#I managed to work through some things for the next chapter of Shadows

[cressidagrey]

Lightning in the Bottle - Chapter 7

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was actually pretty much useless. The only thing she wanted was to be somebody's first choice for once in her life.

Also known as: Azriel's shadows decide that if he doesn't treat his mate right... they'll just do it for him.

Warnings: 

shadows playing the lottery, lots of fluff, Nyx being unconsolable...

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

It was quiet in the house. He didn’t know where Mor or Amren had disappeared to, though he knew that if he asked, the shadows would already know. They were still furious with both of them. 

Madja was still with Eira…Nesta with her…

Which left Rhys and Feyre to supervise Elain in her room, packing. 

They were also supervised by shadows lurking in every corner of that room. Even when Azriel had told them off for that…They weren’t ready to leave well enough alone. Of course, they weren’t. They were so angry…so furious…complaining under their breath about how Elain had tried to take this future from them. 

So was Azriel. 

So angry that he didn’t trust himself…

So he was sitting on the floor next to Eira’s door, sharpening Truthteller. The calm and steadying movement was supposed to calm him. Repeating, again and again…

All they managed was to make him even more angry. 

Cassian kept him company, watching him silently, but Azriel ignored that. 

And then the door was opened and Nesta stood there, hands on her hips. “You should come inside,” she told him drily. “Don’t just lurk outside the doorway.”

“I have no right to be there,” he responded, his voice flat. 

Absolutely none. Not after…Not after how she had felt and he hadn’t realised it. Not after he had hurt her with his actions, even when he hadn’t wanted to. Not after…Not after what happened to her. 

He had no right to be in her rooms, to even look at her…no right whatsoever. 

“Don’t you?” Nesta challenged him sharply. “You’re her mate,” she pointed out, raising one eyebrow. 

Her mate. 

He couldn’t help but snort. “Brilliant mate I was, Nesta,” he told her sharply. “I deserve to never ever look at her again for what I put her through.” 

“So it’s alright for your shadows to take care of her, but yourself is where you draw that line?”

He blinked, outright staring at Nesta who was staring him down. Her eyes, the most similar to Eira’s out of all her sisters…were fixing him with a glare. 

“What?” He repeated. The shadows…they had been…

“Your shadows. They helped me change her into a nightgown. They knew where everything was in her room. They brushed and braided her hair,” Nesta clarified. “I thought you sent them.”

He hadn’t sent them. 

He hadn’t even thought of it. 

But clearly, they had once again…decided that they knew better. 

“Have they gone off on their own again?” Cassian asked with some amusement. It wasn’t the first time…wouldn’t be the last time either that they had decided to… fulfil Azriel’s direct orders and do something else as well… something that they thought would be much more useful. 

Most of the time he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry at them for it, because they had never been outright wrong. 

“They do that?” Nesta asked, surprised colouring her voice. 

“Sometimes,” he admitted, glaring darkly at one tendril of shadows that was darting into the room. 

What were you thinking? he demanded of them mentally. 

Well, if you weren’t going to shape up, we clearly needed to, the shadows answered flippantly. You’re welcome. We took care of our mate when you didn’t. 

That hit the intended spot. 

Azriel growled as he followed them into Eira’s room, as they darted inside. He could nearly feel their amusement and just one moment later, he realised that they had absolutely played his instincts. 

Insinuate that he didn’t take care of his mate and that they needed to do his work for him. The worst part was how right they were.

Nesta just snorted.

“Do I want to know what they just told you?” she asked drily as she went back to perching herself on a chair on Eira’s bedside, Madja still fluttering around. 

Eira. 

Laying in that bed, curled up beneath blankets and pillows…looking so delicate and breakable there with skin even peeler than usual, no colour in usual rosy lips…no blush on her cheeks. 

Lifeless and exhausted. 

Cassian followed behind him, even as he stopped in the middle of the room, freezing in place. 

“No,” he disagreed mulishly, glaring at the shadows once again as he watched them fuss over Eira. Pulling her blanket just a bit higher there…pulling her hair out of her face there…all of it things that he wished he would be the one doing. 

But he wasn’t. 

“They have been quite helpful for once,” Madja commented with some amusement. “I have never seen them fetch bandages for anybody but you,” she pointed out, before growing serious. “If she’s your mate, you should stay. You’ll make it easier for her to find her way back.” 

He could just silently nod at that. 

And so he sat down against the wall next to the door, where he could watch her, see the rise and fall of her chest…watch her suffer through the worst of the fever, even when Nesta gently wiped away the sweat beading at her brow, as Madja packed her bag. 

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Madja promised them, seeming less concerned. “She’s strong.”

She was. So fucking strong and none of them had seen it. 

“Do you actually have control over the shadows?” Nesta asked him suddenly. “Or is it just…” she trailed off. 

“It’s a battle of wills,” Azriel admitted quietly. Sometimes more than what he was ready to admit. “But if I had no control over them, they would have already driven me insane.”

It wasn’t a lie. 

There was a reason why most shadowsingers didn’t grow old. 

“I can silence them if the need arises. I can pull them back,” Azriel explained with a sigh. “If I didn’t…”He trailed off, leaving Nesta to make her own connections. 

“You told them to let off Elain, didn’t you?” Nesta said quietly. He just inclined his head. “If you hadn’t…Can they…kill?”

“They can and they have,” Cassian answered for him, gently reaching out to touch his mate’s shoulder, having crossed the room to stand behind her. “But they don’t do it without very good reasons, Nes. They would never…hurt you.”

“They wouldn’t,” Azriel agreed. 

“But they had one, didn’t they?” Nesta asked him with a sigh and he just nodded, staring at Eira. “How good?”

He swallowed. 

How good indeed…

“Very good,” Rhys said quietly as he entered the room. “They had a very good reason, Nesta. Elain had a vision of the future…of Azriel and Eira and she decided that it couldn’t come to pass,” he explained quietly. 

*This is between you and Eira and nobody else,* Rhys told him softly, privately and Azriel said nothing, but the gratitude nearly burst in his chest.

“Lucien took Elain back to Day with him,” Rhys continued. “I sent a letter with him, explaining the entire situation to Helion…we’ll see how that shakes out. Now…I’ll try to take her pain away again…and hopefully won’t end up in her memories, again.”

“Are you sure you can do that?” Cassian asked, but Rhys just inclined his head. 

“I think that’s the least of what I owe her,” Rhys answered quietly, as he sat down on a chair on Eira’s other side, closing his eyes and concentrating. 

Cassian watched it for a moment, then shrugged and went to her bookcase, to the armchair that stood there…picking up the dress that lay on it. 

“Be careful,” Nesta said, her voice sharp.

Cassian looked up surprised by her tone of voice but was indeed very careful when he picked up that dress…red and silver silk, sliding to the floor in his grasp.“Nes, what…”

Only then Azriel saw the silver flames decorating the fabric. 

It was beautiful. A work of art. Like somebody had taken Nesta and Cassian and made it into a dress fitting for a Queen. 

“She made it for me,” Nesta whispered. “Eira made me a wedding dress, Cassian. And she never gave it to me, because I told her that…I told her that all the dresses she made were ugly.”

Ugly. The dresses that Eira made weren’t ugly. They were beautiful. Always fitting the owner so well, decorated with embroidery, her stitching perfect and even…They were beautiful.

And Nesta had said that and Eira had taken it seriously because of course, she had. Because everything anybody had said to her, went straight to her heart. To that sweet and soft heart. 

“Nes…she knows you love her,” Cassian said, as he returned to his mate’s side in just a few steps. “You’ll apologise and she’ll forgive you.”

“And what if she doesn’t?” Nesta snapped. “She has no reason to forgive me. She has no reason to forgive any of us.” 

That was true. 

She had no reason to forgive any of them. 

But Eira…Eira had the softest heart he had ever come across. She would forgive Nesta. Of course, she would. With time, she would forgive the sister she loved so much. 

Azriel would spend the rest of his life making sure that her forgiving nature wouldn’t be taken advantage of. 

It was all he could do. 

“I told Rhys that Elain was the prettier one anyway so she didn’t need to come with us to Hewn City. She overheard. ” Cassian admitted with a grimace. “If she won’t forgive one of us, it will be me, sweetheart. At least you said that in one of your darkest moments. I am 500 years old and I was still stupid enough to say that,” Cassian seethed.  “ I am surprised she held out this long,” Cassian added quietly “I wouldn’t have. I probably would have told all of us to fuck off well before now.”

It was making him furious to hear all of this…hear what they had said to or about his mate. But this wasn’t about him. It wasn’t. It was about Eira. 

Even when the shadows seemed to be furious at Cassian’s words. 

A pretty face can’t hide a rotten character, they hissed aloud, loud enough for Cassian to hear, who flinched at the sound. 

“They are right,” Rhys said quietly, eyes opening carefully. “I got her,” he promised Azriel quietly, at his questioning gaze. “She’s just resting. She doesn’t feel any pain.”

It was something, he supposed.

It was only at that moment, that Azriel nearly flinched at the blood-curdling scream that came from Nyx’s room. 

So loud that even they could hear it a floor up. Crying. “Ra! Ra! Ra!”

“How much did he see, you think?” Cassian asked, Rhys just shook his head. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, a grimace on his face. 

It was silent in the room as they listened to Feyre trying to soothe him, to shush him and to stop crying but the deep, tearful sobs still carried through the quiet house, and they even seemed to get louder. 

His head snapped up when he realised that Feyre was bringing her son up. 

“I can’t get him to stop,” Feyre whispered as she entered the room, her eyes tearful as she gazed at her sister, laying in that bed. “I…”

“It’s alright,” Rhys promised her quietly. “Just lay him next to her. She won’t wake up…and he needs this, I think.”

The Princeling always takes his afternoon naps like this when he is with her, the shadows whispered to Azriel, something that he had seen outside in the garden on more than one occasion during the summer months…Nyx stretched out on a blanket, with Eira laying next to him, softly singing or stitching…sometimes quietly tending to the tiny vegetable spot she had commandeered that Elain had let her have, that didn’t destroy the garden’s design…

As Feyre did as Rhys said, Nyx stared at Eira with tearful blue eyes and then latched onto her shoulder, throwing one pudgy little arm over her chest so that he could hold onto her…burying his face against the soft flesh of her arm. 

“Ra Ra,” Nyx sobbed softly, quietening down right then and there…It was so clear who was Nyx's favourite. 

Of course, she was. Eira had taken care of him so very often, whenever Rhys of Feyre with Court business, Eira had taken him…had sat with him and rocked him to sleep…

“She’ll be fine, my love,” Rhys said quietly to Feyre, who just nodded, wiping away tears. 

“Sing?” Nyx murmured at that moment, a yawn overtaking his face, already drifting off to sleep. “Sing, Ra Ra?”

“She sings to him?” Rhys said surprised. 

She does, the shadows agreed. Human nursery rhymes. The ones that were the High Lady’s favourites. 

Even Azriel hadn’t known that little tidbit…that she sang, yes. That they were Feyre’s favourites…no. 

“How are we supposed to explain this to Eira?” Feyre asked at that moment. “She’s…Elain is her twin sister. She’s going to be devastated, Nesta,” Feyre whispered. “How are we…”

“We’ll tell her the truth,” Nesta said, crossing her arms, one hand tightly wrapped around Cassian’s still. “We’ll tell her the truth…we owe her that much…and we’ll weather her anger. And if she wants to talk to Elain…”

“We’ll let her,” Rhys said quietly. “That’s not our decision to make.”

Azriel wanted to bristle at that, even when he knew that Rhys was right. 

Still, he wished to wrap Eira up in his wings and bring her far, far away…far away from Elain. 

He wanted to beg on his knees for her forgiveness and spend the rest of his life making it up to her, in whatever way she saw fit. He wanted all of that. 

Even when he didn’t deserve her. He still wanted that. 

And so they sat there in silence, watching Nyx and Eira sleep quietly on that bed…and the shadows swirl around the desk. 

Azriel watched as a pile of packages started to arrive, the shadows starting to open and unpack them quickly and efficiently. 

“What are they doing?” Nesta asked, staring at them. 

Azriel just raised an eyebrow in question as the shadows started putting away…stuff. 

Eira went shopping, Master, they said primly, loud enough for Nesta’s benefit. Like that answered all the questions he had. 

“She went shopping? Who’s paying for this?” he asked, because he was having a…feeling that that wasn’t the whole story. 

We did. The shadows admitted drily. 

“They have money?!” Feyre asked, sounding shocked. Cassian just snorted. 

“Didn’t you know? Azriel is loaded,” Cassian answered with a chuckle. “The shadows like playing the lottery.”

Nesta started laughing, the sound shocking in the quiet room. “Please tell me that is a joke,” she chortled but Azriel just sighed. 

“I got them to stop stacking the odds in their own favour, but getting them to stop completely wasn’t worth the hassle,” he admitted weakly. 

[hairyjocktf]

Building a New Life

Justin was the star wrestler at his high school. He had won regional titles and the adoration of all the local families for years, and was ready to head to college to continue his streak. Senior year he was at his peak, winning matches left and right. All he had to do was wait for those recruitment offers to roll in. He waited and waited, still kicking ass in his wrestling, but while everyone around him was committing and getting accepted, there were no letters to him. To his dismay, one never came. His plans for the future were shattered, what was he supposed to do now? The wrestling scholarship was his only shot for college.

With the year ending and not many options, Justin started looking for entry level jobs that would take him. He lived in a fairly rural area so most of what he found was either farm work or construction, and the latter paid better. He called one of them up and they told him to swing by the site a few days later. He drove out to the construction site later that week and walked into the mobile office they had there. The manager came out to greet him. He was a rugged man in his late 40’s, with a stocky build and thick stubble. He’d clearly been in the business for years and it showed through his worn hands and gruff voice from yelling orders at his lackeys. The man looked Justin up and down.

“A little scrawny but I can work with it,” he said after a few seconds.

“I was a top wrestler in the region!” Justin protested. 

“Doesn’t matter in this industry,” the man said flatly. “Can you handle heavy loads and equipment? Can you deal with being outside most of the day in rough weather?”

Justin was caught off guard, usually people were much nicer to him. “Of course I can! I can handle whatever you throw at me,” he assured.

“Well alright, If you think you can handle it let’s see how you do here,” the manager said, handing a pile of clothes to Justin. “Here’s your safety and HiVis gear, make sure it fits and then we’ll get you set up outside.”

Justin took his uniform to the bathroom to try it on real quick. It included a hard hat that was adjustable, which he fit to his head, a bright orange and yellow HiVis vest, and a couple other things. He put it all on and stepped back into the office. 

“Alright follow me, Justin was it?” the manager gestured towards the door.

“Yes sir,” Justin responded uncharacteristically.

“Name’s Blaine, the manager revealed, “Around here we usually work on residential projects, we’re currently assisting on a development outside of town.” He led them away from the office around the immediate site, which currently seemed to be mostly used as storage for equipment and materials. “Since you’ve got no experience you’ll start by shadowing some of our guys for a few weeks and handling more basic tasks til you’re ready for more,” he continued. “You can head back to the office and they'll take care of the nitty gritty for ya. I’m expecting great things from you, wrestler,” Blaine laughed as he left Justin and headed out towards the development. Justin heard his gruff voice booming in the distance as he barked orders to the workers.

Justin was unsure about all of this, but he didn’t really have a better option at the moment. He felt out of place in his new safety gear, and he was younger than nearly everyone he saw working. He took care of the paperwork and headed home for the day; they'd hired him on the spot to start the next morning. With considerable unease, he went to bed, closing one chapter of his life for the next. 

As the weeks went by Justin began acclimating to this new job fairly well. He got to know the guys he worked with, learned how to use the equipment, and began to feel comfortable on the site. He even felt like he had put on some mass to better handle all the physical work he was doing. His rock solid abs were a little less visible than they had been but for some reason that didn’t bother him. He was already starting to forget the sting of not being recruited for wrestling. Every day he came into work those past dreams seemed to fade a little more, replaced by his new life. His coworkers had made fun of him for having such a baby face at the beginning, but now he was starting to sport a little bit of stubble. Justin was slowly starting to blend in more with his new crowd.

The months continued to pass, with Justin becoming more and more entrenched in his new construction life. It was getting colder outside, and his body began to adjust without him even noticing. His stubble grew out into a real beard, short and dense. He began packing on more body fat as he spent less and less time at the gym and more and more working and drinking with his new bros. His voice began to sound a little deeper and rougher, matching those around him. The hard hat really suited him now with his more rugged looks. He had never been a good student in school but he seemed to really be taking to this new job, completely forgetting about his old goals. The occassional approving nod from Blaine was driving him forward. He was thriving in this new position, but the job wasn’t done with him yet.

Unbeknownst to Justin, under his thick winter clothes things were changing. His previously toned body, while still fairly muscular, was steadily becoming thicker with fat. Not only that, but he’d always been near perfectly smooth and that too was slowly changing. It had started with his chest, where on the previously bare skin thin wispy hairs had started to poke out. That didn’t last long though, as they were quickly overrun with thicker, darker hairs that began sprouting in between his pecs. They grew curly as they spread out, covering his entire chest in hair, spreading up across his collarbone and down across his slowly growing stomach. The new hairy coat was just another part of his insulation against the harsh winter weather. But the hairs didn’t stop there either. His pits erupted with thick wiry hairs, coating his underarms in curly hairs that trapped both heat and sweat. The hairs pushed out, tangling together as they formed a thick tuft of hair under each arm, even spreading out to connect with the rug on his chest. After each day of hard work he’d come home stinking like the other men he worked with, and over time he started to enjoy the musk he produced.

Of course he wasn’t done filling out his uniform quite yet. His formerly modest bush began growing with no end in sight, engulfing his groin in thick, wiry brown hairs that radiated out from his lengthening cock. Sometimes while on the site Justin would instinctively reach down in his pants to itch the growing bush, the feeling and texture of it driving him wild. With pubes erupting day and night his musk only grew stronger, as Justin began to truly have a manly aura around him that he’d never had before. It seemed to help him bond with the other guys more, as they welcomed him into their groups and invited him out more and more frequently. Underneath his work pants his legs bulked up considerably from carrying all sorts of materials around, followed closely by the same dark fur. It raced down his legs and coated them with curly hairs that rubbed against the inside of his increasingly tight jeans as he walked around, an almost arousing feeling. Within the first year of working Justin had gone up four sizes in his work boots, as his feet grew and widened to match the rest of him. The massive steel-toed boots hid how hairy his feet had gotten, with dark hairs covering the tops and toes.

The next year was largely the same. Justin continued slowly changing to better fit his new job. He was really beginning to excel at it, and he’d attained a close friendship with many of the men he worked with. It almost seemed as if he’d aged ten years over the last one, he certainly looked it at this point. His fur coat only thickened, growing even denser across his chest and stomach to the point you could barely see the skin beneath the hairs. Hair had also spread up and onto his shoulders before enveloping his massive back. The hairs gushed out across his shoulder blades before shooting down his spine and spreading out wide. The heavy coating slowly grew thicker and spread out further as time went on, reaching down to his ass. It too became covered with thick, dark hairs as it inflated to a truly massive size. During the warmer months sometimes he just wore his vest and hard hat, his incredibly thick hair covering the rest of him and sticking through his vest.

