#the way she would rage against being drawn to the two things she's supposed to hate and fear above all else

[stormyfate]

Shadowheart-mancers, is there already a convo about a goody Werewolf!Tav x Shadowheart going on?

[warpdrive-witch]

Here is me again with a new Agatha Harkness x fem reader request 😏☺️ I was thinking about jealous Agatha who wants to spent her free time with Reader just the two of them but the rest of the coven wants that and Agatha is near to just take Reader and run away

Dear Anon, this was a juicy prompt to write. God, I hope you love It as much as I did writing it. 💜

11.6k Words. Smut. Magic D. Daddy Agatha. Breeding Kink. Loud sex.

Minors Do Not Interact.

They Heard What Daddy Did

The late afternoon sun filtered through the coven’s manor in gold-tipped sheets, warm and honey-rich—far too soft for how tight Agatha’s jaw had drawn. The light kissed the ancient stone and polished wood like it had earned the right to linger. She disagreed. It was supposed to be her day off. Their day off. A rare, precious lull in the chaos. A few quiet hours carved out just for you and her.

But instead—

Every corridor she stepped into echoed with another voice calling your name.

“Come help me with the wards—”

“Can you look over this sigil real quick?”

“Oh, there you are! Just a quick thing—”

Her eyes found you again and again—graceful, generous, laughing softly like this was normal. Like being tugged from room to room, pulled apart by obligation, didn’t chip away at what she’d been waiting for all week. You moved like moonlight, fluid and kind, and everyone else in this godsdamned manor acted like they had some claim to it.

To you. To the way your voice lifted when you laughed, soft and bright and so effortlessly yours. To the way you tilted your head when someone needed help, already halfway to assisting before they even finished asking. To the warmth you carried with you like firelight—unclaimed, open, generous.

Agatha could taste it in the air—your scent, your energy, your pulse somewhere in the next room, and yet always just out of reach. Every hallway she turned down echoed with another voice calling for you. Not her. Not yourname in the voice that mattered. Just others, all of them eager, pulling, grabbing.

Like your time was theirs to borrow. Like your attention didn’t belong to her by sacred right. By bond. By blood. By covenant older than this very manor, older than the stone beneath their feet, older than the youngest among them could begin to comprehend. By every law of magic and power and want.

The restraint in her hands began to fray. She could feel it like a thread pulled taut in her chest, humming with the tension of held-back lightning. Not rage—not yet. Not fury. But something ancient. Something protective. Something possessive in the oldest sense of the word: mine.

Agatha leaned against the nearest doorframe, arms folded tight across her chest, her silhouette sharp in the wash of late afternoon light. Shadows curled low around her boots like they knew better than to stay still. Even her magic bristled, twitching like a beast in its cage.

Her fingertips sparked. Not with violence. Not with temper. But with restraint. The kind of restraint born from lifetimes of holding back. The kind honed over centuries of waiting. Watching. Enduring.

The kind of restraint it took to stand in a house full of children dressed in magic they barely understood—and not remind them who taught them how to wield it in the first place. One flick of her wrist and she could shatter the silence of this manor with a single incantation. One word, and the whole house would remember. Who she was. Who she’d always been. Who you had chosen.

She didn’t speak it. Not yet. Because then, you looked up. Even in the hum of voices around you, even mid-sentence with someone else, your gaze found hers like it always did. No hesitation. No searching. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

And just like that—your smile softened.

A flicker of something sacred passed between you, quiet as breath. Familiar. Intimate. The kind of look that didn’t need language to explain itself. The kind that said I see you. I still want you. That alone was enough to steady her. Just for a moment. It loosened her fingers slightly. Grounded her in the way only you ever could. But before you could take a step toward her—before she could even breathe your name into the stillness between you—

One of the younger witches bounded in from the hallway, all charm and cheerful oblivion, and looped her arm through yours like you’d been summoned by committee. “Come on! Five minutes. We just need you in the library. Promise.” Agatha saw the way your posture shifted. The polite smile. The flicker of guilt in your eyes. The silent apology. She saw the way you hesitated—just for her. But you went anyway. You let them tug you away. And Agatha's jaw locked tight enough to crack bone.

Five minutes.

Five more minutes that weren’t hers.

She didn’t growl. She didn’t snap. Not outwardly. But the sound coiled in her throat like thunder, caught behind her teeth. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to keep it from spilling out. Her shadows flinched. The temperature in the corridor dropped by a single, imperceptible degree. It wasn’t jealousy, she told herself. It wasn’t pettiness. It wasn’t irrational. It was the ache of a creature made of storms and silence and centuries, who had wandered through lifetimes with hands cold from disuse—until she found you.

Until her fingers laced with yours like they’d been sculpted for it. Until her name had been spoken from your lips in the dark like a benediction. And now she had to share you. She had to share you with the coven she had built, with witches who still flinched at the edges of their own power, who didn’t know how to protect something precious even if it bled for them.

The same fledglings she had trained—disciplined, mentored, molded—now treating you like some communal spellbook they could flip through at leisure. Like her claim on you was soft. Optional. Negotiable. As though they’d forgotten what she was. What she is. And if they hadn’t forgotten—perhaps they just hadn’t been reminded lately.

Agatha's fingers twitched again. Not yet. But soon.

The library session had stretched far past “just five minutes.”

You’d helped with the sigils. Reviewed the spellwork. Nodded, smiled, offered gentle corrections. And even though your mind occasionally drifted—wondering where Agatha had gone, if she was still watching—you told yourself she’d understand.

She always did. But when you finally slipped out of the room and into the quiet of the east hallway, the air shifted. Heavy. Charged. The shadows lengthened against the walls.  “Darling.” You turned toward the voice instinctively. One word, honeyed and slow, delivered with the kind of poised control that made your spine go ramrod straight.

Agatha stood at the end of the corridor. Her coat snapped behind her like a cloak of stormclouds, her boots echoing as she closed the distance between you. Her hands were bare. Her eyes were not kind. She didn’t stop walking. You opened your mouth—some combination of guilt and affection about to spill out—but she tilted her head just so, and her smile stopped you cold. It was too slow. Too deliberate.

“I’m afraid,” she said, voice like velvet laced with venom, “I’m done sharing.” Before you could respond, she was in front of you. Her hand slipped into yours, not tugging. Claiming. The hallway behind you stilled. You didn’t even realize a few of the younger witches had followed you until the silence gave them away. “Agatha—” one of them started, clearly intending to scold, mediate, warn.

She didn’t even turn her head. “No.” That single word knocked the breath out of the air. Her fingers tightened around yours. Magic bloomed against your skin like a vine unfurling—shimmering and ancient, not meant for public use. She wasn’t hiding it anymore. She looked only at you. Steady. Intimate. Unflinching. “You’ve all had your turn,” she said, loud enough for them to hear, low enough to send a shiver down your spine. “She’s mine.”

Then she guided you—swiftly, without pause—down the hall and into one of the private study rooms. The door clicked behind you, and for one long moment, the silence was total.

She didn’t speak. She just stared. You could feel the storm in her—crackling at the edge of her fingers, pressing into the walls, coiling around your ankles like it was waiting for permission to take. She took a breath, and so did you. “Do you have any idea,” she said finally, voice still quiet, still lethal, “what it does to me… to watch them touch you like that?”

You blinked. “Aggie—”

“No.” She stepped closer. “Don’t. Not yet.”

Her hand came up, brushing along your jaw, thumb lingering at the corner of your mouth. The other slipped down, resting at your waist. “You smile at them,” she murmured. “You let them pull you away like it doesn’t gut me. Like I wasn’t waiting for you.” You tried to answer—but she leaned in, mouth brushing yours. “So sweetly taken,” she said against your lips, voice raw now. “Like you don’t even know what you do to me.”

And then—

She kissed you. Not gently. It was hungry, breath-stealing, molten. All the restraint she’d shown all afternoon cracked wide open, pouring out of her in waves. Her hands pinned yours to the door, her thigh slid between yours, and her magic followed like it had been aching for release. It kissed your throat. It crept under your skin. It whispered your name back into her mouth like a spell caught in feedback.

You moaned—desperate, grounded only by the weight of her, the certainty of her body pressed fully to yours. And then— A knock. Your name, cautious, muffled through the door. “Hey… are you still in there?” Agatha didn’t even flinch.

She turned toward the door with glacier-slow precision, her lips still parted, your lipstick smeared across her mouth like a warning. Her voice, when it came, was a low growl wrapped in silk: “You’ve had enough of her time.” The shadows in the room surged. “She. Is. Mine.” On the other side of the door, silence. Then, retreating footsteps. Agatha looked back at you. The storm in her eyes hadn’t faded—but now it pulsed with heat, reverence, need.

And something else, too. Something more fragile. Like she wanted to say sorry, but didn’t know how without undoing all of this. You reached for her—hands trembling, lips kiss-bruised—and she melted into your touch like it was her only tether to the world.

“Next time,” she whispered, forehead against yours, “I’m locking the damn door.” Your mouth parted to respond—but before a sound could escape, Agatha snapped her fingers.

------

The world shattered and reformed in an instant.The air folded inward like silk being pulled through a ring. The dim study around you flickered out, and you landed breathlessly in the master bedroom of the coven’s mansion. The shift was disorienting—but unmistakable. A signature Agatha spell. Smooth. Final.

Your breath caught. This wasn’t your house back in the mountains, where the windows overlooked the wild pine ridges and Agatha softened into domesticity. This was the room she fucked you in when she needed to remind the coven that she could. That she would.  In its place: your shared master bedroom in the coven’s mansion.

The master bedroom was dim, all candlelight and deep blue shadows. Velvet curtains hung heavy at the tall windows, filtering the last of the afternoon sun into shards of gold.  The bed—large, decadent, high-backed in carved obsidian wood dressed in the deep indigos and silvers Agatha favored when she was in this mood —waited with its silken sheets perfectly in place.  Not for long.

Agatha stood in front of you, her chest rising and falling like she’d run a race. Her eyes— They burned. Not with the subtle lavender shimmer that laced through her irises in moments of quiet magic. This was violet. Vivid and unhidden. Glowing like lightning had been bottled inside her skull. She took one slow step forward. Then another. “They must have forgotten,” she said, voice dark as stormlight, “who you belong to.” She stopped close enough for you to feel the heat of her magic rolling off her in waves. “Apparently,” she continued, trailing a fingertip from your collarbone to the hem of your shirt, “I need to remind them.”

Her nail caught the edge of the fabric and flicked it upward. “Loudly.”

You glanced around awkwardly, heart hammering, cheeks already flushed. “We were just—”

Her voice was velvet and danger, that low-throated purr that lived in the space between threat and promise. “You were just forgetting who you belong to.”

You blinked, startled. “I don’t—”

She arched a brow. Smiled, sharp and slow.  Then she turned you around and guided you backward toward the wall. Her hands never left your waist. Her grip was firm—undeniable. Your back met cool stone with a soft thud, and she stepped in close, caging you between her arms.

“but I do...” Your breath caught as she leaned in, her body flush with yours, her thigh sliding between your legs. You felt her magic before you even saw it—curling around your spine, licking down your thighs, tingling beneath your skin like a secret language only she knew. “I nearly hexed them all,” she whispered, lips brushing your ear.

You swallowed hard. “Agatha…”

“I will,” she breathed, voice trembling with restraint. “If I have to.”

Her mouth hovered over yours. “You’re mine. And I don’t feel like sharing today.” Your lips parted to speak, but she didn’t give you the chance. She kissed you—hard. Not gently. Not sweetly. Not like someone trying to apologize. Like someone staking a claim. Her mouth was fire and hunger and fury wrapped in silk. Her hand slid up your chest and fisted your shirt, pulling you tighter into her. Her magic surged between you, wrapping your bodies in that familiar, intoxicating pressure. Your moan spilled into her mouth—raw, involuntary, broken open.

She kissed you deeper, then bit your lower lip, just enough to leave heat behind. When she pulled back, her smile had darkened into something wicked. “Good,” she murmured, eyes blazing. Without breaking eye contact, she lifted one hand and snapped.

Your clothes vanished in a burst of lavender sparks. Gone. Every stitch. You gasped, arms crossing instinctively, but she caught your wrists and dragged them away from your body, pinning them above your head against the wall with one graceful flick of her fingers.

“No hiding,” she whispered. Her own clothes melted off next, fabric disintegrating into smoke as her bare form came into view. Powerful. Sculpted. Beautiful. She stepped back for a single beat—just to look at you. Then her voice dropped.

“Lie down.” You hesitated. “Now.” Your knees gave way. You backed onto the bed, your whole body shaking with arousal and reverence, limbs buzzing as her spell-bound heat followed. The sheets were cool beneath your back, but Agatha’s magic licked across your skin with fevered need.

She climbed onto the bed with the grace of a predator—knees sliding to either side of your hips, palms bracketing your head. “I’m going to fuck you so well,” she whispered, her forehead brushing yours, “they’ll feel it through the damn floors.”

Then she rocked her hips against yours—slow. Measured. You gasped. “You’re mine,” she said again, voice like dark silk. “Say it.”

You trembled. “I’m yours.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Louder.”

“I’m yours,” you repeated, breathless. She smirked—possessive, pleased. Then she leaned down to kiss your throat—soft at first, almost reverent. Her lips brushed the hollow just beneath your jaw, then lower, where your pulse throbbed like a beacon. “Good girl.”

The praise was a murmur against your skin, but it burned like a brand. Before you could answer, her hand slid up your forearm, and you felt the snap of her magic—subtle, decisive—as it laced around your wrists.

Your arms flew above your head and stayed, wrists pinned to the headboard by shimmering violet threads that pulsed with her power. You gasped, spine arching, and your fingers sparked—your own magic flickering between them like it wanted to be tethered. Like it was grateful for the leash.

She pulled back just enough to see it. Smirked. “There she is,” she purred. “Can’t even pretend to fight me, can you?” You shook your head, breath unsteady. Her mouth resumed its descent. She kissed between your breasts, her tongue flicking over one peaked nipple before she sucked it into her mouth, just hard enough to make you whimper.

Then lower. Her palms skimmed your waist, her breath warm across your belly as she settled between your thighs. She looked at you from beneath her lashes like a woman unwrapping a gift meant only for her.

She paused. Saw. “Oh, sweetheart…” One hand slid between your legs, and her fingers parted you slowly, reverently. She dragged her touch through your slick with a deliberate, featherlight pass. “So wet already?”

You whimpered as her touch lingered, not moving fast enough, not moving enough. “You’re desperate, aren’t you?” Your throat tightened. You couldn’t look away from her eyes, glowing faintly violet in the candlelight. She tilted her head. Her smirk sharpened. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

That pleased hum purred up her throat again. She slipped two fingers into your entrance, not all the way—just enough to tease. To taste. Then she drew them back out, glistening. Her eyes flicked to your mouth. She lifted her hand slowly, fingers slick and shining. “Open.” Your lips parted automatically. She pressed her fingers into your mouth, sliding them over your tongue with unbearable patience. You tasted yourself—warm, heady, raw.

“That’s it,” she whispered, watching your lips close around her. “Good girl.”

She pulled her fingers free with a sinful sound and kissed you again—deep, possessive, her tongue sweeping into your mouth to claim the taste of your need. Then, without warning, she thrust those same fingers into you, hard and smooth and deep. Two, and no hesitation. You cried out, back bowing, wrists straining against the bonds as her thumb pressed into your clit in slow, deliberate circles. Her mouth brushed your ear.

“So wet,” she murmured, “and you let them steal you from me all day.”

Her pace stayed steady, grinding inside you as your thighs trembled and your breath stuttered. “You’re mine,” she growled, voice guttural now. “Say that for me.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped.

“Louder. Daddy can’t hear you.”

“I’m yours!” She bit your throat, kissed over the mark, and curled her fingers just right.

“That’s better.”

Her voice scraped low against your throat, full of smoke and satisfaction. You were panting, thighs quivering, the sheets damp with your sweat and arousal. She didn’t stop moving—her fingers thrust slow and deliberate, curling deep with each stroke—but the pressure never quite tipped. Never fast enough. Never rough enough. Just a little less than what you needed.

You writhed. Her eyes glowed brighter. “Look at you,” she purred, voice laced with mock affection. “So desperate already, and I’ve barely even touched you.” You whimpered as her thumb skimmed your clit again—too gently. Teasing. Her other hand slid up your thigh, spreading you wider with a quiet command that was more felt than spoken. “Poor thing. All day you let them take you. Pass you around like you were theirs to borrow. And now…” She leaned down, lips brushing your jaw, “…now you want me to fix it?”

“Yes,” you gasped, body arching toward her.

“You want to come for me, baby?” You nodded frantically, wrists still pinned, unable to pull her closer, unable to do anything but beg. She stilled her fingers inside you. Completely. The frustration that tore from your throat wasn’t even human. You bucked against her, but she didn’t move. Didn’t give you what you needed.

Instead, she kissed your lips—slow, deep, and maddening. “Not yet.” You whimpered again, on the edge of sobbing. Her voice dropped to a velvet snarl. “You’ll cum when I say you can. Not a second before.”

She moved her fingers again—one hard thrust, then stillness. One stroke, deep and curling, then nothing. Over and over. She drew you up, hovered you there—just on the edge, the kind of heat that made your body tremble, scream, clench around her fingers with desperate, pulsing need.

But she never let you fall. You were panting now. Pleading. “Please,” you whispered.

She raised an eyebrow. “Please what, darling?”

You blinked through tears. “Please Daddy… please let me cum…”

Agatha’s mouth curved like she’d just won a bet with the gods. “Mmm. There it is.”

And then— She pulled her fingers out of you. Just like that. No warning. No mercy. You sobbed her name, back arching, body aching for release. But she was already rising to her knees. Already licking your slick from her fingers with slow, deliberate indulgence, like tasting something sacred.

She snapped. The air pulsed. Magic sparked like thunder through the room. Between her legs, the shadows coalesced—violet magic wrapping tight around her core, spiraling downward and forming, solidifying into a thick, gleaming cock made of raw, humming magic. It shimmered with heat, sculpted to perfection, flushed with that deep, iridescent violet glow that marked her oldest, wildest power.

It was beautiful. It was dangerous. And it was for you. Her voice was a command wrapped in silk. “Turn over.” You obeyed, shaky and wide-eyed, shifting your body with trembling limbs until you were on your stomach—cheek pressed to the pillows, wrists still magically bound above your head. Your hips lifted instinctively, your body offering itself without question.

Agatha moaned softly behind you, one palm dragging down your back as she admired the view. “That’s it, my good girl.” She lined herself up. Pressed the head of her cock against your slick entrance—and paused. “You’re going to take every inch,” she whispered, “and then you’re going to come for me. Loudly.” Her hand slid over your hip, possessive. Worshipful. “So the whole fucking coven knows exactly who you belong to.”

Her cock pressed against your entrance—hot, pulsing, perfectly thick—and still she didn’t push in. Instead, Agatha raked her hand down your spine, fingers trailing slow as a spell.

“So beautiful like this,” she murmured. “Open. Willing. Needy.” You whimpered into the pillows, hips pressing back, aching for friction—for anything. She nudged forward, just the barest inch, enough to stretch you open and make you gasp. Then stopped. Completely.

You squirmed beneath her, desperate, panting. The weight of her magic held you down like a warm shackle. Your wrists still burned with the violet bind above your head, your own magic sparking helplessly in response—flickering between your fingertips in stuttering pulses, begging without words.

“Not yet,” she whispered, voice dark and patient. “You’ll take me when I’m ready to give it.” She pulled back—entirely—and your cry was ragged, your hips chasing her, body clenching around nothing.

“Please,” you breathed, throat raw.

“Please what, little witch?”

Her tone was cruelly soft, sliding into you like silk over a blade. You swallowed. “Please give it to me…” Agatha hummed low, her hand ghosting over the curve of your ass. Her fingers dipped between your legs again—sliding over your soaked folds, spreading you open for her, watching the way you trembled.

“You’re soaked for it,” she murmured, smug now. “So desperate. And all I’ve done is deny you.”

She leaned down, body hovering over yours, magic crackling at every point of contact. “You think I’m going to just fuck you now?”

You nodded frantically. She chuckled—dark. “Oh, sweetheart. I haven’t even started yet.” She lined herself up again. Nudged in—one inch. You cried out, the stretch dizzying, electric. Your body arched to meet her—but again, she stopped. Let you feel her there. Let you pulse around her. “Say it again,” she whispered, her voice right at your ear now. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped.

Her teeth grazed your neck. “Again.”

“I’m yours, Agatha, please—” She thrust forward another inch, slow and deep, dragging her magic through you like velvet flame.

You sobbed her name. She groaned, hand tightening on your hip. “That’s it,” she breathed, “Good girl. You’ll take every inch when I’m ready. You’ll beg for it.”

She pulled back. Thrust again—deeper this time, still slow, still punishing in how little she gave. Your body clenched, desperate for more, for release, for her to finally just fuck you the way you needed. But Agatha wasn’t finished teasing. Not yet.

She rocked her hips once, slow and controlled, until you were trembling, mouth open in a silent moan, whole body singing with need. Her voice slid into your ear like sin: “Beg again, and maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

Her hips pulled back—And this time, she didn’t stop.Agatha slammed into you in one brutal, perfect thrust, burying her cock all the way to the hilt, and you screamed. The stretch was overwhelming—thick, hot, deep—her magic pulsing through you in time with your heartbeat.

Your body seized, legs trembling beneath her as she pulled back and drove in again, harder. Faster.No more teasing. No more restraint. She was fucking you now—relentless, feral, moaning into your shoulder as her hips snapped into yours again and again, her magic slamming into your core and lighting up every nerve she’d been playing with for hours.

The sounds you made weren’t coherent anymore—just raw cries, sobs, broken pleas.

Your wrists strained against the violet bonds above your head, your back arched so high you thought you’d shatter. The bed creaked. Then groaned. The headboard slammed into the wall in time with her rhythm—boom, boom, boom—each impact a declaration.

“So fucking needy,” Agatha panted, voice unhinged with lust, “So fucking mine.”

You moaned her name, voice cracking, eyes blurred with tears. She didn’t slow. Her grip on your hips tightened, bruising. “You’ll take every inch until I say you’re done, and thank me for it.”

She changed the angle. You screamed, the sound tearing from your lungs. “FUCK—you’re so deep—”

The house shook. “Thank me, baby girl. Thank Daddy.”

“Goddess—you’re so deep—Daddy, thank you. God, you’re so hard, baby. Thank you for making your girl take your hard… fuck Aggie you’re so fucking….”

Downstairs, no one even pretended not to hear. The moans—the screams—echoed through the rafters. The floorboards trembled. Candles flickered in every room. “Good girl. You feel that?” Agatha growled, breath catching on a moan as she pounded into you harder. “That’s my cock. My magic, filling you up. Stretching you exactly how I want.”

You were choking on sound now—half-cries, half-magic, your own power fraying at the edges of hers, begging for release.

Agatha leaned forward, lips against your ear. “They can hear you, you know.”

You sobbed. “Let them—fuck—please—”

She laughed, dark, thrusting again. “That’s right. Let them hear how perfect you sound when I fuck you.” Her hand curved beneath your belly, spreading across it possessively. “I’m going to fill you up,” she snarled, “Want your belly nice and full with all of Daddy’s cum.”

You cried out, loud enough to wake the dead. Agatha’s next moan was inhuman—a guttural growl that shook through your bones, ricocheted through the walls, bounced off the ceiling.

The headboard slammed again, and again, and again. The front of the house rattled. You were shaking, your legs giving out, your body clenching around her magic like you were being carved open and remade. “Say it,” she commanded, thrusts growing erratic. “Say who you fucking belong to, baby girl.”

“Daddy!! I’m yours—I’m yours daddy—” Her cock pulsed inside you, magic building to a boil— She thrust deep, hips flush against your ass, and her voice tore through the house like a spell cast at full volume: “God, baby girl. Just like that for Daddy.”

She dropped her full weight over you, chest flush to your back, her arms hooking beneath your shoulders and dragging you up into her as her hips kept pounding forward. You were gasping now—high, helpless cries spilling from your lips with every thrust.

Your moans bounced off the walls. Louder. Every snap of her hips rocked the bed. Every stroke made the headboard slam. Every breath was swallowed by the sounds of sex and magic and her name in your throat. Agatha's mouth was at your ear—hot, panting, feral. “That’s it, love,” she rasped, her voice filthy and thick. “Let the whole coven hear what I do to you.”

You sobbed, your body arching, arms still pinned above you, but you couldn't think of anything but the weight of her everywhere—her chest against your spine, her arms wrapped tight around you, her cock buried so deep you could feel it in your stomach.

And gods, the grind of it— Agatha rolled her hips hard and slow, dragging her cock through your soaked walls with devastating precision, and your voice cracked on a scream.

She moaned at the sound. A deep, needy sound that seemed to curl into the floorboards. “That’s it,” she growled, kissing the back of your neck. “Cry for me, baby. You’re so fucking loud. You want them to hear how good I fuck you, don’t you?”

You could barely form words—just whimpers and nods and broken gasps of “Yes, yes, please—Aggie, more—”

She bit your shoulder—soft, then harder, tongue soothing the mark as her hips snapped into you again.

“You take me so well,” she groaned. “So deep. So fucking tight around my cock, like you were made for it.” Her thrusts stuttered, hips grinding against your ass, cock pulsing deep inside you. “Your pussy was made for me.” You wailed—so close, so full, stretched to your limits.

She pressed her lips back to your neck and whispered filth against your skin—all hers, made for this, gonna come so full of me, gonna leak for hours, gonna breed you so deep no one else could ever fucking touch you—each word worse than the last, each breath sending you closer to the edge.

The sound of your moans turned frantic—high, shattering, spiraling into open-throated cries as Agatha fucked you harder, faster, her arms locking tighter around you like she needed to keep you right there. “Let go,” she panted, her voice shaking now, “Cum for me. Cum for DaddyYou better scream. Let them know you're mine.”

And gods, you did.

Your whole body tensed—every muscle locking—and then the release slammed into you like a spell detonating. You screamed her name, stars bursting behind your eyes, your body clenching so hard around her cock it forced a growl from her throat that bordered on a roar.

Agatha didn’t stop. She fucked you through it—relentless, her cock grinding into the deepest part of you as you spasmed beneath her. “Good fucking girl.” Her magic pulsed again—deep, heavy—and then she groaned, loud enough that it echoed down the halls, bouncing off the stone.

“Daddy’s gonna fill you up, sweetheart.” Agatha’s moan broke behind you. A ragged, low-throated groan ripped from her chest as her thrusts grew erratic—deeper, harder, her cock grinding right into the softest part of you like she couldn’t stand the thought of not being buried as deep as possible.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna cum—” Her arms locked around your waist, dragging you up, keeping you spread open and tight around her cock as she slammed in again, and again, and again. “Gonna fill you up—gonna fucking stuff you full, baby—”

You sobbed, mouth open against the sheets, still shaking, still dripping, your walls fluttering around her with every relentless, punishing thrust.

“Want your belly swollen with it,” she gasped, “Want you leaking all over the fucking bed. Want my cum so deep inside you, it stays there—”

“Yes—yes—Daddy, please—”

She snarled your name and bit down on your shoulder again—teeth and tongue and heat—and then she shuddered, hips slamming in one final time before she came with a guttural cry that echoed off the walls.

Her cock pulsed deep inside you—again, again—as magic poured into you, thick and molten, flooding your cunt in wave after wave of heat.

You could feel it.

The warmth. The stretch. The weight of it, filling you so full it ached. So much it dripped around her cock even as she stayed buried to the hilt.

Her voice was wrecked, breath stuttering against your ear. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of it—fuck—look at you. Daddy’s perfect girl…” She thrust once more, slow and deep, grinding into the mess she’d made. “So fucking perfect. So full. You were made for this—made to take my cum.”

Your whimper was nothing but sound now. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Just feel the way she held you close, her cock still twitching inside you, her magic still humming, still claiming. Agatha kissed your temple, your cheek, your jaw, her voice softer now—but no less filthy. “Mine,” she whispered. “You hear me? Every inch of you. This body. This pussy. That pretty little stomach I’m going to fill again and again.”

She pressed her palm low to your belly, over the fullness she left there, groaning softly at the way it was still hot and taut and claimed. “Look at you,” she whispered again, almost reverent. “Fucked full. Shaking. Perfect.” You turned your head, barely able to breathe, and she kissed you. Slow. Deep. Worshipful. “I love you,” she murmured into your mouth. “I love you so much”

She pulled her hips back—slowly—and you moaned as her cock dragged through your overstimulated walls, slick with cum and magic, making you tremble. And still she didn’t let you go. She stayed wrapped around you, her chest pressed to your back, her hand on your belly. “You’re mine,” she whispered. “Now and always.” You were still trembling beneath her, soaked and wrecked, her cum dripping out of you in slow pulses when Agatha finally—finally—eased her cock from your body with a low hiss.

