#Free Conference Bridge

[cheol-e-kat]

𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐟𝐭. 𝐤.𝐦𝐠

the one where you hate him

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭

summary: you definitely hate your coworker, mingyu - you do, you’re so sure you do. but that doesn’t stop you from getting absolutely railed by him.

genre: enemies (one-sided) to lovers, workplace au

word count: 1.7K

You had brought him back to your hotel room. There had been enough drinks at dinner that you couldn’t help the way your eyes traveled to him. 

You didn’t care if he noticed all the stolen glances. 

Every time you glanced at him, you felt your cheeks warm. 

Every time you noticed the slight way he flexed his arms, you would bite your lip and look away quickly. And whenever he smiled - the way his gaze always seemed to land on you - you couldn’t take it. His gaze was too intense, too warm. 

“Make me believe you hate this,” he whispered, even as he kissed you. His lips warm and sweet against yours. Every moment was delicious. 

He had walked with you to the elevators, saying he was heading to bed, as well. It was the last night of the conference, no reason to stay awake - all of the clients had been talked to, given free drinks - everything was done. 

You were exhausted. 

But when you saw that he didn’t press a button after you for another floor, it suddenly struck you that maybe you had been on the same floor the entire week. 

Again your face felt warm, wondering if he had seen you coming back from the gym, sweaty and gross. Or barely functioning when you finally got to leave everything for the night. 

Even though the elevator was large, he stood close to you. Closer than he needed to. 

When his fingers brushed against yours. You wondered if it was intentional and glanced his way. 

He was watching you, waiting for you to notice him. 

You tried to remember all the reasons you couldn’t stand him. But your mind was failing you. Any other day, you could have listed your top 45 reasons to hate Kim Mingyu, easily - with barely a thought. 

Not today though. Today you could only think how much you liked his smile and his lips. His lips were perfect - they looked so plush, like they were made to be kissed. 

For some reason, you didn’t question that he walked with you. Or the way his fingers twined with yours as you made your way toward your room. Instead, you enjoyed the warmth of his skin against yours. 

You had been freezing the entire week. The hotel seemed to be set to subzero temperatures. 

The moment the hotel room door closed, he picked you up, your legs going around his waist automatically. Neither of you seemed to want to waste a moment. 

You kissed hurriedly. His fingers caught roughly in your hair as his lips worked against yours. You squeezed his shoulders, wanting him closer, wanting more of him. Your hands slid down his back, pulling his shirt up enough for you to feel his smooth skin. 

And when he finally pulled back to breathe, when you stared at one another, it was almost tender. 

“Say you hate this,” he murmured, the bridge of his nose barely touching yours.

“Tell me you want me to stop,” he whispered. 

You blinked, wondering what he meant. 

“I know you hate me - so you must hate this too,” he went on, his voice low and soft. His hand cupped your cheek gently as he stared at you, waiting for an answer. 

You weren’t sure how you could hate this moment. He waited, a few moments passing, filled only with the sounds of your gentle breathing. And when you didn’t speak, he leaned back in, his lips crashing against yours hungrily. 

You wanted him so badly you had convinced yourself you hated him. 

But here you were, kissing him, moaning breathily against his lips. Your hands working to undress him. Your hips rolling gently against his. 

And when he pulled away, smiling, “So needy,” he said with a grin before pressing closer, as his hand slid under your skirt. 

His fingertips barely brushed the lace of your panties. Still you whimpered, wanting more. 

He pulled you away from the wall and dropped you onto the bed. You watched him pull off his shirt. “Come on, princess, at least keep up,” he chided. 

You sighed, unbuttoning your blouse and tossing it to the side before shimmying your skirt off, leaving your panties for him. When you glanced up, even through his underwear, you could see how hard he was - how big too. 

You licked your lips. “D’you think it’ll fit?”

He smirked. “Yeah, I think it’ll fit just right,” he whispered. 

You nodded. Your hands drifting down to squeeze your breasts. “Can I watch you?”

He paused, looking curiously. “Watch what?”

You bit your lip. “Would you,” you paused, sighing, “can I watch you jerk off first?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Only if you show me how you finger yourself,” he countered. 

You grinned, nodding. “Yeah,” you breathed, sliding your hands down to touch yourself without a thought. 

He pushed his underwear down as well. You gasped softly at the sight of his dick springing free, smiling at how hard he already was. You slid your fingers down, parting your already slick folds, teasing your opening. 

He stared. “Don’t tease yourself, just shove them in,” he whispered. You smiled, doing what he wanted, letting your thighs fall open, gasping as you tried to reach the spot that needed your attention. 

“Go deeper,” he said through a moan. 

You nodded. “I’m trying,” you whispered, glancing at him. 

He shook his head. His hand stopped and suddenly he was between your legs, his hand grasping your wrist roughly as he forced your fingers in completely. “Like that,” he said with a grin, “that’s how you need to be fucked.”

You gasped, shivering at the feeling as he kept working you. You whimpered as his fingers joined your own - you gasped at the stretch. 

“Such a perfect little cunt,” he breathed, voice barely audible. “I always knew I’d love your pussy.”

You but your lip roughly. “Feels so good,” you mumbled. 

He nodded, staring at your stretched pussy, loving the way your walls stretched for him. “Want to leave you gaping,” he muttered, adding another finger, stretching you that much more. You yelped and nodded, grasping for the bed sheets with your free hand. 

“Rip me apart, daddy,” you moaned, already hearing how juicy your pussy was. The way it squelched for him as he fucked his fingers in and out. You could feel your walls clenching around his fingers - the helpless way you wished you could pull him back in, pull him in deeper, take more of him. You were soaking for him and you hadn’t even felt his cock yet. 

You jolted slightly as he started to fuck you harder. “Feels good?” 

You nodded. “Y’can do it harder, too, feels so good,” you babbled. 

He listened. You could feel the way his pace changed. But you could also feel the warm coil building in your stomach as he ravaged your pussy. 

Suddenly, the coil snapped, there was no warning, you yelped and whined and felt your pussy clamping hard around him and your juices emptying and your body quivering as a second wave of pleasure jolted through you, and another spurt released from your cunt.  You could barely breathe. 

He was leaning over you, kissing you, even as you were still shaking. Every touch was like a live wire under your skin. You could barely hear his voice. 

But you could feel the tip of his cock teasing your entrance, just barely parting you. 

You reached up for him, trying to ground yourself. “Fuck me,” you whispered. 

He smiled, striking your cheek. “That what you need kitten? A good ride on my cock?”

You nodded, grinning. “Need it so badly,” you pleaded, your nails dragging gently along his back. “Need you inside me.”

And then you felt it - his dick pushed in, all the way. You could feel the way he paused - the way he watched you adjusting to being full of him. You whined softly. You’d never felt anything like it. 

You reached down between your body and his, pressing your hand against your low stomach, you were sure you could feel the outline of his cock inside you. 

And when he pulled out and slammed back in, you mewled, even more certain you could feel his cock in your stomach. He caught your hands gently, pinning them above your head. And then he found his rhythm, slow at first. Then so much faster. Your pussy squelched with every move of his dick. 

He was sweating, grinning as he fucked into you. “So fucking wet, so tight,” he groaned as he leaned up, shifting the position of your hips as he went. 

He rolled his hips more pointedly, hitting exactly where you needed him to - your pussy only growing wetter as he did. “Perfect little cunt, so messy for me,” he smiled. 

You nodded. “Make me squirt, daddy,” you whined, “let me make a mess for you,” you pleaded. 

He smiled, lifting your hips, fucking into you fast. Every thrust making you cry out for him, you could feel it, the edge - you were so close. “Oh, fuck, right there, Mingyu, please, please”—

You couldn’t even finish pleading - you broke with a gasp, your thighs shaking desperately. Your pussy releasing. You barely felt him come, but you knew he did. You could feel the heat of him deep inside your pussy, coating your walls. 

He leaned over you, kissing you softly. “So perfect for me kitten, my perfect little girl coming so well, taking all my cock, all my cum,” he whispered. 

You could only nod, knowing it was true. Knowing you were full. 

“At least I know you love this,” he whispered, teasing you as he slowly pulled out, licking his lips as he took in how fucked out you really were. 

He kissed you gently before cleaning you up and tucking you into bed. 

You woke up to a text from him. A picture of your pussy, gaping wide as you slept. 

[mingyu]

so pretty like this […]

you should let me do this more often kitten […]

see u on the flight?

You grinned, wanting to think of something cute to say. Even as you typed, you wondered why he hadn’t stayed with you. 

But then you realized you could hear your shower. You got up to join him.

a/n: i know, i know - i wasn't sure how much more mingyu i would write and here i am with mingyu ... sue me hehe ^^ okayyyy anyway, hope it was a fun read, let me know if you enjoyed it

⋆˙⟡♡ 𝒌𝒂𝒕

♡ my [master list] if you want to read more

♡ if you want to be tagged in my posts, go [here]

𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲𝐮 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 ^^

teasers: mingyuAI [ teaser i ] [ teaser ii ] |୨୧| all but break your heart |୨୧| tonight tonight

drabbles: summer coworker | happy hour | soft dom | kinky puppy | sex toy play | valentine's day | puppy play gyu | morning mingyu (cute / fluff) | #kat_drabbles

angst: no blueberries master list (college au)

fluff: waiting to feel foolish (college au) |୨୧| never happened before (magical realism au) |୨୧| hoodies & candy (college au) |୨୧| no strings (magical realm au) [pt. 1]

smut: playing hearts (college au | camboy au) |୨୧| leave it open (monster!mingyu au) |୨୧| openly pining (stepbrother au) |୨୧| 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒉

series: my familiar (magical realism au) [pt. 1 f] [pt. 2 - coming soon]

mingyu bingo [ all s ]: lingerie + praise kink | bed sharing + big dick | praise + worship kink | vehicle sex + oral fixation | drunk pda + no underwear | enemies to lovers + tentacles | internet friends + blind date + size kink | ceo/boss + big flirt x easily flustered + age difference |

mingyu x noona agenda: praise + worship kink | vehicle sex + oral fixation | ceo/boss + big flirt x easily flustered + age difference | 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒉 |

[ taglist - k.mg]

☁︎ @syluslittlecrows [e] ☁︎ @gyuguys [e] ☁︎ @tinyelfperson [e] ☁︎ @unlikelysublimekryptonite [e] ☁︎ @livelaughloveseventeen [e] ☁︎ @codeinebelle [e] ☁︎ @ateez-atiny380 [e] ☁︎ @mingcouper [e] ☁︎ @hanniebub [e] ☁︎ @perfectiondazesworld [e] ☁︎ @scoupshawty [e] ☁︎ @peachytokki [e] ☁︎ @coupsbestleader [e] ☁︎ @fleurloovin [e] ☁︎ @babybae-shisui [e] ☁︎ @asyre [e] ☁︎ @dcrlingyou [e] ☁︎ @yeosayang [e] ☁︎ @nanabananananabatman ☁︎ @yoongznme [e] ☁︎ @gyuhao365 [e] ☁︎ @jeonghnie [e] ☁︎ @armycarat2612 [e] ☁︎ @shuas-winnie30 [e] ☁︎ @famouspoetrydinosaur [e] ☁︎ @ateezaddict24 [e] ☁︎

☁︎ @aaronwarners69thwife [e + wips] ☁︎ @daisymbin [e + wips] ☁︎

☁︎ @haik-chu [e - one/multi] ☁︎ @gigglensnort [e - one/multi/priv] ☁︎ @thepoopdokyeomtouched [e - multi/priv] ☁︎ @stupendouschildnerd [e - one/multi] ☁︎ @tokitosun [e - one/multi ] ☁︎

☁︎ @ninigyuuu [k.mg - e, b.f. priv] ☁︎ @starlit-rin [k.mg - one/multi, b.f.non] ☁︎

[demie90s]

Press Pressure & Public Menace

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Juju Watkins X READER ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ MASTERLIST MORE

⭑ pairing: juju watkins x reader (usc!fem!reader)

⭑ summary: just a regular USC press conference…until you show up. the team menace. the comedic relief. the problem child Coach Gottlieb swears she didn’t authorize.

⭑ genre: comedy, fluff, chaos, college basketball shenanigans

⭑ warnings: crying-from-laughter-level unseriousness, implied high tension (lil flirt), cussing

⭑ word count: ~0.8k

The moment the press room doors open, it’s already doomed. Coach Lindsay Gottlieb sits stiff between you and Juju Watkins, her mouth tight in a line like she’s praying for a lightning strike—preferably to hit you. She adjusts her mic with the elegance of a woman who regrets all her choices, especially the one that allowed you a seat at this table.

You, on the other hand? Slouched, legs spread like it’s poker night and not a live-streamed post-game press conference. You got your shades pushed up on your head, chain out, and your water bottle suspiciously sparkling. Juju’s got her hand halfway covering her mouth, fighting off a smile already, and y’all haven’t even started yet.

“Coach,” a reporter says, not even trying to hide the grin, “solid win tonight. What do you think changed momentum in the third?”

You lean forward before she can answer. “I did,” you say dead serious. “I told Juju if she missed one more free throw I was taking her braids down in her sleep.”

Juju SNORTS into the mic. Coach sighs like she aged five years in five seconds.

“She didn’t say that,” Juju lies badly, her laugh betraying her.

“I did, and don’t act like it didn’t work. You shot 100% that quarter.”

Coach clears her throat. “What changed the momentum,” she says tightly, “was our shift into a more aggressive defensive scheme—”

“—And intimidation. I growled at their point guard. She flinched.”

“Y/N,” Coach warns, not even looking at you.

“What? I did. She was bringing the ball up and I said rawr. She stumbled.”

Juju’s done. She’s got her hand over her face now, shoulders shaking. The reporters are loving it. Someone in the back is literally crying from laughter.

Another reporter raises a hand. “Y/N, how are you feeling after that hard foul in the fourth quarter?”

You pause. Then slowly push your chair back like it’s a stage. You STAND UP in full view of every camera and re-enact the entire play.

“Okay, okay, so I’m coming up the left side, right? Juju’s calling for a screen, but I’m thinking iso. I jab. I go baseline—BAM! She truck sticks me. I spin like this—” You literally TWIRL. “Land on my ass. Whole crowd goes ‘ooooooh.’”

Coach grabs the back of your jersey and yanks you back into the chair like you’re five years old at a family function. “This is why she is never up here.”

You flash a peace sign at the reporters like you just won an award. “You can’t silence greatness.”

Juju wheezes, trying to hold it together. “Bro… STOP.”

A hand from the back goes up. “Y/N, thoughts on the rivalry with Stanford going into next week?”

You smirk. “Oh, that’s personal. Their power forward tried to flirt with Juju during warmups last year. So now I gotta humble her.”

Juju turns her head like she’s not about to fold laughing. “She said I had nice eyes!”

“Exactly. Uncalled for. Now she gotta get dropped.”

Coach pinches the bridge of her nose. “I deeply regret this decision.”

“Coach, you love me.”

Coach doesn’t even blink. “I am forced to tolerate you by law.”

One more question gets thrown out, something about team chemistry or trust or… whatever. You’re not even listening anymore because you’ve leaned over, whispering something into Juju’s ear that turns her whole face red. She shoves your shoulder but can’t stop grinning. She says “shut up” under her breath and you go, “Make me.”

Coach slams her hands on the table. “Interview OVER.”

Everyone in the room claps like it’s a comedy show ending. You wave like a pageant queen. Juju walks out shaking her head but glancing back at you like you’re the reason she’s never had a normal press day.

And somewhere, on every sports account across Twitter, the clip of you doing your on-court dramatic re-enactment is already trending.

Note:

I just wanted to write a wild ass press conference with this duo—because if Juju and reader were in front of cameras together, it would never be normal.

This is why Coach Gottlieb doesn’t let y’all go anywhere without supervision.

[clockwayswrites]

Rumors of a Prince

“You could always ask Jason to pay her a visit,” Dick said from where he was lounging, mostly upside down, on the couch in Bruce’s study.

Bruce frowned at him. “I am not going to have Jason kill Vickie Vale.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said kill!” Dick held his hands up or, rather, given his position, down. “I just meant puts some fear into her. Maybe kidnap her for a few days so that she can’t write any more libel.”

Bruce found himself smiling, slightly and against his better judgment. It faded away when he looked back at his laptop. “At least in this case, it wouldn’t do much good. The stories is already out there and, unfortunately, Vale’s take on it has captured the public’s attention.”

“Tim knows I bet… and Babs.”

“Undoubtedly by now.”

“And if those two know, Steph knows. If Steph knows, she’s ranted to Cass.”

“Yes.” This family was impossible to keep things secret in.

“Welp,” Dick said and swung himself to be sitting up normally— or as normally as Dick ever sat. “Then I guess we better tell the others. How do you want to divide this?”

Bruce was grateful that Dick was willing to be his partner in this. “You would be best to take Jason. I’ll speak with Damian. Either of us can catch Duke when he returns from his patrol.”

Dick nodded. “And Tom?”

“I think perhaps it would be best to have as much of the family in the manor as possible,” Bruce said after a moment. “If he destabilizes, I want him to know that we are around and that he is still safe.”

“Alright.” Dick slapped his knees once and stood. “I’ll drag Jason back then. You know he’ll come if it’s for Tom.”

“Make sure he reads the article before he comes over.”

Dick grimaced. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be best. I’m going to bring some food too over with me. Good luck convincing Dami that he can’t go and stab Vickie Vale.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Dick chirped as he left for his task.

Bruce dropped his hand.

‘Gotham’s Pale Prince’ stared back at him from the screen.

-

“Seriously?!” Jason burst in through the kitchen door. “Have you read this swill?”

“Yes chum, of course I have,” Bruce said. He shot Dick, who trailing behind Jason’s fury, a look. Dick was supposed to get Jason to read the article before coming over.

Dick just shrugged helplessly and motioned in a way that conveyed Jason had read it and was still clearly quite upset.

“One of the biggest questions is,” Jason said, clearly reading now from the article with the air of Bristol accent he had put on, “perhaps, why the newest Wayne is not in school. Bruce has proven himself to be a champion of the educational system. This is despite the man himself being a college drop out’ like what the fuck?”

“To be fair, I am,” Bruce said.

Jason rolled his eyes and continued. “His oldest ward’— Dick is fucking adopted now, bitch!”

“Boo!” Steph echoed and tossed popcorn at the tablet Jason was holding.

(Bruce was neither sure when Stephanie had arrived nor where she got the popcorn.)

“Never going to college,” Jason said with a jab of his free hand, “and the second oldest never completing high school.’ I was dead you narrow minded shew!”

“Well, I mean, all she knows is that you were supposedly kidnapped by terrorists and tortured for years,” Dick said. He had moved over to help himself to Stephanie’s popcorn and paused raising the next handful to his face. “Okay, no, that’s actually worse.”

“And you are clear on your line that I cannot stab this woman for the dishonor she implies about the family?” Damian asked, again, as he joined them in the kitchen.

“Unfortunately we have to handle this the proper way, with a press conference,” Bruce said. Stabbing was looking increasingly appealing though.

Jason dropped into one of the open chairs. “I’d call it a battle of the wits, but I don’t think Vale has any left with this trash she’s writing!”

“Alright,” Tim said as he entered the kitchen with almost as much fury as Jason, just more contained. Cass followed in his wake. “I am sure that B has already run through no killing, no stabbing, no maiming, no poisoning—”

“No poisoning Vickie Vale,” Bruce said, feeling so tired.

“Way to go, Timbit, now we can’t poison her,” Jason groused.

Tim sighed, “Fair, I shouldn’t have assumed. I really thought someone else would have brought it up already.”

“People went for more bloody options,” Dick explained.

“Also fair,” Tim said, pointing at him. “Anyways, since we can’t do all that, can I ruin her reputation?”

“Tim,” Bruce sighed.

“Now come on old man, let’s here Timtam out,” Jason said, holding out his arm. “You said yourself we had to handle the proper way and I’m sure that our little socialite here knows just how to ruin her through something like a press conference.”

“You I can stab,” Tim said with a shark sharp smile towards Jason.

Jason returned it with a smile like broken glass. “You can try.”

“Oh, if you keep calling me a socialite I will try and I will manage.”

“Boys, please.”

“Are people threatening blood and violence again?”

Every head in the room swiveled towards the door to the hall.

Tom almost recoiled at the sudden attention of all of the family, taking a half step back and looking a little wide eyed.

Cass walked forward and wrapped her arm around Tom’s. “Tim is. To Jason.”

It took a moment for Tom to tear his eyes away from the family to look at his sister. “Of course. What’s… it about this time?”

“Jason is reminding Tim that he’s a rich society brat and Tim hates to be reminded about that even though it’s true because Tim is also a little freak and the upper crust would be applaud if they knew even a fraction of it,” Steph said before she stuffed his mouth full of more popcorn.

Everyone in the room paused for a moment.

“No, yep, I think that’s pretty much spot on,” Dick said. He wasn’t even pretending not to laugh.

The laughter was infectious and almost everyone was either snickering or outright laughing. Bruce even quirked up a little smile. Tom still looked mostly confused but at least less nervous.

“Come sit by me, little shadow,” Dick said with a smile.

When Thomas settled next to Dick, who immediately wrapped an arm around him, the room settled again into that slightly somber mood.

“What is going on?” Tom asked, voice small. There were times when he still seemed unsure if he could be a presence in a room or consternation. It was something that they were still working on as a family.

Bruce sighed. “A reporter found out about you and wrote an article with mostly speculation. Unfortunately, because of who I am in the city and my existing tendency to adopt, it’s getting attention.”

Tom chewed on his lip and Bruce just hoped he wouldn’t worry it so much it bled. “Bad?”

“Not bad towards you, but unkind. She made a lot of guesses and fact reasons about why the public hasn’t seen you,” Bruce explained.

“Oh. Am I…?”

The dropping of words wasn’t the best sign. Dick pulled Tom into his lap.

“No. Most of the children didn’t attend the press conference announcing them and you don’t have to either. But I will need to make one simply to clear up some of rumors. I wont say anything that you don’t want me to say.”

“Bruce and I can plan it out,” Tim said, “and then run it by you if you want to look over it.”

“Can… will… if anyone wants to help…”

“Of course!” Dick said cheerfully. “We can make a lunch of it or something. It will be the best press conference yet.”

“Yeah. And you don’t even have to watch it,” Jason said. “We’ll plan something fun for that day. The old man can go and do the hard work and we’ll enjoy ourselves.”

“Thank you, Jason,” Bruce said dryly, pretending he wasn’t warmed still whenever Jason refereed to him as anything approaching father.

“It’s what you deserve,” Jason said and tossed his tablet, cleared of the article, on the table. “Come on, let’s plan what we’re going to do.”

“The zoo is always enjoyable,” Damian said.

“You always say zoo,” Cass pointed out as she perched next to Jason.

“What about the park?” Steph suggested. She joined the others at the table and passed around her popcorn.

“Nah, Ivy has a new variety of tulips. I’m worried some of them might turn man eating again,” Dick said.

“We could head out of Gotham I guess,” Jason pointed out and pulled up the map.

Bruce slipped quietly out of the room with Tim on his heels.

“You can stay with them and help them plan,” Bruce offered. Tim was always too grownup, had been since before he came to Bruce.

Tim just shook his head. “I’m never the best distraction. I’ll be more use to you. Besides, I have some plans to run by you that doesn’t need the blood thirsty contingency hearing about.”

“Of course you do,” Bruce said with both a sigh and a smile.

“Nothing physical,” Tim defended himself. “I can ruin her legally.”

“That I have no doubt of.”

No matter what, Bruce had absolutely no doubt that the family would be there for Tom. They were a family, after all.

---

AN: Vickie Vale won't know what hit her. Esp after what she wrote.