Justin earned the nickname ‘Grizzly’ from his coworkers after they saw how hairy he’d gotten, and his body had put on the size to match. Gone was the small but toned body of a wrestler, replaced by a thick, hairy, and sturdy body of a weathered construction worker. He oozed masculinity from not only his stained and dirty work clothes, but from the thick chest hair that he left his shirt open to show off. His entire body was now coated with a dense coat of hair and he liked to make that known, as long as he wasn’t caught against safety regulations at least. He never questioned why he’d changed so much in such a short span, it never even occurred to him, and honestly he liked his new life. He was just one of the guys working on the site now. The hair felt as natural to him as anything else, and the other guys seemed to like it even if they made fun of him once in a while. Occasionally when they went out drinking some of the guys would have too many beers and start rubbing their hands through his thick fur, but he didn’t mind at all. It felt good to be masculine, and to be appreciated for it by other guys. Months continued to pass though no one could really remember how long Justin had been working there at this point, but they were all glad he was there. He was the best construction worker on their team.

[heartsofminds]

i'm calling just to hear you scream - part ii.

“Free means “fuck.” She’s gonna fuck us, Sugar and you don’t even fucking care!” or it's your first day at The Bear (or is it The Beef still?), Richie is convinced you're a fed, and Carmen may or may not hate your guts.

A/N: well surprise, surprise! here's part two of i'm calling just to hear you scream. definitely more of a filler chapter before everything starts to implode and get more serious and downright grimey, but i hope you enjoy!

The shadows created by the awnings of the sandwiched businesses chill your bones while the Sun makes your backside sticky beneath your sweater and light spring jacket. Chicago is beautiful in March, but always full of surprises.

One day comes an icy snowstorm that adds to the gray slush collecting on the side of the street and the next a blissful sixty-one degrees that gaslights everyone into walking around with shorts on because it’s just “so warm.” 

You can’t revel in the tranquility for much longer. Not when you’re pretty sure you’re coming up on the address Natalie emailed you two nights ago. 628 West Wager Street sits prettily in between an old antique shop and a Chicago Cubs merchandise store that has definitely seen better days. Despite no sign hanging on the window and the glass completely shielded from outside eyes by brown butcher paper, it somehow looks like it belongs; the younger sibling of a once booming and vibrant street scene. 

Being outside of the door is a feeling that fills you with both anxiety and uncertainty. You know you’re in the right spot but you don’t feel like you are; not when you can’t hear any noise coming from any of the three storefronts that stand in front of you. You’re made even more uneasy when you see the five by eleven sheet of insulated foil wrap with capital letters written in Sharpie taped to the front window. 

The Beef is closed. Thank you for your patronage. The Bear is coming. 

The nerves start to hit you even harder. All Natalie had mentioned over the phone and through your frequent emails have been about needing help with a restaurant. The name of the aforementioned restaurant had never been disclosed and its location remained a mystery until this morning when you got an email with the unspoken directions that Apple Maps would omit. There’s nothing more embarrassing than doing a consult and not knowing any of the details. It’s even more humiliating when the feeling of being made a fool seems inevitable. 

Your arm refuses to move forward and yank the door open in case this is some sick prank. You half expect Becca to be hiding behind it with the “good ole boys” crew that is full of Senior and Junior partners at your law firm; their only purpose is to further humiliate and belittle you more than they already do on a day-to-day basis at the office. 

It’s a ridiculous thing to think that someone would care enough about you and your shame to do that, you know, but it’s the only way you can rationalize your brain warning you not to touch that door. Your eyes catch your reflection and suddenly you want the concrete sidewalk to swallow you whole. You take in how your navy blue pantsuit engulfs you and how your work bag seems to get heavier and heavier as it hangs solemnly at your side. 

You don’t belong here. 

The itch to turn around and run back to the train as fast as you could possibly manage crosses your mind, but the shattering of the quiet oasis around you interrupts that thought before it can materialize. 

“Do you ever shut the fuck up!” you hear a voice scream.

“Do you ever realize you don’t know fuckin’ everything!” another one screams back. 

The sound of a wall being hit accompanies the shouts as well as numerous other voices joining in on the cacophony the verbal altercation created. 

Call it a hunch (or just having enough common sense), but you definitely are in the right place and there are certainly people inside. The scary part of not knowing is over. The absolutely horrifying part of having to see where you fit in is pending. 

Your fingers grip the solid metal door handle and you rip it open. The resounding squeal it emits makes you want the floor to swallow you up whole. The chaos of screaming shouting and yelling start to pause before the sound of the sledgehammer hitting the wall a second time interrupts it and sends it into a full frenzy once again. 

The world seems to be moving in slow motion and your words are caught in your throat. You’ve never seen chaos like this before, but you’ve definitely felt the way you’re currently feeling every day for the past five years. Faces you don’t know, a nagging feeling of responsibility, a dire need to do the best job you possibly can and not fucking up and not pissing anyone off, and yet no idea where to even start. 

“If I already fuckin’ told you you were tearing the wrong wall down why the actual fuck would you do it again!” a strained scream bounces off the walls. 

You jolt at the echo. The current lack of infrastructure and an igloo of scaffolding tarp amplifies the sound by three thousand decibels. 

He can’t see your face because his back is turned toward you, but the temperament and the mop of curls tell you the obvious. Carmen. Natalie’s brother and shareholder that she had subtly warned you about in a half-joking, half-not tone when you had spoken on the phone the other day. 

“To prove a fucking point,” a lankier taller man scoffs back. Richie. Their cousin, not cousin (which you don’t really understand, but you chalk it up to a deduction that not everything is meant to make sense), and the absolute bane of Natalie and Carmen’s existence at times. She had also warned you about him on the phone. “Even if I’m wrong you never fail to always think you’re fucking right like a – like a fucking baby! You walk around here pissed the fuck off and fucking changing everything and makin’ it everyone else’s fucking problem –” 

Carmen lunges at him and two other men from the crowd almost pick him up from the floor to prevent him from tackling Richie. 

“Everyone else’s prob – You’re my fucking problem! You’re my fuckin’ problem and all you know how to do is fuck up and make everything fuckin’ worse!” 

“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuckin’ pissy ass pamper cry baby.” 

Carmen tries his hardest to wrangle himself out of the hold he’s currently in. Sydney, a genius and the Lord’s prayer (according to Natalie, also), clumps herself near him as he remains twisting and turning like a toddler fighting a parent’s protective hold through a temper tantrum. 

“Chill, chill, chill. Stop. Just stop,” she gently coos. Her hand claps the shoulder of one of the men holding him up. You can see the gentle squeeze it gives to provide silent comfort, but you wonder if the softness in her tone is to deescalate the situation or to help regulate herself. 

He’s dragged out to what you can assume is the backdoor and it slams with a cadence that demands attention. A sharp thud can be heard five seconds later accompanied by various, “Yo, what the fuck, dude?”’s. 

He must have kicked the door. He definitely kicked the door. 

Your body continues to stay frozen in the bare entryway. The survival skills you’ve adapted kick into full effect. Don’t make a move. Don’t make a sound. Do not piss anyone else off. 

The aftermath of commotion and chatter fills the room and leaves no space for you. You have half the mind to put your hand back on the handle and dip out before anyone notices. You’ve been here all of three minutes and you feel as if it’s been a year. The shouting and the hurtful insults and the frequent use of the word “fuck” send a blush down your chest. You’re embarrassed because you’re starting to think that you can’t handle it. You’re not good enough. You’re not strong enough. 

What the fuck were you thinking even coming here? 

The push of your thigh against the door causes the rusted metal hinge to groan again. The sound is indiscernible from relief or protest; staying or leaving. Either option makes your skin crawl. The sudden redirection of eyes casts a dome of silence and everyone zones in on the thing that wasn’t there before: you. 

No one moves and for a second, you don’t think anyone blinks. The realization of someone infiltrating a rather robust and rage-filled argument occurring at nine in the morning sinks in before the vein of awkwardness begins to bleed. You know the logical thing to do is to introduce yourself; to force a plaster-like smile on your face and extend your hand and ask how everyone is doing. 

But you don’t. 

You can’t. 

Natalie can feel the alarm bells going off in her head when her eyes float to your figure. You look worried; a flash of pensiveness and subtle fear floods your facial expression and she starts to panic. Opening a restaurant is beyond humbling and asking Becca Cantor for her help was a last-ditch effort to contain the smallest bit of confidence she had left. Besides, she would rather roll over and die than you to walk out that door, tell Becca about how they’re sledgehammering walls with a gang of lunatics at the restaurant, and somehow get a call from Uncle Jimmy that turns into a stern talking to about how they’re just dicking around with his money and how it’s a waste of time. 

You absolutely, positively can not walk out that door. 

She’ll make sure of it. Even if it’s the last thing she ever fucking does. 

Her feet carry her faster than what her brain is aware of. Her eyes have to catch up with the scenery passing her in a blur as she walks up to you. Seeing her face calms you down in a way that is small but not unnoticed. She has kind eyes and a calm demeanor. This is the kind of client that gives you confidence. This is the kind of client that brings you joy. This is the kind of work you were made to do. 

“Oh, hey! You found it!” she cheers. Her hand brushes against your bicep in a welcome. 

The pool of spit inside your mouth gets swallowed as you curtly nod. “Yeah! Yeah, I thought Apple Maps led me astray but I was definitely in the right spot.” 

Pretending not to notice the curious gazes behind your interaction proves difficult, but it’s not something you’re not used to. Working in an office means there’s always someone in your business and you always feel like you’re under constant surveillance. 

At least this time, the threat of humiliation seems considerably low. The obvious danger of being chased out of here with a sledgehammer is considerably high though. 

“How are you doing?” you ask quietly. A conversation of niceties always makes things less awkward and gives you some leeway for at least learning who the owners are of the staring eyes. 

“Yo, who the fuck is this, Suge?” Richie asks, wiping his plaster-covered hands on his shirt. His face still harbors a flush that had yet to dissipate. He also has kind eyes but you know from the moments you witnessed prior that he can turn his kindness off and on instantaneously. 

Natalie rolls her eyes and huffs. The damage control that she’s doing is not going to plan. She had grown up around cursing and incredibly forward questioning and knows that not everyone else had, and from the disastrous commotion you stumbled into five minutes prior and the way your eyes show more of the whites than the irises, the crudeness needs to take a backseat. 

At least enough of one to ensure that you’re not about to turn around and bolt out of that shitty ass door that she had been bitching at Richie to oil for the past two months. 

She moves to stand next to you and puts her arm around your shoulder. Natalie knows that the second they find out that you’re an attorney all hell will break loose. Something about accusing you of being “fed” and coming to rip the “fundamentals of democracy” out from under them brews in her mind and she gags a little at the thought of having to diffuse yet another shit show before ten in the morning. 

The unwelcome taste of acid tinging the back of her tongue makes her take a mental note to ask her OB about being so nauseous. 

“This is our attorney,” she starts and begins to ignore the groans coming from the crowd in front of her, “She’s gonna help us with some...things.” 

Richie scoffs and throws his hands up. He wipes at his nose with his forearm and some of the plaster residue makes a home on the tip of it. 

“You brought a fuckin’ fed in here, Sugar?” His eyebrows rise to his hairline and it doesn’t take a genius to know how he doesn’t want you here at all. “I told you I had this under wraps. The fuck do we need a fed up our ass for if we’re just tearin’ down walls and shit.” 

You sigh and Natalie can feel the anxiety radiating off of you. She’s starting to absorb it, but the fight in her to make this right persists. 

“Well, first of all, the fed has a fucking name, you dick,” she snaps, “And you’ve been slinging beef sandwiches your entire adult life so the fuck do we need you for?”  

Richie exhales as the rest of the people around him start to snicker. 

“Damn, Papa. You need to pipe down,” whom you guess is Tina from some of the people who had been mentioned to you through the phone calls (and there’s so many goddamn people in here for it to be out of business and you’re sure you’ll need to start doing flashcards every night to remember who they are). 

“Thanks, T,” Natalie and Richie chirp in unison; their voices capturing the different emotions of annoyance and triumph differently. 

Some more harsh words and excited chatter served with a side of frustration occurs and you’re so checked out that you don’t even realize that no one has asked you directly what your name is. The animated voices and exaggerated body movement swell the room even more; pushing you outside and three blocks away so vividly through emotion that you have to check to make sure your feet haven’t moved. 

No one has asked who you are and which firm you came from. No one has asked how you are. And still, no one has asked you what your name is. 

They continue to talk and joke and yell and you start to feel yourself shrinking in. 

Smaller, smaller, smaller. 

Gone. 

You know that it’s not personal. It’s almost never personal, but the mind tends to conjure up ideas when it can’t make sense of the feelings it detects from the body. 

Maybe it had just gotten thrown to the wayside. Maybe they were making room for direct conversation with you to occur later when things weren’t so awkward. Maybe they don’t hate you and think you’re the worst and may actually like you.

But then maybe they don’t. 

Maybe they just don’t give a fuck. 

In your catatonic daze, you hear an offhanded remark about how you look like a high schooler who just waltzed in after a Model UN convention and that Natalie has no idea what the fuck she was doing. The laughter that follows highlights those who actively agree and the agitated huffs of frustration show those who silently concur. 

In any other circumstance, you probably would have joined them in laughter or returned a smart-alecky response or accompanied them in making fun of you, but this isn’t a different circumstance. You’re in a construction zone on a Saturday morning, overdressed with a pantsuit on, and have not a clue on how hospitality law works, and the facts leave a non-disputable conclusion. 

You’re the odd one out and you can’t get an invite to be even no matter how hard you try.

You truly don’t belong here. 

“Richie, have you ever considered that maybe we need to do it right this time?” Natalie asks, her tone dripping annoyance, “Her being here clearly doesn’t affect your ability to be an idiot, so you can go fuck yourself because she’s staying.” 

Richie narrows his eyes at her. His lanky limbs flail as he attempts to make his emotions seen without having to verbalize them. Natalie has had it with his stubbornness and she knows that she might be puking her guts out in about fifteen minutes. The great debate has to have an ending in sight soon. 

Besides, she knows that Richie’s apprehension toward the whole thing is because he’s resisting change and trying to get under Carmen’s skin. It doesn’t matter how great she knows her brother can make something. Richie will try and put a pin in it before it becomes something he no longer recognizes. 

Just like their dad. Somewhat like Mikey. Especially like Carmen (even though she knows he doesn’t recognize his own stubbornness yet). 

“Jesus, that’s fuckin’ horse shit if I’ve heard it,” he sneers, “And I happen to be very intelligent and very charming – and FYI – I also know how a fucking business works and all this “foo-foo,” “high dining”, microgreen shit –” 

She holds up her hand to him and rolls her eyes. She’s surprised she hasn’t been able to see the back of her skull yet. “It’s fine dining, but whatever.” 

“Fuck all the way off. Fine dining, microgreen shit is a dishonor to our roots and I will not stand for it.” 

Natalie’s hand smacks down on a metal rolling table with a rusty toolbox and a wrinkled pad of Post-it notes. The sounds of clanky metal snap everyone’s attention to her. Natalie was never mean. She was always sugary sweet and ooey gooey; trying to be in everyone’s good graces at all times and forever attempting to fix things before they had the potential to be broken. But she could also brush the sugar off and leave a bitter and tongue-curdling hurt if she got pushed to her limit. 

She’s not had a full night’s rest since she got asked (more like begged, but she’s not one for bragging) to be their project manager, she can’t bare to stomach anything nowadays without wrestling the urge to puke it back up, and the fucking pregnancy hormones are filling her with unexplained bouts of rage as of late. 

She is not one to be fucked with and Richie knows that. He just always wants to poke the bear. 

“Well that’s fuckin’ sad that your “roots” are tied to an Italian beef shop, but that doesn’t change my mind whatsoever,” she pushes past him with more force than she intended, guiding you along with her to wherever she had in mind, “You can bitch and moan and holler all you want but you’re not the one losing your fucking mind over fucking paperwork so whatever other unhelpful and extremely negative shit you have to say can get shoved up your ass and you can get fucked because I’m not putting up with it.” 

Richie is rendered speechless – a phenomenon that does not occur very often. 

She turns to you and gives you a friendly smile. Her hand rests softly above yours that are bawled into anxious fists. “Let’s go into the office so we can talk some more. Are you okay with that?” 

You’re still frozen in equal parts shock and fear; too scared to say no. 

“Umm. . .yeah. Yeah, we can go to the back,” you swallow and she brisks you away to what you assume is where all the paperwork is housed that they need help making sense of resides. 

You arrive outside of a closed wooden door and Natalie steps in front of it, her arms coming down to hug the hinges of it in a way that makes you slightly worried. “So I know that you’re not a hospitality attorney and I know that you’re doing this for free and you’re totally at liberty to say you want out the second you say the word,” she speaks softly. 

You know that she’s starting to panic. Your feelings and her feelings are starting to merge into one; two halves of the same whole – people pleasers. 

“But it’s. . .a lot and I don’t know even know where to start and this is legitimately driving me insane so –” 

Her anxiety starts to break your heart. The pang in your chest makes your decision for you. No matter how uncomfortable you are, you know you need to do the right thing out of the kindness of your own heart. 

“No, it’s fine!” you cut her off, “I’ll take a look and we’ll figure it out. Nothing you have here is too much. I can promise you that.” 

Ocean blue irises engulf you with sentiment and appreciation through their gaze. Natalie’s shoulders sag before her hand finds the gold doorknob. A deep breath adds to the noise of chatter and squeaks of the faulty fire alarm in the hallway. The oak door opens with a wheeze and a groan; stuck because of the swell its wood causes from the constant fluctuation of temperatures in Chicago. 

“Well,” she begins, “Here it is.” 

The mountains of cardboard boxes all labeled with acronyms and doodled with nonsense send the pit in your stomach down to your toes and through the center of the Earth. 

Holy fucking shit. 

Natalie notices your shock and starts to go back into “fix-it” mode. She hasn’t eaten at all today, but she figures that the emotions bubbling up and down at a fixed and constant rate are what fill her insides and are making her nauseous. Bile starts to make its way up her throat but she forces it back down. 

She’ll be damned if this goes even more sour than how she knows it has. 

“It’s a lot and it’s more sorting things and making them make sense than doing actual work? Like you’re gonna be doing work but it’s not rocket science. . . Not that being an attorney isn’t hard! My husband is one and I. . .need to shut up now,” she word vomits. Despite the apparent fact that she’s panicking, the sound of her voice is soothing and the gentle hand she places on the junction between the base of your neck and your shoulder does wonders to ground you. “And there’s no rush to have all of it done. It’s a work at your own pace kinda thing?” 