You whimpered at the loss, at the unbearable emptiness she left behind. But she wasn’t letting go. Not for long. “No,” she murmured, breathless, mouth brushing your shoulder. “Not done with you yet.”

You barely registered the shift before she rolled you beneath her—slow, careful, but intentional, her magic guiding your body into the warm center of the bed. You were limp, breath stuttering, legs still trembling as she settled between them, her weight pressing you into the mattress.

Then—she lifted your thighs and pulled them over her hips.

Your ankles crossed at the small of her back. Her hands slid beneath your knees, lifting them, opening you for her as her cock pressed back against your overstretched entrance. “There we are,” she whispered, eyes glowing, “Look at you.”

You blinked up at her, flushed and dazed, lips parted, your body already reacting to her heat—clenching, pulsing, ready. “So fucked out already,” she cooed, kissing your throat, “And still ready for more.”

She pushed in—slow this time, deliberate.

And you both moaned.

Her cock dragged through your soaked, swollen walls like she was carving herself into you all over again. Inch by inch. Filthy sounds filled the room as your cunt welcomed her back, still full of her last orgasm, your body messy and perfect. “Still tight,” she groaned, “Still taking me so good. Just like that.”

She rolled her hips, slow and deep, her chest brushing yours, mouth finding your jaw.

“I want to see you cum this time,” she whispered. “Want to watch your face when I fill you again.” You cried out, thighs shaking, her grip under your knees keeping you spread and pinned as she moved, body to body, grinding into you with firm, devastating strokes.

The friction. The heat. The pressure. It was too much. And not enough. “Please,” you gasped, eyes fluttering, “Please, Aggie—” She kissed you, swallowing your cry, her hips rocking slow and deep. “Think you can give Daddy one more, baby,” she breathed against your lips. “I know you can.”

Each thrust pushed the breath from your lungs. Her cock pressed against every place that made you scream, her weight grounding you, her magic still throbbing where it filled you. Your body arched, hips chasing her, already buildingagain. “That’s it,” she growled, “Let me feel it. I want to feel you cum around me while I’m watching.”

You moaned louder, sobbed her name as her cock dragged through you again, her hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight, perfect circles over your clit. “Come on, sweet girl. Cum for me again. Let me see it.” Her voice was reverent. Worshipful.

And you were close—so close—right there on the edge with her mouth against your neck, her hands under your thighs, her cock buried so deep it felt like she belonged there. Agatha moaned low, a hot rumble against your skin. “I love you like this,” she whispered, “Open. Wet. Full of me. You’re mine.”

Your whole body arched beneath her—used, wet, full—as Agatha rolled her hips again, dragging her cock through your overstretched cunt with a slow, merciless grind. You cried out, the sound breaking halfway through your throat.

And her magic listened. She lifted one hand and waved it through the air, violet energy shimmering between her fingers. The bonds on your wrists vanished with a snap.

Your arms fell limp for half a second—then surged upward. You clung to her shoulders like a lifeline, your nails digging into her skin as she fucked you slow and deep, every thrust sending electric shudders through your body. “There you go,” she whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, “Hold on to me. Let me feel those claws, baby.” Her pace stayed steady—skin on skin, soaked and slick, your thighs spread wide over her hips, her body grinding down into yours like she was trying to mark you from the inside out.

Your moans came in broken, hitched gasps now—wrecked, breathless. But Agatha caught every single one. Her mouth covered yours, swallowing the sounds as they left you—like she needed them, like they were hers to devour. She kissed you through each cry, tongue licking into your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip as her cock drove deeper, slower, each stroke meaner with how close you were.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

The sound of your bodies colliding echoed through the bedroom—filthy, slick, rhythmic. “That’s it,” she breathed against your tongue, “You feel that? You’re so fucking close. I can feel you squeezing me.” Your nails scraped down her back, legs tightening around her waist as her cock brushed that perfect spot again and again, your clit grinding into her with every downward press.

Agatha moaned—loudly, openly—as her forehead dropped to yours. “You’re gonna break,” she whispered, grinning, breath ragged. “I can feel it. You’re right there, aren’t you?”

You nodded wildly, your voice gone, your body shivering beneath her.

She kissed your cheek, your temple, your jaw. Her lips moved with care—but her hips never stopped. Still grinding. Still deep. Still slappingagainst you with filthy, wet sounds that made your head spin. “Say it again,” she whispered into your mouth. “Say you’re mine. Say who you’re gonna cum for.”

Your voice cracked as you gasped, “You—Aggie, I’m yours—I’m yours—please, fuck—”

Her smile was dark. Loving. Possessive. Your arms clung to her shoulders, your nails dragging little red crescents down her back as she kept fucking you slow—grinding, deep, her cock still slick and hard, buried in the heat of you like it belonged there.

Every stroke made your legs tremble. Every grind pulled broken moans from your mouth—high and shattered and swallowed by her lips. But then—just as she pulled back for air, panting, flushed, her mouth hovering above yours—you whispered: “Aggie, I want them to hear you, too.”

She froze.

Just for a beat.

Your hands tightened around her shoulders, pulling her down against you, and your lips brushed hers as you moaned the next words into her mouth: “I want them to hear what my body does to the big bad Agatha Harkness.”

Her breath caught—hitched—and you felt her cock twitch inside you. She growled—low and guttural—and slammed into you with a sudden, brutal thrust that knocked your breath from your lungs. “You little witch,” she hissed, but her voice was shaking now. “You wanna make me cry out?”

You smiled, dazed and fucked-out, hips grinding into hers.

“I want them to know who really brings you to your knees.” Agatha moaned—loudand needy—her forehead crashing to your shoulder as her hips started moving faster again, more erratic, more frantic.

“Fuck—you want them to hear me lose it, is that it? Want them to hear me come inside you, screaming your name, baby? Hmmm… Want Daddy to scream your name, baby girl?” You gasped, nodding, your own body starting to burn again with the slow build of climax.

“Please,” you whispered. “Want to hear you fall apart.” Her rhythm stuttered—just for a second—and then she was thrusting harder, teeth sinking into your neck, moans pouring from her lips as she gave up control.

“You’re so fucking tight—fuck, I’m gonna—” But she didn’t finish the sentence. She was holding on—just barely. And so were you. Skin slapped wet and filthy again, bodies tangled, sweat glistening on both of you as the bed creaked and your breath came in gasps.

“Not yet,” she growled again, her voice breaking, “We’re gonna cum together. I’m gonna fill you again while you squeeze me dry. Make the whole house hear it.”

Agatha’s hips slowed—not with restraint, but reverence. Like she wanted to remember every second. She rolled into you in deep, grinding thrusts, her cock dragging slow and so thick through your soaked cunt, hips circling at the end of each stroke with devastating purpose. Your legs were still hooked around her waist, her hands firm beneath your knees, holding you wide open for her—trembling, needy, ruined.

You clung to her shoulders, nails buried in sweat-slick skin, your moans raw and wrecked as her pace stayed slow, but merciless. “You want it so bad,” she whispered against your mouth, her breath hot and trembling, “Want me to fill you up again while you scream my name for the whole coven to hear…”

You nodded wildly, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, your voice barely more than a cry: “Yes—please—need it—need you—” Her cock dragged through you again—deep and slow—and you could feel every ridge, every pulse of her magic inside you. The pressure building again was unbearable. Hot. Full. Too much. Agatha’s moan was thick and feral, her lips brushing your jaw, your throat, your lips. “You’re so fucking tight,” she groaned, her voice cracking. “You’re milking me, sweet girl—gods, you’re gonna make me cum just from how good this pussy feels.”

You gasped—eyes wide, mouth open—as your body clenched involuntarily around her, pulling her deeper.

And Agatha—Agatha moaned so loud it bounced off the walls. “Fuck—you feel cock baby?” she hissed. “So hard—I can feel how badly you want it—your body’s begging, baby—begging for me to lose it inside you.”

The wet slap of skin against skin filled the room, rhythmic and slick, each grind more overwhelming than the last. Your moans were broken sobs now—mouth open beneath hers, tears streaming, your body too overstimulated, too stretched, too perfectly full.

Your lips grazed hers, and you whispered: “I still want them to hear you, wife of mine.” You tightened your legs around her waist and ground up into her, desperate. Sliding your pussy up and down her length. “Can you let them hear what your baby girl does to you? How much you want to never stop?”

She snarled—a desperate, broken sound—and her control snapped. She slammed into you, grinding down deep and hard, her arms shaking as her cock pulsed inside you. You moaned loud, “Give them a fucking show, Daddy.”

She pounded into you, the sound of your bodies colliding louder than before, the slapping echo of skin on skin bouncing off the ceiling, the walls, off the air itself.And then she groaned—a sound so low and guttural you felt it in your spine: “I’m gonna cum, baby—I’m gonna fill you again—gods, I’m gonna fucking breed you—”

You were shaking, screaming into her shoulder, your body locking down around her cock as your orgasm exploded through you like a supernova. Your back arched. Your nails raked down her back. Your mouth fell open as a scream tore from your chest: “Good Girl.. SHIT... Daddy’s good girl is gonna make you take all of my hot cum.”

She drove deep, her cock pulsing violently inside you as she shoutedyour name and came, hot magic flooding into you, pulse after pulse, filling you until it spilled out around her.

Her body shook. Her head dropped to your chest. Her breath came in ragged, wrecked sobs. She didn’t pull out. She couldn’t. She stayed buried, her cock still twitching inside you, her hands gripping your thighs, holding you open, as her cum seeped out and down your ass in thick, dripping warmth. She started moving again.  Slow. Heavy. Deep.

She kissed your collarbone, your throat, your cheek. “I love you,” she whispered, over and over, “I love you. You’re mine. All mine.”

And you—bliss-drunk and boneless beneath her—could only whisper: “Yours.”

Her hips rolled into yours in deep, grinding thrusts, her cock dragging through your oversensitive walls with a stretch that still made you sob. You were trembling beneath her—full, wrecked, dripping with her, every part of you split open and soaked in the heat of what she’d already given you.

But she wasn’t done. And gods, you didn’t want her to be. Her hands slid up the backs of your thighs and under your knees, lifting you gently, holding you open. Your legs bent around her hips, locking weakly behind her as she ground into you—slow, thick, relentless.

“Still so tight,” she whispered, voice low and almost awed. “Still holding onto me like you don’t want to let go.” You gasped as she thrust again, just a little deeper. Your walls fluttered around her, slick and overstretched, still clenching from your orgasm. Her lips brushed your temple. “Don’t,” she added, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Don’t let go. Don’t ever.”

You clung to her shoulders, nails sunk into her back as her cock kept rocking into you, deeper with every roll of her hips. Her pace didn’t build—it burrowed. Low and steady. Claiming. Every thrust pushed her cum back deeper inside you, messy and hot and thick, forcing your cunt to hold more than you thought possible.

She kissed your throat. Then your jaw. Then your mouth. “That’s it,” she murmured, voice breaking on a moan. “Just like that. Let me feel you melt for me.” You whimpered. Wrecked. Beyond words. And she kissed you again—slower this time, her lips reverent, desperate, like she was trying to breathe you in.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” she groaned into your mouth. “All fucked out, full of me, crying into the sheets. Gods, I could spend hours here—just grinding into you like this, my cock dripping while I keep filling you, over and over…”

You moaned, and she shivered—you felt it. Her whole body tense, trembling with restraint she couldn’t hold much longer. Her cock throbbed deep inside you. Her eyes flickered with light. Her breath caught.

“I’m not gonna last,” she whispered, “Not if you keep making those sounds. Fuck—you don’t know what you do to me—”Her voice cracked, and she kissed you again—harder, more needy now, like she was afraid of breaking apart.

“I’ve had lifetimes of control,” she murmured into your mouth, “Centuries of restraint. And you—” She thrust again—slow, grinding, and her breath hitched— “You ruined it in a fucking day.” You whimpered her name, your body clinging to hers.

And that did it. Agatha broke.

Her hips lost their rhythm, and her next moan tore out of her like she didn’t know how to hold it in. “Oh fuck—baby girl”

She pressed her forehead to yours, gasping. Her hands trembled under your thighs. “You’re gonna break me—” She thrust again—harder this time—and her body shuddered. “I love you. I love you—”

And then her voice dropped—raw, reverent, ruined—

“You’re mine. My sweet, messy, perfect girl. My body. My love. My fucking everything.” She kissed you again, full and frantic, hips still rocking into you with thick, deep strokes that made you sob. “I’m still coming,” she whimpered. “Fuck—I’m still coming inside you—I can’t stop—” You gasped her name. Felt another wave building. She moaned into your mouth. “Let it happen,” she begged. “One more. One more. Come with me again. I need it—I need to feel it when you fall apart around me.”

Your body had no strength left. Your legs were shaking. Your fingers still clung to her shoulders. Your body—soaked, filled, wrecked—clutched her cock with every slow, grinding thrust she gave you, and yet somehow, you were still so close.

You were soaked, stretched, pulsing around her, your moans broken and slurred. Agatha was still inside—still moving—but barely. Her hips rocked into you in slow, grinding waves, her cock dragging through your oversensitive walls like she couldn’t bear to leave you empty.

Every breath felt like lightning. Her hands curled tighter beneath your knees, holding you open for her, her chest pressed flush to yours, heart pounding so hard you could feel it. You felt it in the way her rhythm started to falter again—still deep, still rolling—but now her hips trembled at the end of each stroke. Her jaw dropped open above you. Her breath hitched.

And her voice— Her voice was gone. Not from silence, but from moaning. Groaning. Deep, raw sounds that tore out of her chest like her soul had come loose. “Aghhh—mmnnh—fuck—you feel that, baby? You feel what you do to me?”

You whimpered under her, barely able to nod, your head tipping back as her next thrust sank deep—so deep—grinding her cock against the mess of your orgasm-slicked walls. “That’s it,” she growled, low and devastated, “You take me so good—so fucking good—I can’t—nghh—I can’t stop.” You sobbed her name. She moaned again—louder this time, her jaw going slack as her rhythm faltered. “You’re gonna break me, sweetheart,” she whispered, breath hot at your ear. “Gonna fuckin’ ruin me—” Her cock dragged out halfway—wet, hot, dragging cum with it—and then she slammed back in with a grind that made your thighs shake around her waist.

You gasped. She groaned—long, low, primal. Not a word. Not a curse. Just that sound—the kind that came from somewhere deeper than thought. “Nngh—gods—yes—yes, just like that—oh baby, that’s it—”

You felt her whole body seize above you. Her hands gripped tighter under your legs. Her thrusts turned to trembling, aching grinds, like she was trying to make it last, but couldn’t hold it in. “I love you—fuck, I love you so much—” And then she buried herself to the hilt—hard and full—and stayed there, her cock twitching inside your already dripping cunt. Pressed in as far as she could go, and held it there, cock throbbing inside your soaked heat, her arms shaking as she hovered over you.

Her head dropped to your neck. And her moan—gods. It was low. Broken. Like something ripped out of her. “Aghhh—mmph—yes, baby—yes, fuck, just like that for daddy—” Her hips rocked again. Just once. Then again. A trembling grind.

You cried out, legs tightening around her as your body locked down around her cock again, your second orgasm ripping through you with a sharp, wet sob. Agatha broke. “Ahhh—fuck, baby—fuuuck—” Her voice cracked into a growl, and she came—deep, full, her magic cock pulsing again and again as she spilled another thick wave of cum inside you.

You felt it. Hot. Heavy. Stretching you so full you swore it could spill out your mouth. But Agatha wasn’t just cuming.

She was weeping. Her moans weren’t words anymore. They were sounds. Raw. Deep. Ripped from the base of her throat like her body couldn’t take another second of restraint.

She was still inside you—so deep, her cock grinding against the soaked heat of your overstimulated cunt, her thighs trembling with the effort of not breaking. But it was happening anyway. You could feel it in the way her rhythm changed—hips stuttering, cock twitching, her whole body tightening. “Fuck—baby—” Her voice cracked. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m cumming—”

You whimpered beneath her, legs trembling, body still pulsing, stretched wide for her, still leaking from the last time. Her breath turned to panting. “Gonna paint you in it—mmnh, gonna fill you so deep it leaks out for days—” And then— Her hips slammed forward, burying herself fully, holding there. Her hands gripped your hips so hard it hurt, holding you down, pinning you open beneath her as she came. “Daddy is gonna—I’m cumming—I’m fucking—AGHHH—”

Her moan split the air—long, guttural, desperate—so loud it cracked through the room like thunder.

Magic erupted from her body in a wave. The walls shook. The air hummed. Every candle in the house flared—then blew out. You sobbed her name, your hands clawing at her back, your body spasming as she pulsed inside you—thick, hot ropes of cum flooding your cunt, filling you past the edge of what you could hold.

So much. You could feel it—so deep, so warm, dripping around her cock as she stayed buried to the hilt. She bit you—hard. Her teeth sank into your neck, not cruel, but claiming, her moan breaking against your skin as she emptied herself into you.

You gasped, helpless, as she shuddered with every pulse, every wave of magic she poured into your womb. “You’re mine,” she groaned against your throat. “Mine—mine—mine—mine—” Her body jerked with every grind, her cock still twitching, cum leaking down your thighs as she held you in place and kept going—slow, firm, needy. Like she couldn’t stop. Like she didn’t want to.

And when her voice returned—it was wrecked. “You feel that?” she panted, breath hot against your ear. “That’s my fucking love inside you. That’s me marking you. Filling you. Making sure no one ever forgets who you belong to.” The room smelled like sex. Like ozone. Like wild magic spilled and still burning. You could barely breathe.

And still—Agatha rocked into you, her lips at your neck, her body trembling, her voice low and breaking— “You take me so well… every fucking time. My perfect girl. My body. My home.” Your body was shaking. Not from pain. Not from strain.

But from the weight of everything that had just passed between you. You were so full—soaked with her, stretched and tender, her magic cum thick and hot, still pulsing deep inside where her cock remained buried. Agatha was on top of you, her chest pressed tight to yours, her arms coiled protectively around your hips like she couldn’t stand the idea of pulling away just yet.

And gods, neither could you. You could barely speak. Could barely breathe. But she kissed you anyway. Slow. Warm. Trembling. Like she had all the time in the world. “Shhh,” she whispered against your mouth, lips brushing yours with every breath. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

You felt her hand slide from beneath your thigh, stroking low over your belly. Her cock twitched inside you, one final wave of warmth spilling into your sore, well-used cunt. You gasped. She moaned—soft, raw—forehead pressed to yours. “Still taking me,” she murmured, voice thick with reverence. “You were made for this. Made for me.” Her hand rested just below your navel. And then—you felt it. Magic.

A slow, golden warmth spreading from her palm into your womb. Her cum shimmered inside you, and your body thrummed with it—like every drop knew it belonged. Like her magic was tucking itself deep into your flesh and staying there.

“Let it hold,” Agatha whispered, eyes half-lidded, voice steadying. “Let me keep you full.” You whimpered. Your hands curled around her biceps, clinging to her as your breathing slowed. Her magic sealed you from within—no spell spoken aloud, just intention and devotion. A promise. She kissed your cheek. Your throat. The curve of your breast.

Then bent down, lips brushing your belly like a prayer. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For taking me. For loving me like this. For letting me… have you.” Her voice cracked. You threaded your fingers into her hair, still barely able to lift your arm, but needing to touch her. She moved slowly, so carefully, shifting her body just enough to pull you into her lap—her cock still inside, still warm, your bodies pressed belly to belly now.

She kissed you again—your nose, your lips, your chin. “You’re so good,” she whispered. “So good to me. I love you so much it hurts.” You felt her hand draw lazy circles on your thigh. Her other stayed anchored at your waist, keeping you flush against her. And when your body finally began to settle—no longer shaking, just floating—she nuzzled into your neck and whispered:

“We’re not done.” A pause. A kiss. “But right now… I’m going to hold you until the magic settles. Until every part of you knows you’re mine.” And she did. Still inside you. Still whispering. Still yours. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that—wrapped around her, full of her, barely able to breathe from how deep she still was inside you.

But eventually, when the trembling had faded and your magic had gone quiet again, Agatha shifted. Gently. Carefully. Like moving too quickly would undo the spell you’d both just written into each other’s bodies. Her cock slipped free with a slow, wet sound that made you whimper. She kissed your shoulder as you clenched instinctively around the emptiness. “I know, my love,” she whispered. “I know. I’ve got you.”

You blinked up at her, dazed and warm, your body tender and humming. She smiled, soft and devastating. “Let me take care of you now.” Agatha stood first, naked and glowing, her magic coiling lazily around her fingers as she walked across the room. She waved one hand, and the candles relit themselves in a soft, golden hue. Another wave, and the bedroom air filled with a quiet, lavender warmth.

You heard water begin to run in the bath. Hot. Clean. Comforting.vShe returned to the bed and scooped you up into her arms without a word. You didn’t protest. You couldn’t. Your head fell against her collarbone as she carried you through the door, into your bedroom suite’s private bath—steam curling against the tile, the tub already filling with perfectly warm water infused with herbs, spell-soaked salts, and faintly glowing petals floating like starlight.

Agatha set you down at the edge of the tub and helped ease you in, her hands steady beneath your thighs and hips as your sore body sank into the heat. You moaned—soft, broken, grateful. She brushed your hair back from your forehead. Kissed it. Then climbed in behind you, pulling your body back into hers, your spine to her chest. You sighed, sinking into her like you were returning to yourself. Her arms wrapped around your belly. Her chin rested on your shoulder. For a while, there was only silence. Only water. Only skin.

Only Agatha. “That’s it,” she murmured, kissing the shell of your ear. “Let the bath pull it all out. Everything that’s heavy. Everything but me.” Her magic stirred again—this time featherlight, tracing the bruises she’d left on your hips and thighs, healing only what hurt, leaving everything sacred behind. You closed your eyes. You felt her fingers trace lazy circles on your stomach beneath the water. Her voice dropped to a whisper, just for you. “I’ve never needed anything like I need you.”

You didn’t speak. You just leaned into her, let her hold you until the water began to cool. When you returned to the bedroom, the sheets were somehow clean. Fresh. Soft and still warm. Agatha guided you in with reverent hands, settling you back onto the bed with a plush throw tucked around your legs.

Then she left—just for a moment. When she came back, she had everything: A cool glass of water, slices of fresh fruit, a few pieces of chocolate, a soft protein bar she knew you liked. A second blanket. She sat beside you. Fed you slowly. Kissed your forehead after every bite. Rubbed your thigh in circles while you sipped the water.

“There she is,” she said softly, “My sweet girl.” You didn’t have to say anything. She saw it in your eyes. The peace. The fullness. The love. And when you leaned into her, blanket tucked around you both, her hand found your belly again and stayed there—quiet, anchoring, home.

------

It was hours before your legs remembered how to hold you. Even then, they trembled beneath you—delicate, sore, stretched too wide and filled too deep to forget what Agatha had done to you upstairs. She hadn’t left your side. Not when she dried you. Not when she dressed you in one of her long, black robes that hung off your shoulders like holy fabric. Not when she tucked you into bed, fed you water, and whispered over your skin as if you were still too full of her magic to speak aloud.

By the time she decided it was time to descend to dinner, your lips were still kiss-swollen, your eyes slightly red, and your body… aching. Marked. Your neck bore her mouth like a brand—dark bruises and shimmering runes where she’d kissed, bitten, claimed you. The silk of her robe brushed high over your thighs, where fingerprints and bite marks still bloomed like stars.

The walk down the stairs felt endless. Not just because you were sore. But because you knew—everyone had heard. As you stepped into the dining hall, the air stopped moving. Conversations ceased mid-sentence. A glass clinked against a plate and then went still. No one looked at you. Not directly. Their eyes snapped away the moment yours met them. Some flushed. One witch dropped a spoon. The entire coven sat in complete, awkward silence.

Agatha walked beside you like a goddess, her expression unreadable, her body humming with satisfied magic. Her hair was still a little tousled, her sleeves rolled, and her lips curved with just the slightest, knowing tilt.

She looked unbothered. No—she looked vindicated. When you reached the head of the long table, Agatha didn’t speak. She pulled out the carved mahogany chair at the center and sat, slowly, gracefully. Then she extended a hand toward you—open. Waiting. You didn’t hesitate.

Your knees gave slightly as you moved toward her, but her arm was already around your waist, guiding you with gentle, impossible strength into her lap. You sank into her body with a soft sigh, her thighs warm beneath you, her hands anchoring you without needing to ask. You could feel the magic still flickering around her. Around you. You could feel how soaked the room was in what you’d done upstairs. Her fingers curled against your side. She smiled.

That Agatha smile. The one that made storms curl around her feet and lesser witches go quiet out of instinct alone. Her voice, when it came, was a blade wrapped in silk. “Listen.” It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The silence deepened. “And I will not say this again.”

She stroked your thigh once, possessive and slow, before resting her palm flat over your stomach, exactly where her magic had sealed itself hours before. “She is mine.” The words landed like a spell. Like a verdict. No one dared blink. “And if any of you forget that again…” She looked around the table. Met each and every gaze. Slowly. Calmly. With fire beneath her lashes.

“Especially after what you heard today…” A flicker of something wicked crossed her face. The barest hint of a smirk. Not arrogance—promise. “I will take her far away from this place…” You felt her magic stir again. Low and thrumming. It tasted like thunder. “…and you won’t see us again.”

No one moved. Not a single cough. Not a single spell cast. Even the torches seemed to flicker lower, as if too afraid to burn too brightly in her presence. And then Agatha—your Agatha—leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Eat, darling,” she murmured, brushing her lips against your ear. “They’ll behave now.”

Her tone was soft. But her hand still rested on your belly. Still full of magic. Still full of her. And from the head of the table, Agatha Harkness smiled like a woman who had claimed everything she ever wanted—and dared the world to try and take it back.

------

The house in the mountains was still.

Night had long since settled over the ridgeline, stars draped in a velvet sky outside the window. The fire in your hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting slow-moving shadows across the wooden floor.  And the two of you were wrapped in blankets, tucked into the heart of your shared bed.

 Agatha lay behind you, her body molded to yours like she'd been poured there—her chest rising against your back, one leg draped over yours, her arm looped across your waist. You were blanketed not just in warmth, but in her: her scent, her magic, her skin, her breath against the nape of your neck.

Your body still ached from everything that had happened. Every pulse. Every stretch. Every breathless sound wrung from you in the hours before. You were sore, marked, full—in every way. But here, in this room, it didn’t feel possessive. It felt safe. It felt yours.

Still, the question wouldn’t leave your mind. It had echoed in your bones the moment you’d stepped through the door hours ago, quiet and persistent, until finally— “Did you mean it?”

The words came out quieter than you intended. Agatha didn’t respond right away. But you felt the breath catch in her chest. You didn’t turn to face her. You couldn’t. You just kept speaking, barely above a whisper. “What you said. At dinner.” The air shifted. Her arm tightened around your middle. “That you’d take me away.”

A long silence stretched between you, not cold—but fragile. Sacred. Then Agatha moved. She shifted behind you, sliding her thigh higher over yours, pulling your body more fully into hers until you were wrapped in her entirely. Her palm flattened low across your belly, right over the place where her magic still lingered—sealed deep and slow and pulsing.

“Of course I meant it,” she murmured, and the words felt like a spell.

You finally turned, slowly, carefully, until you were lying on your side, facing her in the quiet. Her eyes met yours immediately. There was no teasing in them. Only truth. Only you.

“I meant every word, and I’d do it without hesitation.” Her fingers brushed your cheek, then tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “If they ever forgot who you are… if they ever made you feel less than cherished, or tried to take more of you than you chose to give—” Her throat tightened. Her voice dropped, rough with quiet rage she hadn't shown at the table. “I’d burn the bridge behind us.” Your breath caught. Agatha leaned in, pressing her forehead to yours. “I’d take you to the edge of the world. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere soft. Somewhere only we knew.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if seeing it—the place she'd go, the home she’d build for you all over again.

“You wouldn’t have to lift a finger. You wouldn’t have to hide your body, or your joy, or your strength. You’d laugh as loud as you wanted. You’d wear nothing but moonlight if you pleased.” A tear slipped down your cheek. She caught it with her thumb. “And I’d be there. Every step. Every breath. Loving you so loudly no one would dare whisper your name in vain again.”