Don't know if this will become a full sequel or not, but it was fun to revisit this universe and see how they've progressed!

[waternilly]

"Pick you up at seven?"

Fandom: MCU Ship: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader (race neutral) Word count: 3.8k Genre: Fluff Warnings: none Ao3 link: here Summary: Almost two weeks after meeting Bucky, he finally asks you out to a proper date. | Sequel to "You're flustered." "Yeah, so?", but it is not necessary to have read it.

The low mumble of the radio playing in your boss' office reached your corner through the open door, the melody bouncing against the empty white walls and ceiling. You licked your lips, eyes fixed on the computer screen as your fingers typed away on the sleek keyboard. All Apple, per your companies' aesthetic.

The final dot was added to an e-mail, and after quickly reading it over, you pressed send.

"Y/N?" the familiar voice called over from the office next door.

Without answering, you stood up and grabbed a pencil and notepad, ready to scribble away if needed.

"Can you remind me of the schedule for the rest of the afternoon?" your boss asked the second you entered.

"At 3 o'clock, the board of representatives will meet you in conference room number 5. Tonight, dinner with your husband and daughter at Carl's, planned for 7 o'clock. A change of clothes for the occasion is awaiting in the closet," you recited from memory.

Your boss sighed, not looking away from the papers on their desk, but you noticed the small smile tugging at their lips.

"Very well," said they, removing the glasses from the bridge of their nose. With their free hand, they rubbed down their face. "Will you call Andrew? I'd like to have a word with him tomorrow about these offers."

Thinking back about their schedule for the upcoming day, you offered: "Would 11 o'clock suit you?"

"Yes, that would be perfect."

You quickly jotted down a few keywords on the notepad.

"Anything else?"

"No, that's all. Thank you."

Returning to your desk, you could not help the way crinkles formed around your eyes at the sight of the name appearing on your phone: Bucky. A text was awaiting you. One that piqued your interest from the preview alone.

Are you free...

You hurried to make the necessary professional phone call, fighting the smile in your voice with each syllable. Once the reunion was settled with Andrew for the next day, and added to the official agenda, you crossed the keywords with a pen and a certain satisfaction. The mailbox empty, you hurriedly unlocked your phone.

You did not try to keep your heartbeat under control, staring down at the amalgam of pixels that formed the words you had anticipated:

Are you free tomorrow evening?

Your fingertips danced over the digital keys, hurriedly forming your response.

Ready to show me your best?

You laughed under your breath, anticipating his answer.

Since the professional-event-turned-party at Avengers Tower eleven days prior, messages from Bucky had been scarce but thoughtful. He would ask seemingly random questions to get to know you better, whilst also putting effort into each reply to your own. A handful of texts had consisted of warnings regarding a temporary unavailability. Typically followed many hours later by a new one, announcing he was free again.

You never knew what caused his absences, assuming Bucky would tell you when he deemed it right, if ever.

The phone screen sprung to life again and you did not wait to open the message.

Ready to be properly flustered?

You chuckled to yourself, hiding a smile behind your palm, elbow propped up on the desk.

For all certainty, you verified the agenda for the next day.

Friday: - 11:00: Meeting with Andrew - 12:30: Lunch with Mr. Gaboni and Mr. Adrian at La Tartine - 14:30: Video call about the spring updates - 16:00: Debrief in conference room 2

You were only attending the latter two. Round ups usually lasted an hour, 90 minutes at most. You would be free to go at 5:30 latest.

You can certainly try.

Was the answer you settled on, with the added information of when you would be leaving work.

The glossy white phone on the desk rang then, pulling your attention away. You recited the usual opening line as you picked up the hook. The familiar voice of your boss' husband greeted you by name, asking to speak to their partner. After briefly putting them on hold to verify your higher-up was not already occupied, the call was transferred.

By then, Bucky's reply was awaiting you.

Pick you up at 7?

The corners of your lips tugged as you typed.

Perfect.

••• ○○○ ••• ☼☼☼ ••• ○○○ •••

The bell rang at 7 o'clock sharp.

You hurried to the intercom and pressed the button that connected you to the front door of the building.

"Hello?"

"Good evening, doll."

Bucky's voice was low and soft, deteriorated by an interference but all too recognizable. A small smile grew on your lips.

"I'll meet you downstairs," you answered before cutting the signal.

Fully prepared thanks to Bucky's text informing you of the dress code, all that remained was to slip on a coat. You threw one last glance at your reflection in the mirror by the entrance, checked the presence of the keys in your bag, and exited.

Bucky met you two floors lower, hands in his pockets, back to the iron fence that served as a door. When you passed the threshold, he instantly turned to you, a smile playing on his lips.

"Good evening," he greeted once more, offering his hand.

You raised your own, accepting.

"Good evening, sir."

Heat rose to your cheeks as Bucky leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles. The words you had thought of forming remained in your throat, glued to your tongue, thick as honey. You were too busy keeping your facial expressions under control, forcing your eyes back to normal instead of open wide.

Bucky chuckled when he straightened and interlaced your fingers with his.

"Don't tell me you're flustered already?"

Little shit.

You swallowed for good measure, but held your head up high as you answered: "It'll take more than that, Barnes."

He suppressed a laugh and shook his head.

After a sigh, he added: "Very well. It'll be more fun."

You took this moment to look him over. His hair was once again pulled back into a bun, albeit cleaner than the first time you had met him. He wore a dark grey suit over a black shirt, the top two buttons undone. The silver chain clung to his barely visible collarbone and you felt a ring against your palm. A black leather glove hid his metallic hand.

"Where are you taking me?" you wondered.

Bucky started walking, gently pulling you along.

"Brooklyn," he started. "There's an amusement park there I used to go to. Before the war."

You thought for a moment, eyebrows furrowed.

Tentatively, you asked: "Coney Island?"

He nodded.

"Luna Park to be exact."

"You do know it's not the same, right?"

Bucky squinted when he turned to you.

"Shame, here I thought the Witching Waves still existed."

His tone was dripping in irony and the grin pulling at the corner of his mouth only confirmed it.

"Okay, alright, I get it," you defended with a chuckle.

After a pause, you could not help but question: "Is that where you used to take your dates? Back in the day?"

You admired him intently: head down, suddenly bashful, briefly closing his eyes. Bucky rose his shoulders, shrugging.

"'t happened."

You gasped, the hand that was not laced with his rising to your chest.

"So I'm not special?" you asked, mouth agape and eyebrows furrowed.

Bucky laughed. Properly laughed for the first time around you. It was loud, bright and clear, shaking his shoulders with every breath he pushed out.

"It's not funny!" you continued, pitching your voice up to make clear it was still a joke. "You're just gonna forget about me by morning!"

You could not keep the act up any longer, however. Not when Bucky met your gaze and shook his head, crinkles around his eyes.

"No, doll, not a chance," he begun. "You're very special to me."

You huffed.

"Laying on the charm thick, aren't we?" you teased, voice back to normal.

He licked his lips.

"Just a tad," he admitted. "But you're the first lady I'm taking out since I've found myself again."

The air was knocked out of your lungs. You hesitated a second before saying anything. Was he being serious? How long was that? You swallowed with difficulty and bit your lip.

"Really?"

The question was posed just above a whisper, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Bucky's head tilted to you, meeting your gaze.

"You're surprised."

Once again. Not a question.

"I am," you admitted.

He was amused. Bucky may not have flustered you with the confession, but this pleased him just as much.

The stroll from your apartment had led you to a metro station, which you were now entering, allowing Bucky to guide you to the correct platform. A breeze was flowing in from the underground tunnels.

Pulling your hand for you to face him, Bucky asked with furrowed brows: "Cold?"

You shook your head no.

His eyes scanned the screen behind you.

"3 minutes."

The station was as busy as usual for a Tuesday evening, neither overly crowded nor deserted. Some held large grocery bags, others were focused on texting back. A man talked loudly into his phone. Plenty were wearing headsets, rendering them blissfully unaware to his personal problems that were being shouted for all to hear. Something about how he didn't do it, baby girl, she misunderstood and it wasn't like that.

You suppressed a laugh, amused by the poor attempts at excuses. A knowing glance was shared with Bucky, who was also pushing down the corners of his mouth.

On the train, when you did not have to bear the yelling any longer, you spoke to Bucky: "Can I ask about your life before the war?"

He nodded.

"Only if I can ask something first though."

You rolled your eyes but smiled.

"Sure."

"When did you recognize me?"

The tone was not accusing, merely curious. You inhaled sharply.

"Towards the end of our first conversation."

"Hm." Bucky slowly acquiesced. "You didn't say anything."

"Why should I have?"

"Alright." He huffed, seemingly satisfied with your answer. "What's your question?"

"Do I only get one?"

"Obviously. Too bad you just used it."

"Ha-ha," you ironized.

He was smirking.

You shoved him back, palm pressing against his chest.

"More seriously though... what was it like?" you waved a hand to accompany your words.

Bucky paused, lips pursed and eyes lost in the distance.

"Different." He swallowed. "Pardon my french here, but I'm so fucking grateful for the progress we've made as a species since I was a kid."

"Like what?"

"Like fucking vaccines for example!"

You chuckled. That was not where your mind was headed, instead picturing more trivial topics, such as colored television.

"Can't help but think how much better Steve's life would've been had we gotten those back in the day."

Your amusement caused by the initial surprise was replaced by tenderness and endearment.

Hesitant, you nevertheless said: "I'm happy you two somehow found each other back."

"Me too, doll."

Bucky and Steve had a special connection. You realized that. One that you would most likely never share with anyone. They were best friends, yes, but it was deeper than that. They had crossed through time, both frozen -- asleep only to awaken in the 21st century. How unlikely, and yet here they both were.

"How did you meet?" you wondered aloud.

"Steve and I?" Bucky asked back, eyebrows raised.

You nodded.

The remainder of the train ride was spent in comfortable silence for you, only reacting occasionally to Bucky's childhood tales. While he did not attract any attention to yourselves, he knew how to spin a narrative, how to maintain your attention. He paused for dramatic effect whenever he saw fit, keeping you on the edge of your seat. You laughed on more than one occasion, ranging from quiet to bright and clear.

Bucky had been the most curious one by text so far. You enjoyed the role reversal, listening to him intently while he recounted what sounded like the best days of his life, all spent with his dearest friend.

Your halt was reached just as Bucky finished telling you about his and Steve's most memorable trip to Rockaway Beach -- when they had to sit in the back of a truck to get back to Brooklyn after having spent all their trip money on hot dogs.

"Here we are," Bucky announced, leading you off the train.

The sky was tinted in dark oranges and pinks when you exited the underground tunnels, welcomed back to the surface by the setting sun. What remained of the voyage was done on foot once again.

"Did you come here often?"

"Coney Island, you mean?"

You nodded, hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket to keep yourself from interlacing Bucky's fingers with your own.

"Not really, if I'm being honest. Steve and I brought a couple dates here in our twenties, but younger, our families didn't have much money," he explained. "We were four kids at home and getting all of us here was expensive. Steve's parents had other things on their mind, their son being a sickly one, and all that."

You remained quiet, pondering his words.

"Do you try to make up for certain things? Now that money isn't a concern anymore."

Bucky shrugged: "Som'times. Not all of it's worth it though. And there's other things I gotta miss out on instead."

"Like what?" you wondered, eyebrows furrowed.

"Down-time," he said matter-of-factly. "Don't have as much of it as I used to. I've gotten busy."

"You can never truly win, I guess."

"Nah, but you can make the best of what you have," he smiled. "And for what concerns me, the best way to spend my time is in your company."

You managed to fight back the smile for mere seconds, before letting it split your face across. A hand slipped back out of your coat pocket to meet his. Bucky's eyes were sparkling, looking at you as you interlaced your fingers.

Stop staring, you were tempted to say, but you held his gaze instead. Being the center of his attention made you happy; it made you feel important. You could only imagine how many people would have killed to be in your shoes in that instant, but you quickly realized how little you cared. What mattered was the man next to you, admiring you as if you were a star. The openness and sensitivity he had shown until now only served to elevate him further.

By the time you reached the entrance to Luna Park, neither of your smiles had faltered.

Bucky paid for your tickets, unbothered by the look of recognition the cashier did not even try to conceal. You almost expected him to ask for an autograph.

"You ever been here before?" he wondered as you passed the barriers.

"Nope." You accompanied your answer by shaking your head. "But I've been meaning to."

"Lucky me, I guess."

"Very lucky."

Bucky grinned your way, understanding that you were, in fact, calling him lucky for landing a date with you at all. While it was not entirely false, your confidence and busy schedule having kept you from attending many romantic rendez-vous in the past, it was still a jest. If anything, you would have called yourself the lucky one. For that matter, you may just do that, admitting it in an moment of bare honesty.

A gentle smile tugged at Bucky's lips.

"Trust me, doll. I am."

And just like that, your heart was fluttering once more. You doubted you would ever grow tired of Bucky's charm, no matter how cheeky it might become at times. You could not envision disliking being the center of this man's world; an Apollo singing your praises.

The task of choosing rides was left to you, Bucky never pulling you to one side or the other in the park. He followed you onto all of them, no matter their speed or lack thereof. Halfway through the evening, he insisted on treating to you to a snack and drink in spite of your protests.

"You know I have a job and living wage, right? You already paid for the tickets."

"I am well aware of that fact, but I am also a man from the past."

"What's that supposed to mean?" you asked despite the knowing look that already shaped your features.

Bucky licked his lips and chuckled, diverting his gaze briefly.

"You're impossible," he mumbled to himself. Then, turning back to you, he added: "Please, doll, let me be old fashioned just a little longer."

"Depends what you mean by that," you challenged.

"Nothing you'd disapprove of."

You sighed, understanding you'd met your match in stubbornness. Unsure what to say, your eyes stared into the ocean, dark and mysterious now that the night had fully set. Lampposts were illuminating the pier in a warm glow while stars speckled the dark canvas in the distance. It was a cloudless night.

Bucky's warm breath hit your ear, as he whispered: "All I want is to treat a beautiful woman on our first date." You turned back towards him and a shiver ran down your spine when you noticed his proximity, not having been this close since the night you'd met. The fresh scent of his cologne tingled your nostrils. "Please, pick whatever you'd like, and just this time lemme pay for it."

You swallowed and blinked fast, focusing to form a coherent sentence.

"Just this time?" you asked.

A chuckle rumbled through Bucky's chest before he answered.

"Just this time. For now."

You breathed him in one last time before turning away. Various drinks and small foods piqued your interest. Had you asked, you had no doubt Bucky would have paid for all of them, but you pushed that thought down. Instead, you settled for one of each and tried your best to not take the price into consideration. It was silly, money clearly not being a concern for Bucky, but you could not help yourself. Call it pride or education, either way, he would have to accept it.

"Are you always like that?" you wondered when you sat down on one of the benches at the pier, facing the ocean.

"Like what?" he asked, looking as if he knew exactly what you were referring to.

"So..." you hesitated. "Old fashioned."

Bucky chuckled, lowering his drink while he had been about to sip from it.

"Suppose I am," he shrugged. "Told you, I'm a man from the past."

"Yeah, quite literally," you nodded. "I sometimes forget that."

"Does it bother you?"

"Your manners?" You thought before answering. "No, I'm just not used to that."

Bucky nodded slowly.

"And my age?" he asked hesitantly.

You blinked, surprised at first. Then your brows furrowed.

"Not at all. I'd actually never thought about it."

"Is that so?"

"Just cause you've been existing for over 80 years doesn't mean that's your age."

"Not everyone agrees."

"Well they're idiots."

"Are you calling my best friend an idiot?" he joked.

"I believe I am."

A short laugh was shared and you relished in the way Bucky's eyes sparkled.

"I just... I don't see the point of counting all the years you were asleep, frozen. Sure physically speaking, you are really old."

"Gee thanks!" he laughed.

"You're welcome. But more seriously, on a mental level, you aren't a senior citizen. Except in your old fashioned ways sometimes I suppose, but that's not the same."

Bucky swallowed a bite of his own snack, listening to you.

"How do you feel about it?" you wondered.

"A mix of both. I'm not a modern-day 30 year old. I'm also not an elderly man. It's confusing at times. Don't really fit in anywhere."

You nodded in understanding.

"I've been wondering about something," you admitted. "Have you been catching up on what happened in the world?"

Bucky lowered his drink and swallowed.

"The important stuff's been covered, yeah."

"And what about... the less important? The banal?" You hesitated. "The pop culture?"

He winced, opened his mouth and closed it again.

"It's on the back-burner."

"Not interested?" you asked, brows furrowed.

"That's not it. It's just so much."

You nodded, chuckling. "Definitely."

After a pause, he wondered: "Why are you asking?"

"Just curious," you shrugged.

Bucky squinted, half a smile tugging at his lips.

"Okay, maybe I have a few recommendations," you admitted, avoiding his gaze.

"Really?" he mocked surprise. "Well why don't you show me a few things on our next date?"

You paused, eyes wide.

"Are you serious?"

Bucky nodded.

"If you'd like that, of course."

It was your turn to shake your head, excited by the prospect of a second date with this man.

"I've been having a great time with you tonight. I'd love to do it again."

"The pleasure would be mine, doll."

Your gazes locked.

At first out of pride, playing this as a game, you did not want to look away. Then you realized just how comfortable you felt. Bucky's eyes were warm, gentle, young yet reflective of everything he had lived through. For a second only, they flicked down, to your lips.

You could not help yourself, stealing a glance at his own. They were slightly parted, pink and inviting. Your heart rattled inside its cage at the prospect of closing the gap, leaning in closer.

His warm breath fanned over your skin, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You shivered, both nervous and excited.

However, your reverie was interrupted when Bucky cleared his throat. All of a sudden, you realized how cold it had gotten since the sun had sunk under the horizon. Even more so now that a breeze flew through your hair.

"I should get you home," Bucky said seriously, still maintaining your gaze.

You nodded. "Alright."

For the way back, a taxi was halted and guided to your apartment. The ride was quiet as you held hands on the backseat, creases around your eyes. When the car stopped in front of your building, Bucky stepped out with you and let the driver go.

Standing face to face, you thanked him for the evening.

"It was an honor," Bucky answered.

You chuckled.

"I hope to see you again very soon," he added.

"I'd love that."

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Bucky held up your hand again and bent down to press a kiss onto your knuckle. Despite the déjà-vu, your heart fluttered nonetheless.

"Have a wonderful night."

"You too, Bucky."

"Trust me, I will. You'll haunt my dreams. I couldn't wish for anything better."

A wide smile split your face and you could not help yourself any longer. You walked closer to the man in front of you and pulled him down by the shoulder. Hoping to leave some sort of mark, you kissed his cheek, your free hand cradling the other side of his face.

When you pulled away, you whispered: "Goodnight, Bucky. Sweet dreams."

It was only once you'd passed the metal front door that you heard the soldier reply under his breath.

"Goodnight, Y/N."

[lowaltitude]

Dial Tone 2 | Matt Rempe

- NHL, New York Rangers - x Reader

❪ FEM! ❫

───── ❝ description + disclaimer ❞ ─────

𖥻 Matthew Rempe x FEM!reader, in which a wrong number friendship is more than you'd hope for. OR he falls first, he falls hard, he's NYC's biggest enforcer.

𖥻 PART ONE HERE. 3.6k words

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

I could barely contain my excitement as I sat in the bustling airport with my classmates, waiting for our flight to New York. My leg bounced with nervous energy, and I couldn’t stop smiling. I had been looking forward to this day for weeks, but now that it was finally here, the anticipation was almost too much to handle.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” my friend Lauren teased, nudging me with her elbow as she sipped on her overpriced airport coffee.

“I can’t help it,” I said, grinning from ear to ear. “We’re going to New York!”

“Yeah, but you look like you’ve just won the lottery or something,” she laughed, raising an eyebrow. “What’s got you so giddy?”

I bit my lip, trying to tone down my excitement. I couldn’t exactly tell her about Manhattan, about how I was going to surprise him by being in his city. The thought alone made me feel like a giddy schoolgirl with a crush.

“I guess I’m just excited to finally see the city,” I said, half-truthfully. “I’ve always wanted to go.”

“Well, it’s going to be amazing,” Lauren agreed, leaning back in her seat. “I can’t wait to explore. Have you got any plans for when we’re not at the conference?”

“Not really,” I lied. “I figured I’d just wander around, see where the city takes me.”

In reality, I had been meticulously planning out my free time, making sure I’d have the chance to visit some of the places Manhattan had mentioned in our conversations. Central Park, the Brooklyn Bridge, and maybe even that bagel place he’d raved about. But I wasn’t going to tell Lauren all of that. Not yet.

As we waited to board, my phone buzzed with a message from Manhattan. I glanced at the screen, my heart doing a little flip as I saw his name pop up.

Wednesday, May 29, 2024Today, 10:17 AM MANHATTAN: What are you up to today, San Diego?

I couldn’t help but smile as I typed out my response, the excitement of the trip making it hard to keep the secret.

ME: Just hanging out, nothing too crazy. How about you? :) MANHATTAN: Same here, just getting ready for another big game. A little exciting. What’s got you in such a good mood today?

He knew me too well. I hesitated for a moment, debating whether to drop a hint or keep the surprise going.

ME: Let’s just say I’ve got something fun planned. I’ll tell you all about it later. MANHATTAN: You’re killing me with suspense here, San Diego. Now I’m curious.

I chuckled, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves as I imagined his reaction when I finally told him—or when I maybe even bumped into him in his own city.

ME: Patience, Manhattan. You’ll find out soon enough. MANHATTAN: I guess I don’t have a choice. Just don’t keep me waiting too long.

I tucked my phone back into my bag, my smile refusing to fade. This trip was going to be unforgettable, and not just because of the conference. I could hardly wait to step off the plane and onto New York soil, knowing that Manhattan had no idea what was coming.

“Alright, they’re boarding our flight,” Lauren said, standing up and grabbing her bag. “You ready?”

“More than ready,” I said, grabbing my own bag and following her to the gate, my heart racing with anticipation. New York, here I come.

As the plane descended into New York, my excitement was at an all-time high. I couldn’t wait to explore the city, but more than that, I couldn’t wait to surprise Manhattan. The plan was simple: I’d head to his college, catch one of his hockey games, and finally meet him in person. I could already picture the look on his face when he saw me there.

After dropping my bags off at the hotel and freshening up, I decided to send him a quick message. I needed to get some information without giving away my plan.

ME: Hey, how’s hockey going? My friend is heading to New York soon, and I was thinking maybe she could grab me a hoodie from your college. ME: Which college do you go to again?

I stared at my phone, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement as I watched the typing bubble appear. I wondered if he’d catch on to what I was trying to do, but he probably thought I was just being curious.

The typing bubble kept appearing and disappearing, and I felt my anticipation build. What was taking him so long?

Finally, his message came through.

MANHATTAN: Long Island University. Let’s go Sharks! 🦈

I smiled to myself, mentally filing away the information. LIU. Perfect. Now I just needed to find out when their next game was and how to get there. The idea of seeing him in action, playing the sport he was so passionate about, made me even more excited.

ME: Cool! I’ll definitely ask her to grab me one. LIU sounds like a great school. MANHATTAN: It is. I’m really enjoying it here. Hockey’s been great too.

I leaned back in my seat, feeling a rush of excitement. Everything was falling into place. In just a few days, I’d be at LIU, watching him play, and he had no idea what was coming.

ME: Glad to hear it! Maybe one day I’ll get to see you play in person. MANHATTAN: I’d like that. But for now, you’ll just have to settle for the hoodie 😉

I laughed, feeling a surge of anticipation. He had no idea that “one day” was much sooner than he thought.

ME: I guess I will. But who knows what the future holds? MANHATTAN: True. The future’s full of surprises.