You both know that she’s fibbing about the last part. 

The frantic text at 11 PM last week and the hour-long phone call debriefs you had yesterday and three days before say otherwise. This is her compromising and making her needs smaller. This is her being like you and you being like her; being like each other. Digging yourself into holes to help others no matter the effort – no matter the pain. 

“No, I’m doing this because I want to. Just let me know exactly what you need and we can get to it as soon as possible.” 

You know that you must have said the golden word because as soon as the statement leaves your mouth, Natalie whips out her phone and starts reading off a list she had compiled of all things that have some link to the legal world. 

Contracts. Permits. Tax revenue sheets. Paystubs. Workers Compensation. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. City Ordinances. Chicago royally fucking anyone who dares to open a business, really. 

The sad part is that this should scare you. This should make you want to run out of here and never look back and purposely take the long way to get somewhere if you knew where you were headed would cross paths with the restaurant. 

But you don’t do any of that, and the buzz of finally doing something that you know is helping people overpowers the migraine of stress you can feel looming over you the second you agree to help them out. 

“You’re amazing,” she says, eyes twinkling with admiration. 

Your cheeks turn a shade of baby pink that you hope she can’t see. You’ve never taken well to flattery. 

Richie’s knuckles give a soft knock on the door and it opens before either of you can think to welcome another presence. His gaze finds both of you fist-deep into the first box labeled “Cocksuckers: For IRS - 1987.” You already know that he’s not related to the Berzattos by blood, but the beautiful blue eyes make you question that fact. He gives a sheepish smile almost to apologize for his interruption and you think he’s about to apologize before he opens his mouth and says, “Suge, your dashing baby brother is bout to blow a fuse because the fed is here.” 

Natalie stops what she’s doing. Her hands come to rest on the flimsy cardboard box and she throws her head back to eye the ceiling. If she can count the row of six vertically, maybe she can slow her breathing and calm herself down enough to spare Carmy the chewing out of a lifetime. 

One. 

“Sugar!” 

Two. 

“Get the fuck off me!” 

Three. 

“I said get the fuck off me! I need to see my fuckin’ sister!” 

Four. 

“Sugar!” 

Five. 

“Leave me the fuck alone!” 

Six. 

“Natalie!” 

Her brother appears in front of her disheveled and angry. Even though she’s only five years older than he is, she always sees him as the little baby she used to put in her strollers and push around for years until he got too big and too “grown” to think playing with his older sister was cool. Years spent with him also meant years studying him; knowing his ticks down to the smallest one and learning how he expresses every emotion. 

It was the only way she survived living in that house until she was eighteen. 

Dealing with an angry Carmen is nothing in comparison to dealing with an angry Michael or even attempting to console a slightly agitated mother. 

Besides, Carmy’s anger, while often misguided and very explosive, was never unexpected. He always has a tell and there’s always a few seconds before he completely comes unglued. Adult temper tantrums are shit shows, and quite frankly she’s fed up with having to diffuse one of his every couple of hours as of late. 

Her face starts to fall when she sees Carmen’s left eye begins to create that deep crinkle it does when he gets pissed. He starts to wrinkle his nose and she knows that he’s about to start screaming. 

Richie lets out a whistle before pushing Carmen’s head in a playful yet agitated manner. Before his hand can be swatted at, he jumps out of the way and joins in on a distant conversation about his daughter’s last dance recital. 

He has a smug grin on his face that Carmen wants nothing more than to slap off him. He knew that touching him would provoke him even more.  

Richie always has to poke the bear. 

Always. 

Carmen tries to contain his anger the best he can. Even though he’s totally against the idea of having you in the building, he knows there’s jackshit he can do about it now. Sydney said yes, Natalie sought you out, and Uncle Jimmy thought the idea was brilliant. The vote was three against one and he knows that all he can do is go fuck himself. So much for everyone promising not to make decisions about the restaurant without his okay. 

It’s not like his credit will be the one that’s fucked if this place turns to shit. 

His arm stretches to hold the side of the door’s hinge and supports his body weight as he leans to the right. “You hired a fucking attorney and didn’t tell me?” he snaps. His face pinches in a way that brings his nose, eyes, and mouth closer together; a face their mom used to make before she came totally unglued. 

You have your back turned toward the door he’s looming in. Something about being targeted makes you want to be blind to it; to shut your eyes as tightly as you can and will it away. You know that the way he’s acting has everything to do with him and nothing to do with you, but you can’t help it. When you feel out of place, every action to push you further out feels personal. 

“She’s doing it for free,” Natalie scoffs, putting a lid back on one of the boxes and crossing her arms over her chest. She would offer up more information, but what would be the use if Carmy is as wound up as he is? 

“Free means “fuck.” She’s gonna fuck us, Sugar, and you don’t even fucking care!” he screeches, seemingly uncaring that you’re right in front of him and that he’s biting his sister’s head off as if it’s nothing. 

You start to pull files out of the boxes faster than you were before. The distraction is needed because you know that if you listen too intently to what else is being said, you’ll start internalizing it later. 

Nothing with you. Everything with him. Nothing with you. Everything with him. 

“No. She is not gonna fuck us,” she pushes a finger into his chest and her nostrils flaring, “You’re gonna fuck us because you’re being so stubborn and stupid and can’t have a goddamn conversation like an adult.” 

His chest pushes deeper into his sister’s finger. “You calling me a baby? You calling me a fucking baby?” 

Carmen usually isn’t one to pick a fight in his everyday life, but once he gets started he refuses to back down. The rational part of his brain knows that he’s going overboard but he can’t help himself. The rage inside has nowhere to go and this whole thing is really pissing him off. He’s so fucking sick of everyone acting like he’s too immature and irresponsible to handle things.

Natalie��s finger comes out to become a full palm. “Well then stop the yelling. Stop the pissy pamper attitude. Stop wasting our fucking time and just admit that you’re way over your fucking head and don’t know everything.” 

Carmen balls his hands into fists and licks his lips to prevent him from saying something really fucking mean. He knows that Natalie is just trying to help but she always is, and it fucking sucks when she always saves the day even when he doesn’t want her to. The restaurant was supposed to be theirs; supposed to be all him and Mikey and everyone who made them into the people they are. It was never supposed to be his. It was never supposed to be his when he has not a goddamn clue what he’s doing and Natalie driving herself borderline insane trying to proactively fix everything before it turns to shit. 

He doesn’t know what to say because she’s right. Sugar is always right and Carmen is always wrong and he wishes Michael was here to balance them out; to add a third option so it wasn’t so split. 

But he’s not here. He won’t be here. He never really was here. 

“Fuck!” he yells at the top of his lungs. 

“Fuck!” Natalie shouts back. 

Argument over. 

His shoes slide on the floor with ease and he tries to steady his breathing. His arms let go of the door frame and his head hangs with the dissatisfaction of still housing a boulder of anger. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he whispers, voice growing smaller as he walks away. A loud clash of hollowed metal is heard shortly after. “Fuck!” 

“Punching the lockers doesn’t get rid of the fact you’re a little bitch, Cousin.” 

Richie has to poke the bear. 

Always.

[gingiesworld]

Fatal Attraction

Chapter Three

Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x GN! Reader/Wanda Maximoff x Jarvis Stark

Warnings: Angst. Fluff.

Taglist : @natashamaximoff-69 @canvascoloredin @wizardofstories @louxbloom @wandanats-goodgirl @the-ox-fan20 @ladyqueenxoxo @aemilia19 @wandaromamoff69 @mfd-101 @dorabledewdroop @marvelogic

18+ MINORS DNI

The first week had passed by pretty swiftly, Wanda had learned everything that there was, she even shadowed Y/N to a few meetings too, taking the notes that were necessary and more just in case Y/N had missed anything.

She could truly say that she admired Y/N and how they worked with their employees and clients. They weren't hostile or agitated, they would listen to the needs of the other person and would reassure them.

"I want to see this little one when he is born." They told Jean as she packed her things with their help.

"You will." Jean smiled as Y/N picked up the box.

"Is Scott picking you up?" They asked her as they walked with her towards the elevator.

"He is waiting downstairs for me." She told them before Y/N turned to Wanda.

"Would you like me to pick you up a coffee Ms Maximoff?" They asked her with a gentle smile.

"Please." She nodded before she went back to work, she felt at home working here. It was easy and stress free, although she wishes her marriage would be stress free.

"So, how many meetings have I got today?" Y/N asked as they placed her coffee on her desk, Wanda moved to pick up a few files.

"You have three meetings, one this morning with Hammer Industries about the project, two this afternoon, Ms Bishop and Mr Stark." She told them as she handed them the files.

"You can sit out of the one with Mr Stark." They told her as she gave them an unsure look. "He is your father in law and I assume your husband doesn't know you work here because you still work here." They smirked as Wanda chuckled lightly at them.

"Yes, Jarvis doesn't know." Wanda told them as she leaned back in her chair. "But he doesn't really have a say on where or who I work for." She countered as Y/N smiled proudly at her.

"I like you." They smiled as they took the first file from her. "It's a pity it's only temporary." She smiled as she watched them walk into their office to read up on the first meeting.

Just 30 minutes later, Y/N and Wanda made their way to the meeting room. It was a room which had a large table in the center, chairs lining on either side and one at the head. Y/N took their seat at the head as Wanda took the one beside them.

"Do you need a drink?" Wanda asked Y/N before the room filled up.

"No thank you." They smiled as soon as Justin Hammer walked in, the two shook hands before he took the seat across from Wanda.

"So, we have the stats on the project." Y/N grabbed the file and laid it in front of them. "Some of the materials have been hard to come by because of the radiation content but we have managed to get it through a trusted friend of mine."

"So, it's almost ready?" He questioned as Y/N sat back.

"Not quite yet." They informed him. "We still need to test it out and Mr Osborn has trusted me to lead the testing, so we have plans in the next few weeks to take it to Nevada, near Area 51 to test."

"Is it possible for myself or my assistant to accompany you?" He questioned as Y/N licked their teeth.

"I'm afraid not, it's purely for insurance purposes." They told him. "But Wanda here will take notes and maybe we can also record footage of the testing for you too." The rest of the meeting went by smoothly as Y/N shook hands as Justin was led outside of the room, leaving just Y/N and Wanda.

"When were you going to tell me about the trip?" She questioned as she closed the door before they could leave. They smirked as they watched her, seeing how she stood with her hand on her hip and the other on the closed door.

"When I had the details finalised." They told her as they stood up, gathering the files as she moved closer to them.

"You still should have told me." She told them firmly as she gazed at them intensely.

"I should have, yes." They told her as they straightened up, towering over her as she visibly gulped. "But either way, the dates are not set in stone as the project isn't near completion." Wanda tried to remain confident but she felt strange as they towered her, their eyes boring into her own had her feeling a way it shouldn't. "My apologies Ms Maximoff."

"Why do you insist on calling me Ms Maximoff?" She questioned as she followed them out of the room.

"Well, that is your respected name, no?" They raised their brow as they entered the elevator.

"You know what I mean." She stated as the elevator stopped. Wanda watched as Y/N pressed the stop button, turning to face her.

"I call you Ms Maximoff because I respect you." They told her as she backed up against the wall. "Also, the more I call you Wanda makes me want to say it in a more unprofessional manner and I can't do that because you are my employee, and there are boundaries I will not cross." They stood toe to toe as their hand rested on the wall beside her head. "Is that ok Ms Maximoff?" They questioned with a raised brow.

"It is." She whispered as she never turned away from their burning gaze.

"Perfect." They moved away and started the elevator again as Wanda tried to regain her composure, although her heart was beating rapidly in her chest as her mind raced with many inappropriate thoughts.

Since the moment in the elevator, Wanda found herself observing them more and more. She watched how their forearms looked when they removed their jacket, sleeves folded up neatly as they moved around their office, speaking on the phone. They soon beckoned for Wanda to enter the office before finishing up their phone call.

"It appears that we have been asked to attend a charity ball." They informed her. "I am to bring a date and I usually take Jean but as you can see that is impossible."

"So, you want me to be your date?" She questioned as they sighed, a tight lipped smile on their face.

"I don't want to put you into an uncomfortable position but I usually prefer to take someone I know and trust." They told her.

"You've only known me for a little over a week." She reminded them as they nodded.

"And I do trust you Wanda." They told her as they reached for two glasses and a decanter, pouring the golden liquid into the glasses. "I am not pressuring you into saying yes, it is entirely your choice and you can say no."

"I don't know." She whispered as she took the glass from them. "If you have been invited, then maybe my father in law and husband may have been invited."

"Well, just let me know." They told her as they finished their drink. "I can take Gwen if need be."

"I don't think I can." Wanda whispered as Y/N nodded in understanding. "Working here and lying about it is already affecting my marriage."

"It's ok Ms Maximoff." They told her softly. "Don't worry about it." They took her own empty glass and took it to the small bar they had. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off."

"I can't do that." She whispered as they gave her a soft smile.

"Yes you can. Take it, you won't lose any wages." They told her. "I'll see you tomorrow morning." They helped her stand as she nodded, mumbling a quiet thank you before she absentmindedly gathered her belongings and left the office. Picking up some food on her way home, just in time for Jarvis to return home.

"Wanda, what are you doing here?" He asked her as he wasn't used to her being home early.

"I had the afternoon off." She told him as he did something on his phone before scoffing at her.

"And you didn't tell me?" He questioned her.

"I didn't know I had to tell you." She countered as he shook his head. "Besides, why are you home?" She asked as she looked at the time, it was only 3pm as he just glared at her.

"I live here." He told her. "And also, we have a charity ball coming up." He told her. "So you need to buy a new dress, not any of the old ones you have in the closet. You know what, I'll just send Pepper's stylist your measurements and I'm sure they'll pick something nice for you." With that he left, leaving Wanda in the kitchen alone. She still sometimes hoped that the man she fell in love with was still inside him somewhere. Hoping that this marriage wasn't entirely a waste of time.

[themotherofblood]

chapter 5 | RIVER OF FIRE | blood runs thick | d.t x reader x r.t

masterlist | series masterlist | previous chapter

synopsis: the aftermath of Alicent being wed to Viserys.

~ “Did you think it all true, all these things will catch up to you now.” ~

It truly wasn’t much of a bother, was it. Here you were, threading together a bouquet with gold silk threads and next to you paced Rhaenyra, cursing practically anyone that would dare interrupt her maniacal pacing. Five steps she would walk forward, mutter curses under her breath and then she would turn, walk five more. The antechamber almost grew hot, burning along with Nyra’s ire, the dragon flames within her burnt so bright, you feared for the Queen’s life.

She was just next door, being readied for her wedding by her Hightower cousins, you could hear the rambling and muffled giggling and jangles of gold bangles and necklaces. Her wedding to Viserys - by the gods - even now brought bile to the back of your mouth coating it with bitter thickness. It wasn't unheard of but perhaps when the bride bleeds from so close to home, one might truly weep for her virtue. Even if she were to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, a girl and a grieving King. What bore far more pain was that she hid it, for months she hid her ongoing relationship with the King, from you, from Rhaenyra. Being unable to aid Rhaenyra through her grief to which Alicent sewed parts of Rhaenyra back together with such ease. She is wise, truly wise, yet she hid this. Rhaenyra believes her a traitor now, for weeks she voiced the fear of Aemma’s memory fading if Viserys were to remarry, Alicent listened and yet said nothing.

You were pulled from your thoughts as the doors to Alicent’s bed chambers opened, ladies poured out one by one, bowing to you and Rhaenyra before heading for the Grand Sept, the bells had begun to ring, marking the King’s arrival to the Sept.

A girl of six and ten turned into a woman, Alicent stood at the door with a stunning ivory gown, her cape sleeves curving around her figure and intricate gold metal work placed on her shoulders to mimic dragon wings, her beautiful brown hair pulled up. She was radiant as always, you couldn't help but smile at her, it was her wedding day after all.

Alicent’s eyes flicker to Rhaeyra, expecting to find some warmth within the purple of her eyes, Nyra gives Alicent a once over, taking in what had seemed like a nightmare come true.

“You look lovely, your grace” the hint of sarcasm coated thick in Rhaenyra’s voice as she bowed to Alicent before taking her leave.

You pitied her, the smile you gave her after screamed so, the Queen loved by all but the one closest to her. You walked her, reaching out to fix an untucked ribbon and then handing her the bouquet.

“Is there no way that I might mend this?” she sighed, sorrowful and guilty.

“Not today.”

She looked defeated as you fussed with pinnings of her wedding dress.

“Not today, because today is about you, our petty problems will be with us tomorrow too, my lady.” you give her a once over before once more smiling at her “today you become Queen.”

This time she matches your smile, a long breath shaking away the sorrow weighing upon her shoulders. You walked behind her, lifting her long train with both arms as she proceeded to walk.

There was this joy, your friend was being wed, a momentous event but you couldn’t breathe past how terrified Alicent looked, and torn over how perturbed Nyra appeared to mask her strong need to sob. Your lover and your companion, both bleeding from the wounds of court and you could help but one, a side that you had to choose. She had ripped through two dolls, sobbing over the one gown she managed to steal from her mother’s chests. She didn’t want a stepmother but most of all she didn't want to have to lose a friend so cruelly. No matter how tightly you held Nyra through the nights and gave her comforting touches, the dark shadow of doom that seemed to follow never left her, it loved her more than you could. More than the sunshine could cast a shadow, it persisted. At supper and at tea, it pained you to watch her so.

So much so, she wrote to Daemon, begging him to return, to stop this madness, speak some sense into his brother but what was done couldn’t be undone by a banished prince, now could it?

You reached for Nyra’s hand as you stood amongst the people, watching the Targaryen cloak draped over Alicent taunt her. All would be well, all must be well, you prayed. A marriage for the stability of the Realm, even with an heir, the lords never truly seemed satiated.

As Alicent and Viserys turned with their heads held high, the crowds cheered, roared in an out pour of joy. A new Queen had blessed the Realm, soon she would bless the Realm with a son.

A son, you looked to Rhaenyra. The whites of her eyes had gone red, moist.

“She is no Queen of mine.” she angrily whispered to you.

In the vast toll of things, one thing you had expected less. Rhaenyra had charged her ladies to be so frigid to the Queen. You sat with her and her ladies, leisurely pushing your needle through the fabric and then back out, every now and then glancing at Alicent and the growing mound of her belly hidden behind the plush blanket she sat under.

A rabid dog with a mustard collar, that’s what you were to her. Shielding her from the bitch-like behaviour many of these courtly ladies had directed towards her. Loud mouthed wenches, snickering behind her back, most of them had expected to be Queen– now they lick their wounds, playing those half cooked political games to gain Alicent’s favour. Most of all, you shielded her from Rhaenyra’s wrath, raging just as hot as Syrax’s fire, burning all those who might to diminish it, though you– immune to the brunt of it all, both figuratively and literally. The Targaryen in you kept you Valyrian-clad, and Rhaenyra’s lover in you kept you protected.

