin’ to worry about, M’lady,” Dwalin explained. “Ye can say we’re remodellin’ the place after Smaug. That slug didn’t have even a shred of good taste.”

She chuckled nervously, trying to calm herself down.

“My Lady Mista!” A familiar rumbly voice reached her ears. Her heart fluttered.

She lifted her gaze towards the King. Thorin was approaching her fast, taking off his gloves. His brow was furrowed, and he kept staring straight at her with those piercing blue eyes of his. A few unruly strands of his hair stuck to his face, and his lips were parted as he took a deep breath. His chest rose and — oh, Mahal — Mista caught a very good glimpse of its full bare glory. The well-defined pectoral muscles dusted with dark hair, the — Mahal, was that a piercing?! — geometric tattoos, strong core muscles, and that stripe of hair trailing all the way down to… Mista swallowed.

Suddenly, her knees felt very weak.

The King closed the distance between them in two brisk strides. Somehow, he seemed even taller than usual, dominating the space around her, so very close, emanating a strange kind of heat, heady and powerful. Mista felt like a defenseless hare facing a wolf on the prowl. Instinctively, she took a step back, stumbled over something, and lost her balance, sending her parchments flying in the air. 

In the blink of an eye before she fell to the ground, a pair of strong arms — strong bare arms — caught her and held her in place. The grip was steady and reassuring, but there was a deep frown on the King’s face. “By dragon’s breath, what brought you here, My Lady?” Her royal husband’s words resembled a growl in Mista’s ears as he stared her down. “Y-your Majesty,” she mumbled, lowering her gaze, still overwhelmed by his intense closeness and the fact that the King was holding her firmly. “There is… there is a matter I wish to discuss, it’s…”

“INCOMING!” Yet another shout rang out somewhere in the Forges, and another loud thud was heard. The ground shook. She stiffened.

“Cursed supports! This is not a safe place for you, Lady Mista,” His Majesty’s gaze darkened. “Come, let us leave. Where is your escort?”

He took Mista under her arm and began leading her towards the entrance to the Forges.

“But… My parchments!” She turned back, staring at the documents scattered all over the floor.

“Dwalin?” Thorin glanced between his Captain and the parchments.

Dwalin simply nodded and moved to gather them.

Only then did Mista notice that the hard object she stumbled upon earlier was the edge of a furnace chute used for smelted ore. She refused to imagine what would have happened if she fell into it.

“Where did you leave your guards, My Lady?” Thorin repeated, looking around impatiently.

“I came here by myself, My Lord,” she admitted, trying to match his fast pace on the way out of the Forges, still feeling the warm shadow of his touch on her skin.

“By yourself?!” The King’s frown deepened further as he raised his voice. “Lady Mista, this is one of the most dangerous places in the whole Kingdom on an average day — and today it’s twice as much! You cannot venture out here alone!” “I didn’t want to bother anyone, I simply wanted to…”

“Bother? Mahal, you are the Queen, My Lady! Can you not see what would have happened if an accident befell you? What would it mean for the Kingdom, for all of us here, if you were injured, or worse? And shortly after ascending the throne? How would it look to your family?”

Mista lowered her gaze, deciding to study a tiny crack in the stone floor. She felt utterly stupid. The first thing that her family would do if anything serious happened to her would be to break off the marriage contract and all the accompanying agreements. And if things looked bad, they would demand a sizeable compensation, break off diplomatic relations between both clans or maybe even choose a more hostile path. Not because she was that precious to them; it was all about riches and power. They invested too much into the grand plan of putting a Broadbeam on the throne of the Lonely Mountain to forfeit it. Her mother made certain that Mista remembered it quite well.

As for the Kingdom Under the Mountain and its King, a seriously injured or even dead Queen meant fewer allies and no heir to the throne. And no heir to the throne, according to Dís, meant a possible rebellion and a rift within the Longbeard clan.

Perhaps another Dwarf-woman in her place would enjoy this level of importance, but Mista was a realist. She understood that she was useful to everyone as long as she was healthy, alive, and doing what she was expected to do. Like the pawn on a chessboard — yet again. 

“Forgive me, My Lord. I… I was unaware,” she said when they stopped in the outside corridor, away from the prying eyes in the Forges. “It’s just…”

“Yes?” the King said. She felt his intense gaze on her face, but she did not feel brave enough to look up.

“I simply wanted to talk… I did not know you were that busy,” Mista began, realising how foolish she sounded, suddenly very much aware of how close the King was, how her abundant skirts brushed against his legs, how she felt the heat and the masculine power his body radiated. His scent reached her nostrils: hot fire, ash, and leather, dizzying with its raw intensity. And then there was his bare torso in front of her, his glistening skin, his pectorals rising and falling, and a pale scar across his shoulder. Her fingertips tingled; one small move of her hand and she could learn how it felt to run her fingers along the ridges and hollows of his chest. The fluttering deep inside her intensified, and she clasped her hands nervously.

Mahal help her.

“What did you wish to talk about with me, My Lady?” The King’s voice softened slightly.

“It’s a delicate matter of state, an urgent one,” she explained hesitantly. “Coming here was my last resort.”

“Your last resort?” the King replied.

“You see… I have been trying to meet you in our rooms for a few days now,” she whispered, still not daring to raise her gaze above the scar on his shoulder, bracing herself for a fiery response.

Instead, there was a long silence. And something akin to a sigh. Mista wondered whether she would now hear yet another excuse and a polite but reserved dismissal.