You leaned into her hand. You didn’t try to hide the way your lips trembled. “You really would?” Agatha smiled, but it wasn’t prideful. It was soft. It was sacred. She bent her head and kissed you—slow, deep, her thumb still pressed to your cheek as her other hand cupped your belly. And when she pulled back, she whispered against your lips: “I already have.”

She curled her body around you again, guiding your head to her chest, her palm resting over your womb—still warm, still sealed, still glowing. “Sleep, my love,” she murmured. “You’re home.” You closed your eyes to the sound of her heartbeat. And this time—when sleep came— It was peace. It was hers.

--------

Did you like it? Please make sure to let me know 🖤💜

[vxsellie]

‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔦𝔦

summary. to give a final goodbye to someone you love is generally the last thing anyone would ever wish to do. though, when being shipped off to your death, it's the equivalent to being given a final meal whilst on death row.

content warnings. abuse, mentions of death, implications of murder, and (the worst of all) a lesbian breakup

total wc. 5,225

notes!! here she is! i wrote this in one sitting on the night before christmas, literally up until two am bc my thoughts wouldn't stop flowing (ive had writers block for the past few months so you couldn't pry my keyboard from my cold dead hands). anyway here she is! once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

14:45.

DISTRICT SEVEN.

“What were you thinking?” 

Despite how loud Marlene’s voice is, it sounds rather muffled. Ellie’s thoughts all jumble together into a plethora of unintelligible abstraction. This results in outside noises becoming equally as cryptic.

After the Reaping, both tributes were escorted into the Justice Building and forced into separate rooms. Having grown up amid the Games, Ellie’s aware that this is the part where she’s supposed to say her final goodbyes to her loved ones — an hour of time allotted to these farewells. And, despite knowing that all twenty-three other tributes are going through the same thing, Ellie couldn’t feel more alone. There’s a sickening sense of finality to this. Like she’s cattle bred and born to await death. Like there’s nothing more to her life aside from this — being Reaped to never return.

And, with the time given, Marlene has opted to use the entirety of her visit reprimanding Ellie for how she’d acted on stage. Not that she doesn’t deserve to be chastised, she knows she does, but it’s still fucked up.

See, after her name had been drawn, Ellie’s entire world fell out from under her feet. She knew there was a possibility of her name being drawn, she’d be a fool not to at least acknowledge that fact. But to look that fate in the eye and have no way of revoking it? That’s an entirely different pill to swallow. As she stood atop that stage, the escort’s piping voice ringing through her ears, Ellie simply could not seem to comprehend it. But then she felt a weight in her hand, a warmth. She turned to see Riley, her jaw set and her eyes darkened. She grabbed Ellie’s hand and hoisted it into the air.

To Ellie, it was a rather odd thing to do. But, as Marlene is pointing out presently, it was an act of defiance against the Capitol itself. Ellie had no idea. Not that she doubts it, what with Riley’s outward distaste for the government, but it just hadn’t dawned on her that the mere act of holding a friend’s hand would piss off the Capitol. It’s kinda funny.

“What could you possibly be laughing at?” Marlene groans, her pacing coming to a halt as she whips around to face Ellie. Her expression isn’t one of rage, as initially expected. Instead, it’s one of genuine panic. Well shit, apparently holding hands really is treason.

Ellie doesn’t respond, her face dropping instantly. She pins her gaze to the floor, staring at the same rusted nail she’s been looking at for the past ten minutes. In fact, she’d been so zoned out that she hadn’t picked up a single thing that Marlene was trying to say. Usually, this would amuse her. But now, with her impending doom so leering, she can’t help but feel ashamed. She may never see Marlene again. And then what? Her last memory of the girl she’d raised from infantry would be of her zoned out whilst curled into a ball on a dilapidated sofa. That’s rather pathetic, is it not?

She shudders, pulling her knees even closer to her chest at the thought. She doesn’t yet know who was Reaped from the other Districts, but she’s sure they aren’t all pouting on their couches like children. Still, she can’t seem to remove herself from this position — one of self comfort. 

Something touches her knee and she flinches, tearing her gaze from the floor. She looks up to see Marlene sitting beside her on the couch, her gaze softened. Ellie hadn’t even noticed her approach. Fuck. See, this is the exact thing she’s worried about. If she were to zone out like this in the arena, she'd be dead within minutes.

“You didn’t hear anything I just said, did you?” Marlene asks with a sigh. A wave of guilt washes over Ellie’s body before she nods, admittedly having heard nothing. “I was saying I’m sorry. I don’t mean to shout at you like this, especially considering the situation. I’m only lecturing you because I’m worried. I’ve seen the Capitol kill people for less than holding hands.”

Ellie shakes her head, though the act is faraway. “The Capitol can’t kill us now that we’re tributes. To do so would only result in more defiance from the viewers. They’re anticipating a show, to kill off the characters would be antiprogressive.”

“No, but they can surely make your time in the arena worse.” Marlene points out. 

Ellie thins her lips at this, but ultimately says nothing. This is not what she wants to hear right before being sent to her death. She wants consolation and comfort, not reminders of how little control she has in her own life. But that’s just how Marlene is — she gets stressed and rambles. Most of the time, it's a harmless habit. Right now, though, it’s proving to be rather taxing.

“Look,” She sighs, “I’m not good at this whole thing, talking. Everyone knows that. It’s– Well, it’s the entire reason I never had any kids of my own.” She sighs again trying desperately to make sense of her thoughts and word them in a way that doesn’t sound like an insult. “I never wanted children, but raising you was the best thing that ever could have happened to me. Losing you would thereby be the worst thing to ever happen to me. I only shouted at you because your safety means everything. But— you’re strong, Ellie, and so very brave. If you put your mind to it, you can make it out of that arena. I believe in you. All you have to do is believe in yourself.”

Ellie is certain that’s the most Marlene has ever spoken in one go without shouting or giving up halfway through. And for that, she’s grateful. Ellie swallows harshly, her throat suddenly feeling too big for her neck. She leans forward.

She doesn’t hug Marlene, not necessarily. She simply flops into her, thumping her forehead onto her shoulder. Her body is stiff and her jaw is clenched tight, but the act of the touch still carries a sense of sentimentality to it. Especially considering she and Marlene never hug. In fact, she thinks she only ever hugged her once in her whole life. Again, it’s not anything to pity her for, it’s just their relationship. A fact of life. Some people are touchy, others aren't. And Marlene is definitely among those who are not.

She rubs a hand up and down Ellie’s back, though it’s more so to do something with her hands rather than to comfort her. 

They remain like that for a long time, sitting in silence because neither of them are skilled at voicing their emotions. Ellie’s mind continues to move at a million thoughts per second, though it slows a little in the absence of Marlene’s shouting.

Roughly twenty minutes go by before Marlene pulls away. She has a hand on each of Ellie’s shoulders, a foot between their faces. She stares at her, brown eyes flicking across each one of her features, as though to memorize her before departure. Ellie mimics her, taking in the sight of the woman who raised her — from the slope of her nose to the arc of her brows. Afterall, this might be her last time to do so. No matter how hard she believes in herself.

“I ought to go visit Riley.” Marlene says with an awkward cough, standing from the couch. “She doesn’t have any family aside from you and I.”

It’s true. Riley’s family is rather complicated seeing as she doesn’t have any. It took seven years of being Riley’s friend before she confided in Ellie about her past. And, after hearing it, she couldn’t blame her for her hesitance. 

Her father was a rebel. He hated the Capitol and everything related to it. He wasn’t married to Riley’s mother when she got pregnant, hadn’t even been dating. They simply had a fling and moved on — hence his oblivion to the fact that she’d been a Peacekeeper. Riley’s dad lived a life of tranquil solitude, aside from frequent whippings as punishment for opposing the Capitol so vocally. Truly, he’d been lucky to not be assassinated on the spot for his insubordination. The entirety of Seven knew him for his rebellious nature.

So, when Riley’s mother came forth with an infant in her arms, he was shocked. He couldn’t believe that she’d gotten pregnant. Though, more importantly, he couldn’t believe she was a fucking Peacekeeper. He tried to keep his calm, civilly agreeing to partial custody over their daughter. 

But, when Riley was about four years old, their refined consensus came to an abrupt end. They got into an argument. And a bad one, at that. Nobody knows the exact details to its origin or entailments, but it’s widely known how it ended — Riley’s mother dead and her father as an Avox for the Capitol. His punishment for her murder.

Riley subsequently grew up in an orphanage, though she inherited her father’s rebellious nature and oftentimes escaped over the fence. She’d spent more time in the woods than she had in the decelit building — chopping wood and climbing trees and visiting the Hob. She’d grown rather skilled at it, the illegality of escaping. She met Ellie in elementary. She’d been scaling the fence, intending to flee the school. Ellie had caught her and insisted she teach her how to do it. Begrudgingly, Riley agreed. From there, with many details gone unmentioned, they became friends. Now look at them Reaped for the Hunger Games together. Ugly ending to a beautiful story.

“Yeah.” Ellie agrees curtly to Marlene’s suggestion. “Yeah, she’d appreciate that, I think.”

Marlene nods in agreement prior to turning on her heel and exiting the room.

Ellie sits alone for a few minutes, returning to her humiliating fetal position. She hugs her legs to her chest, dirty shoes on the cushion of the couch. Though the sofa isn’t in the best shape considering the prodding springs and frayed stuffing. She rests her chin on her knee, staring at the rusty nail she’s grown so fond of.

She’s not sure how long she sits like that before a knock is heard at the door. She groggily tells them to enter, causing the door to creak on its hinges. A face pokes inside prior to the body attached. Cat.

Her black hair is done up, pinned into a purposefully messy bun, bangs cut shorter than usual. It looks put together, but in that I-woke-up-like-this way. Her eyelids are colored in a shiny crimson, her lips in the same glossy tint. Her skin looks inhumanly smooth, her eyebrows impossibly thin. She’s wearing a strapless baby pink dress that’s uncomfortably close to the shade of her skin, coming to her midthigh. Her shoes are the same red as her eyes and lips, clicking against the wooden floor as she walks. She looks like a Capitolite in the way her features are accentuated, though human enough for Ellie to still find her attractive

She instantly straightens, confused. “Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be on a train to the Capitol?”

“Well,” Cat begins, shutting the door softly behind her as she walks over to the couch Ellie is curled atop. She sits down beside her, the cushion dipping under her weight, which instinctively pulls Ellie toward her. “I caused a bit of a scene, insisting I had to see you. And, considering it’s a hassle to find another stylist so late into the Games, I simply dared them to fire me. They didn’t, of course, and instead opted to just give me time to see you, albeit minimal.”

Ellie laughs, though the sound is hollow. This draws a tight expression from Cat as she takes in the sight of the girl before her. Ellie suddenly feels self conscious, wearing a wrinkled linen shirt while Cat looks like a literal fucking deity. Not to mention the pathetic way she’s presenting herself — small and weak. She sits upright, swallowing as she runs her hands down her shirt in a futile attempt at flattening it.

Cat stops her, placing a hand on her wrist. Ellie looks at the place where she touches her, taking in the sight of her perfectly done nails. Baby pink with crimson colored accents. God, every single detail of her is altered for the Capitol’s preference.

“I got you something.” Cat whispers, removing her hand from her wrist to reach into the purse Ellie hadn’t even noticed she carried with her. She holds out her hand, a small piece of metal resting in the center of her palm. A ring, in the shape of a moth. The body is the centerpiece, the wings made to wrap around the finger. “Here,” Cat grabs Ellie’s hand, pulling it forward before slipping the ring onto her index. 

“I love it,” Ellie breathes, holding her hand out in front of her to admire the ring.

“I made it myself.” Cat says. Ellie should have guessed. She knew Cat enjoyed making jewelry, using spoons and other random hunks of metal to concoct something ugly into something pretty. She’s spoken of the hobby before, though she’s never revealed any of the end products. This is Ellie’s first time seeing one of them.

She suddenly recalls the rule that tributes are permitted to bring one token into the arena from home. One thing to remind them of their identities — which are sure to be lost in the Games. Ellie had completely forgotten about the rule, it never having crossed her mind. But looking at this ring now, she’s certain this is the perfect thing to bring. A reminder of home. Not of a place, but of a person. Of Cat.

“I love it.” Ellie repeats more furtively, turning to kiss her.

However, before their mouths are able to touch, Cat lifts her hand to Ellie’s chest. She pushes her away. And, though the act is as gentle as possible, Ellie still feels as though she’d been shoved. She leans back. Cat’s expression is pained, not at all matching the cheerful makeup she wears.

She shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut. “I love you, Ellie. Truly. A part of me likely forever will. But– to be in love with you would only end in causing us both an insurmountable quantity of pain. I can’t consciously do that to you. Even our current relationship is deteriorating your mental health. You’re too dependent on what we have, too afraid to lose it. To allow you to continue down this road would be wrong of me. To even have begun it was wrong. And now that you’re going into the arena, I just– adding yet another burden to your shoulder would be wholly immoral.”

Ellie doesn’t know when, but amid that confession, she’d begun crying. Not just due to the breakup, though, if she could even consider it that. But due to everything. Riley distancing herself recently, the Reaping, Marlene’s shouting, Marlene’s halfhearted farewell, and now this? On top of it all?

“So you’re breaking up with me to ease your own fucking conscience?” Ellie snaps. She doesn't mean to say it. She doesn’t. It’s just all become so much for her to carry. And it’s so easy to drop it on Cat after what she’d just done.

“No.” She insists, nigh pleading in her denial. “Ellie, no, you know that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then why even give me this?” She asks, holding out her hand with the ring on it. “For me to bring a reminder of your absence into the arena?”

“No, no.” Cat continues to deny Ellie’s accusations. “Not to remind you that I left, but to remind you why I left.”

Ellie scoffs, “Now you’re just saying shit. You’re not even trying to make sense.”

“Moths, Ellie.” She says, grabbing her hand in desperation for her to just fucking listen. “They’re attracted to the light. No matter where they go or– or what environment they’re placed in, they find a light. Something to always keep them going. Something to fight for. Something to reach. I’m holding you back, don’t you see? I don’t want you to fight to get home. I want you to fight because you know you’re worth it. You’re worth living for, even without me or Riley or Marlene. For you. Be your own moth, your own light.”

Ellie wipes roughly at her face, fists scrubbing at her eyes painfully. She wishes she had something clever to say. Something smart that would make Cat rethink everything. But all she can muster is a mumbled, “Moths are fucking ugly.”

14:45.

DISTRICT FOUR.

Your ears are ringing, a loud chiming sound that makes your head swim. Despite this, you keep your chin high as your mother shouts orders at you. You’ve long since tuned her out, which is something you’d never had dared to do prior to the Reaping. But you’re being sent to the arena — you’ll either die in there and never see her again, or you’ll come back a victor and thereby be of higher status than her. Whatever you do now matters naught.

She’s rambling on about something regarding orders to return home. Not because she cares for your wellbeing, but because it’d shame the entire family if you were to die on live television. 

She’s standing across the room from you, her pale blue dress somehow perfectly cleaned despite the journey she made across the grassy courtyard to the Justice Building. Her wrinkled face is contorted into an unreadable expression, the illegibility irritating you. Her golden cane is perched under her clasped hands. God, the woman is the embodiment of power despite having earned none. 

“I get it.” You cut her off, tone just as sharpened as hers, almost as though you’d spent years honing it into a blade serrated enough to challenge her. “I’ll come back. If not, you’ll be embarrassed. Poor you, right?”

The expression of shock on her face is almost worth the punishment — which ends up being hit by the end of her cane. Had it been the usual wood, the pain would be tolerable. But it’s pure gold, causing your mouth to fill with blood. You spit onto the floor and she begins to reprimand you for doing that, deeming it to be improper. You ignore her, massaging your newly bruised face.

The punishment for your statement would likely have been far more severe if you weren’t destined to be put on camera for the country to gawk at. A wound on your face would be shameful. A bruise, though? Your prep team can surely cover that up with a bit of makeup.

She finishes her castigation, seeming to have worn herself out. She then turns and storms out of the room. You almost didn’t notice her swift exit, as she’d made no effort to say goodbye or wish you luck. Just ten minutes of shouting prior to causing a splitting headache and a bruise to the jaw, uncaring to hear you utter a single syllable. Best mom ever.

See, most people deem this event as emotional — an hour allotted to parting ways with your loved ones. But your mother doesn't see this as a parting. She expects to irrefutably see you again. And very shortly, at that.

You’re alone in the room for only a few seconds before a shy knock is heard at the door. You’re confused by this, unsure of who else could be here to see you. “Come in.” You call out, moving to stand over the stain of blood you’d left on the shiny hardwood floor. Thankfully, your dress is long enough that the skirts cover up the space beneath you.

The door opens and a wrinkly old man pops inside. Your lips part at the sight of mister Alden entering the room. You rush forward, offering your aid in his walking. He takes it, looping his arm around the crease of yours.

There’s a small couch with two cushions in the corner of the room. You walk him over to it, easing him onto the sofa before sitting next to him. You cross your legs, “What are you doing here? I know it’s a far journey from where you live.”

He sighs, “You’re like a daughter to me, Y/n. And, though neither of us are willing to address that aloud, we’re both well aware of it. I’ve known you since you were three years old and just learning how to walk. In fact, I can vividly recall the very day I’d met you — you were asleep on your brother’s back, clinging to him like a sloth as he made the trek down to the docks. You were such a small thing, then. Chubby little face and a diaper that didn’t fit.” He smiles fondly, looking at you as though he still views you that way, a baby. “The point is, to not visit you would be cruel. And I’m not a cruel man.”

Your eyes burn as you listen to him. He’s right. You both know it. You and Ruben are like children to him. And he is definitely not a cruel man. You wonder if he’d visited Ruben when he was Reaped. Probably. But you don’t dare ask, not wanting to speak of your brother any more than necessary.

“Oh!” He jolts as though he’d just remembered something vitally important. 

You watch as mister Alden reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a dainty necklace. A white pearl resides in the center, acting as a pendant to the thin silver chain. Your gaze softens as you look at it hanging between his shaky fingers.

“It’s beautiful.” You tell him.

“I want you to have it, to take it into the arena.” He says. “You remember my granddaughter, the one who was facing her first Reaping today? She made it for herself, and planned to wear it into the arena had her name been drawn. She spent weeks searching for the perfect pearl, then another few weeks saving up money to buy the chain.”

Your chest twists at hearing this. You could easily buy something like this from a small shop down by the beaches. It wouldn’t even cost you a day’s allowance. You shake your head. “I can’t take this from her. It’s too special.”

“I insist.” Says he. “When she heard your name called, she instantly turned to me, slipped the necklace into my pocket, and demanded that I bring it to you.” He lets out a light chuckle. “Her ferocity reminds me of you, actually. I don’t even remember telling her about my visits to your house. No shock she found out, though, she’s so bright for her age.”

With a grunt, he pushes to his feet. You rush to do the same, standing beside him in case he needs assistance. Instead of asking for aid, he tells you to turn around. Without hesitation, you oblige. You then feel something cold wrap around your neck. You look down to see the thin necklace now placed across your collarbones. It’s absolutely stunning. Mister Alden fumbles with the clasp, his shaky hands struggling to work the tiny thing.

When he finally gets it on, you turn around to see that he has tears in his eyes. He takes in the sight of the pearl necklace paired with the navy dress, the silver chain matching the silver diamonds adorning it. He nods, wiping roughly at his eyes. “You’ve grown into such a lovely young woman.”

You swallow the lump in your throat before pulling him into a hug, having to hunch over a bit due to his lack of height. He hugs you back, sniffling. It’s rather telling that the random stranger that you buy your seafood from is more caring than anyone in your family. But he’s not a stranger, is he?

After a few minutes of sentimental embrace, he finally parts from you and leaves. On the way out, you catch a glimpse of a tear rolling down his cheek, the droplet catching the light for a split second.

Alone in the room with about ten minutes remaining, you walk over to the window. You look at your reflection in the shined glass, taking in the sight of the necklace. Knowing how long it’d taken to create only adds to its beauty. The dresses your mother has fitted for you are paltry; replaceable. But this? Nobody could recreate the months spent making it, nor could they recreate the small hands that did so.

The sound of footsteps entering the room draws you from your thoughts. You catch his reflection in the window before he’s even fully through the door. Your entire body tenses, something shifting in the air at his presence. Something deep, deep inside you. Like the atoms that make up your very being have been furtively yearning for this moment. For his proximity.

You turn to face him fully.

Ruben.

You’ve seen him around, of course. You’d seen him less than an hour ago. Everyone has seen him, what with the Capitol flashing him around nigh as much as the country’s flag. He’s their brightest diamond and their largest star — the abnormal mixture of UY Scuti with Sirius, creating something impossible to tear one's eyes away from.

You two have spoken as well, albeit in short increments and only when mandatory. So, truly, you’re not sure if it counts in terms of conversation.

He shuts the door slowly, facing you with an unreadable expression. No– that can’t be right. You could always read him, you could always understand him. But right now, not a single word comes to mind as you look at him. He’s a closed book that you’d once memorized every page of.

He stares at you for a moment, gaze lingering on the bruise forming on your cheek. You wonder if you should hide it or not. But he likely knows exactly how it was induced — knowing the feel of your mother’s cane all too well, as he’d grown up taking hits for you daily. It takes a few minutes, but he eventually tears his eyes from your face and looks around the room, looking at the intricate ceiling or the swaying chandelier.

“Been a while, huh?” He huffs a laugh, though it’s dry and lacking any scrap of genuine humor.

You think about this, about what he said. It’s been a while. The world’s biggest understatement, that is. You’re suddenly filled with an immeasurable amount of rage. It’s been eleven fucking years. And he has the nerve to say it’s been a while?

Eleven years since he was Reaped. Eleven years since he was the one in this room. Eleven years since you came to visit him, sobbing and begging him not to go to the arena. Eleven years since Ruben returned from the arena. Eleven years since your brother never returned. Eleven years since the boy who raised you, who protected you, who taught you to walk and talk and eat, vanished.

You say nothing to him, not trusting yourself to speak without either screaming or crying. Or, most likely, both. So, insead, you remain silent.

Ruben sighs, leaning back against the wall with crossed arms. Something about that action makes you visibly wince. He’s so confident. The Ruben you knew was an awkward young boy, made complete with lanky limbs and oversized eyes. Strange little habits — like the way he didn’t ever know what to do with his arms, or the way he always tapped his left foot when he was nervous — made him human. But not anymore. He now knows exactly what to do with his arms and he wouldn’t dare show when he’s nervous. His humanity is just another thing the Capitol stripped him of.

“You don’t have to say anything, just listen.” Says Ruben. He then inhales deeply, his jaw set and eyes piercing; a Capitolite in all but name. “This is the last time we won’t be monitored. After leaving this room, everything will be tracked and recorded and analyzed — the train, the center, the arena. From here, you’re never alone. Even in the bathrooms, privacy doesn’t exist.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “So you’re saying you need to tell me something the Capitol can’t hear?”

“Yeah,” He breathes, “Exactly.”

“Okay, so what is?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest. Of course that’s what he’s here for. Not to wish you well or say goodbye — though he likely also expects you to win; he was raised by the same monsters, after all — but, instead, to warn you. To make sure you survive the arena so as to not penetrate the family name.  

“Something is wrong with this year’s Reapings.” He explains. “Districts Two and Three both had a pair of siblings Reaped – Lev and Yara from Two, Sam and Henry from Three. Then, if that weren’t enough proof as is, Districts Five and Seven both Reaped a set of best friends — Selene Jones and Ariande Evans from Five, Riley Abel and Ellie Williams from Seven. Not to mention the pair of lovers that were Reaped from Six — Roland Jennings and Archie Bardot.”

You take in what Ruben is saying, thinking hard about it. You were Reaped alongside a small child, a little boy who you’d never seen before in your life. That doesn't seem rigged, but there ought to be some kind of intentional malice behind it.

“How do you know all of this?” You ask, though you know the answer. “The Reapings haven’t aired yet.”

“I know people.” He says rather ashamedly, as though he’s already aware of the kind of reaction this will draw from you. 

Anger sparks up once more at the mention of his ties to the Capitol. Not only is he using the Capitol to help you in the games — a perk no other tribute has — but he’s managed to fucking memorize every name name of importance. You don’t want to be treated as some sort of celebrity. You were Reaped with equally poor luck as Lev, Henry, or Ellie; or whatever their names were. You should therefore be held to the same expectations, not given hints into the Games. Which, by the way, is highly illegal. Not like Ruben would be punished. He could probably murder a Peacekeeper on stage and manage to get away with it. 

It makes you sick.

“Okay, great.” You bite. “You told me what you needed, you can leave now.” “No, Y/n, you’re not understanding.” He insists, taking a step forward. You take one backward, almost on instinct. A pained expression crosses his face, though it vanishes just as quick as it’d appeared. He sighs, running a hand down his face. “These tributes won’t be killing for the sake of winning, they’ll be killing to save themselves alongside their loved ones. Had you and I been in the arena together, our strength would have doubled. Just imagine that. For at least five other Districts, their wills to live are multiplied. And the—”

His words are cut off as the door slams open and Peacekeepers come filing into the room to rudely announce that your time is up. It’s time to board the train to the Capitol. To the Games.

[post] notes!! don't really have any (for once), i'm just so so so so excited for u guys to read this bc i write things way prior to posting bc i like to proofread like 50 time before releasing it. anyway yeah, u guys barely know abt this bad boy while im typing this

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo @kasqnxx @xlovla @ilovewomenfr @zzombiegirl @shawangel @defnoteleonor @fatbootymuncher @autisticintr0vert

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.

[howlingday]

Jaune's Shampoo

Teryx

"DAMMIT, NORA!" Jaune opened his shower door. As he exited, he noticed his body had drastically changed. Using a mixture of his shampoo and experimental goo found at the fiendish Dr. Merlot's laboratory, Nora had unwittingly created a mutagen just to prank her team leader.

Jaune shuddered a bit as everything suddenly felt very warm. The steam surrounding him didn't fog his vision as he stepped out of the shower. The only thing he couldn't see was his reflection in the mirror. As he walked to the sink, however, he noticed there was a distinct clack on the tiled floor with every step. Did Nora somehow tape something to his foot, too?

Nope. Looking down, he saw that his feet, along with his legs and everything else from his chest down had completely changed! His toes and fingers had extended and ended in claws and talons, the latter of which curved from his big toe! Up his arms and legs, black scales coated him to his torso, where white scale plating trailed down to his-

"WHAT?! WHERE DID IT-?!" Jaune scrambled for the mirror, trying his best not to freak out.

Reaching with his claws, he'd accidentally knocked it off the wall and shattered it all over the floor. He crouched down to scoop the mess into one big pile, suddenly feeling a sharp pain from his back... against the ceiling. He looked behind him to his wings. Oh, right... Wings.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!"

Suddenly, there was a banging at the door. "Open up! This is Specialist Winter Schnee of the Atlas Military! Surrender any weapons you may have and come out peacefully!"

Jaune looked to his claws. "Uh... That's going to be a problem, officer!"

"I am counting to three, at which point I will break down this door if it has not been opened! One! Two!"

"WAITWAITWAITWAITWAIT!" Jaune smashed through the door, knocking the huntress over and pinning her to the floor. She glared at him with icy blue eyes of rage and disgust. "Uh... I'm indecent?"

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

The strange beast flew high above Beacon Academy, but it would not escape the right hand of General Ironwood so easily. Using her glyphs, Winter Schnee had made her way to the top of Beacon Tower. Through the tactical use of her summons, she managed to chase the monster to the top with her, the forcing it to the ground to fight on the ground. Still, the creature was larger than her and equipped with claws that would likely shred through her aura. Haste would not equate to victory.

"Please, stop!" It yelled over the chirping pecks of the ice birds. "Stop it!" With a flick of her wrist, the summons fell away. "Oh, thank y-" Her saber was pressed against his head. Jaune clenched his jaw shut.

"Talk." Winter growled. "What are you?"

"I'm..." He gulped. He kept his voice below a frantic yell. "My name is Jaune Arc. I'm a student at Beacon Academy."

"Is this supposed to be a joke?" She looked him up and down.

"Uh, actually..." He tried to inch away, only to find her bald would not leave his delicate skin. "I-I think this is supposed to be a prank."

A cold wind blew into her face, though she did nothing to indicate it bothered her. Atlas was much colder, though the air was not this sweet. It had an almost candy-like scent, like cherry and lavender. She kept her sword drawn, though she did inch away by some small margin.