You looked out the window this time, you were sure she was up there– somewhere so high where if she was to let out rageful screams, she would be the only one to hear. Well– her, Syrax and perhaps a vulture or two. You and her had talked about it at length, while Viserys saw the possibility of a spare, all Rhaenyra saw was an heir, to overshadow her, to depose her before her father sold her hand in marriage to the highest bidder. A castle? Gold? Armies or perhaps a foreign political connection, casting her away. Just as Jaehaerys’s daughters suffered, so would she.

Your mother Daenereys was probably the most fortunate of the lot, along with her sister Alyssa. Both women married the men their hearts desired, Alyssa and Baelon producing the purest of Targaryen children and your mother bringing Dorne into the fold by marrying your father Allyrion Martell. You however bleed Martell through and through, unlike your brother that possessed purple eyes, the ravenous features of a true Dornish woman embraced you as you grew, full lips, sun kissed glow, a distinct head of loose curls, leaving but a few streaks of white, just like Princess Rhaenys.

That was besides the point that even with the macabre tradition of the Dornish and the contumacy of Targaryen traditions, you couldn’t fathom admitting that you indeed wanted Alicent’s child to be a boy, for that little child to be heir so you and Rhaenyra could fly east, just like you always dreamed of, marry and live in a quaint little hold with servants purchased from sold jewellery and a farm of your own. Yet once a prey tastes blood, it can only want for more, Rhaenyra’s purpose was this, to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she found power within the title bestowed upon her and just as demanded flaunted his oddities with immunity so would she, you could do naught but follow her, obey her commands and prepare for the day that she would sit the Iron Throne– with a husband on her back instead of you.

You couldn’t give her heirs of her blood, no blood magic nor prayer could change that you too were born a girl, and the unnatural pairing of the two of you would lead to carnage.

“Princess?” the voice of Enorah standing by the doorway tore your attention, you looked at her, momentarily stunned– returning to the world of the living “The Princess Rhaenyra has demanded your presence in the Godswood.”

Demanded

Rhaenyra knew at the cusp at which she played at, your afternoons were Alicent’s by the King’s “suit,” you turn to Alicent apologetically.

“My Queen if I may…”

“Go on, I have my other ladies to keep me company, perhaps I might return to my chambers for some respite.”

You looked around the ladies scattered across the chamber floors before neatly putting away your embroidery ring, you stood, back straight and shrouded in formality. You bowed to your friend before taking your leave.

You knew how you find Rhaenyra in the Godswood, hair mussed— stinking of dragon on the rage of the fourteen flames in her eyes.

“Why must you be with her?”

Something so sacred but irreparable, such a bind of sisterhood never found again. Squandered yet again by what you knew to be the ugly politics of lords in their ivory towers. What irked you the most was the price paid was you— your companions barely old enough to bleed let alone be pawns to whatever bargains were being struck in the Great Halls of the Red Keep.

You remembered the fight they had so vividly, almost envisioning it as you entered the Godswood.

“Rhaenyra, slow down!” You huffed, hiking your skirts to chase behind her.

Viserys had just announced his proclaimation, you stood there. Among the choices he had, along with Laena. Alicent too was— oddly among the lot. It wasn’t a surety until he said her name.

You were sure Rhaenyra felt it harder than you did, right in your gut. A dagger wound, you should have seen this coming. She looked torn, regrettably so, but why? She would be Queen.

Thus you chased out Rhaenyra, down the stairs and to the Godswood where she wiped at her angry tears.

Dear gods

When the realization set it, your closest friend had lied to you, through her teeth. Under the disguise of consolement and wise words of religion and perhaps comfort. She hid her “affairs” with Viserys.

For her sake you wished that she would steer clear of Rhaenyra but such fate was beyond her for she too followed.

“You!” She whipped her head furiously towards Alicent.

“Why? I wept to you, afraid for my mother’s memory and you betrayed me!”

“Rhaenyra truly—“

“You do not speak! You do not breathe near me.”

“Ever again…”

[underdark-dreams]

I got too excited and finished the second chapter 👀 [ch1]

A Strand to Climb - Ch.2

Tav finally catches up with her wizard at Sorcerous Sundries; Rolan has some complicated feelings about seeing her again.

Tags: Reunions, Mutual Pining | Word Count: 3,042 [Read on AO3]

The next day dawned just as gloomy and gray as Rolan’s mood. 

He hadn't slept well in his chilly room at the Tower; the flesh beside his brow was bruised deeper than he’d realized. His fretful dreams of shadow curses and illithid monstrosities had been laced through with the dull ache in his skull.

As a result he’d been short with the customers this morning. It didn’t really matter—no one cared about the boy behind the counter. People tended to look through him, if they looked at him at all. 

No doubt his bruised and beaten appearance made people uncomfortable. Rolan knew Lorroakan didn’t care a jot for his wellbeing, but he did wonder why the man wouldn’t avoid damaging the first face people saw when they walked in. It couldn’t be good for business. 

These days Rolan found himself more of a shopkeeper than a student, after all. 

With that thought in mind, he pulled the large book of figures up onto the counter. At least there was plenty of work there to occupy him—Lorroakan had been an atrocious bookkeeper.

By the time midday dragged along, Sorcerous Sundries had cleared out almost completely. The sky outside the wide front entry had darkened further from the approaching storm. Periodically a humid breeze would gust through the doorway. Each time, Rolan had to grab hold of the pages of his ledger before he lost his place.

Eventually he shoved the thing aside in impatience, thunking a heavy potion bottle down on top to weigh down the page. 

From its hiding place among the scroll shelves, Rolan instead pulled out a stained and dogeared volume: Suspended Ceremorphosis. He'd swiped it from the tower while Lorroakan was engaged with yet another so-called Nightsong hunter. 

Lorroakan certainly wouldn’t miss the text. He hadn't maintained the protective spells on the reference section of his library the way he had the sections on spellcraft and the Weave. Evidently he thought everyone must have the single-minded and incurious lust for power that he did himself.

Rolan had never thought of himself as having a weak stomach, yet he found he had to take the text in small doses. The only thing that kept him reading it was a promise he’d made to Tav many moons ago, on a night when hope was easier to come by.

Whoever had authored it must have been a surgeon—more likely a necromancer. Each gruesome detail was described thoroughly, almost lovingly in some passages. 

Rolan forced his way through as many pages as he could manage. Combined with the painstaking diagrams of each stage of the infection and transformation, he found it painful reading. Especially when it directly concerned one of the people he cared about most in all the Realms. 

Who knew if Tav still even needed his help after all this time? She’d proven herself far more resourceful than him on many occasions. Maybe she was already on the trail for a proper cure by now. Maybe he was just wasting his time.

Rolan abruptly pushed this book aside too, turning back to his ledger again for the reprieve of sordid coin. 

All things considered, Sorcerous Sundries was thriving. The citizens of Baldur’s Gate were shaken, borderline terrified by the recent march of the Absolute's forces…and frightened people spent gold on anything they thought might keep their families safe. Rolan summed last week's numbers a second and a third time, convinced he must have added a figure somewhere.

A brash voice outside pierced his concentration. Rolan glanced up sharply to the open doors, quill poised on the page. 

Suffering hells. Aradin again? Whether or not he’d actually been involved in this week’s clumsy burglary attempt, he should have the common sense not to show his face.

The mercenary had been no rosy presence back at the Grove, and he was a constant bane at the magic shop ever since Rolan had been placed on front desk duties. He was always appearing to insist on a private audience with Lorroakan, or some great sum owed to him, or some other equally improbable outcome depending on the day. 

Just as Lorroakan had accused him of last night—ungratefully—Rolan had finally taken it upon himself to charm the metal construct at the door to turn him away on sight.

As he watched, Aradin jabbed a threatening finger into the construct's face, as if it might be intimidated into compliance. 

Thick fucking idiot, Rolan thought viciously. He had no patience for this today. Right as he set down his pen, someone else caught Aradin's attention from behind.

If not for her change in attire, he would have recognized Tav’s figure at first glance. But then Aradin shifted slightly as he spoke, and Rolan caught sight of her face.

The city seemed to be treating her well; he was relieved to see it. Her features were bright and well-rested for once, despite the scowling line of her brows as she squared her shoulders toward Aradin. 

For the first time in days, Rolan managed a faint smile. She never did like bullies. 

She'd commissioned fine new armor—perhaps from Dammon's forge up the street. Tav shone like an aasimar despite the overcast day behind her. The thought occurred with not near enough force to distract him from gaping at her lovely face.

His face. Zurgan—

Rolan’s spine straightened with a jerk. Why hadn’t he prepared for how she might react? How he might explain his pathetic appearance? He’d forgotten to anticipate any of it properly, and found himself blinded by panic.

There was no time to unfreeze his boots from the floor—Tav and her companions were already sweeping past Aradin and into the shop. 

Her gaze landed on Rolan before any of the rest even noticed him. His heart hammered in his chest as he watched her expressions play out in quick succession: dismay, then concern, then indignation. 

The way her eyes traveled over his face made Rolan wish he could melt into an invisible puddle. But such powers were beyond him—all he could do was stand mute as Tav drew up to the counter in front of him.

“Welcome to Sorcerous Sundries.” Rolan spoke the usual lines, and hated the falseness of his voice as he did so.

Tav only blinked at him for a moment. “Hi,” she replied softly. 

The two of them looked at each other for what felt like an age. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, in truth. Her eyes were wide and wholly inescapable. Rolan found his mind full of many words, all of which refused to exit his mouth.

“Oh shit, Rolan? What happened to your face, mate?” 

The towering Tiefling hellfighter spoke up before either of them could. She was peering at him from behind Tav’s shoulder with an expression of guileless concern.

“Karlach—” Tav wheeled on her with a soft admonition. 

She was trying to spare his pride. For some reason, that made Rolan feel lower than ever. As Tav turned back to him with a tight smile, he hoped the patchwork of bruises on his face hid its flush of abject humiliation.

Tav opened her mouth, but Rolan rushed to speak first. “I expect you’re here to see Master Lorroakan.”

Something flickered behind her eyes. “We are,” was all she answered.

“Then you’ll find the portals to the Tower upstairs. Do be careful to choose correctly the first time, it’s a great deal of trouble getting back in here if you don’t—Lorroakan has little patience for anyone who might waste his time—” 

Rolan was fussing with his ledger and rifling through the pages as if it contained much important work he had to get back to. Anything to avoid looking at her anymore.

“Right…thanks, Rolan.” Tav’s voice was uncertain. He clenched his jaw against a sudden pang of remorse. “See you later, then?” 

Rolan nodded tersely down at his work. He made no other answer.

She lingered for just a moment as the rest of her friends departed for the staircase. Then Rolan heard the metallic clinking of her plate armor as she too moved away. 

He kept his head bent doggedly over his book as she did. Rolan’s eyes pretended to move over the page, seeing none of it. His ears were trained behind him to track Tav’s footfalls on the stairs. 

When he heard the rushing whirl of a portal activating above, he stayed frozen for a few seconds to be sure. Then he shut the ledger with a snap.

And like a shameful coward, he ran to hide.

At least Rolan had enough sense to summon his master’s projection before he turned on his heel. Not a familiar incantation, but he glimpsed the Weave successfully materializing from over his shoulder as he swept toward the concealed door under the great staircase. 

His fingers fumbled for a key at his belt—the one Tolna had lent him his first day. Once the door latched behind him, he stumbled down the dark stairs into the ancillary storeroom.

The place was full of more dust than anything else. Rolan coughed and sneezed several times before he managed a simple cantrip to light one of the torches along the wall. 

Then he sank down onto an empty crate, slumped against the bookshelf behind him, and leaned the tips of his horns back against its dusty volumes.

What in the hells was he doing?

Living the life he’d chosen, Rolan answered himself. Tend the shop, ascend for lessons—sleep and repeat. 

For how many years? One, two? Five? 

Five years as a wizard’s apprentice was rare, but not unheard of. And Lorroakan didn't strike him as a man who readily dismissed his apprentices from service. 

What exactly did he expect Tav to do for the next five years? Surely not wait around for a pathetic wizard-in-training who didn't have the strength to fight back against his own worthless master.

Sitting in this damp basement, surrounded by cobwebs, Rolan couldn't think of a single good reason why someone like her might still want someone like him. 

An old, familiar feeling slithered through his gut. Unwanted.

It was true that Lorroakan had proved more of a disappointment than he could possibly have imagined. But the man had one advantage over every other archwizard Rolan had written to over the years, pleading for a chance to prove himself. 

Lorroakan was the only one who had accepted him in.

Whatever the archwizard’s many deficiencies, they did nothing to change the other advantages this apprenticeship could grant him. Notoriety, privilege, access. The wizarding circles of Faerûn didn’t open for just anyone, especially not a bastard Tiefling. Not unless you had connections.

So what if he had feelings for Tav. Strong ones. Ones he sometimes wished he could make disappear…despite the way she continually visited his dreams. This apprenticeship was something Rolan had dreamed of for far longer.

And what about her feelings?  

She'd told him she loved him many times during their last brief nights together at Last Light Inn. On one particularly memorable occasion, she'd been naked on top of him. 

Rolan had replayed the moment in his head too many times to count, yet it never failed to set his heart racing.

But those were moments when blood ran hot from freshly escaped peril—moments suspended in forgiving shadow. Under the harsh light of day, perhaps Tav could finally see him clearly.

Rolan’s hands rose to his face. He prodded and felt along its planes with his fingers, gritting his teeth as he rediscovered each fleshy bruise and scrape on its surface. He was a mess of a man.

Abruptly, Rolan shook his head to clear away all this self-pitying nonsense. His thoughts turned back to Tav’s current audience with Lorroakan. 

He wondered what they spoke of. Perhaps the Nightsong; perhaps her parasite. 

If Lorroakan knew anything about Illithids or ceremorphosis—an idea that seemed more laughable by the day—Rolan prayed to all the gods that he’d have the decency to share his knowledge with her. 

Whatever the subject, their conversation was brief. 

Rolan’s ear caught the muffled hum of the portal once again and knew Tav and her companions had descended from the Tower. He waited a few more minutes to be sure, then rose to trudge back up to the main floor. When stepped back into the light, she and her companions were gone. 

Rolan had no right to feel as disappointed as he did. He was the one who’d hidden from her like a child, after all.

As his feet dragged him back behind the counter, Rolan realized that in his haste he’d left out the stolen book on ceremorphosis—turned open to a particularly gruesome illustration. 

He thanked his stars that it had been Tav and her friends paying a visit. Another customer might have been put off by the sight, enough so that a complaint made its way back to Lorroakan. The archwizard was jealous as a dragon when it came to guarding his hoard, however little personal interest he took in its riches.

As he picked up the tome to hide it away again, a small slip of parchment fluttered from between its pages to land on the counter in front of him. Rolan turned it over, then felt his heart repeat the motion.

Had he truly never seen her handwriting before? The letters were small and even, yet clearly written in haste:

Let’s talk alone. I love you

ps  thank you for the research

Whatever information Lorroakan had provided her, if she was thanking him for reading a dusty book, it must not have been worth much. 

Despite every weight pulling on his heart, Rolan reread each word several more times. Then he slipped the note gently into the pocket of his robes. 

—

“Hey! You coming?”

“One second,” Tav called over her shoulder. 

She hastily fit a postscript onto the small scrap of parchment. Then she slipped it like a page marker into Rolan’s book and laid his quill back on the counter.

It was obvious that Rolan wanted to avoid running into her a second time. A sad pang ran through her at the thought, but she couldn’t really blame him. She’d never seen him looking so miserable—not even that night after his siblings had been taken to Moonrise. 

Lia’s words from yesterday rang in her ears. I don’t think he’s treating Rolan well. Whatever dark things Tav had imagined, they hadn’t prepared her for the sight of Rolan’s face—plainly dappled with weeks of brutal mistreatment.

Her fingers clenched hard at her sides. Tav glanced up at the shimmering projection of Lorroakan behind the counter and quelled the furious urge to put a fist right through its vapid smile.

As she jogged back out through the atrium of Sorcerous Sundries, Karlach turned to fall into stride beside her. The other two had walked ahead, clearly unaware that they’d left anyone behind. Gale was gesticulating animatedly about something; Wyll listened politely at his shoulder.

“So that Lorroakan’s a real prick,” Karlach remarked with characteristic bluntness as they walked. 

Tav gave a harsh laugh. “Read my mind.”

“How d’you think he knows about the Nightsong?”

She had been asking herself the same question. Her mind’s eye conjured up the circle of runes in his study, the one he’d indiscreetly shown off to them on this very first meeting. 

It had Balthazar’s fingerprints all over it.

“Probably has a background in necromancy,” Tav guessed aloud. “No way to know for sure.”

Karlach’s palm rang against plate metal as she clapped it between Tav’s shoulder blades. “Until we kick his arse and charm it out of him, you mean.”

Tav only smiled weakly in response. Inside, she could scarcely wait for the day when Lorroakan would get what was coming to him.

Beside her, a mischievous chuckle was rising from Karlach’s chest. “Hells, imagine when we tell Aylin. She’s going to tear that man apart.”

“Let’s not tell her just yet,” Tav said in a rush.

She felt Karlach’s eyes search her face. “Why not?”

Tav looked down at the cobblestones as they continued. “Rolan and I need to talk, Karlach. Whether or not he wants to, I owe it to him. He should know everything before all the Nightsong’s righteous vengeance comes down on his archwizard’s head.”

There was a pause. “You don’t think he knows?” 

“No way.” She looked up at Karlach then, her face steely-certain. “Rolan would never do something like that.”

“Yeah…you’re right. Forget I said anything,” Karlach added, her tone apologetic. Before she knew it, Tav felt a warm arm jostle around the pauldrons on her shoulders. 

“Listen, Tav, it’s gonna be okay. You and Rolan will talk it through, or maybe you’ll just fuck his stubborn wizard brains out again—”

“Karlach!”

“Oh come on, like everyone doesn’t already know?” Karlach was cracking up loud enough that Wyll glanced back from in front to see the commotion. Tav couldn’t help an embarrassed laugh, but she hid half her face behind a hand.

Before long, the dark stormclouds gathering above put a pause on the rest of their errands in the Lower City. It seemed wise to just wait out the weather at their rented room in the Elfsong.

Karlach did make some excuse or other to swing by Dammon’s forge instead—despite the fact that they’d been just yesterday.

Tav said nothing, but she wasn’t fooled. To borrow Karlach’s words, if anyone needed to fuck anyone else’s brains out, those two were obvious candidates.

With thunder rumbling on the horizon, everyone else settled into their private corners of their quarters for the rest of the afternoon. Shadowheart and Lae’zel turned to meditation; Gale to the large stack of books that he always mysteriously managed to fit in his pack. Astarion was curled in front of the fire, his lips moving silently as he pored over a book on Infernal.

For a few hours, Tav found herself with no plans and no responsibilities.

Though her new armor from Dammon was exquisite, she exchanged it for some more inconspicuous clothes, then pinned her heavy hooded cloak around her shoulders for the inevitable rain. 