I couldn’t agree more. Little did he know, the biggest surprise was about to come his way. I tucked my phone away, feeling more determined than ever. Tomorrow, I’d make my way to LIU, ready to see Manhattan in his element. This trip was turning out to be more thrilling than I’d ever imagined.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

The next morning, I woke up early, my heart racing with anticipation. Today was the day I’d finally see Manhattan play hockey. After a quick breakfast with my classmates, I made up an excuse about needing some time alone to explore the city. They didn’t ask too many questions, which was a relief. I wasn’t sure how I’d explain that I was sneaking off to surprise a guy I’d never actually met in person.

With my bag slung over my shoulder, I set off toward Long Island University. The city buzzed with energy as I navigated the subway system, and I could hardly keep still as I imagined what the game would be like. What would he look like on the ice? Would I recognize him immediately?

When I finally arrived at LIU’s campus, I felt a rush of excitement. The rink was larger than I expected, and the atmosphere was alive with the buzz of college sports. I spotted a few people in Sharks gear and made a mental note to grab a hoodie later—something to remember this day by.

Just as I was about to head inside, my phone buzzed with a message from Manhattan.

Thursday, May 30, 2024Today, 9:00 AM MANHATTAN: What are you up to today?

I hesitated for a moment, torn between keeping the surprise and telling him something closer to the truth.

ME: Just wandering around, checking out some new places. You? MANHATTAN: Nothing too exciting, just got some practice. Gotta stay sharp for the game tomorrow.

My heart skipped a beat. If he was heading to practice, that meant he’d be at the rink soon. I grinned, feeling like everything was falling perfectly into place.

ME: Busy day for you then. Good luck with practice!

I tucked my phone away and stepped into the rink. The cool air hit me immediately, a stark contrast to the warm, bustling city outside. I found a seat near the middle, close enough to see the action but far enough to stay somewhat hidden. The rink was buzzing with the energy of casual practice, but I didn’t see anyone who looked like Manhattan.

Confused, I glanced at my phone again, but decided to focus on enjoying the moment. Maybe everything would still work out.

As the few players on the ice began to pack up, I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer. With a mix of nerves and excitement, I made my way down to the edge of the rink where the three boys were gathering their gear. They looked friendly enough, chatting and laughing as they peeled off their jerseys.

"Hi there," I greeted them tentatively, hoping not to intrude.

"Hey," one of them replied with a smile, while another gave a nod in acknowledgment.

Feeling a bit bolder, I held up the picture of Manhattan that I had saved on my phone. "Do you guys happen to know him?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

The boy closest to me glanced at the picture and furrowed his brow. "Is this a test, or a bad joke?" he replied, a hint of confusion in his voice.

I blinked, taken aback by his reaction. "No, not at all," I said quickly. "He's a hockey player, right?"

The boy let out a chuckle, exchanging a glance with his teammate who rolled his eyes. "Yeah, he's a hockey player," he replied, his tone slightly mocking. With that, he skated off towards the locker rooms, his friend following close behind.

Left standing there, I turned to the last boy who was gathering his equipment. "Do you know where I can find him?" I asked, my voice tinged with disappointment.

He shrugged apologetically. "I don't know, maybe try MSG or something," he suggested, referring to Madison Square Garden. With that, he picked up his stick and followed his teammates off the ice, leaving me feeling confused and unsure of what to do next.

I stared after them for a moment, my heart sinking. Maybe this was a mistake after all.

Feeling disheartened and unsure of what had just transpired at the rink, I made my way back to the hotel. My mind was still spinning with confusion and disappointment over not finding any trace of Manhattan. As I walked through the lobby, Lauren immediately noticed something was off.

"What's wrong?" she asked, concern etched on her face.

I forced a smile, trying to brush off my disappointment. "Nothing, just tired," I replied vaguely.

To cheer me up, she leaned in conspiratorially. "Hey, you like hockey, right? There's some playoffs happening tomorrow, and apparently they're really shitty seats, but Professor Tenner says we can all go since it's included in the expo."

Her attempt to lift my spirits caught my attention. Playoffs sounded exciting, and even though I was still reeling from the day's events, the prospect of attending a hockey game in New York City was enticing, even if it wasn't one of Manhattan's games like I'd hoped.

"Really?" I perked up, feeling a glimmer of excitement return. "That sounds like fun. I could use a distraction."

She nodded eagerly. "Exactly! We'll forget about everything and just enjoy the game."

I nodded in agreement, grateful for her effort to turn things around. Perhaps the disappointment of today would fade with the thrill of tomorrow's game.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

As we rode the subway towards Madison Square Garden, the excitement of the upcoming hockey playoffs managed to distract me momentarily from the strange encounter at LIU's rink earlier. The subway car was filled with fans dressed in jerseys, hats, and scarves, all buzzing with anticipation for the game. It was contagious, and I couldn't help but smile as I saw the neon signs outside the arena proclaiming, "NEW YORK RANGERS VS FLORIDA PANTHERS, 2-2 TIED SERIES."

Glancing at my phone, I noticed several unread messages from Manhattan. They started off flirty, but the last few were increasingly concerned:

Friday, May 31, 2024Today, 7:00 PM MANHATTAN: Made my sister take this so you can see how hard it is being so tall and attractive

MANHATTAN: Hey, haven't heard from you all day. Everything okay? ❤️ MANHATTAN: Did something happen? You're acting weird. MANHATTAN: Seriously, just let me know you're okay. MANHATTAN: San Diego??? MANHATTAN: I'm starting to get worried now. Please, just tell me what's going on.

Each message tugged at my conscience, but right now, with the game looming ahead and the vibrant energy of the city around me, I couldn't bring myself to reply. Turning off my phone, I focused on the lively scene outside as we emerged from the subway. Madison Square Garden towered above us, its exterior adorned with banners and flags of the Rangers. The atmosphere was electric, filled with the chatter of excited fans and vendors selling snacks and memorabilia.

My friend nudged me excitedly. "This is going to be awesome," she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

I nodded, a surge of anticipation building within me. Stepping into the bustling concourse of the arena, I marveled at the sea of blue and red jerseys, each person radiating their team pride. It was infectious, and I found myself caught up in the excitement of being part of such a passionate crowd.

Finding our seats, I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for not responding to Manhattan's messages. I promised myself I would explain everything later, after the game. Right now, I needed to immerse myself in the thrill of playoff hockey and enjoy this unforgettable experience in the heart of New York City.

Just before the game began, one last text came in from Manhattan. The notification popped up on my screen, and I couldn't ignore it any longer:

MANHATTAN: Starting to think I messed things up. Please talk to me. I have to go, but PLEASE tell me you're okay.

The urgency in his message was palpable, and it weighed heavily on my mind. I knew I owed him an explanation, but right now, surrounded by the anticipation of the playoff game at Madison Square Garden, I couldn't find the words to reply.

My friend noticed my troubled expression and gently asked, "Everything okay?"

I hesitated for a moment, torn between the excitement of the moment and the guilt of leaving Manhattan hanging. "Yeah, just some stuff going on," I replied vaguely, hoping she wouldn't press further.

She nodded understandingly, sensing my reluctance to talk about it. "Well, let's focus on the game. It's going to be amazing!"

I managed a small smile, grateful for her distraction. As the national anthem played and the teams took the ice, the crowd erupted into cheers. The energy of the arena was infectious, and I found myself swept up in the excitement despite my lingering worries about Manhattan.

As the players came out and the game began, the atmosphere inside Madison Square Garden was electric. The puck dropped, and the game progressed smoothly until midway through the second period. Number 73, newly on the ice, was skating hard when suddenly, number 91 from the opposing team delivered a hard hit. The crowd erupted into shouts and boos as the large screen replayed the hit, the referees finally calling a penalty.

In the midst of the chaos, the camera panned back to the live action, focusing on New York Rangers' number 73 as he removed his helmet. And there he was—Manhattan.

My heart skipped a beat as I watched him on the screen, his presence confirming that the mystery friend who had been texting me was indeed using a picture of Matt Rempe. Confusion and disbelief flooded my mind. Had I been lied to this whole time? Was this some elaborate prank or misunderstanding?

As Manhattan skated off the ice, I felt a mix of emotions—surprise, disappointment, and a tinge of betrayal. The crowd's cheers and the game's intensity became distant background noise as I tried to process everything. The realization that Manhattan was real and here, playing hockey in front of me, collided with the unsettling feeling that someone had deceived me.

I glanced at my friend beside me, who was still cheering enthusiastically for the Rangers. She turned to me with a bright smile. "This is amazing, right?"

"Yeah," I managed to reply, forcing a smile while my mind raced with unanswered questions.

As the game continued, I couldn't tear my eyes away from Manhattan on the ice. Despite the whirlwind of emotions, one thing was clear—there was much more to this story than I had ever imagined.

On the way out of the game, the crowd slowly dispersing around us, I couldn't shake the feeling of betrayal and confusion. I pulled out my phone and hesitated for a moment before typing out a message to Manhattan.

ME: So, was this all just a joke? Using someone else's photos to pretend to be someone you're not?

The message hung in the air, my thumb hovering over the send button. I felt a mix of anger and hurt, wanting desperately for there to be some explanation that would make sense of everything. But as the seconds ticked by, doubts crept in. What if I had been naive to believe in this connection all along?

My friend glanced over at me, sensing my unease. "You okay?" she asked gently.

I forced a smile, trying to mask the turmoil inside. "Yeah, just… something came up," I replied vaguely, my voice betraying my uncertainty.

Finally, I pressed send, the message disappearing into the digital abyss. As we made our way through the bustling streets of New York City, I couldn't shake the sinking feeling that the person I thought I knew as Manhattan might not be who he claimed to be after all.

The crowd outside Madison Square Garden buzzed with post-game energy, but my focus was solely on my phone, waiting for Manhattan’s reply. The seconds dragged on before my screen lit up with his response.

MANHATTAN: What? A joke? What are you talking about?

I clenched my jaw, frustrated by his confusion. How could he not understand?

ME: I saw you. Or, I guess I saw the real you. You’ve been sending me photos of a hockey player this whole time, pretending it was you. Matt Rempe. Ring a bell?

I hit send, my emotions swirling between hurt and anger. Was this his way of getting a laugh? Why string me along like this?

His response came quickly this time.

MANHATTAN: Wait, what? I didn’t lie to you, I swear. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.

I scoffed at my phone. Was he really going to keep this act up?

ME: You sent me his photo. Matt Rempe. Number 73 for the Rangers. I saw him on the ice tonight.

My hands were shaking slightly as I typed, overwhelmed by everything. How could he keep denying it when I’d literally just seen Matt?

There was a longer pause before his next message.

MANHATTAN: I didn’t lie. I never pretended to be someone else. I’m really confused right now. How did you… how did you see me?

My breath caught. Why did he sound so genuine? My mind scrambled to piece it together. How could he not know that I’d seen the very guy whose pictures he’d been sending? It didn’t make sense.

I typed again, my heart pounding.

ME: I saw him play. I was at the Rangers game tonight. You’ve been using his pictures this whole time, and now I feel like an idiot for believing you.

There was another long pause, and I could imagine him, wherever he was, sitting there trying to figure out what had just happened.

The longer I waited, the more the knot in my stomach tightened. Finally, my phone buzzed again with his reply.

MANHATTAN: I’m so confused. How did you end up at a Rangers game? I never sent you anyone else’s photos. I swear. I don’t even know what’s going on right now. ME: I came here for a school trip. I wanted to surprise you, so I went to what you told me was your University yesterday to see you play hockey. I thought it’d be this cute moment, but you weren’t there. Some guys at the rink acted weird when I asked about you, and I couldn’t figure it out. Then today, at the game, I saw Matt Rempe... The guy in the photos you’ve been sending me. MANHATTAN: Wait. You’re in New York? You went looking for me??? MANHATTAN: Okay, this is all a big misunderstanding, and I need you to believe me. I’m not lying. I am Matt Rempe. ME: No, you're not. Stop it. If this is your way of messing with me, just admit it. Why would you pretend to be someone like him? You think I wouldn’t find out? MANHATTAN: I’m not pretending. I didn’t want to lie to you, but I also didn’t want to throw all that stuff at you so fast. I’m sorry if it feels like I’ve been hiding things, but I wasn’t trying to trick you. I swear. ME: So what, you’re just Matt Rempe all of a sudden? I’m supposed to believe that you’re the guy I watched get slammed on the ice tonight? MANHATTAN: Yes. I wanted to tell you but we became friends and never stopped the little nickname thing, this isn’t how I wanted you to find out.

I stared at the message, my head spinning. How could this be true? I couldn't wrap my mind around it.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

to be continued... hehehe

[princessphilly]

So It Goes

it's monday so some shameless smut

Robby/Collins

@chara-hugs @girl-ninja @blacklitchick @heathercollinsmd @heavenssins @squidlywiddly87 @whoeverineedtobe @ostin-jpg @v-wie-was @hockeynshit

It started with just a simple touch. Barely a caress, his finger trailing down her arm. Enough to make her skin raise in goosebumps and happy that her dark brown skin didn’t flush red.

It continued with a raised eyebrow. Brown eyes that usually looked so sad were warm, inviting. 

“This isn’t a good idea,” Collins murmured as Robby maneuvered her into the wall. Token words as resistance was gone. Her arms opened, pulling him closer, pressing his body into hers

She was no longer a resident. 

He was no longer her boss. 

And this was Baltimore, not Pittsburgh. No one they both knew would know.

The brush of his beard on her neck, a promise of a delicious burn the morning after. Chuckles as his hand gripped her waist. His woodsy cologne filled her nose, reminding her of just how good it was. 

Just how no one else could ever compare.

“Are you sure,” a rough voice cajoled, already sure of the answer. 

It had been too long. Years of waiting, of being good, of yearning yet unable to bridge that distance. They had stayed in contact; sharing interesting articles, keeping each other up to date on their lives. Sharing that they both were seeing therapists. 

Counting down to the time that her fellowship would be done. But there had been an emergency medicine conference in Baltimore and Robby decided that he would go to this one. And Collins was there.

Robby waited patiently for her answer, his fingers trailing down her open back. The royal purple set off against her skin so well, he couldn’t wait to pull the dress off of her. 

“Fuck me, Robinavitch.” 

****

The next morning, Heather blinked, opening her eyes slowly. There was a body pressed into her back, an arm right under her breasts, and a quietly snoring man nuzzling her head. 

Fuck, Heather was sore but damn it was good. Memories of the night filled her mind - Robby pulling the dress off of her as soon as they got to his room, literally tossing her on the California King bed before worshiping her body with his hands and mouth, making sure she came several times . Pulling out several condoms from her purse and his luggage with a laugh. Robby fucking her in missionary, using that big body of his to keep her in place as she took each thrust, her nails scratching his back before he came. The way his beard felt as he nipped and sucked the delicate skin of her neck as he fingered her slowly, edging her until he was ready for her again. The last time, prone bone, Robby on top, giving it to her super slow, talking her through it as he used that big hand underneath her to play with her clit, making her gush around his cock-

“Good morning,” Robby rumbled, sleep making his voice more gravelly than usual. 

Heather turned to look at him, his brown eyes even more doe-like in sleep. His free hand was running over her hip, teasing patterns into her skin. 

“Hi.”

[verstappentime]

i posted about this before, but let me (as a journalist irl) elaborate what's likely going on with daniel!!

when no one asked dan about his future during press day last week, we all automatically recognized this was probably the result of an embargo (we have quite a few f1 fans in the newsroom). stranger still that christian horner was in the TP conference and didn't speak on it either. we had expected that combo to make a sort of joint announcement.

so what's an embargo/how does it work?

essentially, it's when a source gives you any information ahead of time, but requests you do not publish anything on it until a certain date and time. this can be done for a lot of reasons. embargoes usually request that you refrain from sharing information from a press release or document.

usually embargoes are put in place so essentially you keep to your time table of when the information becomes "public," but news outlets aren't left scrambling because they have already written their story and have it ready to go live as soon as it's acceptable. in the case of f1 this also applies to instagram posts and things like that. that's why you'll often see the posts go live straight away when an announcement is made; everything's pre-confirmed & pre-written, they're just waiting for the green light.

if you violate an embargo in sports journalism, you'll likely have your credentials to, say, get into the press pen revoked. you/your outlet will no longer receive any privileged information. and you'll likely be asked to take it down. not for any legal reason -- you're just burning a bridge and violating trust. so this info COULD be leaked, but under the honor system, it rarely is. (especially bc if you post embargoed info & ruin your org's reputation with the source, you're probably losing your job.)

so what's going on in DR's case?

most likely, all credible sources have either A) been given the information under an embargo, or B) been told the time they can expect an embargoed press release. (i work with law enforcement, so for me this is usually just something like "you can expect the records to be sent out before dinner time friday night but it will be embargoed till 9 a.m. when they're officially public record.")

either way, everyone has probably been warned off asking those questions, but they also likely already know the answer. whatever they received, even if it doesn't reveal all the cards, most likely said daniel would not answer questions prior to the official release time and essentially, don't bother.

what's up with all the rumors?

essentially, when every credible source has their hands tied, there's no one to counter all the randoms. we see it all the time -- people yapping trading theories when we actually know what happened and can't say. unfortunately in f1 some of the randoms have some sort of name recognition -- and for some reason there are like 500 completely not credible news outlets full of untrue shit. so right now, they are the only people 1) free to bang on with theories and 2) who dont either have the info or know when the info is coming available. so that's allowing them to take up all the space.

conclusion: this isn't necessarily good or bad, but explains why we're hearing so many irrelevant people's opinions on this and not hearing anything from VCARB, daniel or his team. it was most likely done to give preferred sources the jump on announcing the news, but also to allow daniel to focus.

i'm assuming the embargo will be lifted monday morning european time, but we may hear a vague denial this weekend as theres probably some building frustration (like daniel saying yeah you'll see me in COTA or whatever).

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Love and Other Curses - Part Two

Pairing: Dragon!Marcus Pike x f!Reader

Rating: E (18+ only, explicit smut)

Word Count: 10k

Part 2 Summary: You've discovered the Prince’s secret identity, and finally understand the reason why he revoked his proposal of marriage. But as the two of you continue to fall for each other, can you convince Marcus that not only will you marry him just as he is, but also that your love is the key to breaking an ancient curse on an entire kingdom?

Warnings: Extreme cheese and flowery language; shape-shifting Marcus Pike; curses; implied virgin reader; arranged-ish marriage; yearning and self-loathing that will break your little heart; non-human genitalia; human-dragon hybrids; kissing, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, extreme size difference of genitalia; PiV sex, oral sex (m reciving), a bit of monster!cock worship because HE DESERVES IT. Let me know if I missed something.

A/N: There are two epilogues on this baby because I didn't want it to end. Moodboard with the assistance of @pedropascalsx who worked her magic and made Dragon!Marcus come to life in all his dark green and iridescent glory <3 Sorry for the delay on this! I was at a conference for most of this week. Was hoping I'd have some free time to post it, but as you can see... I did not :) ENJOY!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part One

You wake up with Marcus’s name on your lips, the image of his naked body seared in your memory. 

You don’t know what came over you last night. You pushed him too hard, demanding answers that he was hardly ready to give you, and you’re sure that the aftereffects would be felt for days–the prince holding you at arm's length, closing himself off to you in the same way he’s closed himself off from the world for so many years. Would he even be there for dinner tonight? 

Your stomach churns with unease, so rather than take your usual breakfast, you dress and go outside to walk through your favorite garden to clear your head. It’s quieter than usual this morning; the birds seem unusually timid. You look to the horizon, wondering if the weather is going to turn, when you see the reason for their quiet: the glint of dark, iridescent green poking up from behind a tall hedge. You sigh, your lips pulling into a crooked smile despite your heavy mood. Perhaps it’s a good sign that he can’t seem to stay away from you, even when he’s hurting. Your pace quickens.

“I’m beginning to see a pattern to your behavior, dear dragon,” you say gently as you come around the hedge to find your beloved beast lying on the grass, looking as forlorn as a dragon can. His golden eyes stare at you questioningly.

“Yes, I’ve figured it out,” you continue as you sink down to your knees beside his large head. “Whenever you’re feeling too vulnerable to face me as a man, you take this form instead.”

Dragon-Marcus doesn’t bother protesting, but you can tell by the worry in his eyes that you’re correct. 

“That’s why you didn’t come for me yourself after you sent me that letter,” you add, the realization dawning on you as you speak. “You were too scared: What if I didn’t show? What if I found you to be objectionable as a man? What if—”

The beast closes his eyes in shame and tries to turn his head away from you. 

“No, stop,” you whisper, tears welling up in your eyes as he turns away. You decide not to let him, scooting along on your knees until you’re in front of him again. “I didn’t think any of those things, you silly creature.”

You reach up to run your hand up and down the bridge of the dragon’s snout, soothing him. In his animal form, it’s so much easier to understand his pain. Animals express their emotions so much more readily than humans, you think to yourself. Despite his enormous size–and the fact that you know that he can turn back into a man if he wanted–this moment reminds you of times growing up when you’d calmed a feral cat, or befriended a mistreated dog… and it makes you realize just how similar humans are to other creatures. Or, perhaps, how much more like humans animals are than people realize. 

Dragon-Marcus moves again, but instead of turning away, he lays his massive head on your lap. He doesn’t put much of his weight on you–you think even his head might crush you–but rather gently rests it there, a show of affection… and trust. 

In turn, you lean forward and press your upper body against him, laying your head just above one of his large golden eyes. “Silly beast,” you say again, sniffling a little as you do, “I think I might love you no matter what form you take.”

The dragon makes a soft rumble of surprise, a question if you’ve ever heard one. His head lifts again, moving until both of his eyes are looking right at you. 

“Is that so strange?” you ask softly. Before you can think better of it, you lean forward, pressing your lips to the top of his snout. His scales are warm and smooth against them, and your eyes flutter closed as you imagine Marcus as a man, his large hands holding your face in place as he kisses you back. 

That night, Marcus’s gold waistcoat matches the gold embroidery on your midnight blue gown. When you open the door at his cautious knock, you can’t help but reach out and touch the fabric, placing your palm on his chest with your heart in your throat. You want to throw your arms around him, but suddenly, you find that you’re also too scared to act when he’s a man–tall and muscular and hot-blooded–and looking at you as though you were an oasis after he’d been wandering in the desert for weeks.

“How do you do that?” you laugh softly, your voice only wavering a little as you trace your finger over the gold material.

The prince’s smile is warm and teasing. “You have to allow me some secrets.”

He holds out his arm for you, but you hesitate, hating the chasm that seems as though it’s growing between you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, staring up at him with sorrowful eyes. “Last night… I was rude–”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, his expression full of pain. “Don’t apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I–I frightened you.” “No you didn’t,” you counter softly. 

“Regardless,” Marcus says, “I shouldn’t have said the things I said.”

“I feel much the same,” you tell him. “Perhaps we could start over?”

The prince smiles, slowly and hesitantly. “Y-Yes,” he whispers with gratitude. “Yes, let's start over.”

You carefully slip your fingers into the crook of his arm before he can even offer it, wanting to feel the comforting warmth of his skin beneath yours. Neither of you speak as you walk to dinner, and even after the awkward exchange, the silence still feels comfortable and companionable. 

As usual, the palace cooks offer a veritable feast, the table laden with far too much food for only two people. Several servers lay down their trays and back away quickly as the butler fills your glasses with wine.

“Thank you.” You smile politely at the butler. As usual, he doesn't answer you or return your smile. He nods curtly and exits again without turning around.

“I don't think your servants like me all that much,” you comment with a sad sigh.

“It isn't you. They fear me,” Marcus explains.

A peal of laughter escapes you before you can stop yourself and the prince’s eyebrows raise in surprise at your mirth. 

“But–” you sputter out, still giggling, “–you're the kindest and gentlest person I've ever met.”