"A prank?" She repeated. "Pranks don't transform students into Grimm." There was only one being on Remnant who had that kind of power. Could this boy's existence be proof of her infiltration? She needed to learn more. "You will come with me to speak to Headmaster Ozpin. Make any sudden moves and I will end you, Grimm or no Grimm. Am I understood?"

Jaune gulped. "Y-Yes'm."

"Good." Winter stepped back, sheathing her sword. "And for heaven's sakes, put some clothes on."

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

"And that's how Jaune got a girlfriend twice his age~!"

"Man, that is so cool~!" Russel cooed as he and Lark leaned into Nora's story.

"What happened next?" Dove eagerly asked, on the edge of his seat.

"Well, you know those stories about dragon-riders? Well-"

"MISS VALKYRIE!" Nora flinched as Professor Goodwitch cracked her riding crop on her desk. "You are in detention to be punished for mutilating your classmate, teammate, and team leader, Jaune Arc! This is not a place for your to expound your mischief as a legendary epic of the mothran age!"

"Y-Yes, Professor Goodwitch..." Nora sheepishly retreated into herself.

"And Mr. Winchester, please control your teammates! Their encouragement will only worsen Miss Valkyrie's behavior!"

"Y-Yes, Professor Goodwitch..." Cardin also shrank, but not before giving a menacing glare to his team. They all shrank in unison.

Meanwhile, outside, Jaune and Winter were getting practice in for their new role as Remnant's first "Dragon-Rider Huntress". It was an idea for a joint occupation which Professor Ozpin and General Ironwood agreed upon to both bolster their offense capabilities while also inspiring future generations of huntsmen and huntresses and, maybe, find a cure for Jaune's mutation. Maybe. Probably.

[saturnyo]

Before You Go

Chapter 4- Soaked In You

Masterlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

AO3

Pairing: dbfJoel x OC(Delilah)

Warnings: Emotional Cheating, Angst, Age Gap, foul language, Suppressed Emotions, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Minor injury, so much tension like an unhealthy amount

Summary: This is basically a filler chapter adding a bit more context behind Delilah's emotions and where her headspace is currently at

Word Count:

Song Choice: Illicit Affairs- Taylor Swift

Following the bathroom incident, everything became a blur.

Before I could even process what had happened—or what almost happened—Joel was already gone. Just… gone. He didn’t try to apologize. Didn’t even say goodbye. His kiss, his hands—they had roamed my body, desperate for any kind of release. I’ve never been one for cheating—not flirting, not kissing, not even hiding texts. That’s never been me. Or at least, it used to be.

I expected to be consumed by guilt. But the more I think about it, the less I seem to care. I’m not married yet. And my involvement with Joel is far more complicated than I anticipated, no matter what label we give it. My engagement didn’t stop me from falling for someone else. My stubbornness convinced me I could manage it all. But I was in way over my head.

When I saw my Aunt Janice rubbing up on him like he was a full-course meal, I snapped. She’s a kind woman, never done anything wrong as far as I know—but the second her hand grazed Joel’s thigh, I felt an overwhelming urge to wring her neck.

I hadn’t even known she was coming early. She wasn’t supposed to arrive until next week, but she decided to show up now. Her excuse? “I knew you needed help with the planning.” I didn’t know whether to feel grateful or insulted—so I chose both. She’s always had a knack for delivering compliments with barbed wire underneath. It’s a Southern woman’s way of being a bitch without the confrontation.

Still, I was happy to have her here. She’s my mother’s sister—my last real connection to her. The whole day was filled with stories about her and my mom as kids, the mischief they’d get into. It felt good to hear about Mom before the illness took her spark.

Everything was fine—until dinner that night.

I knew Joel would be there, and I thought I had mentally prepared myself. What I hadn’t prepared for was my aunt hitting on him. Yes, Joel is undeniably attractive. I’d just been so wrapped up in the way his attention was focused on me that it never occurred to me other women would be drawn to him too.

And that opened up an entirely new set of problems.

The storm outside, raging against the windows, matches the storm in my mind—split in two, unsure which direction to take. One path leads me further away from the man currently asleep in my bed; the other keeps me rooted in place, stuck in some kind of endless loop. Like my own personal punishment. Like hell.

Everyone in the house is asleep—except me.

Dustin’s snores echo beside me, blissfully unaware. It’s so loud it makes me want to smother him with a pillow.

Morbid? Yes.

But that’s been the problem for the last two years. They say the little things matter, that they pile up until finally, you crack from the pressure. Then the truth spills out for anyone willing to look. Once you're forced to face the issues, you can’t help but reevaluate everything you’ve been pretending not to see.

Ignorance is bliss—or whatever the fuck they say.

I needed a drink. A stiff one.

I crept down the hallway, carefully. The soft sound of breathing filtered from the other rooms—my dad, my aunt—fast asleep. It irritated me, how easy it seemed for them. Meanwhile, I was stuck with two options: suffer, or take melatonin. And since I was fresh out of melatonin…

Alcohol it is.

Because why just suffer when you can be drunk and suffering at the same time?

The living room felt like a strange dream you can't quite escape. Not a nightmare, but unsettling all the same. Like that moment in a book where the main character and her love interest are about to kiss—right on the precipice of everything that’s been building—and then they’re interrupted. Total blue balls. For the reader and the characters.

That’s exactly how I felt. Blue-balled—except I don’t have any. What I do have is a bottle of wine to mix with my heartbreak. A dangerous combo if you're not careful.

And I don’t exactly plan on being responsible.

I stood at the same kitchen sink, staring out the same kitchen window like I always did—except this time, I took a hefty swig of wine. It hit my tongue like spoiled cherries and old wood, bitter and cloying all at once. I winced, swallowed anyway.

It wasn’t good, but it was something. And right now, something was better than sleep. The night sky has stars sprinkled across it like freckles on skin, shining brightly and showing its uniqueness in this bland, unoriginal world. It’s strange to see everything move on around me like nothing is happening. Like I wasn’t imagining Joel’s touch still on my skin. It seemed to have the emotional range of a wet blanket.

I stood there for a while. Frozen. One hand around the stem of the wine glass, cold against my skin, wet from condensation. The soft swish of leftover wine was the only sound that didn’t piss me off. Even my own breath was too loud.

It slowed. Measured. Shallow. Like I was trying to pretend I was calm. Like I could fake peace if I just breathed slow enough.

But then, I started to hear them. The others. Dad, Janice, whoever else was asleep in the house. Their breathing turned sharp, jagged, monstrous in my ears. Like they were right next to me. It filled the space like sirens, a banshee’s scream drawn out in exhales and inhales. Mouths open in the dark. Lungs dragging air like violence.

Why can’t they choke? Just once? So I can fucking think?

I gripped the glass tighter.

I almost hoped it would shatter.

Grabbing the glass bottle, I slipped outside onto the back porch, barefoot and half-drunk on heartache. Maybe the cicadas would keep me company. Maybe the hum of cars from somewhere far, far away would drown out the thoughts clawing behind my eyes. The screen door creaked closed behind me, slow and final.

I didn’t bother turning on the porch light. Let the dark keep its secrets. Let me be one of them. I sank down onto the swing bench, the cushion giving slightly beneath me, worn soft by years of sun and rain. It pressed up around my legs, hugging my thighs with a quiet familiarity I hadn’t realized I missed.

It wasn’t much. But it offered a bit of comfort, and right now, that was more than I could say for the man I wanted comfort from.

The one who should’ve been here.

The one whose warmth I could still feel like a phantom between my ribs.

I take another swig of the bottle. Burns a little less now—or maybe I want it to. My eyes fall onto a lone cat running through the yard, trying to find the unfortunate mouse that’ll be its next meal. I can’t help but think of running as free as the cat—away from everyone. My dad, Dustin… just everyone in the nearby vicinity. I take another drink, longer and heavier this time. It doesn’t burn anymore.

I see the cat pounce on a mouse it found, excitedly and unencumbered from the pressures this world has to offer.

No overthinking. No guilt. Just teeth and silence.

Freedom.

Something I clearly don’t have. I chose safety… safety with Dustin. Like cleaning the countertops and checking he has the correct amount of change four times before he gets to the register type safety. The way he folds his clothes without creases and irons his shirts, and touches me like he’s afraid the slightest jerk will shatter me like I’m a porcelain doll.

He has no fucking clue I’m already broken.

By another’s hands. More rough. More calloused.

Joel’s hands.

I bite the inside of my cheek, the pain causing a few tears to fall from my eyes as a question claws its way out of the cage of my own uncertainty.

If I’m not in love with Dustin, then what is it?

And possibly worse…

If it is love with Joel, then why does it hurt so damn much?

The cat makes its way through a gap in the fence separating my backyard from Joel’s. A loud, scared meow comes from his yard a moment later as I see a porch light come on. There’s a slight creak—but not from me.

Joel…

He’s outside.

The sound of leaves crunching beneath a pair of heavyset feet straining against the power and stature of the person walking over them. I know it’s him. I can feel it. My spine tightens as I freeze, the bottle stops mid-sip.

He’s here, standing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the porch, with guilt written all over his face like a child that was just scolded for breaking a vase. I don’t want to look right away. Especially when I’m so open and vulnerable. Exposed and raw for him to dive in and flay me open more so than I already am. I want to be ice-cold and angry. But all I feel is open.

Open and ruined.

“Delilah,” he whispered. His voice was strained, coarse. Like velvet across a razor. He says my name like he owns it. And maybe he does.

I stay still, sitting on the porch swing, mindlessly playing with my thumbs like this is an everyday thing for me.

“I’m sorry,” he says. I can hear the hesitation, like he’s unsure of what my reaction will be. “I left you there alone…”

I blink once. The wind starts to blow, sending goosebumps on my skin and blowing through my hair. I still don’t look at him.

“Why would you come back?”

A pause. The porch groans underneath his weight as he steps closer to me.

“What I’ve done to you…” he hesitates. “What I’ve done—I hate myself for it. But somehow, I hate myself a little less when I’m next to you.”

That shatters something inside me and breaks open the final barrier, letting the dam overflow.

“How does that make it better, Joel?” My voice low and sharp. “You think that simple, poor apology will make up for all the shit you have put me through? For all the confusion you have put not only my mind, but my heart in as well? And then you show up again like it’s some fucking gift to me. Fuck you, Joel Miller.”

He stays silent. He lets me tear into him, mercilessly and unforgiving.

But then he speaks, his voice quiet and ragged.

“Then don’t let me stop.”

I finally turn, standing up and facing him. He looks a mess—his hair disheveled and his eyes sunken in like he hasn’t slept in weeks. There are red marks near his nose and a bit underneath his eyes like he’s been… crying.

“Do you hate me?” he finally asks.

I stare back at him, also clearly just as disheveled and stressed. My throat feels like sandpaper. My eyes sting.

“I hate how much I need you,” I muttered.

Joel doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But I see the way his breath hitches just slightly. The way his broad chest rises like it’s threatening to split open.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

“No.”

He does anyway.

And I let him.

The cat has already caught the mouse.

And I let the wolf back onto my porch.

[dxstoeskyvjbess]

e1s3's hunting group is in the garage, each one on one side. Reader is talking to Raven when she suddenly sees something that makes her speechless: Gina had walked in and kissed Bellamy Blake. Bellamy Blake, the same one who had been flirting (and something more) with reader for like a month! so reader decides to confront him later when they are alone. I leave the ending to your choice

COMPLICATED

𝓟𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 ; bellamy blake x reader

𝓦𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ; cheating, rare use of y/n

𝓦𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 ; 1.4k

𝓘𝗻𝗳𝗼𝘀 ; light angst | reader has a situationship with bell

𝓝𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 ; Sorry if it doesn’t meet your standards completely, consider 1. I changed the prompt just slightly for it to be more enticing and 2. i’ve watched s3 a long time ago, i tried to be as close as possible to your req!! sorry again </3

( ps. i luv the 100 fans aa! )

𝓢𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 ; reader thought her relationship with bellamy was just “complicated”, but when the truth unfolds, she realises it was messier than she could’ve imagined.

masterlist | navigation | rules

‘Bellamy Blake and I have a complicated thing going on. ’

That’s what you usually told yourself anytime something went unbelievably wrong; it was just— complicated.

And it wasn’t really hard for things to go wrong with someone like him. He had a roaring fire in his eyes and in his words as well. Yet you couldn’t help but feel drawn to him in unexplainable ways.

The way his eyes held another world inside them, the way his entire being was so complex no one ever managed to fully know what went on in the boy’s head. And the way his face lit up with genuine emotion as he saw you walking in the room, the way words alone could get your stomach twisting. Those things took your friendship to something slightly more…complicated, yeah.

Whatever that was, it was more than three months old. Ever since the mountain men were shut down for good, ever since there was silent peace in Arkadia, your —friend? boyfriend?— had his eyes often fixated on you. And the thing was, you loved it.

And now, after months of flirting, love nights, unspoken words, and frustrating uncertainty, there were the two of you, still on the edge of something— that couldn’t quite be named.

“You know… you gotta do something about it.” Snapping you out of your trance, there was Raven, staring at you with knowing eyes. She was considerably close to you and happened to know what was going on between the two of you.

“I wouldn’t even know what to say… like, ‘yeah, I know we’ve been flirting and doing dirty things for months, but I just wanted to let you know that I actually feel something for you, and occasional dirty flirting doesn’t sit with me anymore.’— He would laugh in my face.”

“That’s exactly what you need to tell him, actually!” she insisted, crossing her arms. You were grateful to have her as a friend; she always seemed to know the right thing to say.

“What if he doesn’t want anything serious, and I’m just being a fool?” You were scared. Actually, you were terrified. The mere thought of losing him for something as stupid as this made your heart ache. “I can’t take risks, Rave. It’s Bellamy, we’re talking about.”

“Y/n, listen to me. Bellamy cares about you, and he may be a disgrace to society, but it doesn’t mean he’s willing to lose you for something like this.”

“Maybe you’re right… still, when should I do this? And how?”

“Now, and however feels right!” she stated firmly before giving you a light push toward the other side of the garage, where Bellamy was supposed to be, before following you right behind.

You both awkwardly walked toward the entrance. Raven knew that if she wasn’t right behind you, following you like a rat, you would’ve instantly chickened out of what you just silently agreed to do.

But as you fixed your gaze on the man a few meters away from you, tension and excitement weren’t what you felt. Rage and loss for words were.

Strangely, the boy didn’t notice the sound of boots hitting against the ground as the two girls walked toward him. His attention was instead placed upon a familiar figure walking toward him, one you thought you’d never have to worry about.

At first, you didn't worry too much, yet the situation shifted in fractions of a second—and what you saw was that girl smirking up to your boy and gently placing her lips on his.

Anger filled your veins in a sense of betrayal, clouding every single thought and piece of rationality in you—so much that you were this close to running there and throwing a tantrum.

Bellamy returned the kiss after a moment, looking at Gina before giving a glance at his surroundings, ensuring no one was watching. There—he was totally wrong. His eyes widened as he saw you standing there with a disgusted face, looking at him from up and down, mouth completely dry.

“Y/n… what—” Bellamy could only murmur, shocked that you and Raven (who was just as mad as you) were standing there in the first place. Your hurt expression felt like a punch in his stomach, and he just stood there, regret written all over his face, completely frozen in place.

“What the fuck...” you muttered underneath your breath, as your eyes shed a single tear, rolling quickly down your cheek. You balled your hands into fists, barely registering the faint sound of a voice screaming at you to wait, but your mind was blank.

You slowly turned around—still confused, angry, and overall shocked by what you just had to witness—and left without looking back. Not that he deserved it after all.

–

On the way back home, tension filled the cramped space of the rover. You could only hear distant chirps, the dusky atmosphere contrasting with high trees blocking a big part of the view. You were silent, like everyone else in that moment. Raven happened to steal a few glances at her friend, quiet concern etching across her face.

Once back in Arkadia, everyone quietly shared soft goodnights before heading to their rooms, you included. Your thoughts were hazy, the tiredness showing both internally and externally. You considered actually confronting yourself about what happened—but after thinking about it, you realized you were more willing to confront him than yourself, going crazy to understand what you did wrong– so instead of blaming yourself, you let your anger free and stormed into his room without a second thought.

There, the boy was pacing nervously around his room, torn between running to you or giving you space for the night. He turned around as he heard his door crack open and felt quite relieved you anticipated him.

“Is there something you wanna tell me, Bellamy?” you raised an eyebrow, voice cutting sharp every piece of confidence he felt a moment before. You crossed your arms– clearly unamused and leaned against the wall, anger still visible on your face and palpable in the atmosphere.

“Actually, yes,” he instantly replied, eager to speak his truth and clarify the circumstance. “Can we talk?” His voice was soft and quiet, as if knowing everything was extremely fragile—and could’ve escalated easily.

You thought about it twice before answering, but the dim light radiating across his face and his deep eyes ended up choosing for you anyway. “I might listen,” you answered softly, although your voice was full of uncertainty, focusing your gaze on the ground.

“I’d start with ‘I’m an idiot,’ but I’m sure you already know that.” He began, gently sitting down at the corner of his bed. “I… was scared. I was scared of actually having to face my feelings for you, and you know me—I hate feeling powerless, so I often distance myself from anything that slightly has power over me.” He admitted, his tone deep but holding no bitterness.

“I searched for a distraction. And Gina— well...” He continued, his voice growing with guilt each breath he took. “She was the perfect one. I thought I could just get over my feelings, and that maybe she could’ve helped me. Turns out it only made things worse.” He searched for your eyes, kindly grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward the bed, insisting you look at him.

“I’m scared of this, Y/n. I don’t like how vulnerable you make me feel, and I tried to escape from it. But it’s useless, isn’t it?” He gave you a bittersweet smile, one you never pictured on his face before, and you locked your eyes on his, slowly sitting down right next to him. “I find myself always orbiting towards you.” concluding, he waited for any type of answer, his eyes pleading for another chance.

“You better back up those claims with actions. Words are cheap.” You declared. Your expression was unreadable, torn between trusting him and his words, and not buying it at all.

“I will. You can count on that.” He immediately stated. Bellamy Blake was not one who had his words go to waste, and he was determined to prove that to you.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Bell.” You replied. You loved him, you truly did. But this whole thing—no matter how complicated it was—needed to either take a step forward or die on the spot.

You couldn’t let it just be “flirting” or “occasional nights” anymore. You needed every inch of his soul, even the messier parts.

He nodded, and with that, you silently left the room.

‘Perhaps we are even more complicated than I thought we were.’

───────────── ⋆♡⋆ ────────────

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[dreamersbcll]

“I came back” - inspired by the talented @samcscreams

—————————————

Sam wasn’t supposed to come back. She had promised herself to stay away.

But she was twenty-one now. She was clean and hadn’t touched a drink or narcotic in a year. And it was Tara’s birthday.

Her baby girl was turning sixteen. And Sam was determined to see her.

But like most things in Sam’s life, it went sideways.

Sam had just pulled into her old home, staring up at the bedrooms that she once lived in. She knew her mother wasn’t around, as it was two o’clock on a Saturday, happy hour at the bars. She also knew that Tara wasn’t home, due to the curtains being drawn. Her baby sister only opened the curtains if she was home.

As she exited her car, she took a deep breath. She was clean. She was sober. She had clean clothes on and her hair was brushed. Sam was a put-together woman who would be worthy of her sister’s time.

She made her way to the front door, preparing to enter. As she put her hand on the doorknob, the door whipped open, and Sam was face to face with the last person she wanted to see in this godforsaken town.

Amber Freeman.

Granted the girl was older now. Her black hair was longer, and she wore a modest amount of makeup. She had on a winter coat, and car keys in hand. Shit. Sam should’ve known that the red Corvette parked on the street was somebody’s car. Amber’s eyes were wide in shock, and if Sam could see herself, she probably looked the same.

Sam licked her lips, her mouth dry. She racked her brain for something to say. Anything to say. Luckily Amber beat her to the punch.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You shouldn’t be here. You left for a reason,” hissed the girl, her eyes darkening in rage. Amber closed the door behind her, forcing Sam to step off the doorstep.

Sam swallowed hard, holding her hands up in surrender. “I know, I know. But I’m here now. And it’s her birthday, Amber. I want to see her turn sixteen. Please, let me see her. Please,” she whispered.

She wasn’t above begging anymore. She didn’t have the high ground, and she knew that. But she was hoping Amber would remember how kind and sweet Sam was to her. Maybe that would spur the girl to let her see Tara.

But she was very wrong.

Amber threw her head back laughing and clapping a bit. ”Oh good. The wonder child has returned to make amends. And on Tara’s birthday at that!”.

The girl cleared her throat, taking a step forward. Sam stepped back, letting the girl force her back into her car. Sam felt her back hit her passenger door, and she tried to stand tall, despite the teenage girl with a murderous look on her face.

Amber’s knuckles turned white as she balled up her fists at her side. “But you left. You broke her, Sam. Do you know how long it took to put her back together? How she didn’t leave her bed for days? Do you understand what you did to her?”

Sam’s breath caught in her throat, a strangled noise escaping her mouth. “I didn’t mean to. Please, give me a chance, I love-”.

“No. You don’t get to sit there and tell me you love her. If you loved her, why did you leave her? Why did you ignore her for five years and then physically leave her for three more? You’re such a fucking hypocrite, Sam,” the girl hissed, cutting her off.

Sam felt the words die on her tongue, her eyes welling up with tears. She knew that coming back was going to be the hardest thing she had ever done. But she wasn't anticipating going up against the girl who had such a grip on Tara.

Truthfully Sam never liked Amber. She never liked the possessive grip she had on Tara, and how she could make Tara do anything she wanted. Amber Freeman was an oppressive force on her baby sister, but Sam had checked out years ago. She had let this girl infest her sister’s life. Who was she to try and take Tara back?

“Please, Amber. Just two minutes. I bought her a gift, see?” she softly said, showing Amber a wrapped-up gift box that sat in her passenger seat.

The girl scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Oh wow. You bought her a gift. Congrats. What about the years of neglect and estrangement you gave her? Wasn’t that a gift enough?”

Sam bit her tongue, trying to be peaceful. “You don’t understand anything, Amber. I’m sorry that I left here but you don’t understand why I did. You’re too young to get it.”

There Sam saw it. The switch in personalities. The instant darkness swept over the teenage girl. It was as if a switch had been flipped, a violent one at that.

And then Amber spoke the words that Sam tried so hard to bury. The same words that forced her hand into escaping.

“You mean that Billy Loomis is your father?”

Sam felt her world flip before her. How did she know? Why did she know?

She clapped a hand over her mouth, shame burning in her gut.

Did Tara know?

Amber laughed at Sam’s expression, pure glee in her eyes. “Yeah, Sam. We know. Was Tara supposed to just be okay with finding out that your father is a murderer? Get fucking real.”

Sam stuttered, her words stumbling out of her mouth. “I didn’t know, I mean, this isn’t me. I’m not like him. I’m not- I don’t kill! I’m sorry!”.

The girl reached over and tapped Sam’s car. “Save it, Sam. Now what you’re going to do is get in your car, drive back to whatever hell hole you crawled out of, and never come back. Got it?” she hissed.

With her hands shaking and tears blurring her vision, Sam nodded. She did as Amber said, and drove out of Woodsboro.

She ended up throwing out the gift she bought, into a trash can outside of the first bar she drove to.

With her sobriety broken and her truth out, she never planned to return again.

[vyvienne]

Elementium, Cake and Power

I open my eyes and for the second time in as many days I’m unsure where I am. The drapes are drawn against the bright sun, putting my room in shadow. I lifted a hand to produce a small globe of Light, pushing magic into it until it was bright enough to see around me. I felt the smallest bit of disappointment when I realized I was back at the inn. For the briefest moment I thought I was in my bedroom back in Westfall, with Autumnvale securely around me. I was wrong.

I absorb the Light, swinging my feet to hit the soft carpets. Everything came rushing back. The fight, me passing out, waking up in the study at the Damp. I had never passed out before in my life, much less during a fight when I may imminently die if the spell didn’t go off. What was wrong with me? Had it been so long? Had I let myself get to such a state that I would slip into unconsciousness while the danger was still around me?

Or had I been that hurt? I was unsure, as the last thing I remember during the encounter was letting my rage flow out of me at that gigantic monstrosity. I knew at least one person survived as I ended up far away on a couch in safety. Otherwise I was as in the dark and confused as a few moments ago. I hated not knowing and so I pushed myself out of the bed and into action.

I ring for tea then throw open the curtains and windows. I needed fresh air. I needed life. I realized I was still in the same robes I left in two days ago, so I immediately make my way over to the chifforobe, selecting fresh clothing. As I’m doing so a raven flies in the window.

Thorne shifts as she settles onto the carpets. With no preamble she says “They are all alive”. We may often disagree about these new people in my life but she knew I would want to know of their well being. “I thank you” I say, smiling at her. “It is appreciated.” She nods, deciding for a change to keep her opinions to herself. “The Giant carried you back to that eye sore of a base”. My smile widens. So I was right. Skormosh brought me safely to the Study. I must bake something for him.

She slinks over to a chair, too small for her tall frame. Gingerly settling herself, as if she is afraid this dainty chair will break, she eyes me. “You almost died. I thought I would need to reveal myself which I have no desire to do to these people. They are immoral. They are also Horde. Do they even know you are human?”

I shrug. “I have not divulged it but I suspect some know. I am positive Varethuun knows. He can smell the magic on me and see through it to who I really am. I would be surprised if the Defiler did not know, independent of Varethuun telling him. Which he would have done, I am certain. He is incredibly loyal. Therefore, I am not concerned. If the Defiler felt everyone should know, he would tell them.” I stop, turning to her after finally choosing my clothing. “In truth, I forget I am human amongst these people.” Perhaps a double entendre?

A small knock on the door and a maid enters with my tea, placing it on a table before bobbing a curtsy and quickly leaving. She says nothing of the Kaldorei in the chair, looking annoyed in the direction of the maid. “I should be more careful” she says as the door shuts. With that, she shifts back into a raven and flies out the way she came in. I roll my eyes, a terrible habit since childhood. “I suppose I was finished speaking” I call after her.

Now that I am aware the others were alive, I can enjoy my tea and perform my morning toilette in peace. Once finished, I will find the ingredients for a cake and make my way to the kitchens. The cooks here were surprised to find me at the door this last time, a basket of ingredients in hand and an apron thrown over my arm. But I brought wine and cheese to share which paved the way for acceptance. I will make sure to pick up the same for them now.

I begin to brush my hair, always thinking of Sister Janette as I do my requisite 100 strokes. I look at myself in the mirror. No signs of age have touched me yet. My hair was still long and full of a golden luster, my green eyes still bright. My visage had not changed since I was a teen. But my heart had. I found one, it broke and now it was mending. It was a lesson for me, one I never thought I would experience nor hoped to experience again. If I am being honest, I believe my mind had changed as well, back to what it once was. If I am going to be in combat often, I obviously needed more power. I must speak soon to Varethuun.

I finish brushing my hair and don my clothes quickly. I grab my basket, apron and head to the door. I was looking forward to baking today. Cooking was magic in its own way and I wanted to work that muscle as much as possible. Besides, it pleased me to say thank you to someone who helped me.

With that, I am out the door and into the bustling city. I didn’t get far when I was stopped by a Death Knight in my path. I stop suddenly, Light already glowing in my hands. The knight remains impassive, as if she is unconcerned that she is close to being scalded. I look up and see Liadrea, my contact for the Elementium. “Blood and damnation” I curse under my breath. I regret allowing this woman to see me so jumpy. I have a dislike of Death Knights from an incident years ago that left me with silvered scars running up and down my right arm and shoulder. Thankfully the magic that cloaks me as a Sin’dorei also cloaks those injuries. They make me easily recognizable by those who know me.

Without preamble Liadrea says “I have found your Elementium, Lady Vyvienne.” I smile. “He will be pleased” I reply. “The half ton?” She shakes her head. “The full ton”. I blink in surprise but also pleasure. “I am corrected. He will be ecstatic.” She only nods. Liadrea had once been a mage of some talent who died during the invasion of Silver Moon. She was raised into Undeath and upon being freed from the Lich King became a hunter, tracking down rogue Death Knights who decided to vent their pain and rage on the populace. However, eventually Liadrea wished to see if she could obtain some of her past memories, so left to become a procurer of items and materials. Unlike Vyv, however, Liadrea was easy to spot, unable to blend with the Living. Her work kept her just outside of the people she wished to immerse herself in but observation still gave her a place to learn.