And with everyone else occupied, she slipped unnoticed out of their rooms and back down to the streets.

[astroboots]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 7

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: Your subconscious is trying to tell you something important about the choices you have to make. Or alternatively: is it still a threesome if the two men are alters?

Content: Stefon voice: This chapter has everything: angst, vaginal sex, anal sex, threesomes, DP sex.

Word Count: 8,165

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

You stare up at the shadows on the ceiling above your bed, willing yourself to fall asleep. 

But it’s simply not happening. 

Every time you close your eyes to the darkness, your brain takes it as an invitation to play a slideshow of this evening’s highlights. 

Marc showing up at your door, Marc holding you on the DLR, Marc's face inches from your own in front of the fish tank, Marc tucking you into the taxi. The images play behind your eyelids over and over and over again like a broken merry-go-round until you’re dizzy with it and dart up from your bed to pace the distance of your flat for a good twenty minutes, calming your jittery nerves enough that you can lay still long enough, close your eyes– only for the reel to start again.  

Get up–walk around–lie down–replay–and so it goes. Again and again and again. 

You don’t get much sleep that night.

Friday morning comes early. 

You must’ve fallen asleep at some point because you wake to your alarm blaring, but your sore back and the heavy dull ache behind your eyes tell you it was not nearly enough rest. 

One look at the clock informs you that you have 15 minutes to get yourself together and out the door or you’ll be late for work. It’s a mad scramble, and you earn yourself a bruised shin courtesy of the bloody ottoman, but you make it out the door and to the tube just in time, dashing down the stairs and squeezing yourself through the already-closing doors as the morning commuters around you grumble.

Pressed up between a grumpy construction worker and an even grumpier 20-something office worker, you’re holding onto your belongings for dear life as the train sways, trying to make sure you’ve got everything you’re meant to, when you realise the jacket in your hand is not one of your own. 

It’s Marc’s. 

There’s no need for another layer in the overpacked warmth of the train, and it’d be too hard to manoeuvre yourself into it in the minimally-available free space anyhow. You drape it over your arm instead, the way you might if you were just… holding it for a friend. There it stays for the entirety of your commute until you exit the station into the damp chill of late Autumn London fog so heavy it’s nearly drizzling. 

You glance at the jacket. The sensible thing to do here would be to just put the bloody thing on, but for some reason you can’t quite bring yourself to do it. Instead, you shiver your way through the two block walk to your office, arriving cold and clammy and feeling all together out of sorts.

On top of that, your sleepless night and slapdash makeup application are apparently not doing you any favours, because once you arrive at work, no less than three of your coworkers ask if you’re ill. With as polite of a smile you can muster, you push off their concern and get to work.  Busying yourself with small, mindless tasks, you manage to get through most of the morning without thinking overly much about anything. 

That lasts right up until 11:47am when your phone pings out, rattling against the surface of your desk. 

Steven Hiya love! 🥰 What did the sushi 🍣 say to the bee 🐝?

Steven’s silly random texts usually bring a smile to your face, and this one still does, but today it’s accompanied by a sickening swoop of your stomach and a heavy feeling that weighs you down, slowing your fingers so that it takes you twice as long as usual to type a response.

You I don’t know… What did it say?

Steve Waaaasa-bee!!!!! 🤪🤪🤪

You Oh my god! 

Steven Speaking of which, how do you feel about sushi for dinner tonight? Shall I get us some from that Eat Tokyo place on my way to your office? 🍣🍱😊

You glance at Marc’s jacket where it’s sitting, innocently folded atop your purse by the side of your desk, and tear your eyes away. Guilt over your actions yesterday comes crashing down on you all over again like a ton of bricks. You can’t imagine sitting with Steven in his flat eating dinner under the watchful eyes of Gus 2.0, The Imposter while lying to his face about what you did last night. The very idea makes your already unhappy stomach turn. 

You Sorry. I have Friday social drinks with the team tonight and I’m getting the side eye for having missed too many. Raincheck? xx

Drinks with your team is predictably awful. 

It’s a longstanding social obligation at the end of each week that you’ve never enjoyed. Too much boozing and Graham from two cubicles down tends to get handsy and start hovering too close once he’s on his sixth pint. You’ve happily foregone it most weeks since you started dating Steven. 

Tonight though, it’s the lesser of two evils and the perfect excuse.

Since it’s Friday, the pub closest to your office is an overpacked mess. The floors are sticky from spilt beer, and the rancid smell of what must either be old cider or piss has permanently seeped into the cracks of the wooden beams. You’ve entirely lost count of the number of elbows jammed into your back, and your voice has gone hoarse from shouting to be heard over the unnecessarily loud music and cluttered conversation taking place all around you.  

The evening drags on. Sleep-deprived and exhausted, you find yourself zoning out, eyes drawn to the large fish tank in the corner of the pub. It’s a standard collection, a few guppies, a fat Gourami fish that shimmers red and a handful of goldfish swimming about. 

One is almost orange in its goldenness, nothing like Gus’ more stark golden hue. Another one has the same colouring as Gus but is too skinny to pass, the third one… hmmm. That one is a bit more promising. It isn’t one finned, but it’s the right size and colour, and one fin is even a bit smaller than the other, so maybe– 

Oh god, what are you doing?

Are you seriously scoping for another replacement fish right now? You need to stop.

Shaking your head to snap yourself out of it, you turn your attention back to the conversation at your table. 

“My son’s gotten into a phase where he won’t stop watching Finding Nemo on rerun,” Poppy from accounting is saying next to you. “He loves that movie. Wants me to make him a Nemo costume for Halloween this year. Must’ve told me twenty times to ‘make sure it’s only got one fin.’”

A shiver works its way down your spine. The words feel accusatory somehow, even though you know that she couldn’t possibly have known what you were up to yesterday. You’re also pretty sure Nemo technically had two fins, one was just smaller than the other, but you’re not about to correct her when it’s all you can do to push down the image of Gus that’s trying to swim up to the surface of your mind. 

From across the table one of the other accountants chimes in, saying how their kids love the movie as well, and then it’s a pile on of enthusiasm, everyone blathering on about their kids watching Nemo on rerun. 

Nodding vaguely, you pretend to be following along in the conversation, but you keep having flashes throughout of the Imposter Fish and his two whole fins swimming around in Gus’ tank like he owns the place. Your skin prickles like you’re about to break out in hives. 

You stand abruptly, nearly knocking your chair over in the process, earning yourself concerned and questioning stares from around the table. 

Shit. 

“I’ll… um… I’ll just grab another round for the table, shall I?” you blurt out, trying to salvage your dignity or at least the situation, then escape to the bar. 

Ordinarily it would take an eternity to get the bartender’s attention on a busy night like this—a good twenty minutes to be spotted in the crowd, if you’re lucky. But tonight, on the one night when the wait would have been a welcome reprieve, the bartender spots you almost instantly and prepares your order with similarly unwelcome speed. That’s how you find yourself stacking pint after pint in your arms, cradling them as best as you can as you reluctantly start back towards your table not five minutes after you left. 

You’re struggling to balance the drinks and evade the throng of people as you make your way through the crowded room when you spot him, and it feels like your heart stops. 

There’s a man by the fish tank, his back leaning against a wooden beam. You only see him out of the corner of your eye at first, but the stiff, almost militant posture and rich black curls, slicked back but starting to unfurl from the heat and humidity of the pub, are unmistakable. 

Why is he here!?

Time slows to a crawl, and you forget to breathe as the longest second you’ve ever experienced in your life stretches out and out and out until the lack of oxygen in your brain has you convinced that it’s Marc you’re staring up at. You walk forward, even as the firmness of the floor beneath you gives. All you can see is his wide back covered by the brown canvas jacket, identical to the one Marc had lent you last night. But that can’t be right, because you still have it. It’s on your chair, isn’t it?

Time has never unfolded so slowly as you watch the man turn his shoulder, presenting a full view of his face only for you to see that his eyes aren’t gorgeously brown. Nose, nothing at all remarkable or unique. His jaw is round instead of the ridiculously cut sharpness you’re so used to seeing. 

There’s not a single feature in the man’s face that is as sharp or striking as Marc and Steven and with that realisation time slams forward then resumes its normal pace. Your stomach drops, landing on the sticky flooring near your feet. 

You don’t want to be here. 

Turning back to your table, you drop off the ordered drinks, as you murmur an apology about needing the loo.

Mumbling ‘excuse me’s and ‘sorry’s as you dash through the throng of crowds, you push your way to the ladies room at the far end of the pub where you find your salvation through the door marked with a silhouette of a woman. 

There’s a row of stalls, but you don’t bother checking each for cleanliness the way you usually do. Just make a beeline for the furthest one, thankful that it turns out to be unoccupied. You flip the lock and sit down on the rim of the toilet, eyes flitting over the bits of used gum that’ve been rolled up and tacked onto the cracked tiles. There’s soggy bog roll pooling around your shoes courtesy of a previous visitor, but you scarcely care, too relieved to have some space for yourself to just breathe for the first time this evening, without interruptions or anything to remind you of Gus or Marc or Steven. 

That reprieve barely lasts for two seconds. 

As if on cue, the main door to the ladies slams open. A group of women pours in, all shouting zealously, and there’s no sound isolation to protect you from hearing every bit of the conversation from where you sit.

“Pet, listen to me. If he loved you, he wouldn’t be lying to you now would he?” comes a shrill, concerned voice.

“It’s not like that. You don’t understand, he was just worried about how I’d take–” Before she even finishes her sentence, another voice cuts in, even shriller than the first.  

“No! I don’t care what his excuse is. No partner worth a damn would lie to someone they’re in a relationship with. You need to dump that liar!” 

The words plunge into your chest with a painful twist that tears through your insides, making your cheeks and eyes both burn. The universe certainly seems set on hammering some point home tonight, but this is really just a bit unfairly on the nose now, isn’t it? 

Hunching over in the cramped space of the stall, you dig your elbows into your knees and hide your face in your hands. You don’t want to be listening to this. Can’t handle it right now. Just can’t.

Quickly, before they have time to say more, you stand and smooth a hand over your clothes and hair, as though making yourself a smidge more presentable might somehow smooth out some of your inner turmoil.

Taking a deep steadying breath, you exit the stall. You hesitate for a moment before approaching the sink and hurriedly washing your hands, not quite willing to sacrifice personal hygiene or the appearance, at least, of normalcy. By now, the group of women have converged on their unlucky friend, cornering her against the far wall as they continue to rant on about lying liars who lie and exactly what liars deserve. (The worst, apparently, as far as these ladies are concerned.)

Oh god. You have to get out of here. 

You do, hastily fleeing the loo and fighting your way back to the table. You must look as rough as you feel, because you don’t even have a chance to open your mouth before Poppy shoots you a concerned look. 

“Are you alright?  You look as if you've seen a ghost.” 

“Um… No, actually.” Grabbing the lifeline that’s been offered, you make a dramatic showing of feeling ill, “I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather all day, and it’s really caught up with me now. I’m going to head off early tonight.”

You nod your way through the condolences and well wishes, picking up your handbag and gingerly retrieving Marc’s jacket from the back of the chair as you make your polite goodbyes by rote, and then exit the pub as quickly as possible given the crowd.

Outside, the rain is bucketing down. It’s standard weather for London this time of year, but tonight it feels like one more bit of pointed commentary by the universe, and you huddle miserably under the pub awning.

You just want to go home. 

Steven’s place is only two stops away by tube—if you leave now, you can be there in less than eight minutes. But even as you think it, you realise you can’t go to his. As much as you want Steven, want to burrow into the comfort of his embrace and never come out again, that wouldn’t be fair to him.

Instead you unlock your phone and pull up the Uber app. 

It’s Friday, in the centre of Soho, and the only Uber that accepted your request is 30 minutes away (having to make a drop that is nowhere nearby, despite what the app is telling you) not to mention the surge in pricing. You confirm anyway, unable to bear the thought of braving the crowded trains for the long commute back to your flat.

Then you wait.

The awning isn’t nearly wide enough to protect you from the rain, and frigid water rebounds off the concrete, splashing onto your feet and legs and soaking through your shoes until your toes are swimming in the cold dampness of your socks. 

Marc’s jacket is folded neatly over your arm, still dry. You think about how warm it was in the cab last night, how it smelled of him, but even with the chill seeping through your jumper, you still can’t bring yourself to put it on. For a brief second, you consider going back into the pub where it’s warm and dry, but being cold and wet seems like the preferred option at the moment. It feels like what you deserve.

This is a right proper bloody fucking mess, and it’s all your fault.

You and Marc almost kissed. Might have done if he hadn’t pulled back. You might have betrayed Steven—the man you love. And for what? 

You’re attracted to Marc. You can admit that much to yourself. 

You try to tell yourself it’s just because you’re attracted to the body he shares with Steven, but you know it’s more than that. 

You’ve grown to care about Marc independently of his connection to Steven. You look forward to the quiet mornings you spend with him. Enjoy watching his micro-expressions while you prattle on about your days during breakfast. The small quirk on one side of his lip, when you tell him something he finds amusing. The way he grunts like a displeased pug when he spots another mess that Steven has left in the kitchen.  

Impossible though it had seemed to begin, he’s become your friend. There’s no denying that after your ridiculous caper with the fish last night—you’d only go that far for a good friend, a trusted one. 

Someone you really care about. 

Someone you almost kissed.

You huff out a choked laugh and bury your face in your hands, disgusted with yourself all over again.  

But it’s not really even about the almost-kiss, is it? Though that’s certainly bad enough.

It’s about the fact that you’re lying to your boyfriend—mostly by omission, but sometimes also… not. That you’ve been lying to him for so long that it’s somehow become a “normal” part of your everyday life. So routine you’d almost forgotten you were doing it.

It’s about the fact that Marc—your friend Marc—came to you for help, and you were so eager to help him that you didn’t stop to consider the consequences. That now you’ve gone from lying to Steven—your boyfriend Steven—to actively helping to deceive him.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped seeing Marc as the antagonist in the story of your lives together. And now you've allowed yourself to become his co-conspirator against Steven, which is exactly the opposite of what you wanted. 

You’re deceiving Steven for Marc. Going along with him because he says it’s better for Steven that way. But is it? Is it really better? You don’t think so, but… you don’t know.  

You believe that Marc wants what’s best for Steven.

You believe Steven deserves to know the truth about himself. 

Two truths, but incompatible ones. And you’re the one stuck in the middle. It’s an impossible choice. No matter what you do now, you’re going to be betraying someone. Choosing one of them over the other. 

And you don’t know how to live with that.

Bile rises in your throat, and you have to close your eyes and swallow hard. You dig your fingers into the material of Marc’s jacket, twisting it in your hands as you curl into yourself.

You’re so caught up in your misery that you barely register the slosh of tires against the rain, looking up just in time to see your Uber pull up to the curb. Hunching your shoulders, you hug the jacket and your bag to your chest, shielding them from the flood of frigid water that drenches you as soon as you leave the protection of the awning, and quickly make your way across the sidewalk.

Climbing hurriedly inside the vehicle, you close the door behind you and set everything on the seat beside you, guiltily smoothing out the wrinkles in Marc’s jacket caused by your rough handling.

“Bloody hell, sweetheart, you’re soaked. That’s London weather for you innit?” the driver remarks, and you look up to see him watching you in the rearview mirror.

He’s not wrong. You feel like a drowned rat, as you catch sight of your reflection in the darkness of the passenger window. 

“Same as always, isn’t it?” you manage, hoping that will be the end of the forced pleasantries, and you’re grateful when he hums in agreement and turns his attention to the road.

The air in the car is warm and stuffy after the wet chill of the outside, the leather seat hot and sticky against your back even through your wet jumper. Your face feels overheated, and you lean your forehead against the coolness of the windowpane, staring blindly out through the rain-fogged glass as the car pulls away from the curb.

The evening traffic outside seems endless. The road is chockablock, and you’re stuck in a sea of red and amber tail lights blinking blurrily behind the rain-streaked darkness of the window. Your head rolls against the glass with the rocking motion of the vehicle as it starts and stops with the flow of cars outside, and the old motor rumbles on, making you drowsy.

Worn out from the lack of sleep last night and a day of emotional turmoil, you don’t even notice when your eyes slip close and you drift quietly off to sleep. 

The car comes to a halt in the middle of a roundabout. In the rearview mirror, the driver pulls his cap down, covering his eyes and muttering under his breath that “this is as far as we go.” 

Looking out the window, you’re confused. There’s nothing you recognize as being anywhere near your flat, but somehow you’re already turning the door handle and stepping out of the car. 

You’re in the middle of the road, traffic on all sides of you. Before you have a chance to turn around and protest to the driver, the car is already pulling away, exhaust fumes your only goodbye. 

At least it’s stopped raining.

Across the wide street, the St. Martin’s Theatre is lit up in gold. The marquee banner spelling out ‘M.O.U.S.E.T.R.A.P.’ in bright glowing red neon. You start to walk ahead, but nothing is quite as it is or where it should be. Tottenham Court road, which is always busy and buzzing with life, is entirely abandoned. Empty of people. 

Next to you, you spot a pastel-coloured bubble tea shop. They’re a dime in a dozen in London, and it does nothing to help you make sense of where you are. It’s not until you reach around the corner and arrive at the familiar teal-coloured facade of Cafe Babka (one of your regular date spots with Steven) that you start to place yourself. 

If you turn right up ahead, you’ll reach the British Museum. It is an hour away by tube from your flat. Still, as you make the turn, your building stands there in its square concrete familiarity. You can even see your small balconette on the fifth floor.

There’s a sensation like skipping a track on a record—you don’t remember entering the building or taking the lift up to the fifth floor, but suddenly you’re walking down the hallway to your flat. 

Steven is there outside of your door, and the hallway lights up when he greets you with a bright smile and a small wave of his hand. His eyes are as sweet as always when he moves to kiss you. 

Then you’re inside your flat, Steven moving with you towards your bed, mouth never leaving yours. Did you unlock the door? You can’t remember, but does it matter? How can you care about details like that when Steven’s lips are on yours like this, soft but hungry.

Somehow, you don’t stumble or run into any of your furniture as he walks you backwards with his kiss, the ottoman and its usual threat to your shins and balance are suspiciously absent. In fact… nothing is where it should be.

You’re disoriented. 

Maybe it’s a testament to how good of a kisser Steven is that you’re losing all spatial awareness, but that can’t be the whole explanation. Something is off, but you can’t stop long enough to consider it, too distracted by the way Steven keeps pressing kiss after sweet lingering kiss to your lips, by the heat building low in your belly for him. Can’t stop to think until you find yourself pressed down against the mattress.  

Linen sheets stretch endlessly out underneath you, wider than your own double mattress and lower to the ground. There’s sand underneath your foot where it’s hanging off the edge of the bed, and when you look up, you’re met not with your drab white ceiling, but with a large square of wooden planks overhead surrounded by wide open eaves and wooden beams. 