The King spoke, “My Lady Mista, I would be honoured to discuss this matter now.”

“You… You would?” Mista’s head snapped up. Her eyes met the deep blue sapphires of his gaze. At that moment, he somehow resembled the Thorin she remembered, at least a bit. “Truly?”

“Of course,” The King nodded, gesturing with his hand.

“Oh, thank you, My Lord.” She beamed at him, warmth spilling in her chest. He wanted to speak with her. There were no excuses this time. And he did not leave, still standing so very close to her. Without thinking, she grasped his open palm with both her hands, so large and warm, and slightly coarse against her skin.

And then his fingers stiffened under her touch, accompanied by a startled expression on his face as the King glanced at their joined hands. 

With a gasp, Mista let go of him. Feeling her cheeks burn, her heart galloping in her chest, she heard herself speak through her clenched throat.

“I- I’m sorry, My Lord,” she muttered, taking a hasty step back. “I did not mean to…”

The vertical wrinkle between the King’s brows deepened.

“My Lady…”

“Yer documents, M’lady,” Dwalin appeared beside them with a roll of parchments in his outstretched hand.

“Thank you, Dwalin!” Mista blurted out, grabbing the papers as fast as she could. Her hands were trembling, and her head was spinning. “T-thank you for your time, Your Majesty, I- I have to go!”

“What about this urgent matter?” His Majesty Thorin II Oakenshield tilted his head slightly.

The thought of her latest blunder and then facing the King — her husband — alone, his chest bare, his eyes so very blue she would drown in them within a heartbeat, made Mista dizzy, and definitely not in any shape to have a logical discussion. She would mumble like a silly goose and make him think he married a halfwit. Yes, that was it, she needed a clear mind, and her current befuddlement had absolutely nothing to do with the state of his undress or the feeling of his scorching skin against hers; it was just this awful humid heat. She embarrassed herself enough for one day. She needed to leave this place at once.

“I… just recalled that I have an important meeting,” Mista said quickly, rumpling the parchments in her hands. “May we meet in the evening? Over… over supper?”

“If you are certain that it can wait until then,” the King spoke, his right eyebrow rising.

“I am, yes!” she mumbled. “It can!”

“Very well, then. Until the evening, My Lady.” He lowered his head in farewell.

Mista turned, fleeing the Forges, feeling utterly humiliated by her own silliness. What on Mahal’s beard had she been thinking? What made her grab his hand? What would the King think of her? She was supposed to be a queen and act like one, and not a mawkish lass who could not even spend a moment alone with her own husband without embarrassing herself because of her stupid feelings.

“Would you mind escorting Her Majesty back to the royal wing, Dwalin?” The King’s voice echoed in the corridor behind her, and she thought she heard a lighter note in his words. “It turns out my royal spouse can be surprisingly energetic.”

“Just what ye need in yer dotage, ye lucky goat,” Dwalin chuckled, making her cheeks burn. Deep down she disagreed; first of all, His Majesty was far from senility, and besides, the last thing he needed was an embarrassingly lovestruck wife.

Mista did not hear the King’s reply �� if there was any. The loud stomping of the Captain’s boots as he approached her drowned out all the other sounds.

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[a-single-nanite]

So like I need to not.

But like another baby story I had loosely was mpreg Stone.

Ivo doesn't ask nor does he exactly tell what this new top secret experiment is, but Stone always goes along so faithfully.

Ivo is sneaky about checking if it worked or not. But tells Stone "ah, looks like I have some things to fix. Nothing happened at all!" He pretends to be very angry about the "failed" experiment. Soon Stone forgets about it.

Now he chose Stone because well he certainly doesn't want to carry his own child! Already he was carefully planning on how to safely get his baby out without killing his useful agent.

Why does he want a kid? Well he needs someone to rule the world after he does, and he isn't getting any younger. Unlike Stone who is younger, stronger, loyal, he should be able to handle this. That and he's bored.

He doesn't need to worry about Stone drinking or smoking, but he IS ...was, an Agent. One often sent on deadly missions. Even on that front Ivo isn't worried. His agent is the best after all.

Not Ivo knowing full well what's going on with Stone when he starts feeling sick. Not him saying that he's getting lazy and fat. "How can you protect me like this?!"

Ivo is a mega dick about it only because it helps him cover up his tracks. It couldn't last forever though.

"Doctor, I seriously think there's something wrong with me." There's true genuine terror on his sickly pale face.

"Look at me!" Stone cries, HE CRIES!!!

"I feel something moving inside of me, what's inside of me!?"

"you feel kicking?" Ivo asked suddenly very engaged.

"Don't cry you big baby. You're perfectly fine." He huffs.

"you know what's wrong with me?"

"There's NOTHING wrong with you. I have everything completely under control, I suggest you take it easy."

"did you do this to me?" And Ivo doesn't want to say.

"please tell me you did this. I- I'd feel better if this was one of your experiments. I'll know I'm safe then." Oof wow, make him feel guilty now.

"yes, yes it was me! You knowing would only screw up my data!" And Stone let's out a sigh.

"I apologize for ruining your experiment."

"it's not ruined, just changed."

It's a mix of body horror and deep angst on Stone's end, Ivo of course is extremely toxic about It. But eventually Ivo actually has to start taking care of Stone and it's exhausting. Why the hell did he do this again????

I'm imagining maybe crab era is the setting. I'm not really sure. I guess depending on which era the story is a bit different. Not that I'm gonna write it.