It was easy to be around Liadrea, and most Death Knights in truth, because they rarely were loquacious. I finally say “I will speak with the buyer and let you know soon where to deliver.” She nodded again, turning to leave. “Good day, Lady”. I nod after her back, as she was already walking down Murder Row, people parting to allow her to pass as if her very presence was harmful. I turn to go about my shopping, excited that I can now let Skormosh know he has his ore and to show in some part to all of my group that I have both magical and regular value. I am a bit surprised that I care, but apparently these people are the one I’ve decided to continue with. I find that thought more pleasing than I care to admit.

[theawkwardwriter12]

The Fall

Ashton x Aasimar!Reader Angst

Critical Role C3E38 Spoilers!

Word Count: 1,478

This was supposed to be a simple errand. None of this was supposed to happen. That’s what Ashton thought as he watched you, the person he loved, have a sword plunged through your chest. The light in your eyes faded as your body began to slide off the bloodied blade. You were hovering over the drop in between the spires of Jrusar, and if you weren’t already dead, that would certainly kill you.

Ashton had taken most of the hits in trying to protect you against Otahan Thull. That foul woman had already taken three of his friends before and recently Lord Eshteross. He didn’t think she’d still be in the city. A foolish notion, of course she would still be there. He just didn’t expect to find her on one of the lifts when he was with you. You two were only going to get rooms for the night at the Spire by Fire. Otahan had killed three of them on her own with all eight of them present, with just the two of you, what hope could you have to defeat her?

Ashton was knocked down onto his side underneath Thull, reeling in pain from all the blows. He watched in horror as your body eventually fell off the sword. In that moment, the images, the pain of that night he fell through Jiana Hexum’s window flooded into his mind. Not again. He’s not letting you go through the same thing.

He lunged forward toward the edge, grabbing hold of your wrist. Just as he was about to lose balance, Otahan took the opportunity to shove him off. Panic set in immediately as he was being pushed out, but instinct kicked in and he clamped his free hand onto the ledge of the lift. A jolt of pain wracked through his already aching body and he let out a loud groan.

Otahan, amused, chuckled at the desperate attempt to hold on, “How pitiful. Luckily, you two weren’t the ones I’m interested in. I’ll let gravity and your weakness take care of the rest.” Her form vanished in a whisp of red, leaving them dangling above the bottom of the spires.

Pain. Panic. Focus, Ashton. He peered down at the drop below, but that didn’t affect him as much as seeing your lifeless body hanging in his grasp. No, not lifeless. That couldn’t be right. It can’t be.

He let out another cry as the searing pain worsened as he strained against gravity itself. This wasn’t going to be the end of you both. Not again for him and not for you. Struggling immensely, he tried to lift you up. But his body wouldn’t let him, the pain was overwhelming. That wasn’t going to stop him. You had to be ok. He had to keep you safe.

Momentum. He began to sway your body to gain enough momentum to swing you onto the lift. He wasn’t strong enough to pull you up, there was no way he was pulling himself with you. But he wasn’t important, you were. You first. You would always be his priority.

With Ashton’s swinging, the already leaning lift began to bob up and down, creating more tension to already previously damaged cable hooks from the fight earlier. The pain intensified with every movement, but he couldn’t let go. Not yet. The muscles in his arm pulled taut as he raged, sparks flying from the hole in his head and the air around him became heavy. Gravity. Great.

At that moment, the concentrated weight and movement caused a hook to snap. The entire lift tilted to the one side and Ashton’s grip on the ledge began to slip. He could feel the lift being drawn in his direction, causing even more tension against the last hook. That was going to break and there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t magical like a lot of his other friends, he was purely physical. All he had was his body and that was failing him.

The memories, as fuzzy as they were at times, once again forced themselves to the forefront of his mind. That fall. That fall that changed his life forever. For the better? Didn’t feel like it. It was awful, all the time. And now he was here all over again, this time he was much higher up. At least he wasn’t alone. No, that made it worse. He looked down again at you. He loved you so much and he couldn’t believe this was happening to you. Him? Sure, he has the worst luck for getting into situations like this, not you.

But, there wasn’t anything he could do. The damage was done and his grip continued to falter. You became heavier and heavier in his other hand, soon he wouldn’t be able to hold on any longer. The pain, once again, tore into his body causing him to scream against it. It was too much. He swore under his breath and dropped his rage.

“I’m sorry.”

With those words, Ashton let go. Quickly he tugged your arm, slamming your body into his as he tightly wrapped his arms around you. As you careened into the valley below, Ashton did his best to cover as much of your body with his own, hoping to break the fall for you as much as possible. Would it work? He didn’t know, but he had to try. Even if it didn’t, at least he would die alongside you. And he felt content with that. Better than content. Because after knowing you, loving you, there was no world he wanted to live in without you. “I love you.”

Ashton buried his face into your head as he braced for impact, not wanting to watch as it happened. He could feel your speed increase the farther you fell, but that was surprisingly interrupted and his body jolted from the sudden change in velocity. Slowly he lifted his head to see you barely conscious, your angelic wings sprouted from your back. Your arms gripped him tightly as you struggled to fly, straining against the intense gravity. Desperately trying to lessen the inevitable impact, you glided for as long as you could until exhaustion took over and you resumed plummeting.

Darkness. Pain. That’s all Ashton felt as you hit the ground below. Strange...he felt it? That was a good sign, right? He must be alive. But were you alive? He tried to move and couldn’t. Everything burned with searing agony and his eyes refused to open. Maybe he wasn’t alive afterall. Maybe this was what actual hell felt like.

He laid there for what felt like hours before the pain subsided enough for him to open his eyes. He wasn’t dead, but he wished he was. Your broken and bloody form sprawled before him across the ground. Adrenaline filled every inch of his body as the pain faded to a dull ache. He crawled over to you, unable to use his right arm that was definitely broken. Other bones were probably broken as well, he didn’t care, he had to get to you. He had to help you.

Ashton rifled through both your bags, searching for a healing potion that wasn’t smashed from the fall. He found one and immediately poured it down your throat. His sigh of relief quickly turned to complete despair. It wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working? It couldn’t be... It can’t—No, you aren’t dead. You can’t be dead. You had to wake up. Tears overflowed in his eyes as he sobbed, draping his head over your body. Why did he survive? Why did you have to die? Why couldn’t it be him?

He couldn’t accept that. No... No. There had to be something he could do. That’s when the thought occured. Healing potions weren’t the only type of potion you had. He scrambled back to the bag and pulled out a vial of swirling gray liquid. The Potion of Possibility. It brought him back once. It should bring you back too, right? It didn’t matter, he was left with no other option. His shaky hand fumbled with the cork on the ground before he brought it to his mouth and he ripped it out with his teeth. Into the gaping wound in your chest he poured the potion. And he waited.

And waited. And waited. “Please. Please.”

Your chest jerked upward with a gasp of breath. It worked. It worked. Ashton sobbed, relieved that his love was alive again. He crashed beside her, grabbing your hand as he continued to cry. The adrenaline was wearing off and the pain started to envelope his whole body once more. He wished he could call for help, but you’d deal with that later. Laying next to your breathing body, he could finally rest and lost consciousness. And as the darkness took him, your chest sparked.

[nastybuckybarnes]

Deep End  -  Five

Pairing: Dark!Steve Rogers X Reader

Summary: He’s back. After all your best efforts at getting away, he’s found you again. And this time, he’s not letting you go so easily. He’s determined to do whatever it takes to get you to be his. Forever.

Warnings: Dark Themes, Language, Angst, Manipulation, Injuries, 

Word Count: 3.2K

A/n: here we are, folks. What if I ended it like this lol that would be kinda gangsta of me LMAO

Deep End Masterlist

THIS IS A DARK FIC WITH SEXUAL AND TRIGGERING CONTENT!!! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!! 18+ ONLY!!!

~*~

You push open the front door with a heavy sigh, setting the paper grocery bags down on the counter then resting a hand on your growing belly.

There’s a tiny flutter under your hand and you can’t help yourself from smiling.

The smile vanishes, however, when a hand grabs at your shoulder and forces you to turn around.

“Where the Hell were you?” Steve’s angry voice demands.

You look up at him in shock and confusion, looking over at the groceries.

“I-I just went to the store.”

He shakes his head, grabbing your face with one hand and stepping closer. You take a step back with each one he takes towards you, and soon enough he’s got you pinned against the wall.

His grip on your face tightens and you wince, fear overwhelming your body, making your heart race.

“Bucky said he saw you talking to someone. A man. Who was he?”

You shake your head, tears welling up in your eyes.

“H-He was just asking me about my pregnancy. When I'm due, if I know what I’m having.”

It’s nothing but the truth.

“I give you freedom and this is what you do? You go and flirt with other guys? You’re my property. Don’t forget that.”

Your tears fall down your cheeks and into his hand, but he doesn't let go. Even as your chest heaves and sobs bubble out of you, he stays glaring at you.

“Please, Steve, stop. Y-You’re hurting me!”

His jaw flexes and he slowly lets go, only to cage you against the wall, slamming his fist against it in the process.  

Your heart hammers in your chest, terror gripping you and freezing you in place as you remember what he did to Nat and her baby.

“I-I came home, didn’t I? I could’ve asked for help! Could’ve said something, but I didn’t. I’m here, again, even though I could’ve run away. I’m here. You have me! You have me.”

You slide down the wall, knees drawn up to your chest as you sob, the reality of your words and the fear doing a number on your emotions.

Steve’s anger slowly melts away, replaced with concern as he sees nothing but terror on your face.

“I-I didn’t mean to yell, honey. It’s okay, shh, come here.”

You don’t fight him as he pulls you into his arms and brings you upstairs into your bedroom, sitting you gently on the bed and pushing your hair away from your face.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, sweetheart I just... You gotta understand how nervous it makes me when you leave the house like that.”

You sniffle then slowly look up at him, your eyes bloodshot and tear-filled.

“Then why give me the freedom to leave?”

Your voice cracks and it makes his heart hurt.

“I... I want to trust you. That’s why.”

You take a few deep breaths, your eyes focused on your trembling hands as your heart starts to slow back to its normal rhythm.

“Ever since that night when Nat and Buck came over you’ve... you’ve been off. I’m worried about you, honey. I just wanna make sure that everything’s okay.”

He wants to know what Nat told you. What she said to have you acting like this.

Your eyes meet his, wet and full of fear as you whisper three words.

“Is it true?”

He has an idea what you’re referring to, and his heart picks up speed.

“Did...did you do it?”

He swallows hard and avoids your eyes, but that’s answer enough.

Some strange mixture of a gasp and a sob bubbles out of you, and you bring your hands up to cover your face as your shoulders start shaking again.

“I didn’t... I guess I did.” You sniffle and look up at him through your tears.

“If you want me to trust you... if you ever want any hope at having some semblance of normalcy, you’re gonna need to elaborate. I’m trying to play your little game but I just... I’m scared you’re gonna kill my baby too. That you’re gonna hurt Sarah.”

He shakes his head immediately, grabbing your hands and holding them softly in his.

“I would never hurt Sarah, or our new baby, okay? Natasha... she was becoming a liability. That being said, I didn’t go into it with the intention of hurting her baby but... I knew it could be a consequence.”

You wait for him to continue, your heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“When you burned the book... that wasn’t the only copy. Fury made sure there was at least one more, in case we ever needed it. Had his own group working on it, creating a new version of it. Natasha became a test subject long before I met you. Before I... took you.”

He drops his eyes and huffs out a sigh.

“We didn’t need to wipe her memory, we just... needed a way to make her more complacent. To make her realize that she can’t go off on her own and keep secrets like that. Especially when they involve you.”

Your chest heaves as you glare at him, your anger growing by the second.

“Did you kill her baby?”

The words are harsh like the crack of a whip, and he has to stop himself from flinching.

“It wasn’t my intention... but it was worth it.”

You choke on another sob, yanking your hands out of his grip.

“I didn’t know what the tea would do to her baby. It was just a mild sedative so we could get her to the facility and do the procedure. Get her to tell us where you were, where Sarah was. But then she... she started bleeding. I didn’t... I thought maybe it was just a side effect but then the doctors told us... (Y/n), you’ve gotta believe me. You need to know that I didn’t mean to...” he trails off and shakes his head, thinking about the niece or nephew that he could’ve had.

The son or daughter that he stripped Bucky of. The pain he inflicted upon Natasha. But he has you, so in the end, it was worth it.

You slowly look up at him, shaking your head.

“Why? You’ve done nothing but lie to me and hurt me. Why should I believe a word you’re saying?”

He swallows hard, reaching for your hand again only for you to yank it away once more.

“You want the truth? Fine. You’re not the first person that we’ve... taken. And I doubt you’ll be the last. Bucky... he had someone. Someone to help him control the soldier. But she turned out to be worse than him. We had to terminate her because she became a liability.”

He looks down at his hands, remembering how innocent she seemed. And then she snapped. Tried killing Nat and Bucky. Turned the redhead against them until Fury stepped in.

“Nat didn’t... agree with what we did. So we changed her mind.”

Your brows draw together in confusion.

He can’t mean... can he?

As if sensing your confusion, he elaborates.

“We didn’t do exactly the same procedure. But it... its function was the same. We needed her to forget certain things. To be our friend again while still remembering other things about the situation. And it worked. All I wanted to do this time was open her up to us again. Tell me where you and Sarah were. I never meant to hurt her baby.”

You shake your head furiously, tears dripping down your cheeks. “You’re a murderer. A disgusting monster. I hate you.” Your words are venomous and acidic, and Steve almost flinches at them, shaking his head.

“That’s not true, (Y/n). I love you.”

You laugh, the sound manic and for a moment Steve’s concerned.

“This isn’t love, Steve, this is obsession! It’s unhealthy! You’ve got me trapped here against my will! Y-You’ve hurt me and raped me and now I’m supposed to pretend everything’s okay? I’m supposed to play the good little housewife while you go around kidnapping and killing women? Killing other people’s children?! No!”

You stand up and try to move past him but he grabs hold of your forearm, rising to his feet with you.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His eyes are fiery as he glares at you, but you’re not nearly as afraid as you once were. No. You’re just angry.

You glare at him, rage burning through your body as you yank free from his grip and walk out of the room.

“You leave this house and I won’t hesitate to drag your ass right back!” He shouts.

But you don’t plan on leaving.

Oh no.

Why does he deserve his happy ending so much more than everyone else?

You turn to face him once you reach the top of the stairs, your heart in your throat at what you’re about to do. The damage it could cause.

At least it’ll get your point across.

“Why do you deserve a baby so much more than Natasha?” He furrows his brows, trying to figure out what your next move is going to be.

“I’ve given my life over and over for this stupid pathetic world. I’ve sacrificed my happiness time and time again. Do I not deserve something good?”

You take a deep breath and shrug.

“Maybe you do. But not like this.”

With that, you turn around and let yourself fall down the stairs.

Steve tries to grab you, he really does, but he’s just not fast enough.

He watches you fall, tumble down the stairs then lay still at the bottom, and for a moment all he can do is stare.

Memories fill his mind. Of you falling down the stairs. Then bleeding. So much blood. And your baby... gone.

He nearly falls down the stairs himself in his haste to get to you, two fingers pressing first to your pulse, then his hand is pressed against your belly, trying desperately to feel for the fluttering kicks you told him about.

It takes a minute, maybe two, and then he feels a small press against his hand.

He lets out a breath of relief then grabs his phone, calling the doctor.

~*~

When the doctor assures him that both you and the baby are okay, he’s relieved. But that only lasts for a moment before anger takes hold, powerful and persistent.

You can feel the anger rolling off of him when you wake up, and for a moment you’re afraid.

But hopefully, you got your point across.

He doesn’t deserve another baby. Not if that’s what he wants. He’s a terrible human being. And bringing a baby into the world with him as the father should be a crime.

“Where’s Sarah?” You ask, hoping to keep him as calm as possible.

“She’s having a sleepover with Morgan over at Tony and Pepper’s.”

You nod, your stomach dropping as you realize you’re alone in the house with him and he’s beyond pissed off.

Your mind races back to all the times he’s punished you in the past, and you almost throw up with the anxiety coursing through your veins.

“You ever do anything like that again and I swear I’ll make you regret it. I won’t kill you, no. My baby needs his mommy, but I’ll make you hurt. You’re lucky I’m not doing anything to you now.”

You swallow hard and look away from him in disgust, only for him to grab your jaw and force you to look at him.

“You need to stop acting out like this. I told you what happened to the last asset who became a liability. Fury shot her point-blank. A clean shot between her pretty eyes. Then he left her to bleed out on the bedroom floor while he fixed Nat’s memory. S’why she’s even still here and with Bucky. If she remembered what he did to that poor girl... she’d have killed him herself by now. But he needs to outlet to keep the soldier at bay. And he deserves her. Deserves some happiness in his fucked up life.”

You shake your head, disagreeing strongly with every word he’s spoken.

They're monsters. Natasha less so. A victim, like you, maybe. But the two soldiers? Monsters. Monsters who don’t deserve any happiness. They deserve nothing but a slow painful death and an eternity in the fiery pits of Hell.

“I told you, (Y/n), I didn’t mean to hurt her baby. If I’d wanted to, I’d be rubbing it in her face more. Showing off your pregnancy more. And if you think I’m gonna hurt our baby, you’re wrong. I would never hurt my babies. It kills me that you think I’d ever do something like that.”

“Can you blame me? You’ve already killed at least one baby.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks and you regret your words.

“You know what? I think you really need a reminder of your place, sweetheart. You’re mine. Maybe not my wife, yet, but soon enough. Until then, you need to know that you belong to me.”

His grip on your face is painful, but you don’t make a single sound.

No, he’s not going to win.

He doesn’t want to hurt the baby or cause unnecessary strain, so he can’t have you on your stomach like he usually would.

So he makes the most of you lying on your back.

He grabs your wrists and binds them above your head, hooking them to the ring on the headboard despite your struggles.

“Steve, no! Please! I-I... Don’t hurt me, please!”

He cocks his head to the side, watching you wriggle and strain.

“You’re mine, (Y/n). You belong to me. There’s no one in this entire world who’ll help you. You’re my property. It’s time you realized that.”

A sick smile spreads across his face as he remembers what made you obedient last time.

“You know, I think I know exactly what you need.”

He climbs off the bed and drops to his knees, rooting under it until he finds his special black box.

You wriggle away furiously, trying to break free before he can hurt you, but deep down you know it’s all for not.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he sits back down on the bed, worming his way between your thighs and flipping your dress up over your extended stomach.

“Please don't,” you whimper uselessly.

He strokes your inner thighs gently, then leans down to spit on your centre.

You flinch away, tears leaking from your eyes as you realize what he’s going to do.

“Please don’t,” you repeat, only to be silenced by him pushing something far too big inside of you.

You cry out, your back arching and sending shoots of pain up to your scalp. The added weight of your baby makes everything ten times more painful, and you can't stop yourself from sobbing as he forces every last inch of the thick dildo into your unprepared cunt.

It burns. Fire spreads from between your legs up your spine and the tears don’t stop.

“Stop! Please! I’ll be good!” He knows you won’t. Or, he just doesn't believe you. You want the pain to stop but you’re not actually willing to change your behaviour for it. Not yet. But you will.

When the dildo is finally fully inside you, he climbs off the bed and shoves the box back underneath it. He adjusts his pants then walks to the door, pausing to look at your trembling figure on the bed.

Your shoulders shake with sobs, and he feels pride swell inside of him.

Good. Now you’ll finally learn.

“You’re gonna stay here until you learn your place. I don’t care how long it takes. When you’re ready to apologize and be a good girl, then we’ll talk. But until then...” He shuts off the light and pulls the door closed behind him, leaving you alone, in pain, and in the dark.

Memories of the last time this happened stab at your brain, and you quickly start hyperventilating.

What’s worse than that, though, is the tiny voice in your head telling you to get off your back. That it’s not good for the baby if you stay like this.

But no matter how much you scream or cry for him, Steve doesn’t come to the door once.

~*~

He leaves you there for hours, or maybe days. It’s so hard to tell.

The room is soundproof, so no one can hear your cries and you can’t hear anything outside.

Even if people could hear you, it doesn’t really matter now.

You’ve been on your back for so long that you’re starting to get dizzy.

During your first pregnancy, you learned only that it’s bad for the baby to sleep on your back. You didn’t think you’d be feeling the effects of it, too.

But here you are, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, mind spinning and lungs struggling to pull in enough air to satisfy you.

It must’ve been several hours ago that Steve left if you’re feeling such strong effects of it. You’re not sure what the technical term is, but you know that you probably don’t have much time left. Your baby has even less.

Your heart aches. Each beat makes sadness bloom in your soul and you can’t stop it.

New tears fall down your cheeks, and all you want is to reach down and caress your belly, apologize to the life growing inside of you.

Apologize for hurting them, for who their father is. For the life you’re bringing them into.

Nobody deserves that.

But now... now you might not have to worry.

Every passing second sends the walls around you spinning faster and faster and faster until all you can do is let your eyes fall closed.

Sleeping will probably make it better anyway, right?

As the darkness creeps up, seeps into your limbs and chases the pain away, you pray.

You’ve never really prayed much before, but you do today.

You send a prayer to any and all Gods, the old ones and the new, and you ask for forgiveness.

You pray for the safety of your unborn child, and for that of Sarah.

A deep part of your brain knows that you may never open your eyes, and you want your daughter to know that you love her. That she means the world to you and you’ll do all that you can to protect her.

Thinking about Sarah brings a wave of strength seemingly out of nowhere, and for a moment you wonder if the Gods heard you. If this is them sending their aid.

You take a few deep breaths, building up as much strength as you can, and try your luck one last time.

“I’m sorry.”

Your voice isn’t nearly as loud as it should be, and the room is so thickly padded that there’s no way he can hear you.

Hopelessness floods your body and you fall into it.

Your sorrow distracts you from the darkness until it takes hold of you and pulls you down, away from the world of pain that you’ve been trapped in.

And you feel peace.

[hstyleshoney]

Luck On Tour

A/N: Soo, this is my little thing for @oh-honey-styles​ HSFICSLAM 2 challenge. I’ve been struggling to write something for a while now and this kind of just caught my attention because it seemed like fun. It’s nothing too serious or fancy. Just a little bit of fun. If one person enjoys it then I’m happy, bc I just had a good time writing again. 

Let me know your thoughts, it would mean a lot!!! xx 

WC: 2.7K // a cheesy story about good luck charms and love 

“You’re jealous aren’t you?”

“What?” 

You blinked and turned around to glance at Charlotte who was looking at you with a smug smile. She raised her eyebrows knowingly and nodded her head in the direction you had just been glaring.

“I told you this was gonna happen.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you told her, taking a deep breath, before forcing a strangled laugh from your chest. “Why would I be jealous?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Charlotte hummed and tapped her chin, pretending to be deep in thought before continuing. “Maybe because you two have been sleeping together for a couple of weeks now and you won’t admit it’s more than a ‘friends with benefits’ type of thing.”

You opened your mouth to tell her she was wrong, but Charlotte stopped you by putting her hand up and adding; “And now you’ve been glaring at poor Rosie for the last ten minutes for doing his hair - which, you know, is her job.”  

“I have not.”

“Sure,” she chuckled mockingly and pressed her lips together to stop herself from grinning. “If you say so.”

Instead of replying you turned around to look at Harry again. He sat across the room from you, getting ready for the last and final show of his tour, with Rosie standing in front of him. Your eyes went to her hands as she ran her fingers through his brown hair and twirled his locks around her fingers to give him a little more definition.

And you had no reason to be jealous - but maybe you were? Just a little bit. Just the tiniest little bit jealous.

Because you now knew just how soft his hair was and that morning you had been the one to soothingly run your hands through it as he rested his head on your chest, cuddling up to you and holding you close.

Still, you really shouldn’t be jealous, because Rosie was only doing her job as his hairstylist and there was absolutely no reason for you to be jealous. None. Nada. Zero.

But then there was also that interviewer who, in your opinion, sat way too close to him and touched his arm a little too often. Laughing and flirting with him like no one else was around. It left a sour taste in your mouth, although you would never admit that outloud. Especially not to Charlotte.

It was only supposed to be a bit of fun. It was never supposed to get to this point. You were only supposed to be the tour photographer. Harry had liked the pictures you had taken of him during one of his Jingle Bell Ball performances a while back. And when his regular photographer wasn’t able to join him on the North American part of his tour, due to a conflict in her schedule, his team reached out and asked if you were available.

You were.

So a couple weeks later you were on a plane, traveling across the Atlantic, and ended up befriending one of the world's biggest pop stars.

How you ended up naked in his bed after the show in Chicago was still something you were trying to figure out.

It kind of just... happened.

One of the crew members had turned 40 and Harry had arranged a big birthday party for him after the show. You weren’t supposed to be working but you couldn’t stop yourself from pulling out your camera, the moment was there and you wanted to capture everyone's good spirits. Harry came up to you, a plate of cake in one hand and a drink in the other, forcing you to take it from him and telling you to put the camera away and have some fun.

One drink turned into another, and another turned into a third, and the third turned into a shot of tequila. It was all just downhill from there.

As the night went on you found yourself being drawn closer to Harry and when his fingers danced across the skin on your thigh you knew there was no going back. An hour later you stumbled into his hotel room, and his hands and lips were all over you as you ripped his shirt from his body before the door was even fully closed behind you.

The next morning you woke up with a raging headache and a belly full of regret because it was terribly unprofessional of you to sleep with the artist you were supposed to be working for. You were sure you were going to be told to pack your bags and go back home.

Of course that didn’t happen and Harry was nothing but sweet. He ordered both of you breakfast and let you sleep off your hangover in his bed while he got himself ready for the day.

Then it kind of just became a thing, because life on the road could be a little lonely and your pink vibrator wasn’t always enough.

It didn't bring you the same warmth Harry did.

And he didn’t seem to mind sharing a bed with you either, even if he sometimes complained about your cold toes rubbing against his legs.

So, really, who were you to say no?

But perhaps you should’ve because now the tour was coming to an end and you had no idea where the two of you stood and the uncertainty of it all was making you jealous of his hairstylist touching him - not ideal.

Which was why you decided to remove yourself from the situation and went to get your camera ready instead. You found yourself a quiet spot in a small corner next to the stage and tried to ignore the immature thoughts about Harry and Rosie running through your mind.

You shouldn't be jealous. It was stupid. Besides you and Harry weren’t anything exclusive. Sure, he made your heart beat twice as fast and made you feel things you had only ever read about in novels before, but you hadn’t told him any of that yet.

And you weren’t really sure how to tell him any of that. 

Should you even tell him?

Telling him would make it real and what if he didn’t feel the same... that would certainly be the end of whatever was going on between the two of you. 

But it was possible that the end of the tour also represented the end of the two of you, so, maybe you didn’t even have anything to lose by telling him?

You groaned to yourself and ran a hand over your face in frustration, eyes squeezed shut as you tried to drown out your thoughts with the sound from all the screaming fans in the already full-packed arena. The anticipation was high and usually it made your whole body itch with excitement as well, there was just so much love and adoration going around for one person. It was impossible to not be part of it, but tonight it only made your belly twist with anxiety.

You were going to miss it. The loud crowds. The anticipation. The joy radiating off of everyone in the arenas. The ringing in your ears as you got into bed hours later. The sparkle in Harry’s eyes as he looked through the pictures you’d taken and saw the happy faces of his fans.

You were going to miss him. Harry.

It was one of the reasons you hadn’t asked him how he felt about the two of you. If he turned around and said that your late night rendezvous was only a bit of fun while you were on the road... Well, it was something you weren’t ready to hear just yet.

Fuck.

It was also at that exact moment that Harry decided to show up, only a couple minutes before he was due to go out on stage.

“There you are,” he called out when he spotted you, your green trousers and matching striped blazer making you stand out from your little hideout in the dark corner. You watched as he said something to Jeff before making his way over to you. “Been lookin’ for ya for bloody ages - thought I’d have to go on stage without a goodluck from my little ladybug.”

You tried your best to ignore the way your whole body tingled from his little nickname for you; a nickname that started after he noticed the small little ladybug ring you always wore on your right index finger. You had had it since you were twelve and you just couldn’t get rid of it. Ever since you first saw it in the small thrift shop in your hometown it had been your good luck charm.

And once Harry asked about it and learned that you wore it every single day for good luck, he decided it was also the reason why the North American tour had been going so well and didn’t go on stage before you had wished him a good show.

“Well, here I am.”