This isn’t your flat, it’s Steven’s. 

But still… Something's strange. Not quite right. The room seems to swim, lines and contours of the timber overhead blurring together. You drag your eyes to the walls, trying to clear your vision, but no matter how hard you concentrate on the many many books Steven has adorning his dusty shelves, none of them have titles on their thick spines. 

That’s not right either. 

In fact, everything in Steven’s flat is reversed, like you’re Alice, gone through the looking glass. Shelves that are meant to be on the left are on the right. The kitchen is by the exit instead of the far end. The fish tank looms large over the living room, expanding to eat up half the space of the flat. Gus doesn’t seem to mind though. He’s swimming in happy circles around his new, two-finned tank mate as if he’d never known anything different. Every so often one of them swims close to the corner, and the flash of a reflected fin tricks your eyes into thinking there’s a third fish.

There’s a part of you that wants to pause, take a moment and attempt to make sense of things. But Steven is there, anchoring you to the bed, not giving you a moment to consider your observations or try to connect the dots as he continues to kiss the breath out of you. 

His hands are roaming your hips and thighs now, caressing every inch of your flesh that he can reach. One comes up to cup your breast lovingly, your nipple drawing up tight under his palm. Another hand lingers delicately on your throat, and he continues to stroke your hips all at the same time. 

It’s good, so good. So much. Overwhelming to the point where you don't even fully register that there are three hands caressing you when, biologically speaking, Steven should only have just the two. 

Greedy and determined, those nimble fingers grip into your hips then drift down between your thighs, sliding along the seam of your cunt. Steven groans low and needy against your lips at the wetness he finds there, and he parts your slick folds, gently pressing two fingers into you. 

Moaning into his mouth at the pleasurable intrusion, you arch your back in open invitation, encouraging Steven's curled fingers to find that perfect place inside. Aching heat rolls over you in waves, streaming out along your limbs until you’re nearly numb with it. You bend further back, not sure if you're trying to chase the sensation or escape from it. As you do, a warm, firmly-muscled chest presses against your back, and you hear a rasped groan in your ear. 

“Fuck, you’re eager for us.” 

The tone is brusque and even, rough and warm like sandpaper made of velvet, and nothing like Steven’s. Electric heat shivers up your entire spine because you recognize the owner of the voice. 

With a turn of your head, you meet his eyes. It’s all narrowed darkness as Marc holds your gaze for a long moment. His thumb catches under your jaw, tilting you up to him, and then he closes the distance between you, leaning in to press his lips to yours. 

Finally.

The brush of lips is soft and measured. Completely unlike Steven’s hungry and eager kisses. Marc has far too much restraint for that. Instead his kiss is slow and controlled, his hand cradling your jaw, thumb caressing your cheeks like he’s savouring the moment. Savouring you. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, an alert pings. A tiny, niggling doubt that makes you wonder what Marc’s doing here, how this can be happening. But you ignore the thought. Don’t question it, because god, you fucking want it. Want him. 

Want to be exactly where you are.

You're caught, sandwiched tight between the two of them with little space to spare. Regardless of which way you move, to the front or the back, you only end up closer to them both. 

When you push yourself forward, Steven’s fingers slide deeper inside you, his cock twitching against the softness of your stomach. When you push back, Marc’s hardened length meets you, pressing insistently against your lower back as he lazily thrusts against you. 

There's nowhere for you to go, and that's fine. Better than fine. It's bloody perfect, because there's nowhere else you'd rather be than trapped between these two men.

Steven licks and nips his way down your breast and stomach in a long line of open-mouthed kisses. White heat tingles and simmers under your skin where his lips have touched, burning you up from the inside out until you’ve all but melted into the mattress from his attentions. 

The sharp bump of his nose nudges at the inside of your thighs, and he looks up at you with pleading eyes, begging you to spread your legs for him. Before you even have the chance to comply, Marc’s calloused hands are already there, sliding down and in along the inside of your thighs, spreading them apart until you’re wide open for Steven. The two men moving in perfect simpatico.

Then Steven’s mouth is on you, hot and eager and perfect. 

His tongue dips into your pussy without hesitation, licking a wide strip up around your clit and then back down again, and you cant your hips up and onto his tongue. He doesn’t resist. Steven’s always so generous, so trusting and giving in bed. He lets you—encourages you to try and fuck yourself on his beautiful, persistent mouth. Gorgeous, pleasurable heat flickers along your spine, searing into your limbs until you feel it everywhere. 

“He’s good with his mouth, huh?” Marc murmurs into your ear, sounding almost admiring. 

Opening your mouth, you try to say yes, but your throat is dry with the blinding heat, and nothing comes out, not even a moan. Electricity sparks, shimmering through you with every soft and long lick of Steven’s tongue on you.

You twist your fingers into the bedding beneath you, and the eaves in the ceiling crack and pull around the edges with the motion. The harder you grip the sheets, the deeper the shadowed lines carve into the wood, until they’re giant crevasses, wide enough that you can see the night sky through the gaps. 

The pale moon peers down at you, surrounded by bright stars scattered against the blackness. You don’t think you’ve ever seen the stars shine so clear in the light-polluted London sky in all your life, and you dig your fingers in further into the bedding, unwilling to relinquish the view.

“It’s okay. I got you.” Marc’s voice is cajoling and sweet, the same soft tone he used when he held you in his arms to keep you steady on the overground. A part of you wishes he would always speak to you this way. “Think you can come for us?”

You close your eyes, nodding in reply because you think you’d do anything he wanted as long as he asked you so sweetly. Pleasure is already building steadily under the press of Steven’s talented mouth, your orgasm already looming on the horizon.

“That’s it, baby. You’re doing so good,” Marc murmurs.

Everything is ratcheting higher and tighter inside of you, building and building until it’s almost too much. Too good. The feeling rocketing through you is so overwhelming that you can't think, can't move, can’t speak. Would scream or sob or shriek if you could still fucking breathe. 

But somehow you still haven’t fucking come. Your orgasm caught somehow, suspended in limbo. It’s like you waited too long, flew too high, and now you're trapped right on the fucking edge, teetering torturously without ever falling over.  Sparks dance at the edge of your vision, and you feel lightheaded like you’re going to pass out. 

“Come for us.” 

Marc’s voice cuts through the cacophony of competing sensations with that single simple order, and everything else disappears. 

Your world narrows. There's only the firm weight of Marc’s body anchoring you to the bed. His low, encouraging voice in your ear, whispering praises. Steven’s mouth working hot and eager against you, and the soft warmth in his eyes as he stares up at you with rapt attention, pupils blown wide.

Static fills your ears, and then you come hard on Steven’s tongue. 

The pleasure floods your system, blotting out the rest, until your vision darkens and everything sounds like it’s buried underground. 

There’s nothing here. Just emptiness. Darkness a mile wide, like the insides of a music box snapped shut. 

Are your eyes still closed?

Slowly, your vision repopulates again. Your surroundings filled in like a child playing with a paint-by-numbers app. The bed. The bookshelves. The fishtank. Steven. Marc. 

Marc whose gentle hand cups your cheek, drawing you up to meet his eyes. “How do you want it?” he asks. “You want Steven to fuck you?” 

Steven who is still draped between your thighs. His tongue drags over his lush bottom lip, savouring your taste, eyes dark and ravenous as he leans back in to lap gently at you again. He’s nowhere near done with you yet. 

You huff out a noise, some strange merger of a moan and a hum, meant to be an affirmative, because of course you want Steven.

But your gaze is fixed on Marc’s face, watching the corner of his lips curve. Not snide, or mocking, never that. It’s the same unfeigned, half-smile you’d seen in front of the fishtank the other night, and your head buzzes with lightheadedness at the sight of it. 

“Or you want me?” he asks. 

You whine at his question, because you do. Of course you do!  

But Steven is right there too, resurfacing from between your legs just barely long enough to press an indulgent kiss to the inside of one of your thighs and ask, "which is it, love? Me?"

He turns his head, nose brushing up against your clit as his mouth parts, licking into you, with a ravenous moan. His words are muffled by your body as he continues to speak, “Or do you want Marc's cock filling you up?"

You don’t answer him. Can’t answer him. It’s an impossible choice. 

How can you choose one of them over the other?

Next to you, Marc leans closer, pressing a kiss to your temple, nose dragging along the back of your neck, as he speaks.

“Or maybe our pretty girl doesn’t want to choose, hmm?” His arms are against your sides, bracketed you in as he presses you down with his body. “That’s it isn’t it? You just want everything.”

And god help you, he's right. He's so right. You want them both. 

You try to take a deep breath, try to inhale because you want to tell them so, but there’s no air in the room. That should be a problem, you think, but it’s not. Even though you’re not breathing, haven’t breathed for fuck knows how long, you feel fine. 

So much better than fine. 

You’re weightless, practically floating. Could easily drift away if Marc wasn’t pinning you down. Your orgasm is still pulsing between your legs, warm and insistent, but you can’t feel the pulse in your veins or your heart, even though it should be there beating its way out of your chest. 

Marc is still watching you softly. Steven too. You nod at them, have to let them know.

“Greedy girl,” Marc says, voice soft and indulgent in a way that makes the words feel like the highest praise. 

Wrapping his fingers around your arm, Marc rolls you onto your side facing him. Strong arms wrap around you, caging you against him, as those dark eyes bore into yours. You can barely imagine that there was ever a time that you used to be intimidated by this man, scared of him even, because all you want now is to be closer to him. 

Lucky for you, that’s just what he gives you. 

Like he can read your mind, Marc’s hand settles on your hip and slides down, down, down the length of your thigh until his palm reaches the bend of your knee. Warm fingers wrap around the joint and pull, hiking your leg up over his waist, opening you to him. He drops his face down to press a soft kiss to your shoulder, then urges you closer still, slotting one thick thigh into place between yours, watching you all the while. 

There was a time when you would have quailed under that direct stare, but when you see that ferocious intensity there now, it sends a skitter of elation down your spine. 

Relishing his attention, you preen for him as his hand skims up the back of your raised leg and over your hip. Your eyes follow its path, watching as he takes himself in hand and aligns his cock with your slick wet entrance. 

You’re a mess for him, dripping and swollen cunt providing no resistance as the blunt tip of his cock pushes in, slow and measured. Marc is unhurried, barely rocking his hips into you, and it’s maddeningly good. It’s all shivery heat and unbearable pressure as he eases his way inside, not stopping until he’s buried to the hilt. 

You can’t remember where you are anymore. Your surroundings blur together, and all you know is the perfect weight of Marc inside you, the warmth of his thighs pressed against yours. It’s just you and him in this place, and you could easily get lost in this, forget everything else, but… Something’s not right. 

Something important is missing. 

“Wait, wait,” you gasp, turning your head to look behind you, but there’s nothing there. No furniture, no room… nothing. You turn back to Marc, “Where’s Steven? I–I want–”

The question doesn’t have time to settle before everything fades back into existence, the bookshelves, the fishtank, the bed seemingly appear from nowhere. There’s a weight shifting behind you on the mattress, and when you turn to peer over your shoulder again, Steven is there, an adoring smile on his face.

“I’m here, love, right here. Not going anywhere,” he tells you when you clutch at him.  

Steven’s chest is pressing up against your back, all solid and firm-cut muscles that you never get to see during the day when he’s half-drowning in his oversized clothes. 

He has one hand resting on the curve of your hip, gently pulling you back as he presses in closer behind you. You can feel the fat head of his cock nudging hot and slick along the cleft of your ass. 

“Can I? Is that alright, love? Want to be inside you.” His voice is desperate, filled with need, and fuck, who are you to deny the man you love?

You nod, and feel Steven repositioning himself behind you. His hand disappears from your hip, and his cock slides against you with more purpose, spreading precome across your skin as he lines himself up. His mouth skims your shoulder, and the shuddering breath he takes burns pleasantly across your skin before he grips your hip and presses in. 

His cock slips into you more easily than you expected, barely easing inside before he retreats, then presses in again, a bit farther this time. His mouth lays hot kisses and tender words across the skin of your shoulder as he works himself inside you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open and filling you to the brim. 

If there was any space left inside of you, you’re sure that you would be breathing, but you can’t. Can’t even fit air inside your lungs. And oh fuck, Steven isn’t even all the way inside of you yet. Fuckfuck. You don’t know if you can–

A warm hand comes to your cheek, cupping it with a tenderness that makes your heart ache in your chest. 

“It’s alright, you’re alright. You’re doing so good, baby. You can take it for us can’t you?” Marc coos. 

You nod with a whine, trying to distract yourself with the softness of Steven’s touch. How he’s palming every inch of your skin he can reach, the slope of your ribs, the curve of your breast. His worshipful mouth on your neck. The softly murmured “I love you”s that he sears into your burning skin with his lips. 

And that’s a bit easier. 

Between Steven’s profuse adoration and Marc’s encouragement, it’s almost too easy to surrender the last bit of your doubt and give into them both. 

“There we go. Good girl,” Marc murmurs. He presses an indulgent kiss to your cheek as a reward, and Steven takes over praising you, “that’s it. I knew you could do it. Knew you could take us both, love.” 

Then they begin to move.

It’s a gentle rocking rhythm, barely shifting you back and forth between them, but even that is still so fucking much. 

You’re overwrought. 

Overfull. 

All of you feel overexposed like a tender nerve. 

But there’s nothing else for you to do but take it, shaking and shuddering between them as you take everything they have to give you. All you can think about is how full you are of both of them, stretched so thin to your limits to the point that you swear Marc and Steven must be able to feel each other through you with every slow, deep, maddening thrust. 

Somewhere in the distance a bell rings. You turn your head and crane your neck, chasing the sound. The motion presses you back against Steven, who is right there, nuzzling into the side of your neck, nose pressed tight against the pulse. 

His mouth glides over the side of your throat, hot and slick, and you lose yourself to it. The touch is consuming. The edges of his teeth flirt with your sensitive flesh, and then slowly sink in, biting into your neck. The pleasure is sharp and stinging. It’s almost enough to make you forget. 

But the melody of bells ringing from afar grows increasingly louder. You try to ignore it but you are about to rip your hair out at the incessant clang. 

“Ignore it,” Marc says. He cradles your face, lips tracing the contours of your jaw. “Focus on us.” 

It isn’t hard to follow Marc’s commands. Not when his hips cant up and thrust back into you, a deep and mind-numbing slide. For once, you find yourself only happy to obey his words. 

But the sound comes again, and you were wrong before. It's not bells, it's the doorbell buzzing. Someone's at the door. 

There’s the sound of metal scraping against wood and then the metallic thump-thump of the lock sliding open. You try to squeeze down on Marc’s shoulder for his attention, but it only seems to spur on Steven who lifts his hips, thrusting himself inside you as deep as he goes. 

“Wait,” you gasp, because no matter how good Steven feels inside, you’re still distracted by the stranger trying to get into the flat. “There’s someone at the door.”

“There’s no one at the door,” Marc says, pulling back slightly. 

The words have a sharp impatient bite, scolding you in that tone that’s so customary from him. You want to frown, make a snarky retort, but he drives himself deep inside you, and pleasure streaks through your limbs until you nearly scream from it. 

There are footsteps approaching.

A shadow stretches out in the corner of your eye. 

Soon it looms over you, blocking out the muted light in the room, and the air around you shifts. There’s someone else standing at the end of your bed, observing you. You open your eyes and look up. Raven curls and thick brows that frame those familiar gorgeous brown eyes. 

The ringing persists, blaring out. It’s not bells or the door buzzer. It’s a siren, flashing and waving red, warning you of danger. 

The man looks like Steven. But you know it’s not him—the warmth and adoration reserved for you in those beautiful brown eyes is entirely absent. 

It’s not Marc either. Marc doesn’t look at you like you’re some distant curiosity. You’ve seen annoyance, irritation, even anger reflected back at you in his eyes. But he’s never looked at you like you’re nothing to him.  

You realise that now. 

Panic grabs hold of you, and you sit up quickly, pulling at fistfuls of the sheets that you desperately cover yourself with. You scoot backwards in the bed, clambering up along the mattress, hands fumbling uselessly behind you, reaching for something to grab onto. You’re expecting the firmness of Marc’s chest, the warm touch of Steven’s hand, but there’s nothing. 

When you turn to look, the bed is empty. Marc and Steven are no longer with you. 

It’s just you and him now. 

The man moves towards you, mouth twisted into a predatory smile. The alarm calls out to you again, but it’s too late to warn you now. You’re already trapped—can’t look away from him. 

“Hear that?” His tone is flat, voice is devoid of emotion. It sounds neither like Steven's nor Marc’s voice. “It’s time to wake up.”

He comes to the side of the bed, looming over you as he reaches down.

You flinch back, but he’s too big. Too close. 

You can’t escape. 

Gripping the covers tight, you hunch into yourself, cowering, trying to brace yourself for whatever he’s going to do to you.

But then he reaches right past you. 

Doesn’t touch you at all as he retrieves something from the bookcase at the head of the bed, and lays it gently across your lap.

You look down to see a bundle of brown canvas fabric, all soaked from rain and wrinkly from your rough handling. 

It's Marc's jacket.

“Don’t forget this, sweetheart.”

With his words, darkness swamps you and everything disappears. There's no light, no warmth, no space—only a blank void slowly being filled with the soft hum of a motor running and the sounds of traffic honking nearby. 

Your eyes are still closed as your consciousness is dragged back to an awareness of the sore stiffness lodged in your neck. 

You open your eyes with a startled gasp, and then you have to inhale great lungfuls of air into your heaving chest, possibly the first time you’ve actually taken a breath since– oh.  Since you fell asleep. You were dreaming.

Slowly but surely, you become aware of your surroundings. The cracked and dry leather seats, the grey felt of the low ceiling, the complete lack of any naked men in this space with you. You’re in a car—not in Steven’s flat or his bed. You’re still in the Uber. 

It was just a dream. 

Your skin tingles with the memory of being pressed against warm, firm muscles, and the space between your legs still pulses a phantom ache. The echo of Steven’s mouth on you, Marc’s thick length pressing into you, the overwhelming fullness of having them both inside you at once makes you throb. Your face is burning. 

You glance at the front seat where the driver seems oblivious. Absent-mindedly you notice that he isn’t wearing a cap as you pray to the universe that you didn’t make any embarrassing sounds during your semi-public sex dream about being manhandled into a threesome by your boyfriend and his alter. 

Dear god, what the fuck is wrong with you!? 

The sound of bells fills the air just like before, and for a moment you wonder if you’re still trapped in the dream. 

“Hey, sweetheart, your phone is ringing.” 

The words jolt you from your thoughts. You’re an idiot. It’s not alarm bells, it’s your bloody ringtone. 