Marcus’s eyes suddenly turn melancholy. “It is a well-known fact in this kingdom that those with my… affliction…” he drops his gaze to his plate, poking at his potatoes with his fork. “Well, let’s just say that it's only a matter of time before we lose our humanity.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “I traveled with you for nine days as a dragon, and you were just as gentle then as you are now.”

“It won’t always be that way,” he says bitterly. “Sooner or later, the beast takes over. Throughout history, everyone has always succumbed to the monster.”

“And so they fear you,” you exhale softly, thinking to yourself. “And they leave you alone.”

“I told you,” Marcus murmurs. “It’s a lonely life.”

“Any person would lose their humanity in solitude,” you say, sitting up straighter in your chair, looking wide-eyed at the prince. “Perhaps the madness isn’t caused by what you think it is. Perhaps it’s… self-fulfilling: everyone has either isolated themselves, or pushed others away due to their fear, and they become the beast because there’s nothing left to be human for.”

“You don’t know that.”

“What if the ancient text you found was right all along? Love is the answer, not because of magic, but because love is found in other people!” You smile triumphantly; you’ve never been more certain of anything in your life. 

“You’re forgetting one thing,” Marcus says sadly. 

“What?”

“It’s too late for me.”

“You still have your humanity,” you argue indignantly. 

“The transformation has already begun,” he points out, his voice dark and haunted. “I was too late.”

You swallow thickly as you think about what he showed you the night before. It was shocking, yes, and intimidating… but something about it fascinated you, and you’ve thought of little else but finding a way to see it again. 

“Perhaps it will reverse in time,” you concede, although you find yourself wishing that weren’t true.

“That’s not how it works.”

“Even still,” you continue, refusing to believe that the thoughtful and good-hearted man before you could ever turn into a monster, “a physical transformation does not necessarily mean a mental one.”

“I… appreciate your persistence, I truly do,” Marcus sighs, his shoulders slumped in resignation, “but even if you are correct, I cannot, in good conscience, bind you to a man who can’t even give you a wedding night.”

There’s a finality to his tone that tells you to drop the subject. Any further coaxing would likely shut him down again altogether, and you couldn’t bear to see the pain in his eyes last night when he ordered you away as though his heart would break. 

“I want to play a game,” you announce cheerfully, hoping to bring him out of his hopelessness. “The study with the fireplace, I noticed it had a chess board in it.”

Marcus brightens. “You know how to play?”

You press your lips together guiltily. “I don’t. My family never had one. But…” you bite your lip, looking up at him shyly, “perhaps you could teach me?”

“Should I call you by another name while you’re like this?” 

You’re walking through the garden again with the dragon–who is also Marcus, the prince, but it feels rather odd to call this beast ‘Marcus.’ 

Rather than answer, he noses one of the flowering bushes.

“This one?”

Huff.

You smile and clip one of the blooms, adding it to the growing collection in your basket. You’d wanted a bouquet in your room, you told the beast when you saw him wandering the palace grounds this morning, and that he should help you choose it. And so here you are, strolling together, picking flowers for your bedside table. 

“I could call you… Greenie,” you tease as you select a peach-colored rose and add it to the pile. 

The dragon snorts in amused indignation, strongly enough that a little spark bursts through the air and lands on a patch of grass, starting a small fire. You raise your eyes in surprise as you quickly extinguish the ember with the bottom of your shoe. 

“Can… can you breathe fire?” you ask him, stunned at this talent he’s hidden from you. 

Huff. 

“Wait–when we were attacked by wolves that horrible night… why didn’t you do that before they jumped on you and hurt you?”

The dragon turns and faces you head-on, giving you a serious, solemn stare. 

“What?”

Still giving you that earnest look, he nudges your shoulder with his snout.

“Oh,” you exhale as comprehension dawns. “Because of me. I can imagine the fires could easily get out of hand. You didn’t want to risk burning me.”

The beast nods and gently nudges you again, and your heart bursts with affection.

“Sweet, gentle creature,” you whisper, kissing the bridge of his nose. “You’re five times the size of the largest horse, and yet I imagine you could hold one of these flowers between your massive teeth and not damage a single petal. How could I ever believe that you’d hurt me–as beast or man?”

The dragon closes his eyes as you lean into each other for a quiet moment before pulling away and looking at you once more with those deep, brown-and-gold orbs.

“You have the prettiest eyes,” you tell him, tenderly tracing the scar underneath. “I think that’s why I always knew. The moment you approached me in the garden, I felt as though I’d known you for an age.”

You begin walking again, your attention caught by something that looks similar to purple wisteria growing near the little fish pond you’re so fond of. 

“I want to be married out here,” you whisper as you carefully clip a sprig of purple. “I-I mean, if we married. If… if you wanted to–” you stammer. 

The dragon suddenly spreads its wings and launches into the sky, the blast of air sending your basket tumbling to the ground, its contents spilling out over the cobblestone. “Hey!” you cry in frustration as you watch him streak rapidly across the sky and around the castle, out of sight. “You… you irritating man!”

Forgetting your bouquet, you stalk angrily across the grounds. You’re going to find him, this infuriating prince who flees whenever you seem to get closer. You’re going to find him and give him a piece of your mind.

You throw open the castle door and shriek in surprise as Marcus is there, wide-eyed with surprise himself, his hand still held aloft as if to push the door open. 

“You!” you cry, uselessly shoving at his chest. “You have no right to–”

The prince surges forward, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you deeply. You make one final noise of protest before you melt, meeting his desperation with equal measure. He kisses you like he no longer needs air, like his entire world depends on your lips on his. He kisses you like he loves you. And you kiss him back. 

“Where–” he gasps breathlessly between more hungry kisses. “Where are–” kiss “–the flowers?”

Rather than answer, you kiss him again, and Marcus hums in contentment. The deep sound vibrates throughout your body, too, and you gasp softly, trying to catch your breath. When you open his mouth to him, though, he tilts his head and deepens the kiss instead. At the touch of his tongue sliding gently against yours, your knees wobble as you whimper into his mouth. Marcus’s strong arm wraps around you and holds you steady, and for the first time you can feel the whole of his body pressing against you. 

His chest his broad, his stomach soft, and all of him impossibly warm. And further down–oh, you can feel him, thick and long and rock hard against your stomach. Your knees threaten to buckle further, so you cling to his shoulders for dear life as he licks further into your mouth. 

“Oh, Marcus,” you murmur as he slides his lips over to your cheek, nipping gently at your jawline. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps roughly. “I wanted to wait–I wanted—until after dinner, but you said–you said those things about–about marrying me in the garden, and–”

“Of course I–” you begin, but he cuts you off. 

“No, wait–I have…” he reluctantly releases you to reach into his pocket. “I didn’t want to wait one more moment. Just… please, if you’ll still have me.” He produces a large, deep green emerald, and his eyes are wild and searching as he takes both of your hands in his free hand and holds the ring up to show you. “I wanted to give you this the moment I first saw you sitting in the garden, but I promised myself I’d try to let you go, after–after what happened.”

“It will be okay,” you whisper, your lips trembling with emotion as you smile tearfully. “We’ll figure it out together. You don’t have to let me go.”

“I don’t think I can,” Marcus admits solemnly. “I want you by my side always, my lifelong companion. I asked this in a letter to you once, but I want to ask you again, face to face–now that we truly know each other. Dearest… will you marry me?”

You let out a happy sob as you nod furiously. “Of course I will.”

Marcus chokes out a little laugh of his own as he gently slides the emerald onto your left hand. “Dearest,” he whispers, palming your cheek after he finishes with his task, “you’re trembling. Are you—you’re not—”

“I’m not scared,” you promise. “You could never scare me.”

“Foolish,” he murmurs, but he lowers his head to meet you again in a gentle kiss. 

“When will it be?” you ask over dinner. Rather than sit in the formal dining hall, the two of you are seated on the floor next to the roaring fireplace in your favorite sitting room. The bouquet you picked this morning sits on the low table between two soft chairs, the two of you having gone back to collect the fallen flowers after Marcus’s hasty retreat from the garden.

“When will what be?” the prince asks, looking over at you tenderly. 

“The wedding, of course.”

“Oh,” he chuckles softly. “Whenever you want.”

“Tomorrow?” you suggest, only half-joking.

Marcus blinks, his lips parting in surprise. “Oh–well, I had hoped to at least make some preparations around the castle,” he says with a small, worried frown. “And we’ll need someone to officiate…” he presses his lips together, thinking. “One week from today?” he asks hopefully. 

You smile widely. “One week from today,” you agree. 

He gently taps his glass against yours, and you both drink to seal the promise. 

Hours later, after dinner has long-since been finished, the two of you remain by the fire, lying entwined on the soft rug. You lazily watch the embers pop and hiss, the flames warming your face as Marcus’s body warms your back. His fingers trail up and down your bare shoulder, and you shiver despite the heat. 

You turn in his arms, facing your intended. “I don’t want to wait a week,” you admit in a hushed voice. 

He presses his lips to your forehead in response, and then pulls back, looking at you, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight.

“Marcus,” you whisper. 

“I know,” he soothes, tracing your jawline with one finger. “I know.”

Your lips meet again, even more passionately than before. Every time you kiss, you both seem to grow bolder and more impatient, until your fingers are clutching desperately at his collar and Marcus’s hand is sliding dangerously down to grasp your hipbone. You press ever closer, seeking the soft strength of his body and the hard, thick ridge between you that he doesn’t bother to hide. Something deep inside of you aches, an emptiness so profound that you know can only be filled by him and you tremble with want, with the desire to feel whole again.

Somehow, in this desperate scramble of bodies, you find yourself on your back, with Marcus pressing down on top of you, his legs on either side of you as he kisses down your throat and to your collarbone, stopped only by the hem of your dress. 

You squirm helplessly, your hand trying to reach the buttons in the back and crying out in frustration when you can’t get purchase on them. 

“Shh, let me,” Marcus whispers. “Turn over for me, dearest.”

You twist in his arms, coming to rest on your stomach as your prince gently unfastens one button at a time, kissing each inch of newly revealed skin until he reaches the small of your back. Slowly, you turn back around, holding his gaze with your heart in your throat as you start to drag the front of the dress down.

“You don’t have to–” Marcus murmurs, even as he hungrily rakes his eyes over your form.

“It’s only fair,” you tease softly, giving him a shaky, nervous smile. 

The prince flushes deeply and looks away in embarrassment. You sit up, reaching for his jaw and turning his face back toward you as you remove the dress, and then the slip underneath, leaving you bare to him. 

Marcus’s fingers are trembling as he traces the swell of one breast, his dark amber eyes watching the path of his hand on your body. You reach for him, pulling uselessly at the buttons of his shirt until he gets the hint and rips it off himself, leaving him bare-chested. He lowers you back down to the rug, then, and you gasp at the feel of skin on skin. His lips are everywhere–kissing your lips, your neck, down to your breasts, before gently taking one nipple in his mouth and chuckling softly as your back rises off of the floor with a sharp gasp. 

“Please,” you whimper over and over, “Please.” 

Your fingers reach for the straining tip of his huge erection, and he hisses as you make contact. He grasps your hand, bringing it to his mouth instead to kiss each fingertip in turn as he shakes his head. “Not tonight–not that. You’re not ready.”

“Marcus–” you whine squirming your hips against the solid bulge.

“One week,” he promises. “Not until our wedding night.” He kisses your lips softly again. “I want you to be ready,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re not ready yet–but I can change that.”

His dark eyes are full of promise when he instructs, “Lay back.” 

Your chest heaves lightly with anticipation as you comply, but you trust your intended completely and utterly. He holds your gaze as he slides down your body, until his lips are inches from the soft thatch of hair at your center. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks softly, and you nod immediately. 

Satisfied, Marcus gently spreads your legs apart with one hand until you’re on display before him. His breath shakes as he looks at you in awe, his lip trembling with want before he lowers his head and buries himself between your thighs.

You cry out immediately at the feeling of his lips on your core. It’s too intimate, too overwhelming, and you’re so worked up that each lick of his tongue sends sparks up and down your entire body. You gasp and squirm and tremble, and Marcus has to hold you steady with one hand as he seems to bury himself even deeper–his nose rubbing against the little bud at your apex and his tongue flicking back and forth inside of you. You can’t control your body, the noises you’re making–nothing matters except for this, except for Marcus’s mouth on you, in you, causing the ache building inside you to grow, until–

“Oh!” 

Something breaks inside of you, you’re sure of it. Your core clenches around Marcus’s tongue over and over again as waves of pleasure hit you. Just when the sensation is too much, he finally pulls back, and you collapse back onto the rug, panting with exertion. 

“Again,” he rasps, his lips glossy and eyes bright with hunger. “Please.”

All you can do is nod, and Marcus lowers his head again.

The feeling of his mouth on you is just as delicious as the last time, but this time, he slips one finger deep inside you, and you arch off of the rug with a broken cry of his name. 

“I know,” he whispers, soothing you. “I know it’s a lot. Can you take another?”

You’re desperate for it. The emptiness still aches inside of you, and you want him to make it go away. 

“Please,” you whimper. 

The second finger is harder, and you whine softly as he enters you again. Marcus laps gently at the little bundle of nerves, and the wave of pleasure it produces helps to ease his way inside. Slowly, slowly, he begins to move them in and out, never taking his mouth off of you as he slides against your walls. It’s even better than before, it’s incandescent–you’ve never felt anything like this–and then his fingers curl upward, seeming to hit something deep within you that has you shaking and crying out as you fall apart in his arms once more. 

You think you might sleep. All you know is, when you open your eyes again an eternity later, Marcus is still holding you tightly, pressing kiss after kiss on your forehead and whispering soft praises against your skin. 

“It’s late,” he murmurs when he feels you stir. “We should go to bed.”

“Don’t,” you murmur, clutching at him. “Don’t go.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” he promises. “But we can’t sleep here on the stone floor.”

Marcus sits up and lifts you effortlessly into his arms. You immediately tuck your head into his shoulder and he stands, carrying you–still naked, but you can’t find it in you to care–to his quarters and laying you on his bed before draping the warm blankets over you and climbing in beside you. You curl into him, seeking his warmth, before falling asleep once again.

You never want to spend a single night alone again–and it doesn’t seem like the prince would allow it, even if you did. He seems to have an insatiable hunger to be near you–taking your hand in his when you walk in the garden, kissing your shoulder when you read by the fire, tangling your legs together when you eat your meals, and of course, the way he takes you apart with fingers and tongue every single night. 

Every time, he gives you more–two fingers, then three, then four–and you take it all greedily. You know what he’s doing; you remember the size of him as he stood before you that fateful night: his entire length must be the width of his whole hand, perhaps even thicker at the base. He’s preparing you–so patiently, so lovingly–but the notion of taking all of him on your wedding night frightens you as much as it excites you. 

The castle becomes busier over the next several days, as preparations are made for your upcoming nuptials. Flowers are placed everywhere, musicians are hired, and the best baker in all the kingdom is summoned for your cake. 

“Will there be many people?” you ask as you walk through the newly flower-lined halls. 

Marcus frowns, shaking his head. “I told you, the entire kingdom fears me.”

Pain stabs through your heart at his words. You’re going to fix this. You must. “Then what is all the fuss for?”

The prince cocks his head in confusion as he smiles at you. “Why, it’s for you.”

Your mouth drops open. “Just me?”

He chuckles and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Of course. I thought you knew.”

“You needn’t go through all of this trouble just for me,” you say, amused. 

Marcus palms your cheek and traces his thumb back and forth across your cheekbone as he looks at you thoughtfully. “I want to,” he says simply.

On the night before your wedding, Marcus is quiet, his mood more subdued. Since your official engagement, he’s been incandescent–smiling more, laughing and joking playfully, even twirling you around to no music at all. You wonder if it had only been a distraction, if he’s still secretly terrified of the monster he’s so certain he’ll become.

“Are you all right?” you ask quietly over dinner, placing your hand over his and looking at him worryingly. 

“I–I must ask a favor,” he replies, not meeting your eyes. 

“Anything.”

“This has been the most wonderful week of my life, spending every minute by your side,” he begins, looking nervous. 

You beam. “I’m so glad–”

“But I–” he swallows, troubled.

“Go on,” you prompt him gently.

“I must tell you that I… become restless, if I don’t… transform. It feels a little as though there’s a muscle that won’t stretch, or a pang of hunger that won’t be sated, if I don’t… feel the wind on my face, just for a short time. It won’t take long,” Marcus assures you.

“You’re seeking my permission?” you ask, confused as to why he would feel as though he had to ask. 

“It pains me to leave you alone in my–in our bed,” he says regretfully. “But I–I need… In order to be completely present, completely human… I need this tonight.”

You lean forward, taking his face in both of your hands, soothing him. “You don’t have to ask,” you tell him patiently. “I love you exactly as you are, scales and all.”

Marcus stares at you in utter reverence. “The day I first laid eyes on you… I never would have imagined in my wildest dreams…” he murmurs, full of wonderment.

“I think it was the magic,” you say confidently. “It brought you to me.”

“That, or your stubbornness,” he teases, playfully chucking you under your chin. 

“What will you do?” you ask. “Tonight, I mean. Where will you go?”

Marcus shrugs. “Probably just fly around for a little while, shake the cobwebs off. Maybe–” he flushes, ducking his head bashfully, “–find a deer, or something. I wasn't kidding about the hunger.”

“Promise you'll take me with you, one day,” you whisper. You close your eyes, remembering how sunsets look from high in the air, how exhilarating it was when he would swoop towards the ground. 

Marcus is quiet for a few moments, watching you. Then, suddenly, his lips curl into a mischievous, boyish grin as he extends his hand. “Come with me.”

“What?”

“Let's go,” he says, the gold flecks in his eyes seeming to sparkle. “Now. Tonight.”

As comprehension dawns, your smile spreads to match his. Giddily, you grab his hand, and the two of you rush from the hall and out into the twilight.

“Don't look.”

“Why not?”

“Just… don't, okay?” Marcus wheedles. “Turn around.”

You sigh in mock exasperation and obey. “Why can't I see?”

“It's not exactly pretty, shape-shifting,” he says from behind you. “And besides… I typically undress, so I don't rip any clothes to shreds.”

“You're naked as a dragon?” you squeak. 

“Dragons don't wear clothes,” Marcus says defensively, and you dissolve into giggles until you hear the sound of giant footsteps behind you. 

You grin instinctively at the sight of the dragon. In the low light of dusk, his scales are a deep, smoky green, and the light of the full moon causes his wings to shimmer with muted purples and blues. He shakes his massive head back and forth much like a dog shaking itself dry after a swim, and, as his wings stretch out to their full length, he lets out a deep sigh. 

You're standing near a mostly-empty shed near the castle stables. Mostly empty, because Marcus’s discarded clothes are now there, and the large leather saddle that you first sat upon during your journey takes up the majority of the small building. An attendant appears, seemingly out of nowhere, to assist in buckling the straps around the creature’s massive belly. 

You give dragon-Marcus a quick hug around his snout before gleefully hopping into the saddle and securing yourself tight. 

You've come a long way from your first time. Rather than cling to the saddle for dear life, squeeze your eyes shut, and pray for the ordeal to end, you watch in anticipation as the dragon’s wings spread wide, then shriek in delight as they begin to beat loudly and you take to the skies. 

The moon and stars seem almost reachable up here. Keeping one hand holding tight to the leather, you give into temptation and raise the other, stretching out your fingers and pretending to catch the clouds themselves. You can tell that Marcus is going faster than he used to with you by the way the moisture is drawn from your eyes and across your cheeks. His wings still and stiffen as he glides and swoops through the night air, and you can't stop smiling as your stomach seems to rise and fall with each change in altitude. 

Finally, after what must have been many miles traveled but only an hour or so in the air, he gracefully touches down in a lush meadow near a tall outcrop of rocky cliffs and lowers down to let you off. A loud, rushing noise disturbs the quiet night and at first, you think it's the wind blowing violently through the trees, but you realize quickly that the leaves are completely still. 

You look around, confused, searching for the source of the noise, but the moon is behind a small cloud, and it's too dark to see anything. You give Marcus a questioning glance, and he jerks his head toward the cliffs. As you walk closer to inspect them, the moon breaks free and moonlight gleams down on the two of you, making Marcus’s wings erupt with brilliance, illuminating the meadow, and revealing the tall, narrow waterfall that cascades into a small lagoon at the foot of the cliffs. 

You shoot a tear-filled smile over at dragon-Marcus. You know he chose this destination with you in mind without having to ask. He shuffles forward and opens his gigantic jaws wide to catch the falling water, and you laugh as it splashes everywhere, falling into his eyes and sends little droplets onto your dress. You reach your hand out as you carefully step closer, reaching as far as you can without falling into the water, until you can finally catch some of the cascade in your palm. 

You bend down, wiggling your fingers in the little lagoon, and find that it's still slightly warm from the late spring sun. A wild, silly idea flashes through your mind, and the moment you make eye contact with the dragon, you can tell from the sudden narrowing of his eyes that he has an inkling of what you're about to do. He gently shakes his head back and forth, but you're already rising to your feet and stepping backward, your hands coming to the back of your dress to undo the buttons. 

Marcus growls low in warning, but you only laugh as you make quick work of your dress and underclothing, and, stark nude in the moonlight, you jump into the water with a triumphant whoop. 

Your cheer turns into a yelp when the water turns out to be much colder than you expected. 

Trying not to shiver, you look back at the shore. If a dragon could look unimpressed, Marcus certainly does now. 

“Come in!” you call out. “The water is fine!”

The dragon snorts, and turns away–but you discover quickly that this was intended to be a feint. Before you can react, to swim away or cover your face, he jumps.

One may as well have thrown a small house into the little pool. The wave is so colossal that you're surprised there's any water left. It soaks you completely from head to toe, and the sudden rush of cold sends a shockwave through your body.

“You… beast!” you shove at his belly uselessly. 

Marcus whuffs and shakes his head, clearly laughing at you, and you can't help but join in, although your lip is beginning to tremble. Still, you aren't going to let the cold deter you from your goal: you stride forward toward the waterfall until it's pounding down on your head. You raise your arms up overhead and tip your head back, taking full advantage of the shower. 

With your eyes closed, you don't see the dragon move to block the water until it ceases thundering down on you. Looking up, you laugh again as you see Marcus trying to crowd unsuccessfully underneath the same waterfall.

You lose track of how long the two of you play in the water. You alternate between swimming back and forth and ducking in and out of the waterfall until your fingers are pruned and you're boneless with exhaustion. 

When you finally get out of the water, you're shaking uncontrollably. 

“I'm-m an i-imbec-cile,” you manage to stammer out. “W-Way too c-cold.”

You're sure Marcus would agree if he could, but rather than give you a derisive snort, he hums deep in his throat, a little noise of concern as he curls one wing around you.

You whimper pitifully and press against the warm, soft scales of his belly as his wing shields you from the chilly air. 

“Forgot how… w-warm you are,” you murmur, closing your eyes in contentment. You'll dress in a minute and you'll fly back to the castle, just as soon as you stop shivering…

You don't remember falling asleep.

When you open your eyes again, the bright sun is forcing its way in through the gap between Marcus’s wing and his body. You gasp, sitting up in alarm. 

“Marcus. Marcus! The wedding!” You probably should have thought before startling a great winged beast curled up next to you, but thankfully he only jerks slightly upon waking, a confused, sleepy rumble vibrating your body.

You both jump up and stare at each other in sheer panic before you start laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. You grab your dress and pull it on, but while you can manage to undo the buttons on the back yourself, fastening them back up is another thing entirely. You give up with a frustrated cry and decide to leave the thing loose. You don't bother with shoes, as your feet are still muddy from the late-night swim. Barefoot, and with your dress hanging open, you jump on the dragon's back and fasten yourself in before laughing, “Go! Go!”