Harry frowned and stopped in his tracks. You couldn’t look at him, the high waisted trousers and sparkling suit jacket he was wearing made your already racing heart beat even faster.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just getting ready,”  you muttered and nodded down to the camera in your hands. You didn’t mean to sound so bitter but the words fell from your lips before you could stop yourself. “Are you all set for the last show then? Maybe you should go find Rosie again to make sure the hair is good.”

You regretted it as soon as you said it, your cheeks turning hot as the last phrase slipped from your tongue.

That was stupid.

His eyes burned through your skin and you knew there was no way he was going to let your snide little remark go. Stupid stupid stupid.

For a moment you contemplated just making a run for it so you could hide in the lively crowd for the whole show and then simply just disappear into the night, so you wouldn’t ever have to look Harry Styles in the eyes ever again.

But something stopped you.

A low, almost inaudible, chuckle fell from the man in front of you and you glanced up at him just as his lips curled into a small smirk, his dimple appearing on his cheek, and you felt your face grow even hotter. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

Harry held his hands up innocently.

“I’m not looking at you in any way,” he said, still smirking, and let his tongue poke out to lick his pink lips.

“Yes, you are! I don’t like that-” you started and waved your finger at him, “Whatever it is you're doing with your face.”

“Are you jealous?” Harry asked, ignoring your frustrated little stomp, and took a step closer to you.

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous,” you said, taking a shaky breath and a step backwards away from him, making both of you disappear in the shadows of the dark corner where you had previously been hiding as he followed and continued to come closer.

“You are, aren’t you?”

“I’m not.”

“It’s fine if you are.”

“You really need to stop or I’ll only snap pictures of you from your worst angles tonight.”

Not that he really had any bad angles but that was beside the point. It was absolutely infuriating how he could see right through you so easily.

Harry laughed and took one final step forward, trapping you between his body and the wall. His familiar perfume washed over you and you wanted to bathe in it forever. He always smelled so damn good, and for a moment you forgot about your childish behavior from a couple seconds ago and let yourself get lost in the green of his eyes

“You know you have nothing to be jealous of, right?” Harry told you and reached out to push a strand of your hair away from your face. His fingers gently brushed across the apple of your cheek, making your heart flutter and head fuzzy. He was no longer smirking at you but his lips were still turned upwards. Instead of the smug smirk he was now looking down at you with a soft smile - the same smile you had gotten so used to seeing first thing in the morning, and you were sure you wouldn’t mind if you got to see it every morning for the rest of your life.

“Do I?” you breathed out nervously. 

“Well, when we’re back in London I'm gonna make sure to finally take you on a proper date and-”

“What?”

You didn’t mean to cut him off. It just took you completely off guard and the words fell from your lips before you could think twice about it. “You want to take me out on a date in London?”

That caught him a little off guard.

“Oh,” Harry faltered a little and scratched the back of his neck. For the first time there was a hint of nervousness across his otherwise confident features. “I kind of just assumed we would, eh, we don’t have to- I mean if you, um- if you don’t- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you wanted to continue things back home.”

And you probably really should’ve said something then, but you were at a loss for words. It was the first time either of you had ever mentioned something about seeing each other after the tour was done. You finally had an answer to the question that had swirled around in your head for days and had created the uncertainty and jealousy in the first place. Just like that.

You had spent all day trying to decide whether you should tell him your feelings for him had changed and admit you wanted to see him more, and there he was -- already planning for your first official date.

You really needed to say something.

But someone else beat you to it.

“H!” It was Jeff. “You’ve got less than a minute until you have to get on stage, c’mon!”

Harry turned around and gave his friend a thumbs up, to let him know he had heard him, before he looked down at you again.

“Alright, duty calls I guess,” he said and gave you a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Again, I’m sorry.”

And you knew you had to say something because you couldn’t let him do his final show thinking you didn’t actually want to continue seeing him. Especially when it was the opposite of what you wanted.

“Wait,” you burst out and reached for his hand to stop him from leaving. “I do. I do want to see you.”

Harry’s dimple made another appearance and there was so much more you wanted to say to him. You wanted to tell him how thankful you were to have met him. How happy he made you. How safe you felt in his company. How you could always be yourself around him. How he actually had no right to complain about your cold feet because his own were even colder.

But Jeff beat you again.

“Harry!” He shouted. “Get your ass over here!”

“We probably shouldn’t talk about this right now,” Harry chuckled and pulled you a little closer, his hand still in yours.

“Probably not,” you mumbled and watched as Harry ran his fingers over your dainty little ladybug ring, before lifting your hand to his mouth and pressing a soft kiss to it. His warm lips lingered for a couple seconds on your skin and you could have melted into a puddle right there and then.

“Wish me luck then,” he smiled, his lips still brushing against the skin on top of your hand.  

“You don’t need it.”

“Shhh, don’t ruin it now,” he shushed and shook his head lightly. “S’the last show. I need my ladybug luck.”

“If you need your ladybug luck,” you began quietly and pulled your hand away from his. Harry pouted and reached for your hand to have the little ladybug on your ring between you again, but you were quicker and put your arm around his waist. “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

A grin broke out across his face and he didn’t waste any time before pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss that filled your belly with butterflies. Warmth consumed your whole body as you leaned into the kiss and Harry smiled against your lips. You really could’ve stayed in that moment forever.

“Harry!”

Jeff called his name again.

Harry let out an excessive sigh as he broke your kiss and leaned his forehead against yours. His breath warm on your face and as he pressed his lips to yours again in a short peck you realised you were still smiling as well. 

Then he was off to do his final show. 

And despite the thousands of ear piercing screams that filled the arena as he entered the stage the sweet little “Good luck” you shouted after him was the loudest one. 

.

<3 

[kimageddon]

A Prince of Dathomir - Chapter 109

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Maul x Nightsister OC (Zaiya Valessa) - Slight Canon Divergence

Word count: Approx 2800 words

Contains/Warnings: Abusive behaviour, power and manipulation.

Chapter Summary: Zaiya has an idea on how to gain power they need to break free of their chains.

Notes: Sorry it's late! There is a lot going on for me right now and a lot of family things happening. I got a little distracted, it's also been hard for me to write with court proceedings looming. But I am doing my best!

Monster - Part 1

The training was brutal, relentless and painful. Savage had not been pushed this hard since he was young. Though the memories of that time were vague and blurred. He just remembered the pain. Now of course he was tested in ways he had not been prepared for. 

The assignment against the Jedi was simple. Only a small garrison of soldiers and two small Jedi. He had heard they were supposed to be strong… but Savage remained unimpressed. The Clones did nothing to stop him, and the droids only got in the way. He cut them all down and destroyed everyone inside the temple as well. 

It was after this that Dooku had taken him on as an apprentice and became his Master. He had shown Savage how to bleed the kyber crystal, from the Jedi he’d killed and create his own Lightsaber. He chose a double bladed design, not sure why he was so drawn to it, but there was something about that type of weapon that felt right in his large hands. He would destroy his enemies with such a weapon. Good. 

That was when the real training began. Long meditation for hours on his hate and anger. Running for miles with no supplies into the wilderness to test endurance, endless drills with droids or Dooku himself. 

Constant vigilance. He could not be sure when he would be attacked, whether eating or sleeping or meditating, he needed to be ready at all times. His style was vicious, brutal and unforgiving. Savage was a force to be reckoned with, and more often than not, destroyed anything and everything that came near him. 

What he didn’t kill or annihilate… he was punished for. Whether by task or just being struck with an overwhelming blast of blue lightning. Fear and rage in one blast paralysed him in blinding light and pain there was nothing he could do to fight against it. His blood boiled and his hatred grew. 

He’d never felt anything quite so powerful, like he could tear the galaxy apart with his bare hands… but the hole in his gut seemed to grow just as fast. Something in the back of his mind refused to give in completely, and when he finally could take no more and had to rest, he heard it. A whisper of a woman’s voice, telling him to hold on, that she would come for him. That she would find him. 

Who was she? What did she want? He did not need to be found, he just needed to destroy. 

Count Dooku had spoken of his lost brother, Darth Maul. Mentioned how powerful his brother was. Savage wanted that power. He wanted to be able to stand where his brother had and take the power Maul had once wielded. Savage would be a formidable force of destruction that the entire galaxy would fear. 

No one would disrespect him. He would annihilate anyone that stood in his way or dared to try and subjugate him again. Never again.

There was so much to learn, though most of the lessons were nothing but pain. 

Was this what his brother had been through? A brother he could not remember. A brother that was held in such high regard. That was so honoured above him.  

Wait… where had that come from?

Savage’s eyes opened and he stared ahead at the window ahead of him, showcasing a lush green and human-friendly landscape. It felt so alien to him. There was no red fog, no dangerous swamps, no large creatures to hunt. 

Serenno was peaceful. Boring. He found himself thinking back to Dathomir… but there was so little there. If he tried to push back the fog it only caused more pain! The apprentice decided he couldn’t linger on it. He needed to focus on his rage and anger. Through it he would be able to gain the power he desired, and cast off these memories. 

----

Dathomir was eerily quiet and silent. Zaiya too stared contemplatively out at the landscape though her view was vastly different. The cold chill in the air was present even up on the top of the mountain in the sun.  She stood with her hands clasped behind her back and staring out into the dusk beyond the red mist. 

All her choices, all her paths, all her life had led to this. Savage gone. Feral taken from his home by her own hand. Maul… freed and healed… yet so very hurt in ways she just couldn't heal. The galaxy was at war and she could do little to protect even the few she cared for. 

The ritual, the clones, Kamino, Ventress, Zygerria, her bounties and all the way back to that very first mission on Alderaan. She had walked forward telling herself that she had done everything she needed to. That she was right.

But was she? It ate at her. Could she have done more to help Savage? Could she have done more for any of them? Why did she feel so weak? 

“You’re up here a lot lately.” Zaiya turned, seeing Feral standing there towards the path that led back down to the village. 

“It’s quiet here, I can tap into the Force far more easily when I am on my own,” she explained, though her posture sagged slightly as she let out a deep breath. 

“Do you really think that Savage can be saved?” There was a pleading tone to his voice that broke her hearts. 

“I don’t… know for certain,” she admitted, “but I will do everything and anything I can to break him from the spell they put on him.” There was a long silence before Feral spoke again.

“I suppose… you went to the same lengths for Maul,” he reasoned. 

“I told you before,” she said, turning to face him again, her good eye meeting his. “I would have done the same for any one of you.” He gave her a small smile. 

“Is there anything we can do but wait? It seems that with all the power you two have gained… sitting in a glorified temple seems like a waste.” 

Zaiya stared at him for a moment. 

“Temple…?” 

“Well, that’s what the main building is… isn’t it?” Feral asked nervously. 

“No-- I mean yes it is, but… you’ve given me an idea!” she gasped, her lips breaking into a grin. “Follow me!” 

The two raced back down the path, and on passing through the village, she found Maul and Sixy to join them. She knew where she could go. She knew what she could do to help Savage! 

Her words to Maul were curt, she was angry with him for the way he had grabbed her last time, but for now she put it aside. There was more to do. 

The Nightsister led the other three males out of the main village, avoiding the other Sisters, and toward an old path, no longer utilised and grown over in the swamps outside the mountain. There was another passage that led down, deep into the heart of Dathomir, where she had been only once by accident. 

She’d heard a voice there, speaking to her, and it wasn't until the dream the other night that she had even remembered hearing it before. Was the Fanged God really talking to her then? Was it really him she had seen? If that were the case, perhaps she was meant to find this place.

“Lieutenant, where are we going?” Maul asked coldly as he followed her across the marshes. 

“It’s just… ah! Here!” she gestured to the wall ahead and the group could see a small opening that from one angle just looked like a part of the stone jutting out. Upon drawing closer, they could see the entrance to a tunnel -- or more accurately, stairs, leading down and into the dark. 

“What is it?” Feral asked. 

[My scans detect a winding passage leading far below into the mountain.] Sixy provided. 

“You’re right… there’s a temple down there, an old one,” Zaiya began to explain. “To the Winged Goddess and Fanged God.” 

[An archaic notion for the worship of such deities,] Sixy stated bluntly. 

“So I might think too… were it not for the visit I received,” she admitted. 

“What visit?” Maul asked, sharply. 

“I do not know if it was some vision in the Force or a dream connection, but the Fanged God called me to his realm.” She heard Maul scoff and she rolled her eyes. Of course. “Disbelieve if you wish, sire, but it was the same effect as when you and I have spoken in the Dreamscape.” That silenced him. Feral however was not silent. 

“You two can speak in dreams?” he asked. 

“We have had a connection in the Force, since we were small… It has allowed us to sometimes see each other or even speak when we enter a meditative state or even dreams.” She looked over her shoulder and Feral was staring at her. She also caught the intense look in Maul’s eyes as she turned back. 

“You’ve never mentioned it,” Feral replied quietly. 

“It’s never really come up to mention it before now, it’s been commonplace for me so I honestly didn’t think to mention it.” She shrugged, it was a part of her life as breathing, and yet she became aware it was not common for others to feel and so had just kept it to herself. Feral seemed intrigued but it felt a little too personal. 

[How do you know this vision was indeed the God you speak of?] Sixy asked. 

“Well he certainly looked the part, and I could feel the overwhelming power of the Dark Side… had I not already been, I’d have wanted to drop before him, it was intimidating to say the least,” the Nightsister said with a grimace. 

“You bowed to him?” Maul asked with a snarl. He sounded angry. 

“He’s a God, of course I did,” she replied back, as though it were obvious. 

Suddenly Zaiya was seized by the collar and pinned to the rocky wall. She let out a grunt as her head smacked into the rough surface. 

“You do not bow to anyone!” he growled, getting in her face. Zaiya had finally had enough and she shoved him, hard, into the opposite wall. 

“And you will not manhandle me like I am some servant!” she snapped back, wisps of green smoke trickled out from behind the eyepatch. “If I am your Lieutenant, you will treat me with respect, Maul, lest I am forced to defend myself.” Her eye blazed as she stared at him. Gods, her head hurt. She’d had enough of being grabbed by him when he was in a mood, she should have stopped him long before now. 

Maul’s lip curled, but his gaze was wary. 

“You threaten me?” he asked with a deadly edge to his quiet voice. 

“If I were threatening you, I would not be subtle,” she hissed. “I am telling you what the consequences of your actions will be. I will tolerate no disrespect from you or anyone else.” He regarded her for a long time, but the anger seemed to cool in his glowing yellow eyes. Then he smirked. 

“Good. As you should, Lieutenant.” His tone sounded clipped and she could not be sure if he was still angry or if he had accepted her demand. With a scowl of her own, she turned and headed further down the stairs, and she thought she could see a faint glow at the bottom. 

“You made her bleed!” Fera gasped suddenly. Zaiya turned, seeing the youngest brother glaring between her and Maul. What was he…? Then she felt a slight tickle near the spot of pain on her head. She reached back with a free hand and touched the stinging spot on her head, she only winced slightly and held up her light, seeing the smear of red on her fingers. 

“Hm…” she grunted in displeasure and looked back at the others. Maul’s mouth had formed a hard line and his jaw seemed to tighten, but his expression was otherwise indecipherable. Feral looked like he was ready to punch his brother in the face. 

[Do you require a bacta solution?] Sixy asked, his face as impassive as always. 

“No, head wounds always seem worse than they really are. I’m fine.” She shot Feral a pointed look and decided they had had entirely too many delays. She needed to make contact with the Fanged God again. If she could accept the blessing to become his priestess, then she could gain more power. If she could manage that then… Well she had a far better chance to save Savage and Talzin could not stand in her way. 

The silence was heavy as they made their way down the tunnel, but Zaiya could sense the three had questions. They did not seem to be pleased about any of this. 

Finally the tunnel opened up into a chamber; intricate carvings covered the walls, but what might be left of decor, offerings, tapestries or furniture were long gone. It was mostly empty now. Though it seemed rather clean for an abandoned cave. It was also not very dark either, she could not quite tell from where the glow originated, but there was a slight greenish tinge to the room, much the same tone as her eye and magick.

“It looks well-maintained,” Maul mused, following her train of thought eerily closely. 

“Indeed, perhaps Talzin has kept it in honour of the old ways?” Zaiya mused, though it seemed unlikely, it was she that had turned away from this temple in the first place, so her ma’tri had said. So then who would keep the temple clean of debris and cave-dwelling creatures? 

Knowing she would find no answers out here, she continued to the large door, decorated with more Nightsister symbols. The paint had faded but the carvings remained. It opened to a long room, huge pillars carved into figures on either side leading to yet another door. 

“I’ve seen this,” Zaiya realised, “or a version of it…” 

“What do you mean?” Feral asked, moving to walk beside her now that there was enough room to do so. 

“In my vision, I travelled through the temple of the Fanged God… while it was different to this, the layout thus far has been the same.” She looked around, “even the carved scenes on the walls are similar though it depicts Nightsisters and not the Sith. 

“You saw the Sith in this vision?” Maul asked, standing to her opposite side. 

“Like this,” she gestured to the carvings on the walls between the pillars. They depicted various moments in Nightsister history and mythology, “but it was moments with the Sith… or what I assume to be the Sith, they looked like cloaked figures with swords or lightsabers. There was the figure of the Fanged God in all the depictions. He represents the Dark Side so it is taught, and because of the ties to Dathomir, he is our sovereign deity.” Feral scoffed. 

“The Nightsisters swearing fealty to a male God…” he shook his head. 

“Perhaps that is why Mother Talzin was exiled to begin with…” Zaiya muttered. 

“Exiled?!” Feral asked loudly. 

“Yes, it’s… not common knowledge, but I discovered in the tomes and confirmed with ma’tri. Before Talzin, our clan was connected with the other clans on Dathomir, the Blue Diver clan, the Singing Mountain clan, the Black Forest clan… there are many, but we are now isolated, divided from our other Sisters. From what I understand it was because of something Talzin did. I don’t know what it was though, even ma’tri will not speak of it.” 

“An outcast clan with so much power?” Maul frowned. 

“That might be part of the reason… Talzin does nothing unless it helps her gain power,” she said bitterly. 

“Why would she allow you to go and find Maul? What power did she gain?” Feral asked and Zaiya grimaced. 

“The man she had made a bargain with dared to steal from her. She could not abide such a transgression. She wanted her… property back… and used her keenest tool to do it.” She could not help but curl her lip. She felt like a traitor to everything she had once held to. The clan was meant to be wholly loyal to each other. 

There was a long silence. 

“So then… you never really were one of them,” Feral muttered, as though he had come to some realisation. 

“No. I suppose not.” 

Zaiya reached out with her magick, and green flames ignited in braziers above the door, triggering some kind of mechanism, allowing it to open. As she suspected, there were stairs beyond leading up. 

“Is this like your vision, still?” Maul asked quietly. 

“Yes, up the winding stair to another door… and beyond it was a throne room. I imagine in this case it would be the ritual chamber.” She stared up into the dark, watching the green flames run up the walls along carved channels and to a huge chandelier like fixture. Just like the dream. 

The small group made their way higher through the temple, and sure enough, at the very top--

“There’s the door.” Feral muttered, “Just like you said.”

“Let’s see what lies beyond…”

Notes: What do we think? Will this ritual succeed? Will they be able to gain in power? What will they need to do to achieve it? And Zaiya told Maul what for didn't she?

He has been forgetting his respect women juice a little bit. But not to worry, hopefully he has a fresh supply.

As always I appreciate all of you for your time and for reading, I really love hearing from you, a comment or rb or like or anything! It really helps keep me invested and excited so if you have the time, a comment or reply would just be amazing.

Thank you so much and I hope you all have a wonderful week!

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[itsclydebitches]

I kinda wonder, what could bakugou do (hori write bakugou to do) to make him less popular with the "anti" crowd. Like He was a horrid child no doubt and people who try to put blame on Deku or lessen the terrible shit bakugou did aren't great. But as we don't rly see it, we have to assume bakugous behaviour wasn't stopped, we only ever saw his mum "punishing" him when he was being rude after getting kiddnapped. Nothing will excuse what bakugou did, but he has stopped? He's overall a harsh person but he's not harrassing and bullying people anymore, specifically not deku, he's trying to attone for what he did to deku and has now apologised for it. His behaviour was never viewed as justified or good in the series, he's a scary figure in middle school, we're not meant to like his behaviour, so the series itself hasn't justified his actions.

As someone who relate to both bakugou and deku more than I'd like to admit (never told someone to jump tho, that's fucked lol) so I can 100% understand not liking or even hating bakugou but as someone who's not 15 anymore, looking back I also made a lot of really shitty decisions and like bakugou have tried to make up for it, and like deku I was 'friends' with people who hurt me.

Is there anything he can do for the "antis" to just dislike him rather that be "anti"?

(I'm very sorry if you've talked about this somewhere, you can just tell me to look for it if you have, I'll continue to look for your posts on the subject)

Hey there, anon! I think I’ve spoken about this only tangentially and/or in my main Bakugo meta, which is too big for anyone sane to read. So yeah, let’s chat here!

For me personally—and that’s all I can ever do: speak personally. I think it’s important to keep in mind that there is no single solution to please the “anti” crowd. Each fan will be looking for something slightly different in Bakugo’s character, much of which might contradict what a “stan” is currently enjoying. Given how charged a character he is, I'm not sure it's possible to get the entire fandom to like him—what I’m looking for hinges on having a different reading of the story than you seem to. Meaning, I think the series does justify his behavior. Not in any overt, super obvious way like having all the characters go, “Wow, Bakugo! I sure do love how you threaten people all the time. That’s super cool and heroic!” Things are rarely that straightforward. Rather, it’s in a more subtle, but consistent manner that paints a rather conclusive picture across hundreds of chapters.

Simply put, Bakugo is continually rewarded for his actions. Or, if not outright rewarded, his actions are ignored in a way that implies silent acceptance. Characters may not always like what he does... but they're willing to let it slide because Bakugo's heroism was always treated as a given, not something he had to earn and prove.

With the ever necessary disclaimer that I’m not fully caught up yet, here’s a list of some of the things that stood out to me in the first half of the series:

Bakugo’s bullying made him the most popular kid in school.

Bakugo’s bullying was ignored by/outright supported by the teachers.

Bakugo’s bullying did not hinder him from getting into U.A., one of the most prestigious hero schools around.

Despite acting horribly throughout his time at U.A. too, this behavior was continually ignored by the teachers and other authority figures around him.

Bakugo’s struggle to realize that other people aren’t “trash” doesn’t hurt his achievements in any way. He still gets top scores, still wins the tournament, etc.

Bakugo’s behavior gets him special attention from All Might, the greatest hero and Bakugo’s personal idol.

His behavior doesn’t make others dislike him in any manner that’s taken seriously. Everybody is still willing to not just put up with Bakugo, but—in time—start treating his behavior as a quirk (no pun intended lol) that they’re secretly fond of, rather than something he should legitimately be striving to change. Kirishima is the most overt example of this.

This is compounded by his behavior constantly being framed as humorous. Much like with Mineta’s perverted actions, characters might superficially go, “No, that’s bad!” but the story never demands any significant development because then we’d lose the “joke” of Bakugo screaming in rage at the slightest inconvenience, threatening to murder someone over nothing, constantly belittling everyone around him in a “funny” manner, etc. When fans talk about development of a manga character as archetypal and extreme as Bakugo, most don’t really want to see significant change to his base personality. Because then that would result in someone who doesn’t look like the “real” Bakugo: someone nicer, more even-tempered, more mature, etc. But for those of us who were never drawn to that personality in the first place, the continued acceptance of his rude, egotistical, and violent behavior is discomforting. The easiest comparison I can draw is between this and Bakugo’s mother slapping him. That slap is meant to be another “joke”—we see it constantly in shonen anime, something "humorous" you shouldn’t take too seriously because haha, it's just an overprotective mother—but many fans do take it seriously, using it as the basis for a whole “Bakugo was abused and this explains his behavior” reading. Well, I take the “joke” of Bakugo’s threats and insults seriously, especially in a story that starts with something like telling Izuku to jump off the roof. In the same way that many fans want others to treat Bakugo’s mother as a serious topic that has had a negative influence on his development, I want the series to take Bakugo’s everyday actions seriously as a negative influence on… well, everyone around him. But it doesn’t. His base personality is grudgingly adored.

The above two points are seen most overtly in Izuku, who never wavers in his respect for Bakugo despite how Bakugo treats him. Not just prior to U.A., but during their training too. Izuku, as the protagonist, is the emotional heart of this tale, so when he talks about how inspiring Bakugo is, it encourages the reader to see his behavior as inspiring too. Rather than, as said, something that needs to change. Izuku's continued friendship with Bakugo, his adoration of him, and his acceptance of the way he's treated has severely warped how the entire story sees Bakugo's actions. After all, if #pure Izuku can see the good in Bakugo, why can't everyone else? He must not be that bad after all.

I could get into detailed analyses of all the above—like how Bakugo was the one comforted after attacking Izuku outside the dorms at night and how the messed up relationship he has with Izuku is upheld as something to nurture; how the remedial courses he had to take were made to be rather silly, thereby undermining their supposed importance to his development; how Bakugo’s kidnapping had nothing to do with his flaws, but much of the fandom uses it as a way to dismiss any appropriate consequences because, “Hasn’t he suffered enough?” etc.—but in the interest of keeping this within a readable length, I’ll leave it at that. The point is that Bakugo has always been privileged when it comes to his behavior, resulting in others either outright praising it, ignoring it, or demanding that he change a miniscule bit, which always keeps him far below the standards of both his peers and the expectations of a hero. Everyone in 1-A must learn to be even better than the good people they already are... Bakugo needs to learn that other people aren't dirt at the bottom of his shoes. It's never been a particularly impressive development when pit against the rest of the class. All of which can make something like an apology feel pretty hollow. Yes, he’s apologized and I say with all seriousness that that’s great! But how does that apology stack up against 300+ chapters of content? As Bakugo’s words highlight, he's been a really awful person up "until now": he was consumed by Izuku being “miles ahead of [him],” he “looked down on [him]” because he didn’t have a quirk, he “didn’t want to recognize that,” he “hated that,” “grew distant,” “tried to beat you down,” “opposed you and tried to show my superiority over you,” and ends it all with, “it probably doesn’t mean anything telling you all this” before finally getting to the “I’m sorry.” This is basically a laundry list of how horrible a person Bakugo has been for the entire series, with an acknowledgement that this apology is coming really, really late. This is the moment where I could START to like Bakugo, depending on how he acts form here on out, but that pivotal moment arrived after six years of content and in the final arc of the story. It’s too late. Bakugo needed this kind of self-reflection and positive action 250+ chapters ago so he could (hopefully) grow into a better person across the story, not at the story's end. What we got instead is 322 chapters of him being a really horrible person, but the story going out of its way to excuse or even praise that behavior the majority of the time.

As a quick comparison to end on, I think what Bakugo needed was what Soo Jin got in True Beauty. You don’t need to have seen the drama to follow along. The tl;dr is that she has a lot of the core qualities of Bakugo: an all-consuming drive to win that was created due to abusive parents with high expectations, resulting in her bullying a peer to a pretty horrific extent. The difference between them is how the story frames their actions. When Soo Jin becomes the bully she loses everything. Rather than succeeding academically, her grades plummet, making it clear that this anxiety and self-doubt (things the fandom keeps insisting Bakugo is struggling with, but that rarely ever show up in the text) is actually impacting her day-to-day life. Her best friend drops her because she’s not going to support her choices. The boy she likes rejects her. She’s eventually forced to start over somewhere new - which importantly separates her from the girl she was bullying - and get some distance from her parents, resulting in the growth needed to become a healthier, happier, good person again. So when Soo Jin apologizes to the girl she hurt, it feels earned. The story continually recognized how horrific her actions were and put her into a place where she either had to change, or continue losing at everything else that was important to her. Bakugo? Bakugo doesn’t lose. Oh, he claims he does because he’s comparing himself to Izuku constantly, but that’s just him thinking in extremes. He still wins academically. Still wins many battles. Still wins at having friends. Still wins by maintaining the prestige of being a U.A. student. Still wins by getting All Might’s attention. Still wins by receiving Izuku’s respect and an agreement to maintain this rivalry that Bakugo is so obsessed with. Bakugo comes out well 99% of the time, he just thinks he's "lost" because he can't stand not being the absolute best.