Grabbing for your handbag, you plunge your hand inside, fumbling blindly until you finally manage to locate your phone. You quickly fish it out, swiping a thumb across the screen to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi, love. It’s– uhm, it’s Steven.” His voice comes through the phone, nervous and rambling, and it instantly sends your anxiety skyrocketing. “I’m sorry, I know it’s late, and you’re out with colleagues, and I’m sorry, I didn’t want to disturb, but I didn’t know who else to call–” 

“Steven!” you interrupt when he shows no signs of getting to the point. It comes out louder and harsher than you intend, and you then force yourself to soften your voice as you encourage him to gather his thoughts, “It’s okay, Steven. Just– What did you need?”

“Could you… um… Could you come over tonight, please? I need to talk to you.” 

~ CONTINUE ~

Dedication: to my one and only, the ewe to my ram, my beloved who stays up with me until 4am (her time) to discuss the significant differences between precum and precome (and how the latter clearly denotes sophistication and class 😂😂😂) to our crazy asses that extended this from a three parter to a five parter then an eight and ten parter and now we're looking at twelve parts and if there is more to come then god help us all. I love you always @thirstworldproblemss. xx

[distortionbobble]

Royal Flowers Chapter 8

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series masterlist

pairing: anakin skywalker x fem!poc!reader

summary: A long, long, time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, a certain Jedi by the name of Anakin Skywalker meets you, the current Queen of Naboo and cousin of Padme Amidala, and is tasked with protecting you by pretending to marry you. As a spy, you’ve infiltrated the Separatist ranks and are close to finding out the mastermind behind all of it. The fate of the galaxy is in your hands.

warnings: minors dni, some mentions of gore, guilt, trauma (who is surprised. please), angst, a shower scene but it's really unsexy except for anakin on his knees series will have eventual smut, canon level violence, etc etc.

a/n: tagging makes me feel a type of violence that is historic in nature. not beta read. any comments and reblogs and all are so so appreciated thank u so much for reading

You never realized how intertwined grief and guilt are before now. Anakin allows you to pretend that you’ve fallen asleep as he hoists you into the speeder with Obi-Wan, stroking your feverish forehead with his cool metal hand. He’s draped you in his cloak, hiding the blood on your clothes. If Obi-Wan knew you were awake, he’d ask you questions, questions that you wouldn’t have the strength to answer. Anakin lays you down gently with your head on his lap, a comfort you don’t think you deserve. 

You keep remembering the spray of blood on your face, its metallic, coppery scent staining you forever; you did that. You took away her life, forever, without hesitation, without stopping. While it felt like a blur in the moment, it feels crystal clear now: the sight of your hands, tangled in the roots of Reyna’s hair, blood muddying the sand as dark rivulets formed from the pool of blood forming from Reyna. And that lifeless look in her eyes, the one she had before you had actually managed to kill her… she wasn’t afraid. She knew you were going to kill her. She knew she was dead before her heart managed to stop beating. 

The thought of that alone terrifies you. So you cling tighter to Anakin’s thigh, a shiver running through your body as you try to hide from your guilty conscience. He says nothing, just holds you tighter; you imagine he’s doing the work of shielding both yours and his emotions from Obi-Wan. You feel guilty that you can’t even muster the energy to care. Reyna’s face haunts you in the dark space of your eyelids every time you blink. There is nowhere to hide from her, from your guilt. 

Anakin can feel your turmoil. He strokes the top of your head, hand shaking as he tries to hide his own sins. How many bodies has he buried, now? If he hadn’t been talking with Obi-Wan, distracted by the thought of you instead of living in reality, would he have been able to protect you from Reyna? That, too, scares him. When did death become his shadow? 

“It has been a long time since you last meditated, young Anakin,” Obi-Wan comments quietly, just barely audible over the hum of the machinery. Anakin wonders if Obi-Wan can see the movement of his hands, the way that he’s seeking comfort in you. He hates that Obi-Wan is right about this whole thing. This is attachment. He’d do—did— dark things for you. But if it’s so dark to keep you safe, to protect you, how can the darkness be all that bad? It’s tearing him apart. All he knows now, all that makes sense to him now, is keeping you safe. Whether it’s for himself or the galaxy is a question Anakin does not have an answer to. 

“How can you tell, Master?” Anakin asks. You’re restless on his thigh and, worried you’ll give yourself away to Obi-Wan, he quickly brings his hand over your face, willing the Force to send you into a dreamless sleep. Some peace for you, he hopes. Obi-Wan does not answer his question immediately, only giving him that knowing smile that drives him absolutely mad sometimes. 

“You forget, Anakin, that I know you just as well as I know myself. Even if you have hidden your Force Signature from the world for the protection of the Queen, you cannot hide your emotions from me. They are written plainly on your face,” Obi-Wan responds finally, placing a gentle hand on Anakin’s shoulder. He knows it’s meant to guide him, comfort him, but it just feels… oppressive now. All Anakin can think about is getting you to somewhere that no one can hurt you, where you won’t have to put yourself through what you did ever again. His selfishness tears through him, cuts into pieces his resolve and wish to be a good Jedi. “Anakin, I… I worry for you. In this lonely palace, with only the Queen to keep you company. The Force will never abandon you, Anakin, but you must take care not to abandon it. There is light within you, light that you must foster and protect.” 

“And what happens to that light if I’ve done something horrible, Master?” Anakin asks quietly, trying desperately to find that light within him. Maybe it was snuffed out long ago. Obi-Wan seems stunned by his question, but Anakin’s question remained. Everything that happened today has brought his past to the forefront of his mind. The Sand People, his obsession over Padme… maybe there never was any light in him. 

“It is never too late to turn back to the Light, Anakin.” Obi-Wan doesn’t press further. For his own sake or for Anakin’s, Anakin doesn’t know, but the guidance soothes him anyways. He’s tired. The cold of Tattooine’s desert at night has caught up to him, so many years later, sinking into his skin, threading through his tissues until his heart pumps sluggishly. 

“You and the Queen look unwell,” Obi-Wan observes. “Perhaps the both of you can get some rest, and I’ll talk to Padme to get a lead on which Ministers we can use.” 

“Padme’s here?” Anakin asks. He’s acutely aware of the unchanging pace of his heart, the steadiness of his breath and he realizes that his love for her has faded. All that remains is a genuine, pure fondness for her. It only makes him feel more hollowed. “Give her my regards, will you, Master?” Obi-Wan nods wordlessly as the speeder reaches the service entrance of the palace. Anakin rouses you quickly, the short window of time serving as cover for your silent departure.

Your bleary eyes take in the palace groggily, the beautiful stone walls seeming more and more like a prison as your knees buckle. Before you can fall, Anakin lifts you into his arms, hooking one arm under your knees and the other across your back. You feel safe in his arms, a temporary comfort as he sneaks the both of you back to your chambers. 

By some sheer luck, you reach the room completely undetected. Anakin sets you down and ushers you to the shower. Anakin had done his best to wipe the blood off of you, but it stains you still. The sight of it confronts you as you look at yourself in the bathroom mirror, rings of blood and tired eyes staring back at you. Anakin, noticing the unforgiving scrutiny of yourself, turns you away from the mirror and begins to ease the clothes off your stiff form. He’s hesitant but there’s no choice— you aren’t in the state of mind to be able to take care of yourself, and the longer you stay like this, with the dirt of your crime still smeared on your body, the worse you get. 

“Do you think I’m a monster?” You ask him softly as he undoes the last piece of clothing, leaving you bare to him. The physical vulnerability does not cross your mind as he guides you into the steam of the shower, studying you for a moment before he realizes you shouldn’t be alone. Privacy is not a luxury you can afford right now. He washes his hands, still caked in blood and sand, and joins you in the shower. 

“No, my queen. I think you were forced to make choices that no one should have to make. I think you’ve done your best to keep your conscience,” Anakin responds. He washes his hands and brings them to your face, wiping the blood and dirt from your cheeks with his thumbs. Your eyes flutter shut from his gentle touch, overwhelmed by the intimacy of his care. He moves slowly to your shoulders and neck, easing away the tension in your muscles with each knead of his hand. Your eyes look downwards, to the foamy stream of red dripping off of your body, but Anakin catches the movements and directs your gaze back to his eyes. The spray of the water soaks his clothes, making it cling to his skin as he gently cleans your face. “Hey,” He says quietly. “Forget about that. Just look at me, okay?” You nod, and he quietly washes any blood from your arms. He does it delicately, keeping his eyes fixed on yours even as water drips from his eyelashes onto his cheeks. The shower stream drenches him, making his hair plaster to his forehead, but he doesn’t look away, even as he works down your body, getting to your legs. He’s respectful about it, doesn’t break his gaze away from your face as he kneels at your feet. And from your feet, looking up at you under the harsh bright light of the shower, he thinks that you look like a terrible goddess—powerful, so powerful, burdened with a task that will forever remain thankless. You are a remorseful goddess, the deity of those who never got to keep their humanity. Beyond the hollow sheen of your eyes, he sees it all; the guilt, the sadness, the knowledge that you’ve done something that will stain your soul forever. He cannot look away, captivated by you and the sheer energy you hold. To Anakin, this is right; this subservience to you, bowing at your feet because there is some part of your spirit that demands respect. 

But even goddesses stumble. The distant look in your eyes makes him stand without second thought, holding you up before you crumble into his chest. You shed no tears, merely closing your eyes as Anakin holds you to his body, surrounding you in warmth with the help of the warm water. The warmth of being next to you, the privilege of holding him warms him even as the soaked cloth clinging to his skin chills his bones. He hesitates before he slowly puts his chin on your head, holding you tightly as you breathe shallowly. 

“Remorse is a luxury few can afford,” you mumble into his clothes. Anakin knows you’re right, but Maker, if you don’t deserve that luxury, no one does. Your breathing slows and deepens as you regulate your emotions and distance yourself from it all. 

You are a monster. It couldn’t be clearer to you. Anakin’s handling of you as though you are made of glass only shows his revulsion. He must have held you out of fear, out of responsibility, but it’s a kindness you do not deserve. Is the value of a life worth so little to you? It wasn’t a clean death. It was messy, vengeful, and there was no walking back from this guilt. You killed someone. You’re no better than the woman you killed. 

And then you look into Anakin’s eyes. Eyes like the oceans, like the horizon of a clear blue sky. Eyes filled with compassion, softness, and you realize that you don’t regret your bloodshed. You’d do it again to protect him. To protect his goodness, and the goodness just like his, you’ll take the sins of the world as your own. You’ll become something awful, metamorphosize into something unrecognizable to those who loved you, but it’ll be worth it. Deep down, you’ve always known your fate was something like this; you are a lamb, raised for slaughter. You’ve been staring at the knife that will bring your death for so long. It only makes sense; the death of the Queen of Naboo would only serve the final blow to the people of Naboo. They’d be left defenseless, with no protection against the Separatists, who’d tear the planet apart. You’ll die at their hands or someone else’s, you’re certain. But here, you feel as though your death will mean something. To protect Anakin, to protect Padme, and all the others that you’ve loved in the small moments of kindness that you’ve borrowed from them. You’ll kill, again and again, and be killed, for their sakes. 

“I must see Padme and Obi-Wan,” You say, pulling away from Anakin’s embrace. Your movements are swift, methodical as you get dressed. You’ll act as though nothing happened. You’re a monster, you might as well act the part. You don’t want to see the expression on Anakin’s face as he watches you return to normalcy. You’ll protect him from your guilt, too. “Don’t stay in your wet clothes for too long, you’ll fall sick,” You add. You don’t deserve to care for him, but you care anyway. He’s silent for a beat before he responds. 