You shoot into the sky with a surprised scream of terror. 

“Too fast! Too fast!” you yelp, but Marcus's only response is a loud roar. You hang on for dear life as you rocket through the sky back to the castle, alternating between screaming in terror and laughing until your lungs ache. 

In no time at all, the castle is approaching rapidly. Marcus touches down–less gracefully than usual–near the front gate, directly in front of the disapproving eyes of your maidservant, Annette. 

You stumble off of his back with muddy feet and your dress hanging open in the back. One look back at dragon-Marcus has you dissolving into peals of laughter once more, and you slump forward onto his snout for one last giggling kiss on the tip of his nose before he takes to the skies again–presumably to get ready for the wedding that you both might still be late for.

You scurry down the halls after Annette–still giggling under your breath and smiling from ear to ear as though it were the best day of your life. And, you suppose, it is… so far. You have a feeling that the best days with your husband-to-be are still ahead of you.

Annette, however, looks as though she's preparing for a funeral rather than a wedding.

He's a good man,” you insist as she scrubs the evidence of last night's adventure off of your body in the bathtub. “The curse isn't what you think it is.”

“You are still a stranger in these lands,” Annette says. “You don't understand what you are dealing with.”

“I understand my husband,” you say confidently. “And I believe in his humanity, and in mine. The entire kingdom can turn away, but I never will.”

“I will give the prince credit,” Annette says with a small, affectionate smile in your direction. “If he was to choose the one woman who could break his curse through sheer force of will, he chose correctly.”

“Then believe me when I tell you this,” you say with a soft smile. “There is no amount of curse that could dull our love for each other, and that's why we will always prevail.”

“The longer I know you,” your maidservant says as you towel off, “the more I know that to be true.”

Your heart begins to pound as you're helped into the ornate white gown that has held a place of honor in your closet even before you arrived at the castle. Annette fastens the necklace you had chosen from the castle vault earlier this week: a sparkling cascade of emeralds that match your ring–and the beautiful deep-green hue of Marcus's dragon form–perfectly. The way in which the jewels glitter on your neck give off the illusion of scales themselves, and you smile at the subtle homage to the first form in which you met–and loved–your intended. 

It feels like fate, like this moment was written in the stars at the beginning of time. And now, as the lace veil is placed over your head, you're ready. 

Your garden is even more decadent than usual. Flower petals cover the stone pathways, with more gently cascading from the trees above as you walk slowly through the hedges toward the prince. He's waiting for you under an archway laden with wisteria, and you smile as you notice that, due to the man's height, some of the blossoms are disturbing his hair. 

Your gazes are locked on each other as you slowly approach. Marcus’s eyes are bright with emotion, his lips parted in awe at the sight of his bride. 

You long to launch yourself into his arms as soon as you come to stand next to him, but you force yourself to stand still and dignified as the officiant gently winds a braided gold cord around your joined hands.

Marcus’s voice breaks only a little as you recite the ancient vows:

I promise to be your grounding strength, like the earth beneath us. I vow to bring joy, like the gentle breeze that lifts your spirit. I will be your warmth, like the fire that keeps us safe, and I promise to flow with you, like water, through all the changes of our lives. With these cords, I bind myself to you, in love and respect, in all seasons.

The music swells and more petals cascade down upon the two of you as you share your first kiss as a married couple. 

“Thank you,” Marcus whispers against your lips. “Oh, dearest, thank you.”

Night falls, and yet the two of you still dance slowly together in the garden, kissing and laughing and talking together. You've celebrated, you've feasted, and now all that remains is the rest of your lives, forever entwined.

And, of course, your wedding night. As darkness falls, your kisses grow fuller with promise, until you finally whisper, “Take me to bed, Marcus.”

There's a fire already blazing in the fireplace in Marcus’s quarters. You stand patiently facing the bed as the prince carefully unfastens every tiny button at the back of your wedding dress, unlaces your corset, and slides off your undergarments. He takes your hand as you step forward, away from the pile of discarded clothing. Only the emerald necklace remains, the jewels sparking in the firelight and looking all the more like dragon scales.

You reach back to find the clasp at the base of your neck, but Marcus stops you with an awe-filled smile. 

“Leave it on,” he requests quietly. 

His eyes are dark with lust as he lays you down on the bed you now share. “I want you to promise me,” he rasps huskily, “that you'll tell me if it hurts. If it's too much.”

“Love, it won't hu–”

“Promise.” 

You palm his cheek gently. “I promise.”

You stare up at your husband in wonder and anticipation as he unbuttons his own shirt, casts it aside, and then reaches for the fastenings on his trousers with shaking fingers.

The fear is on full display in his beautiful dark amber eyes as he lets the fabric fall, revealing himself to you once more. 

Your breath catches as the sight before you. Moving slowly, so as not to scare him, you reach up, tracing the soft, barely-there swell of his belly, following the very human trail of dark hair down, down, until your fingers brush against the very not-human scales at the base of his manhood. 

Marcus stiffens and sucks in a breath at the first touch of your fingers. His eyes close and his eyebrows knit together as though he were in pain. 

“It's okay,” you whisper, trying to soothe him. “Love, it's okay.”

You grow bolder, curving your hand around his girth–although he's far too thick to grip entirely–and slowly run your palm up the iridescent scales, from the base of him to the very tip. When you reach it, Marcus’s head tips back and he moans softly. 

The scales are soft and vulnerable, like the ones on his belly in dragon form. You’re thankful for that; you were a little nervous that they’d be rigid and sharp, but they're smooth and yielding, and the ones right on his tip are almost velvety in texture. You smile and bring up your other hand to stroke him as well. With both of your hands involved, you're finally able to wrap around his entire girth. The sound that escapes Marcus as a result is a deep, broken thing, almost as if the action pains him.

“Oh love,” he whispers, his voice rough and breaking. “Oh, love…”

“Is this all right?” you ask nervously.

“Yes. Yes,” he groans. “I'm sorry, I just–I didn't ever think that this–that anyone would want to–”

“I know,” you whisper, reassuring him. “It's okay.”

You continue your gentle exploration of your husband, touching the ridges and bumps curiously, trying to imagine how it will feel inside of you. You don't stop until Marcus is panting, his eyes closed in ecstasy or frustration, you can't tell which. Finally, when you press one fingertip against the little slit at the tip, he breaks.

“Please, dearest,” he chuckles breathlessly. “Oh, love, have some pity.”

You giggle softly, smiling up at the man you love. You meet his deep, emotion-filled eyes, and the mood between you sobers. 

“Marcus,” you say quietly, “make love to me.”

He nods solemnly, lovingly. Reaching over to his bedside table, he procures a little vial and holds it up to show you. 

“I took the liberty of getting this from the apothecary,” Marcus says. “It's a kind of oil, but safe for–for inside.” He reaches down and traces your cheekbone with his thumb. “It should help it to not hurt,” he explains. Softer, he adds, “I don't want it to hurt.”

“You could never hurt me,” you say with absolute certainty. 

Marcus stares at you, his expression full of awe. He surges down to kiss you desperately, over and over, your bare skin sliding deliciously against each other. He crawls down your body and laps at you hungrily. He adds one finger, then another, and another, until his whole hand is buried inside you and you're rising off the bed as you come undone. 

Your chest is still heaving softly with exertion as Marcus is moving up, up, up your body, kissing a path all the way until he reaches your lips, and you shiver in delight at the realization that you can taste yourself on his tongue. 

You watch in awe and trepidation as Marcus shakes some of the contents of the vial into his palm and rubs it over his manhood until it's shiny and wet with slick. He applies a little more to you, indulgently rubbing the slippery fluid over your folds and slightly inside. 

“Promise again,” he demands roughly, even as he hovers over you, his thick length lining up with your core. “Promise you'll tell me if I'm hurting you.”

You take his face in your hands and kiss him sweetly. “Yes,” you promise. “Yes, Marcus.”

His tip notches at your entrance, and your eyes meet as he finally, finally begins to slide home. 

He's prepared you so diligently and thoroughly, but you both know that he's still just a little bit larger than four of his fingers. The slight increase in size overwhelms your senses, and you gasp and whine at the intrusion. Two instincts battle inside you: the desire to squirm away and the need to be filled even more–but you find that you can do nothing except whimper softly for your husband. 

“Breathe,” Marcus reminds you, his eyes sweeping over you, cataloging every reaction to make sure he isn't giving you too much. 

You nod and force yourself to do as he asks, and although your breaths are shaky and labored, the slow inhales and exhales allow you to relax enough for him to keep going, pushing forward bit by bit, stretching you open, filling you utterly and completely.

Once he gets a little ways in, it becomes ever so slightly easier to take, and you tip your head back and moan in ecstasy as the pressure inside of you builds to a crescendo. 

“So pretty like this,” Marcus murmurs. “So perfect, so lovely. You shouldn't be giving me this, and yet you are, oh Gods–” he groans as you squeeze him tightly.

Suddenly, it feels as though there's no more of you that you can give him. With a soft cry of discomfort, you touch his shoulder. “That's–I can't. Not anymore…”

Marcus nods. You can still see the shimmering green of his base; you think he's only around halfway buried inside you, and at the realization, you look at him in panic.

“It’s all right,” he says quickly. “I won't go any further.” His breath shakes as he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, and he begins to slowly rock his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his impossibly-large manhood back and forth against your walls. 

The sound you make, you think, is unhuman. You don’t even know if it’s a wail of pleasure, or of pain as Marcus takes you. All you know is that the sensation is so immense, so profound, that you’ll be forever altered after this. You cling to your husband, your fingers scrambling to find purchase at his neck and shoulders as you search for anything to anchor you. 

Marcus seems to be deeply affected as well; he drops down, burying his head in the crook of your neck as he whimpers deeply with every gentle thrust. Putting his weight on one elbow, his other hand snakes down between your bodies and rubs small circles around your little bundle of nerves. 

It takes longer than usual for the tension to build inside of you than it does with Marcus’s tongue and fingers. The pressure inside of you is simply too consuming, too distracting, but your husband is a patient man, and he methodically takes you higher and higher–and when you finally fall, the waves of pleasure are far more intense as a reward. Your muscles relax, and your core seems to open for him even further, and he takes advantage–seeming to know instinctively that you can take just a few inches more.

“I—I’m not going to last,” Marcus gasps. “It’s too good–been too long, I–mmph–” 

“That’s probably–ah!–preferable,” you manage to answer.

Both of you giggle breathlessly. Marcus raises his head to gaze into your eyes, and he’s still smiling when his hips begin to stutter and lose their rhythm. He cries out into the room as he suddenly stills, and you let out a moan of your own when you feel unnatural warmth blooming inside of you as his spend buries itself deep. 

You slump boneless with a violent shudder when Marcus carefully and slowly withdraws, leaving you feeling empty and vulnerable. You aren’t sure if it’s the sudden void he seems to have left behind that aches, or if you’re just now reacting to the fullness from before, but the sensation overwhelms you, and tears spring to your eyes. 

He notices immediately and springs to action, pulling you against him so fervently that his grip distracts you from your aching core. 

“I have you,” Marcus repeats over and over, peppering kisses on every inch of skin that he can reach. “I have you, dearest, I’m right here.”

You hold him back, just as tightly. “I love you,” you whisper. “I love you.”

Late morning sun streams in through the windows when you next open your eyes. The fire has died sometime in the night, leaving only glowing, golden-red embers, and the room is both too bright and too warm. It’s perfect. You sigh as you stretch your arms overhead indulgently, causing your husband to stir from sleep as well. 

“Good morning.” Your voice is thick with sleep, and so is his reply. 

“Good morning.” 

You hum in appreciation as he leans forward to give you a gentle kiss before sitting up in bed. The covers fall to his hips, exposing the iridescent tip of his manhood, and he sighs. 

“I was rather hoping to wake up this morning and discover this had all been fixed while I slept,” he grumbles.

“Supposing you were fixed, only the things you’ve always claimed to be broken are, in fact, misguided.”

You gently draw the covers back further and admire how he glints in the sunlight. His shaft isn’t as rigid now, but the length and girth of him is still considerable. 

“Could I kiss you there,” you muse thoughtfully, “as you have kissed me on many occasions now?”

“K-Kiss–” Marcus sputters, seemingly unable to speak further.

“You put your mouth on me, and I fall apart,” you say with a sly smile. “Would it be the same for you?”

Your husband falls back on the pillows, pressing his hands into his eyes as he groans. “She’s going to kill me,” he deadpans, speaking to the ceiling rather than to you. “I brought her here, married her, and now she’s going to kill me.”

You giggle at his antics. “Then am I to assume that it would feel just as good?” you tease playfully. You lower your head and give in to the temptation to see what those soft, velvety scales would feel like against your lips. 

“Mmph!” Marcus shudders violently at the touch of your mouth, but it only serves to encourage you. You give him kiss after gentle kiss, letting your lips drag indulgently against the smooth, shimmering scales. You move down, exploring the way they become more rigid as you approach the base, breathing in his scent deeply with every inhale. Emboldened, your tongue darts out to lick a long line back up again, all the way back to the tip, and your husband nearly arches off the bed with a broken moan of your name.

You want to catalogue every inch of his length, every noise he makes as you move your mouth along the ridges and veins of his shaft, up and down, up and down, until he’s throbbing and achingly hard. 

“How can I…” you pause, furrowing your brow as you try to find the words for what you want to ask. “Last night, when you let go at the end–how do I—?” you trail off, looking up at Marcus hopefully.

He stares back as though he can’t believe what you’re asking him. “Oh. Oh. Oh dearest, you don’t need to–it would take… You’d have to put your–your whole mouth on me, and it wouldn’t fit, it wouldn’t work, it–”

You silence his rambling by doing just that. You have to open your mouth so wide that the edges of your lips pull uncomfortably, and you can only fit the soft head of his shaft within you, but the animalistic sound that escapes him as you swallow even the littlest bit of his manhood is well worth the effort. 

You work at relaxing your jaw and throat as you take him just the tiniest bit deeper, and then, thinking of how he moved within you the night before, begin gently working him up and down with your mouth. You can feel your eyes watering, your nose running, and everything mixes together with your saliva to run down the rest of his shaft that you can’t even come close to reaching. 

Marcus’s own hand wraps around himself, and he begins to move up and down, matching the rhythm of your mouth. He pants and gasps loudly as you gain confidence and speed, until finally–

“Love, stop!” he cries, and you lift your head in surprise just in time for him to spill his seed over his own bare chest instead. Your mouth hangs open as you watch him throbbing rhythmically, emptying himself until there’s nothing left.

“S-Sorry,” he chuckles bashfully. “I didn’t want to–Well, it’s a lot, and I didn’t want to hurt you or cause you to choke.”

Slowly, you begin to laugh as well, until the two of you are grinning like the two enamored idiots that you are. 

“What should,” he doubles over with giggles, “should we do for the rest of the day, dearest wife?”

You almost can’t answer through your own laughter, but eventually you manage, saying, “I think breakfast is in order… but after that, I think we can come up with a few more ideas.”

Epilogue

Deep in the Obrage Mountains in the far northern reaches of the kingdom of Azethia, sits a small highland village.

Situated in the shadow of the range’s highest peak, Wyverncroft Mountain, the citizens of the village are quite accustomed to seeing large, winged silhouettes against the clouds on a clear day, but dragons are solitary creatures, and rarely come close to the town itself.

Imagine their surprise, then, when one morning after a great storm had come and gone, blanketing the village in deep snow, one of the beasts touches down on the outskirts, its landing muted by the blizzard. 

What shocks them even further, however, is the young woman who disembarks from a large leather saddle on the creature’s back and approaches the townsfolk, who have all come to gawk at the sight. 

“Excuse me,” she calls out brightly. “Would anyone be able to trade for some bread and cheese, possibly some wine? Our provisions were lost during last night’s storm, and we need some sustenance before we begin our journey back home.”

No one answers.

“We have plenty of coin,” she continues hopefully. “Just no bread.” 

Finally, the baker steps forward. “I have bread,” he begins suspiciously. “But pray tell me: what is a young maiden doing on the back of a colossal beast in the wilding peaks? There are no other settlements for many leagues…”

“Oh, we’re on our honeymoon,” the maiden laughs. “I come from very far away, where there are no mountains to speak of, and I wanted to see their splendor for myself.”

“Your… honeymoon,” the baker repeats. He looks left and right, but there is no husband to speak of. 

The townspeople stare at the newcomers. The girl–and the beast–stare back. The only sound that can be heard is the rustle of branches as a flying squirrel hops deftly from one tree to another, and–

SNAP! 

Everyone jumps as the dragon suddenly darts its head upward to capture the little animal in its strong jaws. It bites down only once, and then swallows its catch whole.

Several of the villagers gasp in fear, and the maiden gasps too–before punching the great creature squarely on its foreleg, just below the shoulder. 

“Rude!” she hisses. “Can you not wait five minutes? You can have yourself an entire herd of deer for all I care, but not before I get my breakfast.” She turns back to the baker with a wide smile. “I’m deeply sorry,” she says sweetly. “We’ve been holed up on the peak for two days waiting for the storm to pass, and we’re both famished and a little short on manners.” She shoots one last glance at the beast behind her, and it whuffs in annoyance, flapping its wings impatiently. 

The villagers hastily give her bread, cheese, and wine as requested, plus a little pouch of dried berries from their summer stores, as the girl had given them far more gold than the meager offering of food was worth. 

She thanks them generously, and the dragon seems to bow its head deeply with gratitude itself. Then, she climbs back into the saddle and the two strangers rise back into the sky, heading south. The villagers watch them until they’re out of sight.

Epilogue 2

When Prince Marcus, as you predicted, does not make any additional transformations into a fearsome dragon, you make it your life’s work to travel the kingdom of Azethia–made faster by flying through the sky with your husband–to spread your message of love and acceptance, rather than fear and shunning, of the kingdom’s afflicted. 

When it becomes clear that the prince will remain of sound mind and human body, you are eventually crowned king and queen at a crowded and boisterous coronation that brings revelers from far and wide, even from outside of the kingdom. Of the foreigners that come, your family, of course, are your most beloved and esteemed guests. And, to your overjoyed gratitude, they elect to stay in the castle with you–and none too soon, because, if your suspicions are correct, you will need all hands on deck for the part of your life that comes next.

The twins, Sophia and Elias, come into their powers at around three years of age, and it takes the combined effort of you and Marcus, your family, and all the castle’s servants to contain the little toddlers that can shape-shift and sprout wings whenever they so choose. 

Rather than being raised in fear of their abilities, Sophia and Elias are celebrated and encouraged (for the most part, except for when they accidentally set fire to various rooms in the castle). You can see, in every year that passes, how Marcus begins to heal–growing into a confident and benevolent king with a razor-sharp wit and boyish smile reserved for those who know him best. 

The twins grow and mature until they are sent away to a university in neighboring Oloslokar, and Marcus’s hair is silver at the temples and his beautiful, amber-brown eyes are surrounded with laugh-lines. (“Both are entirely the fault of my wife and children,” he likes to say with the deepest of affection.)

You grow older, too; your body softens and changes shape after bearing the twins (and enjoying the exquisite meals from the palace chef), becoming–as Sophia used to say when she was smaller–‘Well-suited for warm hugs.’ And those you give generously–to those who come to ask favors of the now-beloved royal family, and to your family, and your children, but most often to your husband (no matter what form he happens to be in). 

When the castle becomes too quiet again, the two of you take to the skies, travelling to every corner of the world that you can manage to reach. 

Your favorite place, however, remains to be a small, unassuming green meadow next to a cliff, where a little waterfall cascades into a lagoon that’s never quite warm enough for a swim.

And yet, somehow, the two of you still manage. 

fin

[scribbleseas]

in love & in war: the one where he meets you

Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica— your father’s vast shipping empire.

Warnings: The reader’s opinions are a bit old-fashioned, and they don’t reflect my own! Besides that, I’m sure there will be some explicit content down the line, but honestly, this story is much more romcom than our usually scheduled programming. It’s just a silly palette cleanser in season for Valentine’s Day.

Author’s Note: Hi! You guys expressed that you guys like more frequent posts, and I’ve reached a bit of a roadblock on my main Ciel fic right now. I thought I would write up a quick beginning to a potential drabble series! If you guys are interested in this premise, let me know! It’s fun to write such chill stakes content for once lol. Also, this isn’t based off a particular request! I’m still playing with my ideas from those, and at this point, I can confidently say you guys are getting either a one shot or a 1-3 part series based on one. Thank you all for submitting, and feel free to keep them coming.

Happy Reading!

- Dan

| NEXT DRABBLE ⇒

MASTERLIST

In Conference

Late May, 1895

Your life was nowhere near as easy as it seemed.

Perhaps, the average onlooker might see you and presume that the expensive jewels wrapped around your neck and your fingers were the most burdensome aspect of your privileged life. Or perhaps they might have thought it would be the pinch from your stately heels or the strain from a brilliant, yet strategic, permanent smile.

Your business smile. Your future-Countess-of-Richmond smile.

But they couldn’t have been more wrong.

This very moment was exact proof of that— you were in the midst of your world collapsing. The abject shock rattling through your mind was akin to a nightmare. Your eyebrows pulled together in a contentious pout, the horrified look you used to get away with your most childish crimes from your parents.

“Marriage? Simply not.” You begged, alreadying feeling your will to fight waver under your father’s tired stare, your mother’s pained grin. “I’m only—”

“Of perfect age to begin looking for a potential partner. 22 is well past ready, I would say,” your mother answered for you.

“I would be— but—” you sputtered like a fish out of water only to inhale deeply through your nose. You needed to collect yourself. Negotiate thoughtfully and logically. That was the only way to get yourself out of this.

“Speak with intent, Y/n,” your father interjected boredly, retraining his attention on the business reports he was reading. He fixed his glasses, pushing them further up the bridge of his nose.

Speak with intent. You knew those words well. They were your solace, the lighthouse in the storm that came with childhood temperament. Your father, no matter the cause of your distress, would answer: Speak with intent.

“Right,” you cleared your throat apologetically, glancing down at your hands as they sat clasped in your lap. “Sincerest apologies, sir.”

Your father hummed, eyebrows jumping a fraction of a centimeter. He picked up his pen and scribbled his signature at the bottom of the report. Your mother’s hand fell on the nape of his neck to make him turn his gaze back up at you. He hesitated before doing so, waiting to click a stamp onto the signed report.

“I do not wish to marry,” you enunciated your words carefully, confidently. “At least, not yet,” you added, now catching your father’s attention for the blunder. “I’ve yet to meet someone I love,” you felt your face redden, a desire to run back to your room threatening to overtake your fortitude. You were only so strong under your father, the Earl of Richmond’s deliberation stare. It struck fear into the other side of conference tables, lecture halls, and courtrooms. And now, across his desk at his only daughter.

Before your father could remind you that love wasn’t the most important aspect of a successful marriage, your mother interjected gently.

“What about the Duke of Clarence’s son, Antonio? He seemed to like you,” she prompted. Wrongly. You’d danced with Antonio at the Summer Solstice gala that the Pembroke family threw annually. The man opted to use the waltz’s entirety to brag about his family’s Italian vineyards and his love for agriculture. And, of course, his admiration for your father’s entrepreneurial genius. His shipping empire, TransAtlantica, had just successfully fortified shipping systems in all of the states; a step forward from simply cycling through all major ports along the east coast.

“He doesn’t love me,” you complained, “he loves TransAtlantica. He’d much prefer to marry our family corporation!” Antonio was suitable. He was decent, but that’s all he truly was to you. It’s all he ever could be.

You met your mother’s eyes pleadingly, and she pursed her lips, fully knowing the next words out of your mouth. You had a deal. From a young age, you knew the Richmond family, the Y/l/n line, respected contracts more than all else. Since you turned 17, you had one signed by all three parties and dated.