For me, the story needed to have Bakugo face consequences for his behavior, not receive rewards and/or have others ignore it, and that revelation/apology needed to come way, way sooner. For me the issue is not a specific action that Horikoshi can have Bakugo do in the next chapter and them bam, I like him now. The problem is Bakugo’s entire concept, how he’s received by the entire cast, and his run across this entire series. "Entire" is the key word there. Which is why the “But he’s apologized. What more do you antis want?” reactions don’t sit well. What we wanted is a better written redemption arc across those 300+ chapters, not a single scene that’s meant to have us forget all the other problems inherent in the story. At this point it’s a far more complicated situation than, “Bakugo just needs to do X, Y, and Z and then we’re golden.” At the end of the day, Horikoshi failed to make me like him as a person and I’m pretty sure he isn’t going to change Bakugo enough to make him likable to me. Bakugo was never the sort of character I’d be inclined towards without a serious, nuanced redemption arc, but sadly, a core, crucial part of that redemption arc took six years to arrive. At this point there’s no way to change the problems in Bakugo’s writing for that huge chunk of the series and not enough time left in the series, it seems, to do the work we should have seen across the entire run. Honestly, idk if the Bakugo we'll get going forward is someone I can just dislike as opposed to being really uncomfortable with, but my money is on there being too little story left and too much investment in upholding Bakugo's base personality for that to happen. I could absolutely be proven wrong! But I think the problems are structural and needed to be better dealt with from page one, not hastily patched over in the final hour.

[thinkingisadangerouspastime]

Hi, first off I ship Zutara and I come in peace. I was pointed your way by a friend when I asked for people who ship kataang who are nevertheless willing to hear different views. I have lurked on blog a week and finally got up my nerve to ask how you or any other Kataang can deny that the last part of book 3 was completely Zutara but then stopped abruptly with no buildup? You can finesse tone on text so I'm not being sarcastic or bitchy, it is a serious question (1/5)

In The Southern Raiders, Katara realizes she has been wrong about Zuko. In Ember Island Players, she realizes Aang is not as mature as she thought he was, and in the finale, Katara does not care a whit that Aang is gone. I am serious and as someone who is no Aang stan but likes him, I’m actually annoyed by how little anyone cared about his disappearance. It went from “Aang’s gone!” to “Okay whatever, let’s find Iroh so he can kill Ozai.” (2/5)

Katara was all over Zuko (honestly, again not being a jerk) in the finale until for whatever reason, she wasn’t. She was giving him a pep talk about Iroh, she was going with him to Azula, she was healing him and saying he saved her not the other way around. I genuinely don’t get why this isn’t seen as romantic. I will grant you that Zuko would not have allowed Azula to kill anyone but I feel the point here was Zuko realizing his life was pointless if Katara was killed. (4/5)

And then literally at the end, Mai shows up after Zuko not talking about her at all for six episodes and declares herself Zuko’s girlfriend. And Katara kisses Aang after being annoyed with and by him arguably since The Southern Raiders. I get that Kataang “won” and I’ve made peace with that, but ... I can’t understand why Kataang shippers are okay with such a crap story. I swear on my gmom [sic] if they’d done this for [Zvtara], I’d be mad as hell. So I don’t understand, I really don’t. (5/5)

As always, I shall begin with a disclaimer: anon, you do not have to agree with this post. No one has to agree with this post, as it is strictly my own thoughts on the subject matter raised here! As per usual, I will not be putting this in the main tags - much less the Zvtara tag! - because I have basic fandom decency, lmao. If you (the general you, not anon specifically) do disagree with this post, that is totally fine, I simply ask that you are polite in expressing your disagreement (if you choose to do so at all! no one is expected to, lmao. i promise).

Alright. Formalities are out of the way!

I’ll admit I giggled a little bit when you say you lurked on my blog for a week, because I’ve actually talked about this subject numerous times in the past! I just found it funny you hadn’t stumbled across any posts about it yet, lol. So, as a heads up, know that I will be providing several links in this post since - again - this subject and related subjects have been analyzed a multitude of times before. I highly recommend reading them all! Mostly because I don’t intend to spend forever restating what’s been said over and over and over lmaooo. I will provide the resources, but it is up to each individual to take advantage of them.

To begin: your ask actually contains a few logical fallacies, anon! I do not mean this as shade or to belittle you - I fall victim to this issue all the time myself. Anyone who writes analyses or participates in debates does! Humans are imperfect and often like to cut corners to reach a conclusion. It is nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed about because - as the existence of your ask in inbox indicates - you are willing to learn more. So kudos to you, my friend!

Alright. So what logical fallacies am I talking about here? (For the record: specific definitions of logical fallacies were taken from here.)

1. Hasty Generalization.

“A hasty generalization is a general statement without sufficient evidence to support it.” Numerous claims are made in this ask that I have absolutely no doubt you believe to be true, anon, but there really isn’t any concrete evidence to support it! I will go into more detail later, of course, but let’s quickly look at one example:

“In Ember Island Players, [Katara] realizes Aang is not as mature as she thought he was…”

For the time being, I will ask but one question: from the show itself, not fanon, how do you know this?

2. Causal Fallacy

Ah, this guy. My own worst enemy, tbh! “A causal fallacy is any logical breakdown when identifying a cause,” of which there are several types. “One causal fallacy is the false cause or non causa pro causa (‘not the-cause for a cause’) fallacy, which is when you conclude about a cause without enough evidence to do so.” In your ask, you claim:

“I will grant you that Zuko would not have allowed Azula to kill anyone but I feel the point here was Zuko realizing his life was pointless if Katara was killed.”

Again, for the time being, I will ask only one question: from the show itself, not fanon, what led you to believe this statement?

“Another kind of causal fallacy is the correlational fallacy also known as cum hoc ergo propter hoc (Lat., ‘with this therefore because of this’). This fallacy happens when you mistakenly interpret two things found together as being causally related.” In your ask, you claim:

“Katara was all over Zuko (honestly, again not being a jerk) in the finale until for whatever reason, she wasn’t. She was giving him a pep talk about Iroh, she was going with him to Azula, she was healing him and saying he saved her not the other way around. I genuinely don’t get why this isn’t seen as romantic.”

I will ask one question: from the show itself, not fanon, why would you believe these are indicative of romance? (Consider the context the show is situated in, too - e.g. the war, Katara being Azula’s only available match in skill, etc.)

The reason I bring up the issue of logical fallacies is again not at all to make you feel bad, anon!! You were simply trying to express your point to me and I greatly appreciate you taking the time to do so. See, your ask actually presents a larger fandom trend:

Misconstruing fanon as canon.

What you have offered to me, anon, are fanon conclusions. To clarify: there is absolutely nothing wrong with fanon. I adore fanon interpretations (an example I have used in the past is Kuzaang - like, I don’t care that there’s no canon basis! I do what I want lmao!), but a line has to be drawn between exploring fanon interpretations and expecting everyone to take that fanon as canon. Again, anon, this is not your fault! It is not any one person’s fault, lmao. It is an issue of fandom as a whole, and all of us fall victim to it.

With that in mind, I will break down the different components of your ask. I will also do my best to be brief - as aforementioned, I and others have analyzed this issue numerous times before, lmao. To avoid confusion, it would be best to read through each or at least most links as they are provided!

Firstly, there are two posts I have made in the past that almost directly answer your overarching question here in this ask. Please read them prior to continuing, as I will occasionally reference them:

This post explains how Zvtara was not built up from TSR/EIP-onwards, and how their supposed “canon enemies to lovers arc” is a completely fanon construction.

This post explains the issue of the “canon Zvtara” rhetoric from rabid zkers (and you, anon, are absolutely NOT one, in case you were worried).

Alrighty. With that out the way, let’s get into it!

“In The Southern Raiders, Katara realizes she has been wrong about Zuko.”

Gotta start by saying that TSR is not about Zuko. TSR is, first and foremost, about Katara. Katara does not realize she was wrong about Zuko, because here’s the truth - she wasn’t wrong about him. Zuko did horrible things to the Gaang. Katara was not wrong to hold him accountable for that. What Katara does realize is that holding such rage so close to her chest is bad for her. This rage was not solely anger against Zuko, either; it was of course about Yon Rha, too, but it was also anger towards Kya and Katara herself. Essentially, TSR is where Katara realizes she has to forgive herself. Zuko is only one part of her journey (similar to Aang’s role in the episode, if a different end of the spectrum).

This post explains how TSR was fundamentally about Katara.

Additional resources about TSR:

This post explains Aang’s comments to Katara in TSR and how Katara herself recognized their validity.

This post explains why both Aang and Zuko were important to Katara in TSR.

This post is an extensive breakdown of Aang and Katara’s relationship within TSR.

“In Ember Island Players, [Katara] realizes Aang is not as mature as she thought he was…”

You provide no context for this claim, so I’m going to work with the assumption this is about their reactions to the play itself and the infamous kiss!

There is something important we must keep in mind when discussing EIP: the play they watch is literally imperialist propaganda. It is meant to demean the entire Gaang, and indeed it does exactly that. You mention Katara and Aang specifically, so I will recap what I have explained before about their depictions in EIP: Katara, an indigenous woman, is hypersexualized and portrayed as overly emotional (and thus “irrational”). This reinforces the Fire Nation sentiment that women of the Water Tribes are less intelligent and less suited for “responsibility” than Fire Nation women. Aang, a pacifist and the sole survivor of genocide who is also canonly the male character most comfortable with femininity and spirituality, is portrayed as a flighty, airheaded woman (this is a well-known imperialist tactic meant to emasculate the target, seeing as masculinity was often equated with power in fascist regimes; thus, they effectively belittled Aang before the FN audience). This reinforces the Fire Nation sentiment that the Air Nomads were foolish, weak people who deserved to die.

In other words, of course Aang and Katara were upset about how they portrayed in the play. It is understandable that tensions would be running high and consequently that mistakes (we all know the one) would be made.

This post explains how EIP belittles each member of the Gaang (and why the play is not indicative of Zvtara).

This post talks specifically about EIP and their portrayal of Aang and Katara.

Now onto the kiss. As everyone knows and no one has ever disagreed with, Aang was wrong to kiss Katara. Point blank!

But what people do misunderstand is Katara and Aang’s feelings regarding the kiss. Given your above quote, I assume you believe Aang kissing Katara supposedly made her realize that Aang wasn’t as mature as she once thought. On the surface, this seems like a logical conclusion! But digging deeper reveals… well, there’s nothing that indicates this conclusion at all. Even jumping ahead to the finale, when Zuko has doubts over Aang’s return, Katara demonstrates her faith in Aang (although of course she’s nervous - I won’t deny the obvious, lmao) as she says, “Aang won’t lose. He’s gonna come back. He has to.”

In other words, nothing in canon suggests that Katara believes Aang is immature because of what happened in EIP. She still trusts in his return, as she did even before she knew him (and arguably is more confident in him now, given the 60~ episodes of them growing closer). Furthermore, when Aang does disappear, Katara doesn’t have an outburst about how “immature” it was for him to “run away again.” The viewers know Aang didn’t run away, of course (fans who insist he did are not worth arguing with, anon - they don’t understand the show, rip), but that is a luxury the rest of the Gaang is not afforded. And yet even though Aang has vanished off the face of the planet, Katara still believes he will save the world. If anything, that signifies the utmost confidence in his skill and maturity!

To go back to the kiss itself, this post explains the true source of Katara’s conflict in turning down Aang (hint: she says it herself in the episode! you know, the whole war going on) and why the EIP kiss did not sink Kataang’s relationship.

Additional sources about EIP:

This post explains how the EIP kiss was resolved through narrative parallels.

This post explains how the EIP kiss is so often blown out of proportion.

“… and in the finale, Katara does not care a whit that Aang is gone. I am serious and as someone who is no Aang stan but likes him, I’m actually annoyed by how little anyone cared about his disappearance. It went from ‘Aang’s gone!’ to ‘Okay whatever, let’s find Iroh so he can kill Ozai.’”

As I already touched upon, Katara didn’t need a soliloquy to emphasize her connection to Aang once he disappeared. She trusts that he will return. She says so herself. I guess I just don’t understand how you got from Point A, Katara has consistent faith in Aang, to Point B, Katara and the rest of the Gaang didn’t care about Aang’s disappearance. It’s honestly a bit more like Point A to Point Z, lmao! If you would like to expand on your logic here, I would love to hear more!!

There are a few specific aspects I want to note about your rationale, though. You argue the Gaang moves from ‘Aang disappeared’ to ‘let’s find Iroh,’ but the Gaang actually went from:

1. Aang disappeared!

2. They search the entire island for him.

3. Okay, they couldn’t find him, so they track down June and have her try to find Aang.

4. June says to them, “No, I mean he’s gone gone. He doesn’t exist.” (And she clarifies to Sokka that she doesn’t mean dead, either - she means Aang has totally blinked out of their world.)

5. Only after all of this do they decide to track down Iroh.

The Gaang cares immensely about the fact that Aang is gone, and you could actually argue they waste time by trying to track him down. They don’t give up until June essentially tells them that some Spirit World shenanigans were involved. Even if you don’t think they reached that specific conclusion, I have to ask: What else were they supposed to do? They were told Aang didn’t exist! How are they supposed to fix that?

Well, they can’t. So they do the next best thing: they find Iroh, the man who knows Ozai better than anyone and is also one of the most talented firebenders in the world. In my opinion, that’s a very logical step to take.

“Katara was all over Zuko (honestly, again not being a jerk) in the finale until for whatever reason, she wasn’t. She was giving him a pep talk about Iroh, she was going with him to Azula, she was healing him and saying he saved her not the other way around. I genuinely don’t get why this isn’t seen as romantic.”

I’ll be blunt here, lol: in my opinion, nothing of what you listed in your ask is inherently romantic.

Okay. I am going to assume you’ve read the first two posts I linked earlier (“Zvtara did not have an E-L arc” and “the ‘canon’ Zvtara of rabid zkers has issues”), because I do not intend to rehash everything they contain, lol. Consequently, I presume you realize by now that there was no canon romantic interest between Zuko and Katara.

And as I always say, just because there wasn’t a canon romance doesn’t mean people can’t take fanon routes! Of course they can! That’s the entire point of fanon! But fanon is not canon, and I am strictly referring to canon in my discussions.

You claim Katara was all over Zuko, which in itself I don’t think is an accurate assessment, because she doesn’t really do anything with Zuko outside the three points you bring up (other than the June gag, which I addressed in one of the aforementioned linked posts). So I’ll go ahead and break down each instance you provide!

1. “[Katara] was giving [Zuko] a pep talk about Iroh”

Katara asked Zuko if he was okay. She asked him if he was genuinely sorry. She reassures him that Iroh will forgive him. That’s… all. Not to diminish the significance of this conversation, but it’s not exactly an intimate, romantically-charged discussion (unless fanon-ized). But on that note, let’s tackle the canon significance of this moment!

Katara knows firsthand the challenge of forgiving Zuko. And she knows that Zuko understands how hard it was for her to forgive him (note: Katara’s anger was totally justified, and anyone who disagrees is probably a rabid Zuko stan lmao). She also recognizes that Zuko is terrified it will take Iroh the same struggle to forgive him that Katara went through. This scene is not related to romance at all. It’s about compassion. It’s about Katara and Zuko’s friendship having progressed, slowly but surely, to the point where she’s not afraid to extend empathy to him anymore (seeing as the first time, beneath Ba Sing Se, did not go so well; you know - Aang died and all). It’s about Zuko recognizing his own fallibility (and the audience recognizing how much he’s grown). He questions how he can even face his uncle after all he’s done to the man, which is a far cry from his entitled attitude in TSR, where he demanded to know why Katara didn’t trust him when everyone else had forgiven him.

To make this moment, this moment about Zuko’s relationship with his uncle who is all but a literal father to him, this moment of vulnerability, of guilt, of remorse, of growth, to claim this powerful moment is about a nonexistent romantic relationship? In my opinion, that is incredibly reductive to what this scene is supposed to signify. And again, there is nothing wrong with people exploring such a possibility in fanon, but in canon? Nah. It doesn’t track.

2. “[Katara] was going with [Zuko] to Azula”

Don’t forget that at first, Zuko planned to take on Azula alone. He doesn’t request Katara to accompany him until Iroh tells him that he’ll need help. As such, Zuko’s immediate agreement with Iroh is reflective of his personal growth (Book 1 and 2 Zuko would have argued and insisted he didn’t need any help). It also demonstrates, however, that Katara was not obsessively on Zuko’s mind. He doesn’t choose Katara until Iroh points out that Zuko will need assistance in taking Azula down. This means that Zuko’s choice of Katara to join him is a tactical decision, not an emotional one. And by all accounts, it’s a damn good decision! Zuko witnessed firsthand beneath Ba Sing Se a) how powerful Katara was (e.g. that wave after Aang died) and b) how Katara was the only one who could take on Azula*.

Of course, besides the fact that Katara was the only match for Azula, who else was Zuko going to choose? Sokka and Suki, while talented in their own right, were no competition for Azula. Toph, while the greatest earthbender in the world, was needed to metalbend the airships. Katara was the only (and the best!) option.

Also, on their trip to face Azula, the only thing they talk about within their three lines of canon conversation are Azula and Aang. Not exactly a romantic flight, lmao.

*Zuko never saw Aang fight Azula on the drill.

3. “[Katara] was healing [Zuko] and saying he saved her not the other way around”

Actually, this is what the transcript says:

Zuko: Thank you, Katara.

Katara: I think I’m the one who should be thanking you.

You’re right about how their lines refer to them saving each other, but you posit it as a romantic moment, when the lines are actually pretty straightforward. Zuko thanks Katara as she heals him from the partially-redirected lightning strike, and Katara thanks him for trying to redirect the lightning away from her and in doing so saving her life. In terms of canon, there’s nothing romantic about this, lol! (Which I talked about extensively in the E-L post, if you need to reference it again.) The reason being is that you have to take the show itself into context when you do analysis. If there was no canon romantic buildup between Zuko and Katara, why would these lines in canon (not fanon! fanon is free rein, lmao) be interpreted through a romantic lens?

Well, they wouldn’t be interpreted as such. Plain and simple.

“I genuinely don’t get why this isn’t seen as romantic.”

Because looking through a canon lens, they aren’t romantic. That’s all. You are of course welcome to view them as such through a fanon lens!! It’s just about recognizing the line between canon and fanon.

“I will grant you that Zuko would not have allowed Azula to kill anyone but I feel the point here was Zuko realizing his life was pointless if Katara was killed.”

I asked earlier what content in the show itself led you to believe. I have wracked my own mind, and I cannot think of anything that would point to this conclusion. Zuko was in Katara’s good graces for 5 episodes. That’s 8% of the show. Not exactly a lot of time for Zuko to start believing his life would be pointless if Katara was killed, is it?

This post explains the improbability of Zuko having a crush on Katara within canon.

This post explains how Zuko’s racism towards the Air Nomads in TSR and the finale is, well, exactly that - racism (and not a sign of a crush on Katara).

And, of course, as has been said a million times, Zuko taking the lightning for Katara out of romantic interest would completely undermine his redemption arc. Since it has been said over and over and over, I will be brief: Zuko taking the lightning is significant because it is a selfless act (one of his only in the series), and it directly parallels his selfish act of choosing not to intervene when Azula killed Aang with lightning beneath Ba Sing Se. This moment demonstrates Zuko’s growth, how he has learned to accept unconditional love from Iroh and the Gaang and Mai and even Ty Lee and sure, even from Appa and Momo, too. To make this moment of pure selflessness about a nonexistent romance? To force a fanon romance in replacement of canon redemption and canon platonic significance?

Such a decision speaks wonders about a person’s priorities, in my opinion, as well as how amatonormativity impacts them.

Furthermore, Zuko’s choice cements Katara’s position as his surrogate sibling, as she is Azula’s primary foil. Zuko chooses the sister who heals over the sister who harms. I won’t go too much into it here, because it has already been talked about extensively before! Thus, I offer you this post that explains how Zuko and Katara - in canon - are positioned as surrogate siblings as well as Azula’s role in this matter. I also offer this post that lays out through screencaps how Zuko and Katara - in canon - treat each other like family.

Additional sources about the final Agni Kai:

This post in part discusses fanon misinterpretation of the final Agni Kai and why such a lens is not true to canon relationships.

This post explains why the final Agni Kai is not intended to be romantic.

This post explains how the final Agni Kai is primarily about Azula and how reducing it to be a big Zvtara moment is detrimental to both her and to Zuko and Katara themselves.

“And then literally at the end, Mai shows up after Zuko not talking about her at all for six episodes and declares herself Zuko’s girlfriend.”

This point could probably get a post of its own, lol, but fortunately I and others have already written a few! I will link them below - first, however, I question your choice of “declares.” Technically, yes, Mai does say outright that it doesn’t hurt how the new Fire Lord is her boyfriend, but your phrasing implies Zuko resisted her proclamation. When… he doesn’t. In fact, he embraces it, asking if that means she doesn’t hate him anymore (read: he asks if they’re back on good terms again). Zuko clearly doesn’t have a problem with the girl he loves wanting to be with him again - so why do some parts of fandom so adamantly insist he does? (Not you, anon - I am referring to the rabid fanoners, lol.)

Also, regarding how Zuko hasn’t talked about Mai for six episodes, we’ve gotta be realistic with this assessment in terms of canon:

1. It was the crux of the war. They were either going to live or die. There was no time for romance at this point! Sokka and Suki weren’t professing their love on the battlefield, lmao, so it’s not exactly strange that Zuko didn’t bust into a monologue about how he missed Mai. I think they were just a little bit distracted by the possible end of the world, lol, and all that jazz.

2. Zuko probably thought Mai was dead. He knows what Azula is like. He knows his sister doesn’t have time for people who get in her way (Aang can testify to this, lmao). So can you blame him for not wanting to think about how the girl he loved had died (to his knowledge) to save him?

You gotta cut the kid some slack, lol. Anyways! Additional sources about Maiko:

This post breaks down the notion of Maiko and “deserve.”

This post rationalizes through a canon lens why Mai’s arrival at the palace surprised Zuko.

This post is the mother of Maiko metas, explaining in tremendous detail why their relationships works, is relevant to canon, and was well-implemented for what its role was.

“And Katara kisses Aang after being annoyed with and by him arguably since The Southern Raiders.”

What in canon has led you to the conclusion that Katara was annoyed with Aang? What specific moments from TSR to the finale made you think Katara was annoyed with Aang and remained annoyed with Aang? Are there any, or are you thinking about fanon interpretation? (Canon vs fanon strikes again!)

In TSR, Katara explicitly thanks Aang for understanding her perspective. Nothing there is indicative of annoyance (and as in the links provided earlier, she was not angry at Aang/Zuko/etc. so much as she was at herself. well, she was a little bit angry with Zuko, lmao). In EIP, Katara is understandably angry at Aang’s decision to kiss her, but Aang completely backs off, and we see in the part 1 of the finale that there are no hard feelings or weird tension between them. Katara in fact actively expresses concern for Aang after Zuko sporadically attacked him when she demands of the firebender, “What’s wrong with you? You could have hurt Aang!” Even when Aang and Katara do butt heads later in the episode as Aang tries to think of a way to defeat Ozai without killing him, Katara doesn’t stay frustrated. Like I said - when she and Zuko are flying to Azula, she demonstrates her unwavering faith in Aang through her belief that he will return. So… where is the annoyance that you feel was present?

With all this mind, i.e. looking strictly at canon, Katara wasn’t annoyed with Aang during this time. Thus, Katara kisses Aang because she loved him. Because he backed off and gave her the space she needed to make a decision about if she wanted to be with him (hence Katara being the one to initiate the kiss). Because the issue was never about if she reciprocated his feelings (they both knew they loved each other) but rather it had to do with the war. At the end of the finale, the war is over, and there is nothing that prevents them from being together. Simple.

This post explains how Katara’s feelings for Aang develop throughout the series (and were not neglected, as rabid zkers like to claim, for some reason? again - you are not one of them, anon).

This post also covers Katara’s interest in Aang throughout the series.

“I can’t understand why Kataang shippers are okay with such a crap story.”

I mean, you definitely don’t have to ship Kataang. It may not be your cup of tea, and that’s totally okay! But as the above links demonstrate, Kataang was a fantastic story. It was well-implemented into the narrative from Day 1. The soulmateism is unparalleled!

Also, it’s worth noting that A:TLA itself was essentially pre-written. The writers knew how the story would end from the get-go, including that the show would end with Kataang. A few Zvtara gags were thrown in to add a sense of “who will Katara choose?” drama as the show aired, but Zuko and Katara were never planned to end up together. One reason so many newer fans are fine with Kataang from the start is that there’s no tension of waiting a week for a new episode when you can watch all 61 episodes straight through on Netflix, lmao. It’s even more obvious now than when A:TLA was airing that Aang and Katara will end up together, if that makes sense. (Although I talked about this in the E-L post linked earlier, so you probably understand this point already, as it was explained in detail there!)

All of this is to say that Kataang is not a “crap story” in terms of writing (again, personal taste is a different matter) because it was woven in from the beginning and had powerful narrative significance! (Kataang represented numerous complementary components of the series, such as yin and yang, push and pull, air and water, Oma and Shu, etc.)

Now. If you really and truly want to understand why Kataang shippers like Kataang, anon, consider reading some Kataang fanfics or exploring some Kataang headcanons. I read fics involving Zvtara more regularly than you might think, lol, because… well, it’s just a ship. I understand the appeal of romantic Zvtara and I can actually appreciate it when it’s well-written! I’m sure if you’re willing to put in just a little legwork (you don’t need to go the whole mile, lmao - ‘tis just fandom), you’ll realize why people like Kataang, even if it isn’t exactly your thing. You have the range, anon!! You got this!

I hope I managed to answer your questions, my friend! As always, you do not have to agree with anything I have said here. It is totally fine if you and anyone else disagrees! Everything above is simply my own perspective on the matter. Thank you for taking the time to read my response and all the different links I provided! I hope it has expanded your understanding of the subject at hand!

[ri-ahhh]

hi can you write about spending a valentine’s day with gray pls?

valentine’s day smut w/ gray? + more haha sorry couldn’t put them all in

A/N: I’m sorry this is a day late. It was supposed to be 90% smut but somehow it took on a mind of its own and turned into this monster.

warnings: smut, extremely cheesy, way too long

***

It should be a given understanding that Valentine’s Day is the dumbest, most antiquated, overrated holiday that’s ever existed. That had always been your take on it, even as a little kid — the worry of spelling your classmates’ names correctly on cards imprinted with cheesy Scooby Doo and Spongebob puns; the expectation to dress up nice in the hopes you would get asked to be someone’s Valentine in the hallways of middle school; the potential embarrassment of being the only person in class who didn’t get bought one of those stupid roses from a ‘secret admirer’ in high school.

There’s simply too much pressure surrounding the idea of professing your love or even your mere fondness for anyone and everyone in your life. The fear of rejection if you do, and the judgement if you don’t. It had always made you anxious, whether you had someone to share the day with or not.

But this Valentine’s Day, as a young twenty-something, you were actually (secretly) looking forward to it. Conner was your first adult relationship, with the title of ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ and labels and commitment. He’s cute and smart and charming and yours. So, sue you if you were quietly anticipating wearing that SavageXFenty set beneath a brand new dress while you went to dinner after being greeted at the door with roses and a box of chocolates.

And yet here you are, on February 14th, hood of your sweater drawn over your head as you rummage through your freezer with a clear target in your mind. Your eyes are blurry and swollen, but you find the pint of birthday cake Nada Moo with ease, and you slam the freezer door closed a little harder than you really mean to as soon as it’s in your grasp.

You’ve just popped the lid off when your phone buzzes on the kitchen counter where you’ve plopped down to eat your depression snack in a more acceptable place than your bed or the couch.

You see Grayson’s name accompanied by a goofy, up-close picture of him smiling filling the screen, and hesitate. He’s one of your best friends, and clearly done nothing wrong, but you’re not sure you’re capable of handling anyone of the male species right now after...everything.

At the end of the day, though, it’s Grayson. He knows heartbreak almost better than anyone, and you’ve coached him through it on more than one occasion. Maybe he can spew back some of your own advice if it comes to that.

You swipe the bar at the bottom of the screen, and your ceiling suddenly replaces the image of his silly, handsome face. “Sup?”

“Yo. Am I interrupting anything? Sorry, just remembered what day it is.”

You swallow. “Uh no, you’re not.”

“What’s wrong?”

You bite your lip hard, digging your spoon into the softened ice cream. Was it that obvious just from your voice that you had been upset? Or does he just know you that well?

“Nothing.”

“You sound like you’ve been crying.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie. Let me see your face.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you concede. “No. I’ve been crying.”

He’s quiet, and you can’t bring yourself to look at his own face in the corner of the screen. You shove the chunk of ice cream past your lips, and after a moment he says with a softer tone, “Crying on Valentine’s Day is never a good sign.”