Your mother sucked in a breath through her teeth. “I remember the deal,” she said, taking a moment to consider her own words. The corners of her lips twitched as if she was attempting to hide her amusement with you. She understood— her own father, your grandfather, was just as militant, stiff with professionalism. Promises were negotiations with terms, signatures, and stamps. There were no arguments this way. “Dearest,” she addressed your father, the hand that was on the back jumping to his shoulder, “you do as well.”

“Do you?” You challenged, indignantly crossing your arms. “I request you restate the terms, mother.”

“If we are to pressure you into marriage before you feel ready, you must consent to the courting party,” your father took the liberty of answering gruffly. He squared his shoulders, regarding you purposefully— equal parts exhaustion and respect for your endurance. He cultivated it, after all. It was a fire that burned in your family for generations, as sacred as a temple flame.

“Yes,” you affirmed, “and so, I must choose the man I wish to be with.”

“With respect to your titles— no one below your station. And he must be chosen by the end of this courtship season,” your father added, negotiating. He tilted his head, analyzing your next move.

You knew of the first term since you were a child. You even remembered the exact day you learned them. You were a young girl, a little younger than seven. A young commoner boy had attempted to hand you a rose. Your maid at the time had scolded him for standing in the way of a noble family, since he had stepped out in front of you. It was a discernible moment, truly.

As for your father’s second term… you were unconvinced such a thing could be done.

“The end of the courtship season is in four months,” you replied, frowning. You were sure you met most eligible men in your social class. How were you to form a genuine connection in such little time? Even if you couldn’t find love per se, you still wanted to find someone you were compatible with.

“If we reach that deadline and you find no one, we can talk about it,” your mother answered. “And, you must allow me and your aunt to fix you on outings with suitors we like.

“Fine. Only if Daphne joins me,” you replied, knowing fully well that you weren’t allowed anywhere without your handmaiden present.

. . .

Next week

Your mother was sure not to waste any time in beginning to schedule supervised outings with a different well-educated and ennobled man that was within the appropriate age constraints. You’ve never had such a boring week, brutally torn away from the studies you adored so much.

“—And we’ve got another vacation home down in Tuscany, I think,” the Viscount Lineford’s son concluded, taking a peremptory drink out of his tea. He was dressed crisply in beige trousers that rolled up past his ankle and low leather shoes. His sterling watch sparkled in the spring sun.

You fought a building yawn that tempted the back of your throat, determined to hide your exhaustion with the man. It was a good effort, but you certainly weren’t impressed.

“That must be incredible,” you answered absently. “It must be such a lovely foreign getaway for the Lineford family,” you grinned diplomatically, blind to the horror that twisted his — you didn’t care to remember his name, unfortunately — face.

“Foreign? Excuse me Lady Y/n, but my family traces far back into Italian culture that we are practically Roman…” he started, only for you to interject.

“Will you just excuse me, please?” You struggled to keep the desperation out of your face, calmly searching for your supervisor. She was meant to be sitting at a table nearby, merely ensuring that your outing remained within polite societal constraints. More importantly, Daphne served as your escape when your potential suitors proved most unbearable. All you needed to do was subtly tilt your fan to your left ear and the woman would always scramble over to you with an excuse to steer you out of any scenario you found distasteful.

Such as this one.

Daphne never normally left your side, a realization that allowed worry to creep into your tone. “I’m unsure where my maid went, and I would like to fetch her,” you replied, standing and shouldering your small day bag over your shoulder.

“I’m sorry?” He asked, chuckling with bitter disbelief at your rudeness. Ladies were supposed to be demure and polite. You were impatient and honest, a product of an Earl knowing that his daughter was the object of his legacy. Your father trained you as he would a son, and your tutors followed in suit. “Surely you’re joking; this is the middle of our tea.”

Her pocketbook and her sweater weren’t even sitting on the chair she had been occupying, causing you to blink at the empty table in disbelief.

“No, I’m not. I think something might be wrong,” you shouldered past the man, stepping between other individuals sitting at the common tables in the park.

“Fine, you aren’t worth it anyway!” He called at your back, but the words hardly registered with you.

The area was rather common for courting pairs to visit in the early spring. However, it could also be populated with…criminals. “Excuse me,” you mumbled, quickly walking down the paved pathway through the greenery to the main sidewalk, the London pavement heavy with pedestrians. The streets were perhaps more crowded with carriages and sweating horses.

You couldn’t be alone in the city! As a woman of your stature, it simply wasn’t done. Never. Ever. It was an affront to your teachings, and it was unsafe. You needed your friend, not some stranger.

“Where is she?” You mumbled, rapidly attempting to discern every face that passed you. Surely it wouldn’t be long until someone recognized you— you were one of the most photographed families in the country. In fact, you were fortunate no one had offered your location to the press while you were on this outing. You never would have heard the last of it.

Some took hold of your handbag and darted off, using your distractedness to his advantage. He ran to the end of the block and crossed the street, weaving through pedestrians once the crossing guard allowed your side to walk over. If your hand hadn’t been tightly clutching the strap as you walked, you never would have noticed.

You did your best to pick up your speed and chase him, yelling out.

You cried out, glancing down at your long springtime dress. Your short heels were nowhere near efficient enough for you to make a chase out of the robbery, nor should have needed to! Even still, you lunged into the street — without looking.

In fact, if you had committed to your step, you would’ve been flattened by an oncoming carriage, given that the crossing guard had ordered pedestrians to stop passing moments prior. The only reason why you didn’t make the life-ruining step seemed to be… a tall young man with a serious face and staggering presence. He only had one exposed blue eye, the other was concealed by a black eyepatch. His grip tightened around your arm, pulling you intimately into his chest.

You breathed heavily, tearing yourself out of his arms. A flair of irritation caused you to glare at him as you righted your stance and smooth your dress. However, he did save you from a potentially life ending situation. His immediate insurance of your safety was more meaningful than a misaligned gown that you fixed in seconds.

In fact, the moment truly was a bit theatrical. The man was handsome enough to make you smile with uncertainty, your irritation melting. “Thank you for that,” you said, relieved that the sidewalk seemed to clear, the crowd dispersing from the main street. “I could have been killed.”

“That would have been quite a shame,” he replied, locking eyes with you. The man made a thin attempt at returning your smile. He was enchanting, regal… your heart skipped a beat, considerably flustered.

…Until he spoke again, completely distorting the immediate magnetic lure you felt from his sharp features: “Rather careless of you, my Lady. You ought to be smarter than that.”

You frowned. “In case you failed to notice, that man stole my handbag and essentially disappeared,” you snapped impatiently. It had your identification, emergency notes in case you needed to purchase something, the current novel you were fixated on…how were you meant to return to the estate now?

“You weren’t catching him, I don’t think,” he noted astutely, watching you as you stepped past him to go in the direction you came from. Perhaps Daphne circled back to the park in search of you. You absolutely needed to find her.

“Thank you for your help. Good day,” you answered brusquely, continuing to walk. However, he remained in stride with you, still unabashedly smug. It quickly absolved you of any former gratefulness you had toward the man for pulling you away from oncoming traffic. Perhaps it might have hurt less to have collided with a horse and a carriage over the velocity and mass of this random man’s ego.

“What, don’t tell me you going to go chase him,” He said patronizingly, a sardonic pull infecting what you thought was initially a careful smile. No, the man was just another arrogant bastard, it seemed. “In those shoes, especially,” He perused, causing you to stop once more and regard him.

“I am a noble woman, you will not speak to me in such a manner no matter what line of—“ you caught the sapphire family and silver crest rings around two of his fingers — “mediocre destitution you come from!” You jabbed purposefully, undeserving of his rudeness and his condescension, no matter what title he occupied in your class. You were the partial inheritor of TransAtlantia; you trained to run the company to some degree since you could speak. Few could step to you.

“I believe I said good day, kind sir,” you added poisonously, daring him to continue to test you before speeding back towards the park. You needed Daphne, you needed an officer…anyone besides this pompous— you ended the thought before you could further infect yourself with such unladylike curses.

It really wasn’t so easy being the daughter of an Earl.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

“I’ve planned things so Lady Y/n’s maid is off helping a little girl find her mother; I separated the two by distracting the girl with a kitten. Y/n will panic without her maid being within her immediate reach, drawing her out to the street. I will cause her to put herself in harm’s way by distracting her at the corner of 89th Street and Arthur. Be ready by the street post. I’ve made the new paralegal late to his case, he will have instructed his butler to drive quick. You will need to pull her away from the street. If you miss, things may end rather…unfortunately for the young woman,” Ciel Phantomhive’s butler, Sebastian Michealis, outlined.

Sebastian was Ciel’s head butler, his head chef, head landscaper, tailor, tutor… but most importantly, the Earl of Phantomhive’s contracted demon. The supernatural being was at his disposal and his bidding; his new role being the most interesting one of all: matchmaker. He fabricated a scene for Ciel to meet Y/n Y/l/n, and ideally, make her love him.

It was simple, really. Ciel needed a wife; Y/n’s family needed a competent businessman to run that prosperous giant of a shipping enterprise; and most importantly, the woman seemed to be rather competent. The only danger to his strategy was, of course, Y/n’s foul storybook idealism, apparently. Ciel knew Y/n was highly educated and well graced in ettiquiete, but she seemed intent on finding some happily ever after of sorts.

She wanted a husband— a bloody love match. No— she needed an actor to convince her that she was worth marrying beyond the incredible status she represented. There was no asset greater than a title and an economic monarchy to inherit, and securing such a prize meant that Ciel needed to woo her.

“My Lord, you must be considerate, but not too kind. Though you should also refrain from acting too smugly or the lady may take offense,” his butler had offered some horrifically embarrassing — and incredibly unhelpful — acting lessons for him to express the particular warmth Lady Y/n seemed to be looking for.

Love. A feeling Ciel hadn’t known in around nine years. Arguably, it could’ve been more. And yet, in order to stop being solicited by desperate mothers and unlikely candidates, he was securing his bride.

According to Ciel’s butler, that meant he needed to create a memorable foundation in the woman’s mind, an introduction that would leave her curious, impassioned. Wanting more. Something to make him stand out amongst the other faceless, classless mouth breathers who would be vying for TransAtlantica, now that word of her search for a suitor was widespread.

The company and Y/n’s hand were all one in the same courtship, and Ciel was sure the was going to win both.

The Earl of Phantomhive was never one to lose. He’d be remiss to start now.

[gunnerfc]

Center Stage - Aitana Bonmatí x Reader SMAU; Part 1.5

Aitana gets asked about going to your show in a pre-match conference and makes a small confession that has social media going crazy! A short bridge between parts 1 and 2!

AN: All translations come from google! 

Aitana had to resist the urge to roll her eyes when she was told she would join Jona for the pre-match conference before the team’s match against Atlético Madrid. If she was honest, most of her irritation came from not being able to meet you after attending your show.

While Aitana understood that you were very busy and couldn’t hang around long after getting off stage, she was a bit bummed she couldn’t give you the friendship bracelet she had made with her number on it. It was a bit foolish to think it would work, but Aitana’s crush never faltered at her failed chance of making a move.

Sitting beside Jona, hearing the same questions she’s heard numerous times before, Aitana’s irritation grows. The Catalan lets her head coach answer most of the questions, his answers are the same words he spoke to the team during the last training, though this time a bit more formal for the press. Aitana gave her input here and there when questions were directed towards her, but for the most part, she was silent. 

Aitana thought she would soon be free of reporters until after the game tomorrow, but when a reporter stated the last question would be for her, she knew she had thought wrong. 

“Aitana, ¿cómo estuvo el concierto al que asististe durante el parón de semana? (Aitana, how was the concert you attended during the week break?)”, the reporter asked, catching Aitana off guard. She didn’t expect to be asked about you or your show during this conference.

Aitana could feel her mood instantly shift at the thought of talking about you. Before she could consider her words, the midfielder responded with “¡Fue muy bueno! ¡Disfruté la mayor parte! (It was very good! I enjoyed most of it!)” 

She realized how her words sounded the moment they left her mouth but before she could explain further, a different reporter beat her to it. 

“¿La mayor parte? Parecía que disfrutaste todo el espectáculo por los videos que te tomaron los fans. (Most of it? It seemed like you enjoyed the whole show from the videos fans took of you.)” the reporter asked, clearly trying to get Aitana to say more. They were journalists for a reason.

Aitana could feel her cheeks flush at the thought of fans having videos of her looking like a love-sick puppy over someone who didn’t even know who she was. Aitana wasn’t the best liar so she knew the only way to clarify what she didn’t enjoy was to tell the truth.

“¡Disfruté el espectáculo! No disfruté no tener la oportunidad de conocer a Y/N después (I enjoyed the show! I didn't enjoy not having the chance to meet Y/N afterwards.).” Aitana started, and now she knew she had to keep going, even if it meant possibly embarrassing herself slightly.

“Los fans de Y/N son conocidos por sus pulseras de la amistad. Le hice uno, esperando poder dárselo después del espectáculo (Y/N’s fans are known for their friendship bracelets. I made her one, hoping I could give it to her after the show.).” Aitana finished, her cheeks still tinted red. 

Keira and Ona were never going to let her live this down.

“¿Había algo especial en la pulsera? (Was there something special about the bracelet?)” The first reporter asked, confusion lacing their voice. 

Aitana took a breath before responding, “Tenía mi número de teléfono (It had my phone number on it.).” The midfielder’s voice wavered slightly, hoping the reporters would hear that she didn’t want to say anything further. 

A staff member came to her rescue unintentionally, telling the reporters that they had no time for more questions. Aitana took a deep breath before muttering “gracias” into the mic in front of her. The Catalan quickly left the conference room and headed straight for the training pitch, hoping that none of her teammates were watching the conference. 

Thankfully they had started training a few minutes before Aitana told a room full of journalists that she had attempted to slip her number to you. While it was a tad bit embarrassing, a large part of her was hoping that maybe you would end up seeing clips of her conference and might reach out. 

Aitana would do it herself but she was nervous that you may reject her, despite how bold of a move it was to make a bracelet with her number on it to give to you if she had the chance. For now, Aitana was focused on training and tomorrow’s game. Barça was on a winning streak and she was not going to let this incident mess with her or her playing. 

[TWITTER POSTS]

barçafan1: DID ANYONE ELSE WATCH AITANA’S PRE GAME CONFERENCE?! SHE TRIED TO GIVE Y/N HER NUMBER

↳ ynfan1: ARE YOU SERIOUS?!

↳ barçafan2: YOURE JOKING ????

ynupdates: Barcelona player Aitana talked about Y/N during a recent pre-game conference! She talked about trying to give Y/N a bracelet with her number 👀

↳ ynfan2: Y/N in her athlete era for real?!

ynfan3: I WAS JUST JOKING WHEN I SAID I WAS STARTING A RUMOR BUT I DONT THINK ITS A JOKE ANYMORE

ynfan4: everyone manifest she goes to the game tomorrow!! 

ynfan5: EVERYONE WHO IS GOING TO THE GAME BETTER TAKE PICTURES IF THEY SEE Y/N THERE !!!

[dhampling]

sylvan gn!reader, 2.8k

THIS IS IT! THE UNICORN FIC! ALSO COINCIDENTALLY A 300 FOLLOWER CELEBRATION PIECE! THANK YOU!!! based on THIS ask, where a chance series of encounters in youth come together on one night, where everything just clicks for Astarion and his unicorn. this has plagued my brain. this is all i know now. i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. wc: 2.8k c/w: descriptions of mutilation. fluff. reader WAS a unicorn. yippee.

A bed of burning coals. Belly on a smooth stone slab. 

Low candlelight as Cazador works, each measured smite into the milky flesh of Astarion’s back feels akin to a dull goring; blood a balm of cooling as it spills. 

A mouldering steak.

With each biting shovel of the gouging blade he knows this is a horribly permanent form of disfigurement. 

The pale face in the very periphery of his waning vision, flickering often to look at some tome of reference before conferring with Dufay in frequent sharp whispers. 

He wipes the skin to clear his canvas after each twist of his tool. A searing rag. He can feel the fluff, the grit, as it settles deep into the exposed sticky blazing valleys between his shoulder blades. He feels the birth of rancid infection. The prickle of each and every prick along his tendons that the debris sets alight. 

He knows little else in this moment. 

He knows his limbs are useless in tight leather binds, but that this isn’t a case of reprimand as a flaying or a visit to the kennels may be. He’s been good this month. He hasn’t pushed his luck, nor toed the line. He hasn’t even seen Godey in a four tenday. 

He knows that the gods can’t hear him down here, wherever here is. He was mercifully sedated at one point, but now all that remained were the paralytic properties of whatever was in the chalice presented oh-so-mightily to him at dinner. That his foetid, mortified carcass won’t allow him to howl, or whine, or scream. 

He thinks that he had a similar tool to this when he was young.

He remembers the cool blunt edge in the kitchens and running the tip of his small thumb along it. Feeling it in his pocket, warmed by the heat of his still-breathing body. Sitting in the forest just the other side of the fence with a small wicker basket of apples beside him. Woven blanket underneath linen tunic, woollen overcoat despite the early Kythorn sun; juices running down his little chin as he looked up at the birds singing through the canopy of trees. 

He then remembers his mother’s beckon call, leaving the cores to rot on the peaty floor; seeing the yellowing flesh dotted with twigs and brown leaves, glistening still.

-

“Are you coming?” He whispers sharply, head peering around the yawning mouth of your tent. 

You stretch and roll your wrists, freeing your eyes of sleep with a soft rub.

“Hm?”

Astarion clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. You look at him in a daze. 

He bristles in the post-gloaming purple dusk, your amber candlelight bringing his face warmth as his eyes scan your face. Behind him you can see a tapestry of stars starting to form in the sky. 

His head shakes a little. Claps once. Incredulous.

Oh.

“Overslept.” You mumble. He sighs.

“Gods.’

Pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

‘You have five minutes before I pull you out of this foetid little pit, whatever state you’re in.”

He turns on his heel.

“Is that a threat?” You shout after him.

His head ducks quickly back in.

“A promise. Just so we’re clear.”

A nap in the thulsun heat. A day of rest. Astarion ‘knock, knock’-ing on your tent flap as you read and slinking in like a cat, perching precariously on the chair you use to throw your unwashed armour onto after battle. Several quips about the smell. You threw a pillow at him. Hard. He repostured and continued on breezily.

He’d ‘gotten wind’ of a gathering happening on the beach twenty minutes from camp. Scavengers finishing up at the Nautiloid wreckage throwing some debauched farewell to the Ravaged Beach before some bastardised mercenary force comes in to begin clean up. All the good stuff now gone, but plenty of wine; and, obviously, an opportunity for ‘a little bit of fun’.

He’d blinked at you coquettishly, leaning on the back of the chair, daring you to ask just how he’d gotten wind of such an event. 

It’s rare you’ve bounced off another with such ease since your change. You’re too intelligent for his seduction techniques - the ones you hear him rehearsing quietly to himself from his tent each evening - to work the simple way he intends. That doesn’t mean the pale elf has had no effect on you, however.

You take comfort in knowing exactly how you’ll find him every time you look, and he’ll always be ever so pleased to hear that you have been looking. 

A wink. A flash of those porcelain white fangs. 

An invite to your bedroll for the most sordid of midnight snacks. 

Chatter between friends, an ever-present whiff of flirtation; the quirk of a moonlit lip and the pleasure of mutual relief in the dead of night. 

You fumble around the darkened tent in underwear searching for your discarded camp clothes as his fire-lit silhouette lingers outside.

-

Astarion thinks about the apples from time to time.

Tough, yet yielding. Biting. Sweet flesh bursting in season, ripe and white. Scraps of red skin stuck between hungry teeth. Seeds in their hard little hollows, stalks with small dry leaves. The way the juice ran so freely down his chin in the light of the sun and dampened the back of his hand as he’d wiped it away.

His full wicker basket empty by afternoon. 

Highsun courtyard feasts. He remembers the animals; his mother joking with beaming eyes and a wine-dipped cheer about his ‘druidic potential’ as she held him close, hand on his head, the other on his chest, he stood against her legs as she wittered. Time spent watching for an opportunity to slip through the gate and sit in silence with the birds.

Cazador trenches into his back deeper this time. What Astarion assumes must be blood spatters into his hair with the force of flying blue jay shit, and he’d know. 

He remembers the first time he saw the unicorns in the forest, how bewildered he felt. Startling white in such vivid contrast to the surrounding browns and greens. 

They weren’t skittish like the deer were, nor could they have been ‘lost property’ like the horses who often roamed by. The kobolds were mean to him on more than one occasion and the boars who passed were simple creatures. 

As a decisive yank is made and the gouging tool changes direction, fully embedded in the flesh it tears, he thinks about the smallest one. 

-

Despite being fraught with innuendo and obvious peacocking, Astarion’s company is a reassuring distraction from your current tadpole predicament. A parody of traditional pursuit wrapped in genuine affection. He knows he doesn’t have to bring the bravado, because you’ll play along regardless. 

And this eventide, alongside the fallen Nautiloid; he glows.

Skin soaked in the deep gloaming ambers and yellows of the campfire. Laugh of treacle, like a dozing highsun; a dawn chant on Lathander’s day - he tips his head back in a cotton lull and the quiet threat of his smile brimming through his sharp incisors devastates you. 

You watch on from the open mouth of a scavenger tent astride a pile of pillows and blankets, surrounded in distant light and pilfered goods. A warm breeze carries the firesmoke and to your side is a newfound silver chalice full to the brim with heady Arabellan Dry. 

He looks every part the favourite of the gods. 

Sways gently in his seat. Imbibes generously. Lifts his arms wide in gesticulation with oft-rotating conversational partners and tells stories in hushed tones with the most salacious quirk threatening his brow.

Occasionally throughout your jaunt, you’ll wonder if he should be holding your mind like this. 

Then his eyes meet yours.

Gods.

It feels like they all watch as he moves to you. Adonis in the flesh; effusive as his fingers circle the rim of his glass and he sinks to crossed legs beside you. Face by face. 

“I am so fucking bored.” He mutters. Smiles widely at a passing new acquaintance before sighing a grumble.

“Which one was ‘bored’ again?” You peer mockingly into the crowds, searching with a hand resting atop your tired brow. 

He elbows you. Hard.

“You sound remarkably sour, pet.”

“I’m not sour. I’ve had a beautiful evening” You sip. A gentle breeze rolls over you. 

Astarion lolls his head back a little.

“Beautiful wasn’t really the plan though, was it?”

You turn to him. Narrow your eyes just the smallest bit.  

Astarion tilts back and looks to the sky. He opens his mouth as if to speak. Closes it just as fast.

“What?”

You picture him falling in love with every single one he’d spoken to on the beach this evening; lifting locks of hair around nimbly twirling fingers and pulling another warm body closer. Tilting his head downwards, eyes remaining forward; struggling for words in covetous gasps. Seduction. 

A small laugh. Gods.

“Beautiful. Fucking a stranger in a beach cove isn’t necessarily what I’d call beautiful, dearest.”

“That was your plan?”

“Wasn’t it yours?”

You stop for a good moment. Astarion clicks his tongue in thought. Blinks with the urgency of dripping treacle.

-

Gods. The memory alone would be enough to bring a smile to his face, and he remembers it so very vividly. 

The apples. A baby unicorn. 

One late Elient afternoon, the first time any of them had approached. His fingers stickied with juice. It didn’t appear to be cautious by any discernible means, refusing the peel he’d hesitantly offered far out on the flat of his palm.

Little thing. Just about his size, he thinks; and he was always small. 

He remembers sniffing with a cold and haphazardly wiping his sticky fingers on the front of his coat. Reaching out so it could smell him.

Chewing open-mouthed, eyes closed, smoothing his face with the back of his hand.

They’d fall about together on feeble legs, his flailing arms and gentle nudges. Days on days spent venturing into the forest where it’d be waiting for him in the same clearing as always.

He remembers easing into the apple flesh with the tool edge and gently wiggling it into the crisp white to ensure a deep enough pit. Skimming imperfect rounds of the skin. Bouncing the resulting red spiral between his thumb and forefinger. 

Cazador reaches for the dagger. A hundred-thousand molten pins.

-

The moon overhead. Unwavering in clarity. It almost feels like you’re on the precipice of a different world. 

“You’re weird, you know.’ Astarion breaks his silence. The revellers continue to drink, to dance and talk clumsily around you.

Your eyes meet his. He wavers on the edge of certainty, but the performative lowering of his lids shows you he isn’t too sure. There’s a front to the nonchalance. 

‘What are you?”

“Hm?”

“Fun. I said there’d be fun. You aren’t partaking.’ He takes a sip and swills it around his mouth whilst collecting his thoughts. The dossier. Racking through pages in his brain.

‘I can’t be completely sure, but I’ve met a lot of humans in my life. Seduced them. Given and taken like a market teller.’

His hands move as he speaks, a considered pattern of gesticulation. 

‘And you simply… you’re above it all. You don’t even smell human. What are you?”

There it is. If you weren’t inebriated you’d be tempted to laugh him off. 

Tonight, however; your bones are thoroughly wine-sodden. 

Your companion has a twinkle in his eye. A beach of prospective lovers and he has collapsed at your side in respite. If he persecutes you as they would then you’ll die with his face the last thing you see. It doesn’t feel like a bad compromise.

“Not human.” You confirm, looking at your fingernails with a pert nod.

He laughs in a slight of vindication. 

“Try me.” 

“Sylvan.”

You can’t be sure if it’s from embarrassment or underlying fear that your head falls into your sweaty hands. Astarion’s snide streak plays at the fray of your mind.

“What? Half wood-elf or something?” 

He sips. 

“Unicorn.” You lift your fingers and flutter them around the sides of your head meekly. 

Splutters. 

“Explains why there are none roaming the actual woods anymore, I suppose.”

He’s taken it surprisingly well, all things considered. You aren’t sure what you’d expected. A minute of silence. The lazy roll of waves along the shore.

“What do I smell like?”

Maybe he’s wary of the driftwood stake near your hand. 

“Apples. People don’t smell like apples. Usually sweat. Or perfume.’ He runs his tongue over his teeth and sniffs. 

‘Not apples. I should’ve -”

Apples. A softness in the way he says it, you note. Favoured fruit in the allotments running the edge of the forests.

‘I’ve not had an apple in so long.”

He finishes with a wistful smile, topping off the wine in hand and refilling it with a swift glug. 

“Do you miss them?” 

“Apples? I-’

The cogs turn slowly - he wets his bottom lip and looks to the sky once more. His brow furrows as you watch him think.  

‘I used to sit in the forest, just around the back of the garden wall. I was about- I’d have been about up to here?’ He lifts his arm to just above where his sitting head rests.

‘I was tiny. All day long. Peeling the skin, gnawing away. Ironic.”

Pauses as if in remembrance of something. Grimaces.

You smile fondly and reach for his arm. You’re willing to entertain the line of dialogue. It distracts from the situation and he seems open to indulging in it.

“Funny.”

He scoffs and taps your hand softly before taking it in his. Cool fingers lock around yours. 

“How so?” 

“Gods, a long time ago now - there was a boy I met who did the same thing. Fascinated by them. Would sit and peel them with a little tool. Strange thing.”

You take a sip as you imitate the focus of the young thing, pretending to work tunnels into the cooling air with your near-empty chalice.

Astarion whips his head to face yours.

“Two hundred years ago?” 

“Why?’

He’s watching you as if you’re holding something very fragile in your faux-gouging fingers.

‘I suppose so? Round about then. Bit longer, maybe two hundred and th-”

“Me. It was me.”

Your eyes meet.

It’s the kind of moment you’ve read about in your downtime, the way the clock stops. Everything feels silent. The sea stops rolling soft on the shore, the voices around you are naught above a whisper; the glass in the hand not clutching yours set firmly on the sand as he shuffles to face you head on.

Apples. 

You watch his eyes soften wholly. Not a single ounce of guard; no sense of hesitation. Two glimmering rubies in the moonlight.

“His eyes weren’t red.” You smile.

It takes a moment for him to react. He’s studying your face reverently, with newfound interest; mapping each of the lines and blemishes with a hand hovering over your cheek. 

And then he laughs. The most beautiful sound in all the realms, melodic. 

“They weren’t.’

He points to the scarred fang marks above his sagging collar.

‘I was also alive at that point.’

Astarion takes a few comfortable minutes to look at you as he strokes over your hand with his thumb. You’ve spent enough of the past few weeks looking over him to know him almost by heart but you’ll indulge with the context of the revelation before you. 

“Look at us now, then.” 

Your voice cracks. You didn’t realise the sheer size of the lump in your throat.

“I -’

He presses his free hand to your cheek as he did when you were both young. Soft. Jowls ablaze at his wine-sticky touch. 

The sincerity in his gaze is brutal. If you weren’t so deeply enamoured you might just vomit.

‘The longest night of my life, I thought of you. The apples. How -’

Astarion takes a moment to survey you. You obviously look nothing like you did back then, aside from the brightest eyes he’s ever seen in all two hundred and thirty nine years of life and the same softness in how they revere him. 

‘How you never came back. I waited.’

It’s then that you crumble. 

‘How happy I knew I’d be when you did return.”

It’s cataclysmic, the way he talks. The last person who was kind to you and he thought you’d left him by choice this whole time. Remembering you in his darkest moments. All you’ve both suffered and here you are, on this rancid beach in the middle of nowhere; your hand safe in his.

“It wasn’t by choice. Never.”

The look on his face suggests he’s toying with the idea of playing the fair maiden, but he sees the way you crack and almost takes to tears himself.

“Well. You’re here now, and we have a lot of lost time to make up for. It helps that I was already fond of you, of course.”

He brushes the hair from your face and plants a deep kiss on your forehead as you bring your arms around his waist, hesitantly.

It’s a start. 

One you’d never have seen coming when waking aboard the crashed nautiloid in front of you; but glorious nonetheless.

[sheepispink]

⋆˚｡⋆୨✧୧˚ 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑬𝑺𝑪𝑶𝑹𝑻 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑻𝑶𝑪𝑶𝑳 ˚୨✧୧⋆｡˚⋆

series masterlist resident evil masterlist

CH9: INFINITE DARKNESS PART 3

a/n: lowkey patrick x reader with this one, and the last, but it is what it issss also last part of infinite darkness!!!!

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After mentally deciphering the few clues Leon had left in his words, you figure out Shen Mei had taken him to Wilson’s laboratory beneath the press conference itself. You’d left Patrick in charge of delivering the news, whilst he hesitantly gained you the access codes for it. It wasn't like he didn’t trust you, but he wasn't so sure about letting a non-agent get themselves into a dangerous situation like that. Alas, you hadn’t given him much time to think before you hurried off. You’re right before the door when the floor trembles, a loud crash echoing behind the metal walls. What the hell was that? They were supposed to be having a chat with Wilson, that would maybe lead to an altercation but what the hell could’ve happened to cause that loud of a noise?

Hesitant, you creak the door to the control room open, only to see a giant bridge worth of metal take up half the room from where it had been thrown through the glass panel that overlooks the laboratory below. You rush into the room, confused how someone, or something, could’ve managed to throw that from below into the window. “A little help over here..” You hear beside you, a croaked murmur, and you whip your head to see Claire pushed back against the wall, a metal pole having pushed her back badly. “Claire!”

 Quickly, you pry the pole off of her, helping her free and setting her into a position that doesn't put pressure onto her obviously injured arm. It looks bad, really bad, likely broken or fractured, but hopefully she’s not in too much pain. “Do you think there are any bandages around here—” The floor trembles again, Leon’s loud yell echoing from below and Claire tugs you with her free arm. “Go help Leon— it’s only broken, you have to kill Jason.”

Jason? He’s still alive?

You could’ve sworn Leon had shot him back in that flat, but if it was true and if he really was back, there’d be more problems. Trusting Claire is telling the truth, you adjust her to a safer position before running back to the cracked control panel, most of it destroyed by the metal. Leon jumps across a moving platform below, Jason following close behind. Except it isn't him, no, it’s a manifestation of him, or rather a monstrous creature. You can already smell the rotten flesh, despite him being miles away, remember the slimy feel as it wrapped its hand around your throat and the way its jaw unhinged as it screamed.

“Leon!” You scream through the broken glass, his eyes instantly snapping up to meet yours and something close to relief seems to appear on his face. You don't hesitate though, pressing down all the relevant buttons and suddenly the platform Leon’s on elevates, rising higher than Jason’s. There’s a bubbling acid filling the floor from random pipes, slowly consuming the tiles until all that’s left is a sea of bubbling fiery yellow. Jason roars, jumping onto Leon’s platform and his sheer weight making it tilt.  Dammit, this isn't going too well, at any rate he’s bound to catch up. “Leon, hold on!” You move another platform to shoot up beneath the one he was on, knocking it and shaking the floor beneath his feet. His hand grabs onto a random pipe whilst Jason screeches, repeatedly hit by the metal. However, he doesn't give in so quickly leaping onto an opposing platform but not before slashing the side of Leon’s. Thankfully Leon has already steadied himself and scrambled elsewhere, running along a broken walkway. 

“This is it.” You mutter to yourself and grab both levers, slamming them down.  The slimy monster heads downwards, like some sort of sick elevator to death all while he screeches and scrambles. He jumps once more, grabbing onto the walkway Leon was on. It starts to tilt again, slowly breaking downwards, and you cry out, nothing you can possibly do to help this time. But Leon’s got this, kicking right into the face before grabbing a metal plank and banging it into his face. The creature falls onto a rapidly lowering platform—no matter where he tries to hump, each platform continues to fall, everywhere he heads leads him down again.

A giant splash echoes as he is consumed in the yellow acid, and you force yourself to look away, letting out a deep breath as your heart finally stills to a stop. Leon hangs from the handles of the walkway, watching as the skin is eaten away before disappearing entirely. 

The door slams open behind you, Patrick standing there with a few medics who immediately assess Claire’s condition and help her upright. One begins to approach you, but you dismiss them, turning around to direct their attention to Leon down below. However, when you turn you realise he’s already gone, likely to keep the situation as hushed as possible and frame the incident as a ‘lab accident’. 

You’re about to turn back and catch up with Claire, help the medics with whatever you can when your eye catches onto one of the bodies laying flat against the platform. Carefully, you slip out through the side door, running down the small steps towards the platform. Shen Mei lays there, her eyes closed and by the lack of movement in her chest, dead. You could already imagine what happened— Jason not listening to her pleas and letting the monster inside him take over. It makes you shudder slightly, the idea of being infected by a parasite that mutates and transforms you in a way in which makes you unrecognisable, physically and mentally. Not to mention you could’ve learned the exact same fate as her, only saved because of Leon coming in time. Quietly, you crouch beside her body, eyes downturned. Despite her hostile stance against you, it was clear she was fighting for what’s right and with the small knowledge Leon had allowed you, to save her own kin. Someone who had worked this hard should’ve never met their end like this, to be covered up like nothing but a dent in a giant field.

“C’mon. Let's go back.” Patrick stands beside you, stretching out a hand that you quietly take, and slowly begin to follow him back to the stairs once more. His hand is warm, giving yours a small reassuring squeeze for what you had just witnessed. Your eyes find it hard to leave the scene below though, the mutilated torso of the monster Jason below, a bullet leaving a bleeding wound in its slumped head. It bubbles something inside you that feels forbidden, and you quickly snap your head away from it before you let it consume you.

Patrick updates you on the situation as he leads you upstairs, revealing that the President had listened to Leon’s words and proceeded with the peace treaty with the countries. Now at least there was no political threat anymore, and thanks to Leon and Shen Mei’s efforts, there wasn't a biological threat either. Claire was getting fixed up in a hospital and well, Leon was giving an official rundown of the situation. It just seemed like a waiting game now, one that you particularly didn't want to deal with alone, especially with your current thoughts. 

————————————-

Leon stands alone at the edge of the airfield that overlooks a part of the city. The President had just arrived, the bodyguard opening the car door as he exited the vehicle. There were news stations arriving too, keeping a safe distance maintained by the security while flashing as many photos as they could. He walks up the steps as Leon watches, stopping at the entrance to the private jet before waving at the onlookers. He turns, pausing as he looks at Leon and giving him a silent nod. Leon nods in turn, watching him disappear before the plane rumbles, preparing for takeoff. The sun was beginning to set now, basking the sky in shades of pink and orange. The past day or so was exhausting for him, and he had barely a second to let his mind wander for a minute. It was weird trying to settle his mind from the adrenaline from these situations, like squeezing a pumping heart to try to slow it down. He could only stare out at the buildings below, feeling that uncomfortable weight begin to settle in his chest again. It’s been a year since his mission in Spain, and this was beginning to feel a little too similar.

“Leon!”

Before he can even process it properly, you’ve appeared beside him out of nowhere and thrown your arms around his middle. He almost topples over if not for your tight hold keeping him in place. “Woah, you trying to tackle me or something?” He huffs out a laugh and hugs you back just as tight, one hand ruffling your hair affectionately. It’s been a long, long time since someone’s greeted him so warmly, even longer since he’s actually been this close to someone before— physically and emotionally. After all, you practically hated his guts when you first joined a year and a half ago— though he hated yours just as much. But a lot of things have changed over those years, and after this shared experience together he feels that tightness release from his chest when you laugh. 

“Yeah yeah, you’d grab my hands before I could even knock you down.” His guard is always down around you, little did you know, but he won't tell you that just yet.

“True. You didn't get hurt anywhere right?” You nod quickly, even as he pulls away from you to assess your condition, hands planted on your shoulders. “You were the one who was practising beating Jason up— I was just watching the show.” He lets out a little huff at your words, an uneasy feeling when you call that.. Thing, Jason. It wasn't him, no, he had been abused and violated by Wilson, leaving only a shell of him behind. But it’s not your fault, he knows you’d rather humanise him than reduce him to a mere monster.

“C’mon, let’s head back before it gets too cold out here.”

“You think they’ll give us a better hotel this time?”

“No chance.” He chuckles, settling his arm around your shoulder as he leads you back away from the airfields and to the car Patrick had graciously booked for the two of you to take back. 

——-

You watch from inside the tinted windows of the car as he converses with Claire, her seemingly asking for something and him shaking his head. Personally, you wanted to join him and see how she was doing, but he mumbled something about it being important and nudged you to stay in the car. It doesn't seem particularly like a good conversation, especially after she walks off like that. Back in China when Leon had saved Shen Mei from the attack on her grandfather's home, he had explained to you that their actual plan was that they had collected enough evidence of the defence secretary Wilson being the culprit of distributing bioweapon viruses and blackmailing the Penamstan crew. This was stored on the chip, one that they intended to spread around and tell the world the truth. However, during the building's collapse, Leon had practically taken it hostage from Shen Mei, keeping it with himself. The door clicks open, Leon sliding into the back beside you again. Your shoulders bump gently, Leon signalling to the driver who starts the car once more. 

“.. You didn't give it to her?” Your head tilts, having expected she’d want the information to go public and spread around the world. She definitely had the resources for it too, so why didn't he? “No.. i..” He falters, glancing at you and your wide eyes before turning away once more. You watch his expression twist, one of guilt and remorse but in a way that’s only felt when something is forced upon you. A responsibility.

Your hand grazes his quietly, laying your palm carefully atop the back of his hand. “You don't have to explain.. I get it.” The tension relaxes in his words, and he looks at you again, properly, eyes a little more downturned than usual. “Really?” He whispers, and you nod again, your index and thumb gently holding the tip of his own index. “Yeah.” He lets his hand curl around yours properly, a satisfied hum escaping his throat as he leans back a little better, though still a little bit on edge. It was the lasting effect of the tough mission, and he felt drained down to his bones like this.

 “Heard you did a great job, helping Patrick deliver all the info.” His words are quiet murmurs, his thumb gently dragging over every small crease or mark across your hand, dragging up each join and curve of your skin. “And you did great back there in the lab. You saved my life with your nerdy skills.”

His laugh is genuine, but it’s weary, a little more breathless than it should normally be. You can tell he’s grown tired, and you can't blame him, you’re exhausted yourself. The sun has almost all but faded out now, the outside a deep orange as the last slivers shine across. “I pressed a few buttons, that’s all. I’m just glad you’re okay, I was scared for you back there.”

Warmth fans over your hair, his little huff thanks for that but likely a very much needed one. “You shouldn’t have even been involved in the first place. I promised I’d protect you from that again-”

“Mhm.. You can make it up to me by..” You don't quite seem to care about his protests nor old promises, letting out a long yawn that’s meekly covered by the back of your hand before letting your head gently thump on his shoulder. He blinks, staring down at you as you lick your chapped lips with that drowsy expression, clearly just done with the day. "Letting you sleep on my shoulder, huh?” You nod, and he lets out a small chuckle, nodding in agreement to your request. He tucks an arm around your shoulders, letting you lean properly against him. “Only ‘cause it’s a long drive.” He doesn't need to say much since you’re already blinking the last seconds of energy away, eyes drooped close— he tilts his own head too, letting it rest gently upon yours. 

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[bullet-prooflove]

Round 2 of “how are they celebrating Valentines Day”:

What about Douglas and Helene? I know things have been strained between them.

I have a set idea of where they’re heading at the minute so this will play into that. So Helene is not picking up the phone to Douglas, he knows he deserves that.

On Valentine’s Day, he sends roses to the museum along with an invitation for dinner to a place Helene had been very excited about in the past. He waits there for the longest time, sipping scotch before realising he’s being stood up.

Frustrated he heads to the museum which is having ‘Valentine’s at the Museum’ event to talk to her. He sees his roses on the counter, the card untouched. When he asks the receptionist to point out where she is, he’s told she doesn’t work there anymore because she took a job at The Met in NY, he discovers they’d been headhunting her for a long time but she’s always turned them down until now. The receptionist as no idea why she accepted but Douglas does, she had nothing to stay for.

He's completely heartbroken by this turn of events because somewhere underneath it all, he thought they’d be able to figure their shit out. He spends the rest of the evening on the bridge they first met, looking into the water, reliving the relationship.

Everything after that is shades of grey and numbness. He does his mayor duties mechanically, he works, he drinks, he fucks but there is absolutely no joy in it. It’s like he’s lost his heart.

It’s because of a conference of NY that he sees her again, he has some free time, wanders into The Met and there she is organising a new feature in the gallery. For Douglas nothing has changed at all, he’s still as in love with her as he’s always been. Helene is very polite during the interaction, however when Douglas tells her why he’s in the city she’s quite crestfallen, he asks her to dinner and she declines.

It's only afterwards when he’s in a meeting he realises she thought he came for her, but again it was the mayorship. It’s always the mayorship.

[jozor-johai]

The State of the Wall at the end of ADWD

Jon spends all of ADWD stationing men all over the Wall at different castles. Some are Night’s Watchmen, some are Free Folk, some are Stannis’ men, borrowed to inflate the ranks.

Bowen Marsh, among others, complains that Jon has set up a potentially sticky situation:

When he conferred Oakenshield on Tormund Giantsbane and Queensgate on Morna White Mask, Marsh pointed out that Castle Black would now have foes on either side who could easily cut them off from the rest of the Wall.

How true is this? How right is Bowen about strategic imbalances here?

I believe, following the Jon Snow murder, we’re going to see the Free Folk and the Night’s Watchmen divide again; Jon was the glue holding the two together, and now he’s gone. But since Jon settled them in various castles along the Wall, we need to work out the strategic layout of each of these positions in the event of such a split.

To start, I’m going to argue that in typical GRRM fashion, the lede is being buried here. After breaking down the state of the Wall at the end of ADWD, it’s not so much a matter of Castle Black being surrounded, it’s that the entire Wall is going to be split into two parts… with the Nightfort in the center. Coincidence? In this case, I don’t believe in coincidence.

I hope this makes sense visually, because I needed a visual.

I’ll go into more specific detail for each of these castles, but this is the point: except for Castle Black and Eastwatch, every castle lined up to fall on the side of the Night’s Watch is west of the Nightfort, and every castle primed to fall on the side of the Free Folk is east of the Nightfort.

Since the Nightfort is going to be the seat of King Stannis and Queen Selyse, their home base will be geographically attempting to do what Stannis’ cause is trying to do politically: negotiate stability with the Night’s Watch on one side and the Free Folk on the other.

A breakdown of every castle below the cut

Westwatch-by-the-Bridge

This is never mentioned in the main text, and only appears on maps. This is potentially garrisoned by Night’s Watchmen, but there is no strict textual evidence.

The Shadow Tower

One of three that’s manned prior to ADWD, so there’s a history of intra-Wall politics already at play here.

Denys Mallister cast the votes of the Shadow Tower watchmen for Jon Snow at the end of ASOS, but their relationship has been slightly more strained over the course of ADWD; Mallister regularly requests more men to resist the threat of the Weeper, but Jon has few men to spare. 

As of the start of TWOW, two of Jon’s friends are at the Shadow Tower, Halder and Toad. Halder carved the Ghost pommel on Longclaw, and both Halder and Toad are part of the group that tries in vain to remain close friends with Jon once he’s Lord Commander. These two might fall on the side of the Night’s Watch if the lines of conflict are drawn there, or they might remain loyal specifically to Jon if that remains an option for them.

Additionally, the Shadow Tower has ten wildlings that Jon sent over that he collected from Mole’s Town. While these are young boys and untrained, they are likely to either break for Jon or for the wildlings, depending on where the lines of conflict are drawn; in any case, they are unlikely to remain loyal to the Night’s Watch in Jon’s absence. However, being so outnumbered, I don’t know how much impact they will have.

Additionally, this is explicitly and directly relevant for a potential conflict about the Wildlings crossing—Mallister says he believes the Weeper is gathering a host to force the Bridge of Skulls again, and threaten the Shadow Tower. Bowen Marsh, at Castle Black, was injured at the previous attack at the Bridge of Skulls, and the Weeper has very visibly and brutally killed three rangers and returned their heads on spikes to Castle Black. Tensions will likely be especially high between Free Folk and Night’s Watchmen with the possibility of the Weeper attempting another assault.

Sentinel Stand

Like Westwatch, this is never mentioned in the main text, and only appears on maps. This is potentially garrisoned by Night’s Watchmen, but there is no strict textual evidence.

Greyguard

A fun fact about Greyguard: Jeor wants to man Greyguard during the events of ACOK, but Qhorin convinces them to garrison Stonedoor instead; as a result, Greyguard is unmanned when Jon, Ygritte, and the wildlings climb the Wall, and they descend into Westeros from Greyguard. 

This is also where Janos Slynt fatally refuses to go.

As of TWOW, Greyguard is manned with thirty men: ten from Castle Black, ten from the Shadow Tower, and ten of Stannis’ men. Following the death of Janos Slynt, Greyguard is captained by an experienced Shadow Tower watchman. 

Additionally, Jon commands that some of the free folk from Mole’s Town to be sent to Greyguard as needed, though it’s unknown how many are sent.

If there’s a divide in loyalties here, the captain of Greyguard is a Night’s Watchman and, presumably, a loyal Shadow Tower man, so they may be ordered on the side of wherever Mallister falls, or his prior loyalty may lead them to break from their post and defend the Bridge of Skulls if necessary. There are also the 10 men from Stannis’ forces, but it’s hard to say what political influence they’ll have.