You’re glad that you’ve gotten so much of your tears out already, because you feel the inevitable prickle behind your eyes that would have been full-blown waterworks a few hours ago. You scoop another bite. “Conner cheated on me — has been, cheating on me. I found out last night.”

Grayson sighs your name, and something about the genuine sympathy in his voice makes you even more emotional. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. What a piece of shit.”

You shrug even though he can’t see, and sniffle past the lump in your throat. “It’s whatever. I’m still in shock more than anything. Hurts like hell, though, still. I let him have it when I saw the texts and he hasn’t tried to call me once. No texts. Nothing.”

He’s silent, but it’s that raging silence you know oh so well from him. It doesn’t happen often, but anyone who knows Grayson Dolan knows that when his volume comes down, he means business. A loud and obnoxious Grayson is a happy one, but a brooding and quiet one means serious business.

“Do you want me to go beat his ass? I’ll do it.”

A smile cracks your scowl before you know it, and you shake your head. “No thanks, Gray. As much as I’d love to see that happen, I like your face the way it is. And not on a mugshot.”

He chuckles a little, and you feel your chest lift some just hearing the familiar depth of it. “Well, do you at least want me to come over later? I totally get if you need to be alone, but I know from experience sometimes what helps the most is having good friends around.”

You’re a little surprised. “You don’t have a date?”

“Nope.”

“No one from the roster hitting you up?”

“I don’t have a roster,” he argues playfully, but you both know that’s a lie, if not at least a stretch of the truth. “And even if I did, you’re more important. Always.”

You sigh and take another bite. His words make your neck tingle and your toes wiggle, but you ignore it; your brain is full of confusion as it is. “That makes one man in my life who thinks so, I guess.”

You finally prop your phone up against the fruit basket sitting in the middle of your bar so he can see you. Grayson takes in your image, which admittedly must look kind of pathetic, and you watch his jaw clench and release in a way that you can’t deny is utterly sexy.

“Is an hour okay? Tell Vanessa to come, too.”

“Benito took her to Tulum for the weekend,” you say, referring to your best friend and her boyfriend. “She did threaten to get on a plane and come home early for me, though.”

Grayson grins crookedly, but his jaw is still tight. “Well, tell her you’re in good hands. See you in an hour?”

You give it one last quick consideration; you already feel this much better just talking to him on the phone. Nothing bad could come from him being in your apartment, and you trust him. “Yeah, that’s fine. But just so you know, I’m already at the stage of eating ice cream at 10:30 AM.”

“Did you forget you’re talking to the emotional ice cream eating champion? No judgement here.”

You finally let out a giggle, your spirits officially lifted. “I’ll see you soon.”

**

True to his word, Grayson arrives at your door about an hour later, his arms laden with milkshakes from Monty’s, a gift bag decorated all over with sparkly hearts, and a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.

You’re stunned. The only thing you’d managed to do in the time it took him to get here was take a quick shower in attempts to rid your face of some of the puffiness, throw on some shorts this time with a fresh hoodie, and toss the used tissues scattered around your place into the garbage.

Before you can say anything, he holds out the flowers. “They were out of roses. But I know you like pink.”

You reach out for them slowly, eyes wide, your fingers brushing his when you grasp the plastic wrapping. His cheeks are a similar color to the petals, and it makes both your heart and your lips smile.

“Peonies are my favorite,” you say truthfully. “And yes, especially pink ones. Thank you, Gray.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, sounding relieved.

As he crosses the threshold of your door, he leans down to kiss your cheek, and you can’t help but hum quietly and pull him in for a hug. “That gift better not be for me, either,” you mumble into his chest.

Grayson pulls back, his eyes sparkling, but keeps you close with an arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders. “Oh, this? No, this is for my other best friend I’m trying to cheer up on Valentine’s Day.”

You slap his arm playfully, and lead him into your kitchen, pulling out a vase from the cabinet beneath your sink for the flowers.

The bag has a few gifts in it: a new Comfy (“I remembered you ruined yours when that ketchup bottle exploded all over you the other day”); a huge bag of watermelon sour patch kids (“I know they’re your favorite. Also ice cream gives you brain freeze after the first pint or so, trust me”); and a heart shaped box of your favorite chocolates (“you can eat them or burn them, I wasn’t sure which you’d appreciate more but either is fine with me.”)

You appreciated all of it, more than he would ever understand. All you can do is fling yourself at him weakly, completely overwhelmed. “Fuck you, you’re gonna make me cry all over again.”

Grayson envelops you in those huge, muscular arms, cooing behind that laugh you love so much. “Is that a really backwards way of saying thank you?”

You grunt in affirmation, and with you still wrapped up in his arms, he starts waddling the two of you back the short distance into your living room.

“Here,” he says, coaxing you down into the blanket nest you had created on the couch. “You chill and find a movie. I’ll make popcorn.”

You do, and he does, and the next few hours are spent lounging about in your apartment. Having him here with you is doing wonders from keeping your mind from going down the paths you’d been spiraling towards ever since you saw the messages between Conner and no less than four other girls on Snapchat. You don’t believe in snooping, but finding the first one had been an accident when he received the snap while you had his phone, and your finger happened to press the icon at just the right moment. 

In your eyes, though, the image of one pair of tits that weren’t your own was enough justification to see what else you could find. 

“I hate to admit it, but I’m kind of relieved,” you told Grayson a while later, Shrek playing on the TV quietly. He’s sitting next to you, far enough apart for there to be couch space between the two of you, but close enough to share the oversized blanket thrown over your laps. “Obviously what he did is so fucking shitty and I’m not justifying it in any way, but I can be honest with myself now and realize I wasn’t in that relationship for the right reasons. There wasn’t anything there emotionally at the end of the day.”

“You still have every right to feel hurt by what he did, though. It’s a huge violation of trust,” Grayson assures, reaching out and squeezing your hand gently.  

You squeeze back and grimace at him. “Yeah.” You let out a little mirthless laugh and shake your head, heat flooding your cheeks. “It’s so embarrassing, too. And finding out the day before Valentine’s, no less. Like, I just wanted to look cute, have a nice dinner, have some nice sex, and just... I don’t know. Have an actual Valentine’s day for once. No pressure or anxiety or anything.”

Grayson stares at you in that way he does — so intense and almost intimidating if there wasn’t a genuine warmth behind it. You’re suddenly aware of his thumb brushing the back of your hand slowly. He squeezes your fingers again. 

“So, let’s do it, then. You and me.”

You arch a brow at him, smiling at the rosiness in his cheeks when he realizes what he might have implied. “The dinner part, I mean. And the dressing up. Even though I think you look plenty cute right now.”

You roll your eyes, but for the countless time that day, your heart flutters happily. Looking back, you can’t remember the last time Conner had complimented your appearance, let alone after hours of crying and lazing around in sweats, sugar crystals stuck to the corner of your lip. 

“That would be great, except there’s no way we’re getting into any restaurant at this point,” you remind him. “Probably no delivery, either.”

“I’ll cook for you,” he counters, throwing the blanket off his legs and standing up with a groan. He stops to stretch, and the way his arms go over his head makes his shirt ride up at the bottom, exposing a chunk of hard muscles and golden skin. 

You swallow, eyes trailing up the rest of his torso appreciatively. “I don’t have much.”

He’s already rummaging through your pantry, though, and pulls out a half-full box of pasta, a jar of marinara sauce, and a leftover chunk of sourdough bread. “You got salad stuff?”

You nod, and he opens the fridge to find some lettuce, peppers, and other salad fixings before setting them with the pasta ingredients on the counter. “Go get dressed, look as cute or not cute as you want. I’ll take care of this.”

He’s absolutely unreal. “Gray-”

Grayson holds up his hand. “Ah, no, I’m doing this. You deserve it. Also, I’m hungry. It’s a win-win.”

Your stomach growls as well, and that’s all the convincing you need. While he gets busy in the kitchen, you tidy up the living area some before heading to your room. You feel a little silly, making your third outfit change of the day, but you also like the giddiness in the pit of your belly at the thought of Grayson doing all of this for you. You might as well take advantage of having someone like him in your life. Show him some Valentine’s appreciation of your own.

You forgo the slinky red number you had planned to wear to the restaurant with Conner, and opt instead for a rather unsuspecting blouse-jeans combo, which happen to both respectively frame your tits and ass perfectly.

The lacy, bright pink set in the back of your closet might have made it beneath your clothes, though. The prettiness of it made you feel that much better, even if no one else was going to see it.

Maybe.

Padding back into your kitchen after running a flat iron through your hair and throwing on some concealer, mascara, and lip gloss, you find Grayson draining the pasta into a colander in the sink. 

Grayson does a double-take when he sees you standing there admiring the flex of his bicep as he holds the pot. “Hey! You look amazing.”

“If you say so,” you joke, bumping his hip with yours as. You pass him to pull plates and bowls out of the cabinet.

“I do,” he insists quietly.

Arm outstretched mid-reach, you look over at him, locking eyes with his hazel ones. He looks a little surprised by the words that left his mouth, like he meant for them to stay inside his head. There must be some kind of challenge in your gaze, daring him to elaborate.

He busies himself with the pasta again hastily, his voice low. “Conner is a fucking idiot. To do that to you. To let you go. You don’t deserve that. Especially not today.”

Plates in hand, you rest them gently on the counter with your lower lip caught between your teeth, and peer over at this handsome man you’re so proud and lucky to call your best friend. He’s everything you thought Conner was — cute and smart and charming — but so much more — beautiful and good and kind.

And he’s been right here in front of you the whole time.

You reach out and touch his elbow softly. The hairs on his forearm are crisp but soft, and you follow them down to that gleaming watch on his wrist.

“You know,” you start quietly, fingers tracing the links of the band before flipping his hand over to trace the lines of his palm, “you keep talking about what I deserve today. But you deserve all that and more. You deserve someone’s love that matches your own.”

He watches your delicate fingers on his large, calloused palm, then trails his eyes up to yours when he feels their attention on his face. A piece of hair flops into his eyes, and you reach up without thinking or any hesitation to push it away again with a little smile playing on your glossy lips.

You look down and lay your palm flat against his, admiring the difference in size between your hands for a moment before interlocking your fingers with his.

“I love you.”

Your eyes flit up to his in surprise; he beat you to the words.

“In case that wasn’t obvious,” Grayson continues, turning towards you. “And I hope that’s not too much for you to handle, with everything you’ve had hap-”

“I love you too, Gray,” you interrupt, stepping that much closer to him so you’re nearly chest-to-chest with him.

“Yeah?” He sounds almost boyish in his astonishment, and it makes you want to hold him tight and never let go.

“Yeah,” you giggle. “A lot. I’m sorry it took me getting dumped to realize it.”

He shakes his head, his hand resting on your cheek gently. “Can I kiss you?”

You nod once before he’s swiftly ducking down to claim your lips with his. They’re soft and pliable, and you feel their effects from the nerves in your scalp all the way down to your bare toes.

“Grayson,” you breathe, lashes fluttering open as he pulls back just enough to look at you concernedly.

You smile, bigger and brighter than you have all day, and cup his stubbled cheeks with your hands, scratching your nails gently against his jaw. “I just wanted to say your name.”

Grayson grins now, too. He kisses you more insistently now that he’s got the taste of you on his tongue, which he flicks against the underside of your top lip as he breaks the kiss. “Say it again.”

“Make me,” you challenege, voice breathy and excited, eyes closed as you savor his sweet breath against your lips. “In my room.” You feel him tense up a bit, and you open your eyes to meet his questioning gaze, biting back a smile at the inevitable hope also shining there. “I’m sure.”

With that, Grayson hauls you up into his arms, and you wrap your legs around his waist with a squeal as he buries his face into your neck. He starts making the way to your bedroom, cooked food left long forgotten in the kitchen behind you.

“Are you wearing my signature scent?” he asks, inhaling your skin deeply.

“Mmhm,” you hum, threading your fingers through the back of his thick hair. It’s so long again, and you give the dark strands a sharp tug that makes him grunt. “Part one of my gift to you. Since you got so many for me today.”

“Part one, huh?” he says, crossing the threshold of your room. “What’s part two?”

“What I’m wearing underneath this,” you whisper in his ear, giggling loudly when he lies you down on the bed with more of a toss than he might have intended. “If you want it, that is.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind at the mere suggestion that he wouldn’t, and you take that as enough encouragement to tug at the bow tying your forest green silk wrap blouse together.

The folds part open and expose your chest, clad in that pink lace demi-cup bra with the cage detailing over the tops of your breasts. Grayson moans and dips down to nuzzle your cleavage, breathing in the scent of your warm skin. His hands trail up your sides, from your hips to your rib cage, until they settle in the dips of your waist. His touch ignites you, makes your back arch and your hips grind up against his thigh between your legs, just from the sensation of his hands on these new parts of your body.

“Grayson,” you sigh, and he smirks up at you with his chin on your tits when he realizes that’s all it took for you to say his name again.

You grab his cheeks and kiss that smugness away, shifting your legs so they’re wrapped around his waist once again, pushing down on the small of his back to get your centers to meet.

Both of you gasp into each other’s mouths when his erection rubs against your pussy, even through all the layers of clothing still on your bodies. You reach down blindly, still attacking his mouth with yours, and feel around for his belt.

His pants come off, followed by yours, and he sits you up enough to push your blouse off your shoulders rather gently considering the intensity of everything. Once the garment is tossed over his shoulder, you’re down to nothing but that pretty lingerie and he in his boxer briefs.

There’s a moment of pause and clarity for the two of you, staring into one another’s eyes as the reality hits of what you’re about to do. What it means to both of you. Grayson stares down at you, and places a hand over your rapidly thumping heart.

“Beautiful,” he says quietly, dragging his hand up your chest, over your throat, until he’s cupping you’re cheek and stroking your lip with his thumb.

You smile in return, then part your lips with your eyes locked on his, encouraging him silently to slip that digit in your mouth.

Grayson’s eyes darken, and he offers you his pointer finger instead, swallowing hard when you suck and swirl your soft, wet tongue around it.

Suddenly, he’s rolling the two of you over, switching positions so he’s on his back and you straddle him. You smile happily, taking your turn to duck down and attach your lips to the pulse point his neck, grinding down on his cock with a slow, steady rhythm.

“You’re so amazing, Gray,” you tell him, nipping at the lobe of his ear before kissing the underside of his chin. “Can’t believe you’re all mine now.”

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” he growls back, cursing when you trail your kisses down the center of his body, giving each one of those moon’s their own special attention before continuing down.

When you get to the waistband of his underwear, you trail your tongue on the edge of the elastic and watch his abs contract with each shaky breath he takes. One little move of your hands, and you’ll finally get to see what he’s really packing.

But before you can even hook your fingers there to pull down, he’s tugging on your hair. “Fuck, fuck, c’mere. Please.”

You pout, but follow his lead, licking back up his muscular torso until he’s able to drag you to him for a deep, wet kiss.

“Sit on my face,” he demands, shuffling down on the pillow to make more room for you.

That takes you off guard. “But—”

“Do it. Please. I fucking have to taste you.”

Your body must be working ahead of your brain, because before you know it, you’re straddling Grayson’s face, his tongue is sweeping through the wetness in your slit, and his dark eyes are peering up at you from between your thighs.

“Oh... oh!” you cry out when his tongue starts flicking against your clit. He goes back to swiping up all your arousal, then suctions his lips around your clit. He’s using one hand to hold the lace of your thong aside, and the other dips first one finger, then two inside of you. “Oh, fuck, that’s so good...”

Grayson moans, the vibrations erupting around your clit and sending you right to the edge already. You reach back and palm his cock, rock hard in his underwear still, and squeeze as he makes you cum all over his mouth.

He gets his fill of your cum as he groans and keeps up the motion of his fingers, the pressure of his lips, the softness of his tongue as your pussy pulses with each contraction of your orgasm. You wait for him to start letting up, but something about the way he’s working you just makes those waves stay steady rather than die down again. Maybe that’s his intention, because when you drop your head down to look at him with your mouth wet and agape, there’s a sparkling mischief in his eyes has he eats you out like his last meal.

Your hips grind against his face of their own accord, and you delve one hand in his hair while the other supports you on the headboard. You gasp out a quivering, breathless laugh as it all becomes just too much, and you try to lift off his mouth.

Grayson isn’t having it, though. He wraps his arms around your thighs and holds you down, reveling in the moans and whimpers and squeals as he makes you cum again.

“Oh my god — enough, enough, I can’t...” you whine, shoving on his forehead until he releases you and drops his head to the pillow. You could already see it by the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, but he’s smirking wide, chest heaving as you slink your way down his body.

You collapse next to him in a daze, and he rolls on top of you smoothly, peppering little kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your nose. When you’re back in your right mind, you nudge blindly at his face so his lips find yours. He tastes like your pussy, and you sigh happily as you lift your heavy arms to wrap around his neck while his scoop beneath you, holding you close.

You continue to indulge in each other for a while, in the kisses you hadn’t been allowed to share until now. There’s something exciting about his familiarity and yet also this strange newness that has you absolutely desperate for him in every way.

“This is crazy,” you say when you pull back for air, studying his face hovering right above yours. You push back that stubborn chunk of hair that keeps falling into his eyes with a soft smile. “How did we end up here?”

Grayson turns his head to press his lips to your palm. “I don’t know. Is it too much? Should we stop?”

You shake your head vehemently, and he grins. “No, please. I think I just have to grasp that you’re really... mine now.”

He chuckles. “How do you think I felt watching you with that loser for five months?”

The mention of Conner makes you feel nothing — nothing other than gratitude for Grayson, that is. You slide your hands down his back, over his ribs, across his abs until your hand cups his dick.

His hips thrust into your touch, and you grin up at him demurely as you finally delve your hand past his waistband until you’ve got his length completely in your grasp.

He’s hot and hard and thick, and you start stroking him just to gauge the reaction in his face. He doesn’t disappoint, his jaw gaping open slightly, his breaths picking up, a flush rising to the apples of his cheeks.

Without warning, he reaches down and grasps your wrist. You pout, but he asks hastily. “Are we gonna have sex?”

You smirk. “Hell yeah.”

Grayson grins and shakes his head. “Alright, then you gotta stop.”

“Already?” you tease, letting him sit back and hook his fingers in the tiny string of your thong at your hips.

He gives you a look as he pulls the scrap of lace down your legs, then stands to push down his own underwear. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and you wish he’d let you blow him some before you hit the main event, but he says, “I’ve wanted you for too long to take any chances about screwing up the first time.”

You melt a little, reaching for him as he climbs back on the bed. “There should be some condoms in the drawer there. Just to be safe after... you know.”

He nods and dips down to kiss you before leaning over to riffle through the top drawer of your nightstand. He comes back with a purple square, which you take from him.

“Gotta practice an activity safely,” you wink, tearing open the condom and rolling it down his shaft quickly.

“Shut up.” Grayson rolls his eyes, but smiles softly as he settles between your legs just right. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you whisper, gasping as he starts to sink inside you.

“Oh, fuck,” he whimpers as your walls suck him in and grip him tight.

He goes slow for a couple of minutes, allowing both of you time to adjust to each other. He stretches you out so much better than anyone you’ve ever been with, and you can’t help but clench around him when you see those tattoos and smell his cologne and hear his voice — all things that remind you that this is Grayson fucking you.

He growls the first time you do it, then sits up hastily, pulling his face out of your neck when you do it again. He tucks his knees beneath him, sits on his heels, and hauls your hips into his lap as the speed of his thrusts picks up incrementally. Until he’s fucking you for real, and your tits bounce in your bra with every upstroke.

You shove an arm beneath your pillow, enunciating the curves of your body, and watch his expressions as he fights to hold back. His hair is disheveled, lip caught tight between his teeth and muffling his deep, satisfied sounds that mingle with your open higher-pitched ones. He catches your eye and his hands on your hips grip you so tight for a moment that you’re sure little bruises will be there in the morning — not that you mind.

“Fuck,” he whispers harshly before slowing his hips and shifting down to give you a deep, sloppy kiss. “Turn over.”

You moan into his mouth, then follow his order, rolling onto your front as soon as he pulls out. You expect him to haul your hips up into the air, but he moves your hair off your neck and trails sweet kisses from shoulder to shoulder, his hand sweeping down the subtle curve of your back until he’s gripping your ass.

Grayson’s hand moves down your thigh and pushes it up and out once he’s cupping the back of your knee. The angle encourages you to twist your upper half until you have sight of him once again in all his angled, sweaty, muscular glory.

“Fuck me, baby,” you beg him, already anticipating the fullness inside you again. Needing it.

“Want me to fuck you?” he asks needlessly, pushing into your pussy once again. You moan loudly, either in confirmation or from pure pleasure, it doesn’t matter. The angle is tighter, the tip of his dick hitting a spot so perfectly accurate inside of you that you can’t concentrate on anything other than how good he’s making you feel. “Yeah. So fucking sexy. So beautiful...”

“Gray.. oh fuck yes, right there,” you whimper, catching onto his arm as he leans over you and gives you those hard, steady strokes.

“Open your eyes, baby, lemme see them when you cum,” he growls out.

You open them as much as you can, your vision blurry, but you can still make out those handsome features soaking in the pleasure on your face. Watching and waiting for you to get yours so he can get his.

As soon as you’re clenching like a vice around him, Grayson is letting go into the condom. You can vaguely feel the throb of him as he cums in spurts, the sound of his masculine, drawn-out groans making you shiver and tense up even more on his dick. If it’s possible for anyone to sound as sexy as they look, Grayson achieves that in spades.

He collapses on the bed next to you, and you have just enough strength to roll over until he’s got you gathered in his arms. You nuzzle into his chest and try to process everything. You had been hoping for nice sex today, and instead you got the best sex of your life.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence while you both catch your breath, after he pulls and ties off the condom, you smile into his cooling skin with a satisfied sigh.

“Thank you for making this the best Valentine’s Day of my life. Especially after it was starting to look like the worst.”

“You made this the best day of my life, period,” he says, kissing your forehead. “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Gray.”

[theawkwardwriter12]

The Fall

Ashton x Sam

Sam is my friend and the biggest Ashton simp I know so this is for you, buddy 😌

Ashton x Reader version will be uploaded tomorrow >:)

Critical Role C3E38 Spoilers!

Enjoy the angst :)

Word Count: 1,478

This was supposed to be a simple errand. None of this was supposed to happen. That’s what Ashton thought as he watched the woman he loved have a sword plunged through her chest. The light in her eyes faded as her body began to slide off the bloodied blade. She was hovering over the drop in between the spires of Jrusar, and if she wasn’t already dead, that would certainly kill her.

Ashton had taken most of the hits in trying to protect her against Otahan Thull. That foul woman had already taken three of his friends before and recently Lord Eshteross. He didn’t think she’d still be in the city. A foolish notion, of course she would still be there. He just didn’t expect to find her on one of the lifts when he was with Sam. They were only going to get rooms for the night at the Spire by Fire. Otahan had killed three of them on her own with all eight of them present, with just the two, what hope could they have to defeat her?

Ashton was knocked down onto his side underneath Thull, reeling in pain from all the blows. He watched in horror as Sam’s body eventually fell off the sword. In that moment, the images, the pain of that night he fell through Jiana Hexum’s window flooded into his mind. Not again. He’s not letting her go through the same thing.

He lunged forward toward the edge, grabbing hold of Sam’s wrist. Just as he was about to lose balance, Otahan took the opportunity to shove him off. Panic set in immediately as he was being pushed out, but instinct kicked in and he clamped his free hand onto the ledge of the lift. A jolt of pain wracked through his already aching body and he let out a loud groan.

Otahan, amused, chuckled at the desperate attempt to hold on, “How pitiful. Luckily, you two weren’t the ones I’m interested in. I’ll let gravity and your weakness take care of the rest.” Her form vanished in a whisp of red, leaving them dangling above the bottom of the spires.

Pain. Panic. Focus, Ashton. He peered down at the drop below, but that didn’t affect him as much as seeing Sam’s lifeless body hanging in his grasp. No, not lifeless. That couldn’t be right. It can’t be.

He let out another cry as the searing pain worsened as he strained against gravity itself. This wasn’t going to be the end of them. Not again for him and not for her. Struggling immensely, he tried to lift her up. But his body wouldn’t let him, the pain was overwhelming. That wasn’t going to stop him. She had to be ok. He had to keep her safe.

Momentum. He began to sway her body to gain enough momentum to swing her onto the lift. He wasn’t strong enough to pull her up, there was no way he was pulling himself with her. But he wasn’t important, she was. Her first. She would always be his priority.

With Ashton’s swinging, the already leaning lift began to bob up and down, creating more tension to already previously damaged cable hooks from the fight earlier. The pain intensified with every movement, but he couldn’t let go. Not yet. The muscles in his arm pulled taut as he raged, sparks flying from the hole in his head and the air around him became heavy. Gravity. Great.

At that moment, the concentrated weight and movement caused a hook to snap. The entire lift tilted to the one side and Ashton’s grip on the ledge began to slip. He could feel the lift being drawn in his direction, causing even more tension against the last hook. That was going to break and there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t magical like a lot of his other friends, he was purely physical. All he had was his body and that was failing him.

The memories, as fuzzy as they were at times, once again forced themselves to the forefront of his mind. That fall. That fall that changed his life forever. For the better? Didn’t feel like it. It was awful, all the time. And now he was here all over again, this time he was much higher up. At least he wasn’t alone. No, that made it worse. He looked down again at Sam. He loved her so much and he couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Him? Sure, he has the worst luck for getting into situations like this, not her.

But, there wasn’t anything he could do. The damage was done and his grip continued to falter. Sam became heavier and heavier in his other hand, soon he wouldn’t be able to hold on any longer. The pain, once again, tore into his body causing him to scream against it. It was too much. He swore under his breath and dropped his rage.

“I’m sorry.”

With those words, Ashton let go. Quickly he tugged Sam’s arm, slamming her body into his as he tightly wrapped his arms around her. As they careened into the valley below, Ashton did his best to cover as much of her body with his own, hoping to break the fall for her as much as possible. Would it work? He didn’t know, but he had to try. Even if it didn’t, at least he would die alongside her. And he felt content with that. Better than content. Because after knowing her, loving her, there was no world he wanted to live in without her. “I love you.”

Ashton buried his face into Sam’s head as he braced for impact, not wanting to watch as it happened. He could feel their speed increase the farther they fell, but that was surprisingly interrupted and his body jolted from the sudden change in velocity. Slowly he lifted his head to see Sam barely conscious, her angelic wings sprouted from her back. Her arms gripped him tightly as she struggled to fly, straining against the intense gravity. Desperately trying to lessen the inevitable impact, she glided for as long as she could until exhaustion took over and they resumed plummeting.

Darkness. Pain. That’s all Ashton felt as they hit the ground below. Strange...he felt it? That was a good sign, right? He must be alive. But was Sam alive? He tried to move and couldn’t. Everything burned with searing agony and his eyes refused to open. Maybe he wasn’t alive afterall. Maybe this was what actual hell felt like.

He laid there for what felt like hours before the pain subsided enough for him to open his eyes. He wasn’t dead, but he wished he was. Sam’s broken and bloody form sprawled before him across the ground. Adrenaline filled every inch of his body as the pain faded to a dull ache. He crawled over to her, unable to use his right arm that was definitely broken. Other bones were probably broken as well, he didn’t care, he had to get to her. He had to help her.

Ashton rifled through both their bags, searching for a healing potion that wasn’t smashed from the fall. He found one and immediately poured it down her throat. His sigh of relief quickly turned to complete despair. It wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working? It couldn’t be... It can’t—No, she isn’t dead. She can’t be dead. She had to wake up. Tears overflowed in his eyes as he sobbed, draping his head over her body. Why did he survive? Why did she have to die? Why couldn’t it be him?

He couldn’t accept that. No... No. There had to be something he could do. That’s when the thought occured. Healing potions weren’t the only type of potion they had. He scrambled back to the bag and pulled out a vial of swirling gray liquid. The Potion of Possibility. It brought him back once. It should bring her back too, right? It didn’t matter, he was left with no other option. His shaky hand fumbled with the cork on the ground before he brought it to his mouth and he ripped it out with his teeth. Into the gaping wound in her chest he poured the potion. And he waited.

And waited. And waited. “Please. Please.”

Her chest jerked upward with a gasp of breath. It worked. It worked. Ashton sobbed, relieved that his love was alive again. He crashed beside her, grabbing her hand as he continued to cry. The adrenaline was wearing off and the pain started to envelope his whole body once more. He wished he could call for help, but they’d deal with that later. Laying next to her breathing body, he could finally rest and lost consciousness. And as the darkness took him, Sam’s chest sparked.