Stonedoor

Jon intends Stonedoor to be manned by a wildling force: he settles the abandoned castle on Soren Shieldbreaker, who is meant to leave with the wayns as soon as they return from Greenguard; Borroq the skinchanger is to accompany him.

However… as of the last chapter of ADWD, both Sorren and Borroq are still at Castle Black—the castle, right now, is still totally unmanned. Both are present in the shieldhall when Jon reads the Bastard Letter, so as of the end of ADWD, they have not actually made it to their intended seat.

Othell Yarwyck claims that the woods around Stonedoor are filled with boars, and fears Borroq leading a boar army. While we have no reason to believe Borroq is as skilled as Varmyr in changing multiple animals at once, this is an interesting possibility to point out. Jon also notes that Ghost and Borroq’s boar seem at odds, so we may see Borroq get aggressive in a Wall fallout situation.

If this were manned, this castle would undoubtedly break away from the Watchmen faction, either joining up with a pro-Jon faction or else Tormund/a wildling faction. It would be outnumbered by Watchman castles on both sides, but it is potentially a defensible position. But that depends on how long Jon’s intentions hold following his death. If conflict breaks out right away, they may not make it to Stonedoor at all. 

Also, like other wildling commanders, Soren Shieldbreaker’s son is one of the hostages taken as Jon’s blood price for crossing the Wall; whether his son is at Castle Black, the Shadow Tower, or Eastwatch is unknown.

Hoarfrost Hill

Hoarfrost Hill is in a similar situation as Rimegate. In Jon’s final chapter, he intends to give this castle to a wildling commander. As of now, it’s unmanned.

When considering it, Jon’s suggestions are: Brogg, Gavin the Trader, the Great Walrus, Harle the Huntsman, Harle the Handsome, Blind Doss, and Ygon Oldfather, though most of Oldfather’s following is his family. Howd Wanderer is named but unlikely as a candidate because he walks alone. 

However, Bowen Marsh dislikes all of these suggestions as every one is, in his mind, a wildling criminal who deserves to hang. Jon dies before naming a party to move there, and thus it is still unmanned as of the very end of ADWD—though intended to have been a wildling post.

Icemark

Icemark appears to be manned similarly to Greyguard; both were manned together with the same intentions. If they were dealt with the same way, Icemark similarly has a force of 20 Night’s Watchmen and ten of Stannis’ men. It’s not explicitly stated, but it is possibly the same split of 10 Castle Black, 10 Shadow Tower, and 10 of Stannis’ men. Like Greyguard, the Shadow Tower, and Eastwatch, Icemark has also received an unknown small number of the free folk recruited from Mole’s Town. 

Icemark is commanded by Bedwyck, known as Giant, from Castle Black. Bedwyck survived the assault on the Fist of the First Men, so he understands the very real threat of the wights. During the mutiny at Craster’s Keep, Bedwyck stayed loyal and returned—so it’s possible he’s not a part of this mutiny, either, and may be still sympathetic to Jon’s cause. However, he survived the attack on the Bridge of Skulls too, so like Bowen Marsh he’s also seen the worst of the wildlings. 

This castle will likely break for the Night’s Watch, though like Greyguard there is a potential for a 2:1 split if Stannis’ men don’t align with the Watch’s intent.

The Nightfort

Jon gave the Nightfort to Stannis and his cause to make it the temporary seat of King Stannis. Queen Selyse is, so far, meant to be on her way to the Nightfort from Eastwatch. Currently, though, she’s still at Castle Black.

Since this is a prominent location in a number of scary stories—and is the location of the mysterious Black Gate—I think there’s a high likelihood we haven’t seen the last of this location and that we may see some more action go down here. 

Jon had sent Othell Yarwyck to oversee the repairs at the Nightfort to make it available for Queen Selyse to live in, and Queen Selyse arrives at Castle Black intending to make only a quick stop before continuing on to the Nightfort. 

As of Jon’s last chapter, Yarwyck has returned to say that though the castle is still largely a ruin, it is habitable, and Selyse can move in if she would like. He also notes that the castle is very isolated from the sea, should Selyse want to leave. I don’t think that detail is included for nothing: if things go sour at the Wall, Selyse in the Nightfort is going to be blocked in with no escape but north and south. 

At the end of the ADWD, though, Selyse is still at Castle Black. Like with Soren Shieldbreaker, it’s hard to say whether she manages to continue on to her intended destination further west, or if her path will be derailed by chaos at Castle Black. If we presume she makes it to the Nightfort, then that will undoubtedly be a Stannis stronghold, if not then the castle will be unmanned. 

Note this: from here on out, the castles are more heavily manned by Free Folk.

Deep Lake

Deep Lake is one of several castles Jon intends to man with free folk, under their own command. We don’t hear much concrete information about this, but it is apparently manned as of Jon XI, potentially by Halleck, brother of Harma Dogshead. (If he isn’t here, then he may be at Sable Hall). 

Doubtlessly, this will break to whatever side the free folk break to, presumably with Tormund.

Queensgate

Queensgate is also manned by wildlings, commanded by Morna White Mask. 

Like Soren Shieldbreaker, Morna’s son is a hostage of the Night’s Watch as part of Jon’s blood price for crossing the Wall. Whether her son is at Castle Black, the Shadow Tower, or Eastwatch is unknown. 

Marsh points out that between Queensgate and Oakenshield, Castle Black is easily cut off by wildlings on both sides—a detail I doubt was included in vain.

Castle Black

This has a lot going on, of course. As of the end of ADWD, Jon has just been killed, and here’s the issue: Jon has just spent the moments prior riling a host of volunteers to die for his cause… I think Bowen Marsh misjudged, because these are the worst possible conditions to make a martyr of someone in.

Following Jon’s death, this is the situation:

Immediately following the crossing of the Free Folk in Jon XI, Bowen Marsh clocks that the Free Folk will outnumber the Night’s Watchmen three to one. Some of these men have started to disperse throughout the Wall, but not much time has passed—most are still here, at Castle Black.

Even if the commanding force is the Night’s Watchmen, the majority here are wildlings… and this time, there are other commanders at Castle Black. Tormund is here, ready to go to war, because Jon requested it.

As far as fighting men specifically: Tormund has 60 fighting men there, which he has brought back from Oakenshield. Soren Shieldbreaker has all of his people with him, because they were supposed to leave for Stonedoor soon.

In the Shieldhall, just before Jon’s death, there are 200-300 men—and, as Jon notes, the Free Folk outnumber the Night’s Watchmen 5 to 1.

All in all, though this is a Night’s Watch seat, there are all the necessary ingredients to make Castle Black into the seat of the Free Folk; the numbers are on their side. And they’re surrounded.

Also, though, there is the third factor at Castle Black, the matter of Selyse and her Queen’s Men. Will they fight for the Watchmen? Will they attempt to keep peace with the Free Folk? Will they flee to the Nightfort to save their queen and leave the castle in chaos? We’ll have to see, but that decision may have lasting effects as well.

Oakenshield

Jon granted Oakenshield to Tormund Giantsbane, which is convenient: it’s perfectly central for Tormund to lead from, should the need arise.

As of the end of ADWD, Tormund has returned to Castle Black with sixty fighting men, presumably leaving even more still at Oakenshield. This will definitely be a key stronghold for the free folk if conflict divides the forces at the Wall.

Like the other commanders drawn from the Free Folk, Tormund’s son is a hostage, located now either at Castle Black, the Shadow Tower, or Eastwatch.

Woodswatch-by-the-Pool

Woodswatch is mentioned only once in the main series, in ASOS, and once on the ASOS map. It is not mentioned as one of the garrisoned castles, so it is presumably empty.

Sable Hall

Sable Hall is one of several castles Jon intends to man with free folk, under their own command. We don’t hear much concrete information about this, but it is apparently manned as of Jon XI, potentially by Halleck, brother of Harma Dogshead. (If he isn’t here, then he may be at Deep Lake). 

Like Deep Lake, this will doubtlessly break to whatever side the free folk break to, presumably with Tormund.

Rimegate

Rimegate is in a similar situation as Hoarfrost Hill. In Jon’s final chapter, he intends to give this castle to a wildling commander. As of now, it’s unmanned.

When considering it, Jon’s suggestions are: Brogg, Gavin the Trader, the Great Walrus, Harle the Huntsman, Harle the Handsome, Blind Doss, and Ygon Oldfather, though most of Oldfather’s following is his family. Howd Wanderer is named but unlikely as a candidate because he walks alone. 

However, Bowen Marsh dislikes all of these suggestions as every one is, in his mind, a wildling criminal who deserves to hang. Jon dies before naming a party to move there, and thus it is still unmanned as of the very end of ADWD—though intended to have been a wildling post.

Long Barrow

I feel sort of certain that Long Barrow has to matter somehow because we’ve been following updates on it frequently throughout ADWD. Jon has manned it with entirely spearwives, commanded by Iron Emmett, and with Dolorous Edd as chief steward. 

Iron Emmett is a watchman who was first at Eastwatch and later became the master-at-arms at Castle Black. He and Jon have had a tense run-in before—in ASOS, Jon fails to recognize Iron Emmett’s yield and attacks him brutally while sparring. However, that doesn’t immediately seem to get in the way of his loyalty to Jon; Emmett is the one to hold Slynt down for his execution. On the other hand, perhaps this is another up-close encounter with Jon’s brutality. In sending Iron Emmett to Long Barrow, Jon removes him from his post as master-at-arms and replaces him with the wildling Leathers. In short, it’s possible that Iron Emmett and Jon are close, or it may be possible that Emmett has reason to resent Jon’s leadership. 

Dolorous Edd, for that matter, is a loyal and longtime friend to Jon who seems unhappy with his current station as steward to the women at Long Barrow.

If there is any kind of split in loyalty at the Wall, Long Barrow would be an interesting situation to watch: the commander is likely most loyal to the Night’s Watch, and might hold some particular loyalties to Eastwatch in particular, but the people actually manning the castle will likely split for a wildling/Tormund faction. Dolorous Edd might remain loyal to Jon, or might remain loyal to the Watch and side with Iron Emmett against the spearwives. I hope he survives. 

For now, I’m considering Long Barrow to break for the Free Folk, considering the disparity in numbers, but Iron Emmett could make a surprise angle here.

The Torches

This is one of the handful of castles that appears only in maps and is never mentioned in the main series. This is potentially garrisoned by Night’s Watchmen, but there is no strict textual evidence.

Greenguard

Jon settles Greenguard with free folk under the command of Devyn Sealskinner. 

Like the other wildling commanders, Sealskinner’s son (or sons) is a hostage of the Night’s Watch now, either at Castle Black, the Shadow Tower, or Eastwatch.

Doubtlessly this castle will be loyal to a potential wildling/Tormund faction if there is a split at the Wall.

Eastwatch-by-the-Sea

Like the Shadow Tower, Eastwatch is one of the few castles manned prior to ADWD, and therefore one with a more-established political presence at the Wall. 

Cotter Pyke, the commander at Eastwatch, voted for Jon in the Lord Commander election. Since then, he’s had to host Queen Selyse prior to her departure the Nightfort, and apparently Eastwatch ultimately resented her presence, wanting to be rid of her and Axell Florent both.

Interestingly, Eastwatch has a lot of moving parts happening around it at the moment.

As of the end of ADWD, Cotter Pyke has left Eastwatch with a number of ships, some belonging to Tycho Nestoris and the Iron Bank, in order to retrieve a large host of wildlings stranded at Hardhome, apparently a four-day trip away by boat. This mission appears to be a failure, with “dead things” in the woods and the water. Pyke’s boat is taking water, so we may or may not see him return.

Meanwhile, Eastwatch’s interim commander is Glendon Hewett, which troubles Jon—Hewett was part of the Thorne/Slynt coalition before Jon became Lord Commander. If there end up being two groups of Night’s Watchmen—those pro-Jon and those anti-Jon—then Hewett’s Eastwatch will certainly be anti-Jon. In addition, should it ever matter, Mance might remember Glendon Hewett for beating him up while disguised as Rattleshirt. 

Meanwhile, all of the goods, gold, and trinkets that Jon claimed from Tormund’s wildlings when they crosses is being sent to Eastwatch to trade, ostensibly to cover the cost of feeding the free folk, though more accurately as a cover for the debts Jon has already incurred with the Iron Bank. 

Meanwhile, the giants and mammoths that could not cross the Wall with Tormund (because the mammoths could not fit) have been sent around to Eastwatch to cross by going around the Wall instead. 

So, at Eastwatch we have the wildling’s treasures, the giants and mammoths, and any survivors from Pyke’s excursion heading home, crossing paths under the watch of anti-Jon Watchman Glendon Hewett. 

If Stannis’ plan goes as intended, then Justin Massey should be crossing through Eastwatch as well on his way to Braavos—assuming he is not waylaid on the way by chaos at the Wall. 

Additionally, Melisandre suspects that one of her visions of a tide of blood around a tower is about a tragedy about to befall Eastwatch; this may or may not be the case. 

Whether or not Mel is right, Eastwatch is just waiting to turn: the giants are approaching from the North, the riches of the Wildlings are approaching from the west, just waiting to be reclaimed. If Cotter Pyke never returns, then their forces are forever depleted; if he does return, then he brings with him enough wildlings to overwhelm the Night’s Watchmen. Best of all, their leader is Glendon Hewett, a man who beat Mance and kicked Jon in the ribs—in other words, someone who might die without the Jon (or the reader, perhaps) feeling too badly about it. I predict Eastwatch might fall to the Free Folk if the story necessitated it.

In Conclusion

Not only does this collection of information show that there are so many more Free Folk forts than Night’s Watch ones, it’s almost a perfect split with the Free Folk on one side of the Nightfort and the Night’s Watch on the other—and I don’t think that’s a coincidence. It’s almost as though this is being hidden from us, because it appears, at first, as though it’s slightly less stark of a divide, but that’s illusory: Iron Emmett’s presence on the East is really a castle of the spearwives, and Soren Shieldbreaker’s intended castle on the west has yet to be actually settled—as of now, it’s unmanned.

As things actually are, we end ADWD with Jon martyred and the Free Folk in command of the eastern half of the Wall, the Night’s Watch on the west, and the Nightfort empty in the middle.

[turnyourankle]

Hard at work on my exes-to-lovers fake relationship fic, so why not post a teaser to perhaps entice a beta and/or Brit pick 👀

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Louis could feel his teeth; actually feel them, his mouth dry and chest tight.

He kept his expression as neutral as possible, even as he tried to keep the panic at bay. He looked at his phone again, the offending email not having left the screen since he opened it seconds ago.

The first shock came when he saw it was from Harry. A forward, no less, and he initially assumed it was an error, a hack, a virus. Something other than what it actually was.

But no, the email was intended for him. Harry hadn't added anything, letting the original email speak for itself. It was a courtesy notice that an old photoshoot of theirs was being released.

There were only so many unreleased photos out there, and since no one else had been notified, he knew exactly which photos this was about.

He swallowed, pressing his tongue into the roof of his mouth. He looked out the car window, the overcast winter sky that previously felt cozy now seeming oppressive. Oli was driving him home after a productive studio session, so at least he wouldn't have anything important to do for the rest of the day that required his focus.

Then again, he wouldn't have anything to distract him from spiralling.

"Maccy's or curry?" Oli's voice pulled him back to reality.

On autopilot, Louis said, "Sounds good." He picked his phone back up and hit forward on the email, quickly typed up a five-word message can we talk to azoff?  and sent it to Matt.

"Dealer's choice it is," Oli continued.

Louis made some sort of sound of agreement, even as he tried to remember his upcoming schedule. If Matt got a hold of Jeff, how soon could they meet? Tomorrow?

He opened Twitter; closed it, opened his texts, closed them. He had more business emails to read and process but— he couldn't stomach it right now. At some point, his leg started to bounce, and just trying to stay still took some effort.

"Y'alright?" Oli asked, glancing in Louis' direction.

Louis' phone lit up with a call from Matt before he had a chance to answer. He held a finger up to Oli before answering. "What do you think?"

"We can have a conference call in two weeks."

"Two weeks?!" Louis laughed out of frustration. "That's bullshit."

"Yeah. I agree. But we don't have much leverage."

Louis pinched the bridge of his nose. Why was this happening? Because they'd been foolish and naive enough not to take precautions before agreeing to a cover shoot to tell the world. Stupid. He'd been stupid. Of course, it would come and bite him in the ass.

Louis sighed. He could sense the weight of Oli's eyes on him. He closed off the call with Matt saying, "Send me the invite," before hanging up.

There was a beat of silence before Oli spoke. "So."

"Can we park somewhere?" Louis pressed his fist against his chin.

"Sure thing, boss."

Louis watched the road as Oli steered their way to a nearby car park. It was empty enough that their presence shouldn't be odd to anyone.

"What's up," Oli said once they were parked. Louis brought his fist to his face, pressing his knuckles against his brow before rubbing his temples.

Oli was tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. Mouth tight, even as it pulled to the side. He wasn't going to pry, Louis knew.

"The spread is being released."

Oli remained silent as he mouthed the words himself. Then, out loud, The spread." The surprise was evident. He knew exactly what Louis was talking about. He turned away, looking out into the distance while letting out a low, “What the fuck.”

“Yeah. that’s, uh--” Louis barked out a laugh, a laugh that hurt coming out. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

"Okay, what now?"

A calendar invite popped up on his phone from Matt. Conference call with Full Stop, two weeks out. With his free hand, he pressed the heel of his palm against his eye. Two bloody weeks.

“Tommo?”

Louis rubbed his face. “Two weeks. They're making me wait to weeks to talk."

“They're making you wait," Oli repeated. It was a habit of his to process information. Normally, Louis might roast him for it, but today he got it. Sometimes you just needed to say things out loud to make sense of it.

"Does the 'they' include Harry?"

Louis shook his head. "He's the one who told me." Oli looked surprised at that, eyebrows knitting, prompting Louis to, "I mean, he forwarded the email about it. We didn't talk."

"Maybe you should." Oli said it so casually that Louis almost thought he'd misheard.

"I'm sorry, you're gonna have to repeat that, because that goes against everything the Oli I know would say."

Oli mock-rolled his eyes, bracing himself, "It's a special case, innit?"

"Just a little," Louis conceded.

"So call him. We can do it right now. I can go get the food if you want privacy."

Louis shook his head, he appreciated the support, but—"This isn't a phone conversation. It shouldn't be. And I don't think I could help myself if I got him on the phone. We need to share space or something.

"Right." Oli nodded, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. After a pause, "Okay. We can go to him."

"If he's even in the country."

"Right. Right. Okay, I got it— let me follow up with Jefe, play a bit of hardball."

Louis tipped his head, eyes narrowed. "Go on."

"I can narrow down his coordinates, or whatever, and we go from there." Oli plucked his phone out of his pocket, "Hopefully we don't have to jet a plane to where he is, or whatever."

"Hopefully," Louis repeated.

"Okay," Oli said, mouth tugging to the side. He didn't give Louis any more time to protest, saying, "Stay tuned," before he opened the car door and stepped outside to handle the call.

The cold air was a welcome reminder of the world outside. He took a deep breath and let it go with intent. There was a plan, kind of.

Louis watched Oli pace in the car park, gesturing wildly, as he was wont to do on the phone. A way to keep his tone even, regulating it with every wave of his arms.

When Oli got back into the car, it was with a curse and a shudder. "Christ." Dropping his phone in his pocket, he went on to rub his palms against his thighs. "Okay, so. He's on location in Hampshire. Leaving tomorrow, so not available for in person meetings. As if we can't make it to Hampshire."

"Right."

"He also said," Oli started with a broad smile, "that he'd have called if he wanted to talk."

Louis laughed. "He did email."

"I think he's just bitter he didn't get to drop the news on you."

Louis laughed harder. "I think you're right."

"What next?"

Louis bit his thumbnail, thinking about action giving him breathing room. "He won't go home before the flight."

There were few options for where Harry might be staying. He had his preferences, and he could never turn down some nice hotel amenities. He might not be alone, though. Louis wasn't sure what was going on on that front, had intentionally stayed out of the loop. That band-aid would have to be ripped off soon, anyway, might as well get it out of the way.

[sehtoast]

Happy Birthday (Homelander x Reader)

Fluffy drabble in honor of Antony Starr's birthday today. Gender Neutral Reader. Reader has spider powers. | Fic Directory

On the morning of his ‘birthday,’ he’s a grumbling, grouchy mess.

Homelander pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not even my fucking birthday,” he tells you as if he hadn’t said it every single year since you’d both grown close. “Just what marketing thought would sell me better.”

Not only that, but he has to work on his ‘birthday.’ Run around for TV appearances, do his big, live-streamed save of the day to show the world that heroes don’t take a day off. They’ll always be there to save everyone, even if doing so is nothing more than a sore reminder of just how fabricated their lives really are.

Sure! He’ll zip around the state to appease his corporate overlords. Wave to the masses no matter how torn he is between loving and hating them, lift a car off some poor soul or catch another jumper. It’s what he does, right?

Because he’s a hero.

Right?

He’s not allowed to be like everyone else. Can’t kick his feet up and relax. There would be no day spent with you, no sleeping in, no lazy moments spent listening to your heartbeat before you wake.

He gets pepperings of you throughout his day, though.

You appear, in costume, at his birthday save. It’s the only reason he smiled when he touched down with that bozo who nearly leapt off the roof of an apartment complex. The emotive lenses of your mask let him know your smile reaches your eyes without even having to peer through the fabric.

It was your cheering that made it feel real.

He catches the sight of you blowing a kiss from behind the set camera during an interview. He worried his mask may have cracked on screen from how he smiled wider. He kisses you hungrily afterwards, away from prying eyes, before you’re both due to return to your respective duties.

You swing by during one of his meetings in the conference room, having taken the tray of coffee and stacks of paper from whichever employee was originally heading that way. You set a mug down for him and left the others to retrieve their own. The most you can give him is a friendly pat on the back– secret relationship things, y’know? But it means the world to him. You shoot him a wink before leaving.

It’s the only time he’s ever actually drank a meeting room refreshment.

When all is said and done for his big day, the sun has set. He finds you on top of the Chrysler Building, waiting for him atop one of the eagle perches. You’d set up some sort of picnic. He hears a song playing faintly from your phone– one he remembers you saying reminds you of him.

He lands with a sappy little grin.

You baked him a cake. How you managed to swing it to the top without any damage is a mystery to him, but he supposes most things you do are that way. How you love him, soothe him, free him… How your smile lifts the weight from his shoulders every single time.

“Make a wish!” You giggle before he blows out the candles. He takes a moment to admire the smudgy, wrinkly icing and awkward cursive ‘happy birthday, pumpkin!’ you’d written on top of it. More beautiful than that, there’s also you, bathed in the warm glow of the candles. It never gets old.

Yours are the only birthday cakes he actually likes.

His lips quirk into a lopsided grin when you lean in to kiss his forehead as he blows out the flames. He wasn’t sure what he wished for, but he thinks it must have been that. You tell him that his present has to wait for later since you didn’t trust yourself to carry it and the cake up the tower. He doesn’t care about that.

Not now.

Not when there’s a speck of icing to be dabbed on your nose and serenity to be had.

He takes you up above the clouds. The moon glows bright and full, but he has only eyes for you as you sway together. The music had long since ended, but you two dance nonetheless. Your hand rests in his, his arm wraps around your waist, and he floats you in a slow spin.

He thanks you for wiggling into his day as much as you could.

“S’what I do best,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, Johnny. Happy birthday.”

He wraps his other arm around you, pulling you infinitely closer, no longer spinning. He’d rather focus on holding you. Taking in the moment, being here, now, with you.

He’s happy.

Content.

Peaceful.

Loved.

Completely and utterly tranquil in the gravity of you.

“I love you, too.”

A very happy birthday and many, many more to our shining Starr himself <3