“Their meeting is secret. You’ll find them in the hidden passageways of the palace, known only to the Queens. Obi-Wan was led there, but I’m sure you know where to go,” Anakin states. He sounds tired, but you don’t have time to dwell on that. You bid a quick farewell, and head to find Padme.  

~~~

“Padme’s told me that the Political and Economic Advisor Horace Vansil is trustworthy,” Obi-Wan informs you as you join the duo in the shadows of the secret passageway. The lit beacons flicker some distance away from you, casting shadow on to your figure. You’re grateful for it. Padme can read you like a book, so you can only hope that the lowlight will obscure the numbness upon your face. 

“We’ll task him with increasing the import of grain and long-term food sources, then,” You conclude. There’s levels to your response, but you need to be prepared. And to be prepared, you need to be detached. Cool. Collected. 

You blink, and Reyna’s face, bloodied and bloated from death smiles at you in the darkness. She’s laughing, lips pulled into a grotesque, mocking smile. She’ll get away with it, she’s telling you. Listen, she says. Listen to me. You’ll fail. You’ll fail them all. We’ll kill you last, so you’ll have to watch them die before you. You shudder involuntarily. 

“...Milady?” Obi-Wan asks, snapping you out of your nightmarish trance.

“Apologies,” You say, blinking rapidly to refocus. Obi-Wan’s scrutiny is unforgiving, but you pay it no mind. “Yes. We’ll do it,” You respond absently. Padme also looks oddly at you, but says nothing on the subject. 

“There’s one more thing,” She adds. “Something is off about Chancellor Palpatine. I can’t place it but he seems more antsy these days. Getting much more involved in the business of not only Naboo, but nearly every planet and system that has any power in the Republic. It’s… odd, to say the least.” “Speaking of the Republic,” You respond, recalling the interaction you had with Darth Sidious, “there’s something odd that Darth Sidious said to me. He said our forces will be too occupied to help Naboo. I believe that like with the government of Naboo, there’s someone with great power in the Senate who is more than they seem.” Padme nods. “I’ve gotten the same feeling. Things are changing, and I don’t think we have much time left.”

“We’ll give them what they want, then,” You sigh. “If I can arrange a visit to Coruscant, I’ll be in a vulnerable-enough position for them to want to make a move. If we can draw out the mole, we can act.” 

“Padme, your suspicions of Chancellor Palpatine… will Anakin’s friendship with him jeopardize this in any way?” Obi-Wan asks. 

“On the contrary,” You smile bitterly. “I think it could be of great help.”

“It’s settled, then,” Obi-Wan sighs. “You’ll have to come back to Coruscant.”

[pedrito-friskito]

strawberry wine - joel miller x ofc!liv stone/fem!reader

during - part twelve

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

joel finally gets his head out of his ass, with a little push from tess.

a/n: we have BIG CONVERSATIONS IN THIS HOUSE FAM. i want to reiterate: i love the canon joel x tess. i live for it. but the drama/angst/emotion it has allowed me to create but backpedaling them SLIGHTLY? delish. enjoy babes, please scream at me about the ending 😇

word count: 5.5k

warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, angst, drinking, lots of emotions, mentions of canon-typical violence and injuries, mentions of death, joel is both an asshole and an Emotional Man, tess and liv are true bffs and god bless last night’s episode for solidifying some of my plans 🤍

✨I do not have a taglist - follow @friskito-library for updates on future chapters/works✨

“You need to talk to her.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, Joel, you—”

“Don’t tell me what I need to fuckin’ do, Tess. Leave it be.”

“Joel—”

“Please.”

+

You’ve been staying at Deanna’s. Two weeks now, since your stint in lockup, since Angie had beat the literal shit out of you. The couch isn’t comfy, and your ribs are still sore, but it’s fine. 

The kids are happy to have you around. Emily especially, once she got past the bruises on your face. You weren’t expecting Henry’s reaction; when you woke up in Deanna’s apartment the next morning, he was sitting vigil beside you, tears on his face, bottom lip jutting out. You told him you fell down the stairs, trying to get a laugh out of him, and he’d just hugged you, buried his face in your chest.

You try to keep things normal, whatever the fuck that means anymore. You take on extra jobs, trying to earn more ration cards for the three living in your apartment. Tess shadows you, follows you around every day, and you tell her your secrets, point out your routes, the soldiers you have dirt on, the ones you know not to fuck with.

“She’s the one that beat you?” she asks one day, jutting her chin towards Angie. You’re standing in the warehouse that serves as the food bank, waiting in line. You’ve had a heartbeat in the bruise on your cheek since you woke up, and standing ten feet from the woman who gave it to you isn’t exactly helping. 

You disguise your nod as a stretch, wincing at the pull on your ribs. Deanna was sure you hadn’t broken any, but you sure as hell were bruised. They didn’t look as bad as your cheek, but the pain was deeper, and seemed intent to linger longer. “Yeah, that’s her.”

Tess sneers in her direction, and you have to stifle your laugh. “Fucking bitch.”

You like Tess. You really like her. She’s a hard ass, but rightfully so, given the history. She hasn’t given you much more of her past, and you’re definitely not about to offer up any of yours, but the friendship between you is quick. You’ve skirted the Joel subject so far, despite the fact that they’re literally sleeping in your bed. Most of your conversations have been about the QZ, the inner workings, your smuggling. You have a job coming up, and Tess has already said she’s coming with you.

“I doubt Joel will be thrilled about that.”

“Joel can fucking shove it.”

She hasn’t been shy about her displeasure towards him, but it hasn’t done much to change things between you. You went down to grab some clothes a few days back, and he’d been the only one inside. Tess was out exploring, and Tommy had gone with her.

He didn’t say a goddamned word.

You’d managed to hold back the tears until you were back in the hallway, but you sobbed so hard you thought you actually were going to crack a rib. And on the other side of the door, you heard the radio flick on, assumedly to drown out your noise.

You nearly put your boot through the wall.

You move up a few places in line, and reach into your pocket, pulling out the ration cards you’ve collected. It’s worked out okay; you had some stashed to begin with and you were able to pull a few jobs after you got back on your feet. But Tess is adamant they’ll pay you back, despite your protests.

“First job I take,” she says to you, jutting her chin towards the stack in your hand, “you get half.”

You shake your head. “I told you, it’s fine.“

“It’s not,” she replies, her tone determined. “It’s the least we can do, after what you did for us. Hell, I should give you back double for putting up with the bullshit Joel’s been throwing at you.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she repeats, and grabs your arm, turning you towards her slightly. “I’m not fucking okay with this. I need you to get that. He needs to talk to you. You need to talk to him.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me, Tess,” you say, toying with a corner of a ration card. “I have to respect that.”

“And he should give you the same courtesy,” she says as you move up again. “You need to talk this out. He can’t keep putting up brick fucking walls; you deserve more respect than that. You put your ass on the line for us, and got the shit kicked out of you. History or not, he owes you. I’ll lock you two in the same room if I have to.”

“Hah,” you scoff, lifting your brows. “I’m sure he’d love that.” 

She goes quiet as you reach the front of the line, handing over the cards. The woman working the table slides a crate of food across to you a second later, along with two jugs of water that Tess reaches for. It’s not until you’re back outside that she speaks again.

“I want us to be friends,” she says, and the tone in her voice makes you pause, stopping in your tracks. “I like you, Liv; you’re strong as hell. Brave. Best damn smuggler I’ve ever seen. I just…I need you to understand, me and Joel, it’s nothing close to what I had with Nate, or what he had with you. I know that. I get that. We laid out ground rules from square one. It’s a…” She trails off, searching for the right word.

“A comfort,” you provide.

She nods. “Yes. And I…if I had a second chance with Nate? If I walked down this street tomorrow and saw him walking through that fucking gate, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to—” She stops, clamps her hand over her mouth and you almost jump when you see the tears in her eyes.

“Tess.” She blinks hard, waving a hand at you, and in an instant, the badass demeanour has returned, if not doubly so. You continue, “If he’s a comfort to you, I can’t be the person that takes that away. He’s not mine to take. Especially not if he doesn’t want me back. It’s okay. You can’t force his hand in this.”

She eyes you, chewing at her thumbnail before, “Maybe I can.”

You shake your head, hefting the crate of food higher on your hip. “Let’s take this back.”

+

The doorknob jiggles, and Joel’s head snaps up. He’s sat on your couch, some book about woodworking in his hands, a mostly abandoned glass of whiskey on the table in front of him. Tommy’s at the kitchen table, bent over a map, trying to figure out the path they’d taken, all the way back to Austin. “I’m just curious,” he’d said when Joel had asked, his voice almost clipped. Joel hadn’t pushed any further.

The door swings open, revealing you and Tess, a crate of food on your hip, Tess carrying jugs of water. Joel gets to his feet, wanders towards the kitchen, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. Tommy gets up immediately, takes one of the jugs from Tess. She starts putting stuff away, and you step closer to the table, digging in the pocket of your coat. “Exciting news,” you say, pulling out a key ring with three keys on it, dropping it onto the table. “Moving day.”

“We’re not going far, are we?” Tess asks over her shoulder.

“No,” you reply, pushing a hand through your hair before shucking off your coat. “One floor up, few units down. Besides, you know where to find me.” Joel catches you glance his way, but it’s short-lived, you turning away a moment later to help Tess put the rest of the food away. “I saw they have a posting for a handyman in the building, one for the apartment across the street too,” you say, putting away a box of instant mashed potatoes. “Unit maintenance and stuff like that, thought you boys might be good for it.”

Tommy nods, enthusiastic. “Sounds good to me.” He glances at Joel over his shoulder. “Gotta get started paying you back what we owe you, Liv.”

You wave a hand, and Joel sees Tess give you a pointed look. “Listen, all of you. We’re square, okay? I mean it. I’m just…I’m glad you’re all here. Safe. That’s all that matters to me.”

Joel can’t hold his tongue. “That soldier beat you half to death.”

“Oh, you noticed?” you throw back, and the guilt simmers in his gut. “We’re square,” you repeat, leaning against the kitchen counter, hip cocked, arms crossed over your chest. A mirror of Joel’s stance. “But there’s something I wanted to bring up to the three of you. Tess and I have already talked it over, and I’ve done okay for myself given the circumstance, but I could use you, all three of you.” Your eyes flick from Tommy to Joel and back again, so quick he nearly misses it. “It’s a risk, I won’t lie, but I’ve got dirt on half the soldiers in this QZ. And I know exactly what to give them to keep their mouths shut.” 

“You already know I’m in,” Tess says, bumping her hip into yours. There’s a tiny grin on your face, the bruising along your cheek pinching slightly. “There are still connections from Baltimore we can use. Between the four of us, we could be living like kings, for a change.”

You nod. “Either way, it’s an offer. I trust you all enough that you’ll keep it secret, but if you want in, my door’s always open.” You pause. “But I do want my keys back.”

“I’m game,” Tommy says, leaning back in his chair. “You tell me where and when, Liv, and I’m there.”

“Same,” Tess agrees, “but we’re still paying you back.”

Joel can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Are you out of your damn minds? Both of you?” He stares at Tommy when his brother turns to face him, glances at Tess when she steps forward and plants her hands on the kitchen table. “We just got safe again, and already you want to put that in jeopardy?”

Tess scoffs, and the sound makes Joel blood boil. There’s too much happening. The guilt never leaves, but seeing you, hearing your voice, it makes it that much worse, and Tess looking at him like he’s a fucking idiot doesn’t help matters.

“We pulled a lot of bad shit to stay alive out there, Joel,” she says, her tone stern. “Baltimore was no different. I highly doubt a bit of smuggling is going to fuck with our reputations.”

“Your records are clean,” you offer, your voice placating. It makes the hair on the back of Joel’s neck stand on end. “When Cowan brought you through, he wiped them. Tommy’s is already clean, otherwise they wouldn’t have let him through to start with.” You lift your hands. “It’s just an offer, Joel.”

How have you managed to make his own name feel like a punch to the gut?

“I’ll show you to the apartment,” you say, grabbing the keys off the table, putting a hand on Tess’s shoulder. “You guys can talk it out. There’s no pressure. I’ve got a job in a few days, and—”

“I already told you, I’m going with you,” Tess says, and Joel’s brows raise.

“Tess—”

“Shut up, Joel.” She turns towards the door. “Let’s go.”

You swallow, hard enough that Joel can see your throat bob from where he’s standing. Tess grabs her jacket, gestures at Tommy to do the same, and his brother gets to his feet. You hold open the door, and Joel follows Tess and Tommy out. He tries to catch your eye as he walks past you, but your gaze drops to the floor.

Their unit is one floor up, three down from yours. You unlock the door before handing the keys to Tess, let it swing inwards. It looks about the same as yours, save for the floral wallpaper. It’s a bit bigger, an actual separate bedroom, another bed tucked in one corner, a room divider that’s seen better days blocking it off. He’s surprised, almost, that there’s furniture, even blankets on the beds, and follows his brother inside. Tess wanders, and you hang in the doorway, leaned against the jamb.

“I found some stuff at the donation warehouse,” you say, scratching the back of your neck. “People will leave all kinds of shit down there, stuff they don’t need. The mattresses aren’t great, but I cleaned them best I could, and there’s some clothes too.” Joel turns to look at you, and your eyes move away from his again. “And, if you’re game for smuggling, when knows what else we might find.”

Tommy walks back over to where you’re stood, slings an arm around your neck, pulling you against him. “You’re an angel, Liv. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you reply, leaning your head against Tommy’s chest, and Joel ignores the zip of…is that jealousy surging through his gut? Fuck.

But it turns into guilt just as quick, makes something mean bubble out of his mouth before he can stop it. “You shouldn’t have done this.” He doesn’t look at you, not directly, but from the corner of his eye, sees you balk, flinching slightly.

“Joel,” Tess chides, walking over to the door, pulling you out of Tommy’s grip and into a hug. “We owe you, I mean it.”

Joel watches, as you hug Tess. Your eyes flutter shut, your hands hooked around her shoulders, your brow pinched slightly. God, how many times had this thought crossed his mind? How many times had he wondered if the two of you would get along?

How many times had he dreamt of merely seeing you again?

Yet here he is, fucking it up harder than anyone ever could have imagined.

“I’m gonna go,” you say, jutting a thumb over your shoulder. “Tess, I’ll see you tomorrow?” She nods. “And Tommy, you can ask Sergeant McCoy about the handyman gig. He’s a decent guy.”

Then your eyes turn to Joel. He meets them, looks back at you, feels the guilt so thickly he’s convinced it’s replacing his blood. He thinks he hears you say his name, but then your wrench your eyes from his, disappearing from the doorway. His feet move of their own accord, propelling him towards the door, but he stops short, hands swinging at his sides.

Tommy claps him on the shoulder. “Brother, I love you, but you’re a fucking idiot.” He turns to Tess. “I’m gonna go check on her.”

Tess just nods, and the door shuts a moment later. It’s just the two of them, and Joel can already tells he’s about to be on the receiving end of Tess’s anger.

“Sit, Miller.” She points to the kitchen table. It’s not much different than yours, though there are no maps spread across the surface. “You can’t keep doing this shit.”

“Tess, don’t—”

“No, shut the fuck up,” she cuts him off, her hand flexing in the air. “You’re gonna sit there and you’re gonna listen, you understand? Please.”

Tess doesn’t often say please.

Joel swallows hard. “Fine.”

“You need to go after Liv,” she says, the words blunt, laying her hand flat on the table. “You can’t keep pushing her away and treating her the way that you are. You can’t keep doing this to her.”

“I have to,” he replies, the words quick, half-hearted. An excuse.

“No, you don’t,” Tess throws back, just as quick.

“You—”

“We’re done,” she says, cutting him off again. “You and I. It was just stress relief, right from the beginning. I know that, you know that. Nate was gone and you were there and I…” She shakes her head, lifts her hand to her mouth and bites her knuckle before continuing. “If I had a second chance like this, a second shot, goddamn, I would have dropped you so fast your head would’ve spun.” She actually laughs. Her eyes are big and wet, but no tears fall. “She loves you, Joel, and you love her. I knew it from the second you saw her at the gas station. It’s not—”

“Tess—”

“Listen to me, Joel. If I turned a corner tomorrow and saw Nate right there in front of me, there’s not a force on this whole fucking planet that could keep me from him. So why are you doing this to her? To yourself?”

He goes quiet, for a long moment. Stares down at the table top, digs his nail into the grain of the wood. “You said it yourself, Tess. We did a lot of bad shit out there to stay alive. I’m not…” He shakes his head. “I’m not who she remembers, who she loved before.”

Tess reaches out and grabs his hand, squeezes his fingers tightly. “Joel, the fucking world ended. I didn’t know her before, but I highly doubt that the Liv I know now was the same before the outbreak. We do what we have to, to survive. She put her life on the line for us, without batting a fucking eye. The least you can do is talk to her.”

“I can’t—”

“You can. What do I have to say to get it though your thick fucking skull, Miller? Second chances like this don’t just happen. If I had one, I sure as hell wouldn’t squander it the way you’re so hellbent on doing. So don’t.”

“Tess—”

“Please.”

Tess doesn’t often say please.

Slowly, Joel gets to his feet, and Tess follows suit. He’s not quite sure what to do next, but then she grabs the front of his jacket, hauls him against her, throws her arms around his neck. He hugs her back, mouth pressed to the curve of her shoulder.

“And I don’t wanna hear any more shit about not joining forces with Liv,” Tess says softly. “We’d be fucking fools not to.” She claps him on the shoulder, pulling away. “I’ll see you around, Joel.”

“Bye, Tess.”

The doorknob is cold when he reaches for it, and Tess doesn’t say another word as he steps out into the hall, pulls the door shut. His feet seem to carry him down the hall on their own. He heads down the stairs, faintly hears Tommy’s voice calling after him as he heads down towards the lobby. 

“Joel, where you going?”

It’s still a few hours until curfew, the sky still light, though dark clouds are gathering over the city. The moment he’s out the main door, he’s sprinting, running as fast as his legs will carry him. He’s pushing past people on the street, boots scuffing on the pavement, mumbling apologies when he almost crashes into someone. 

He just keeps going, arms pumping once he’s through the crowds of people trying to get home. He has no idea where he’s going, but he just keeps going, on and on and on until he finds himself standing in the same alleyway you’d lead him and Tess through, when you’d smuggled them inside.

What the fuck is he doing?

The rain starts slow, a few drips pelting his shoulders, the back of his neck. He tips his head back, stares up at the ominous dark clouds, hears the rumble of thunder in the distance. Joel lets his eyes slip closed, hands loose at his sides.

In a flash, it’s a downpour. He’s soaked in a matter of seconds, rainwater seeping through his hair, wetting his scalp. It runs down his cheeks, sneaks beneath the collar of his flannel, gathers in the hollow of his throat.

She loves you, Joel, and you love her. 

Tess is right. He knows she’s right. It didn’t matter how much time had passed, he always knew in the back of his mind that if he found you again, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself away from you. Everything he’s been doing, everything he’s said since you mentioned Sarah, it’s been…survival. Fear, that if he lets himself have you again, he’ll just lose you, like he lost her. That someone or something will take you from him.

Tommy told me. About Sarah. Joel, I’m so sorry, I just—

It hurts. The memory makes panic and fear surge through him, every single time. Makes his heart beat faster, his hands clench into fists, sweat at his hairline. But you don’t know that. How could you? He hasn’t told you, hasn’t let you in, hasn’t done anything but try and stay as far away from you as possible.

He can’t keep doing this. He knows that. When he closes his eyes, he still sees those tears on your face, at the gas station. The bat in your hand, the bravery in your eyes. You weren’t the same person he’d fallen in love with back in Austin. But you’ve survived just as hard as he has, and you lived. You’re alive.

I’ll find you, baby.

He swore to you.

“What the fuck am I doing?” Joel says the words aloud, towards the sky, to the dark clouds still pouring down on him. “Fuck.”

He turns on his heel and sprints back up the alley. The rain isn’t letting it up, pelting his face, soaking his hair further. He pushes his way back through the crowds, takes the same random path he’d just run in reverse, back to the building.

Back to you.

He takes the stairs two at a time, ignoring the way his knees are shouting in protest. He’s out of breath by the time he skids to a stop in front of your door, bangs his fist on the wood. “Liv!”

“It’s open,” he hears you call from the other side, and twists the handle, pushes the door open. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, rubbing at your forehead, a bottle of whiskey not far from reach. Your gaze lifts slowly, but then your entire expression changes when you see him standing there in the doorway. “Joel? What’re you do—”

“I wanna talk to you,” he says, the words coming out in a rush. His heart is hammering in his chest. He steps through the doorway, shuts it behind him. “Please.”

“Why are you wet?” you ask, your eyes narrowing, but then you shake your head, waving your hands. “Doesn’t matter. What…you wanna talk?”

“I do.”

“About what?”

He heaves a breath. “You. Me. Tess, she—”

You lift a hand, your expression turning defeated, and reach for the whiskey. “It’s fine, Joel. I get it. It’s not like I expected you to wait around for me or anything like that, but just for the record, it’s not reason enough to avoid me like the fucking plague.” You take a swig from the bottle, tearing your eyes from his.

“I’m sorry,” he says instantly, and takes a step towards the table. You lower the bottle, slide your gaze back to his. “About all of it, Liv. Please. I just wanna talk you.” 

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, shakes the water from his fingers. You don’t say anything when he shrugs out of his jacket, hangs it on the hook near the door, settles into the seat across from you. He points towards the whiskey, and you slide it across the table to him. The liquor burns on the way down, but the warmth that follows helps with the chill from the rain.

You lean back slightly in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest, staring him down. “You wanna talk, Miller,” you say, and part of him wonders how much you’ve had to drink already. “Then talk.”

He takes another long swig of the whiskey. The noise the bottle makes as he puts it back down seems to echo through the apartment. “I’ve been an asshole,” he says, his gaze dropping to his lap, “since the gas station. I’ve been trying my goddamn best to push you away, and I just…” He lifts his head, lets one hand rest on the table, an olive branch between you. “I’m sorry.”

“You said that already.”

“Liv, I just…I did some terrible shit out there, to stay alive. I’m not the same. But I know you aren’t either.”

“We all do terrible shit to stay alive, Joel.” You huff a little laugh. “It’s just the way of the world now.” You drag a hand over your face. “Besides, you are the only thing I have left,” you say, and Joel’s heart jumps into his throat, “from before.” You blink hard, and he can see the tears gathering along your lashes. Everything in him wants to vault the table separating you and just hold you. “I was gonna leave Boston. Before they put up the wall, when all that was standing in my way was a fucking chain link fence. I was gonna leave. Then Cowan calls the Austin QZ, asks about my family, and there’s no record of my sister, no record of you, but my parents…”

You trail off, shaking your head, squeezing your eyes shut. You wipe at your cheeks, and lay your hand on the table, inches from his. Joel’s fingers twitch.

“What happened?”

“FEDRA levelled Austin, when it was overrun. My parents were in a shelter, when they dropped the bombs, and no one survived.”

Joel balks. He remembers, that night, the outbreak. He remembers Tommy’s truck barrelling down the road, down the main drag where the hardware store was. He remembers flames pouring out of the storefront, shattered glass and the way the awning had caught fire. He remembers praying to whoever the fuck was even bothering to listen anymore that your family was okay.

“So you stayed.”

You nod, fingers tapping on the table. “I stayed. I got lucky, really. Dean got me good, before I…” You trail off, rubbing at your shoulder. “They were killing anyone who was injured, shooting them point blank in the streets. I just ran, and nearly a week later, when the soldiers stopped me at the fence, I was still me, and Cowan made sure no one saw my injuries, had Deanna treat me. Left a nasty fucking scar.” You squeeze your shoulder, pulling your eyes from Joel’s. “I never stopped wanting to go looking for you, Joel. Not once. I just—”

He shakes his head, flexes his fingers on the tabletop. “It doesn’t matter, Liv. You did what you had to, to stay alive. We all did.” He swallows hard. “When did it happen? With Dean.”

You grab the bottle, turning fully to face him, your other hand still planted inches from his. “Outbreak day. It’s funny, actually, I had just been on the phone, with you, you remember?”

Joel lets himself smile, the conversation rising to the surface of his mind. “We wished each other happy birthday.”

“We did,” you agree, and take a swig. “I just got home, and Dean was…he was just standing there, in the bedroom, staring out the window. He didn’t notice me, not at first.” You shake your head, letting go of the bottle, rubbing your fingers across your forehead. “I shouldn’t have done it, looking back, but I didn’t know, and I…I called his name. He turned, and he looked at me with that…that dead look they have, you know? And then…then he started running at me, and I knew something was wrong. I kept the bat right by the bedroom door, and when he came at me, I just…swung. Until he stopped.”

You grab the bottle again, and Joel flexes his pinky wide, until it grazes yours. Your eyes drop to the table. “You protected yourself, baby.”

It’s like everything in the apartment shifts, as the endearment rolls off his tongue. He doesn’t mean to say it so soon, but everything in him is aching to comfort you, the feeling tenfold after being stuffed down for so long. Why did he put you through this? Why did he put himself through this?

Your eyes are watery when they lift to his again. “I never should have left Austin, Joel,” you say, and slide your hand across the table, settling it on top of his, your palms pressed together. “I never should have left you.”

“I’m here now,” he says, letting his fingers curl around your wrist. His heart races when you do the same. “It doesn’t matter. None of it.”

Your thumb slides across his pulse, and your eyes flutter shut for a moment before they meet his again. There’s fire in your eyes, one he hasn’t seen in a long, long time. “What are we doing here, Joel?”

His brow pinches. “What d’you mean?”

“This is the ultimate second chance,” you say, and he can’t help his chuckle, “and we are royally fucking it up.” He keeps laughing, and you dig your nails into his skin, making him yelp. “It’s not funny, Joel!”

“I know, I know,” he says, his tone going apologetic. “It’s just…you and Tess get on well, don’t you?”

You scoff a little laugh, nodding. “She’s a badass.”

He juts his chin towards you. “So are you.”

“I get it,” you say, pulling your eyes away. Your hand stays where it is. “The two of you, it makes sense. I…I was with Cowan.” You make a face. “Am with Cowan? I don’t know. It’s just…comfort, I guess, but now, it…”

Joel can’t help but bristle slightly. “He’s helped you all these years?”

You nod slowly. “Hasn’t ratted me out, got me out of some pretty deep shit once or twice. But he’s not…” You nail him to the spot with your stare, leaning forward slightly, sliding your hand up his arm until it’s wrapped around his forearm, resting in the crook of his elbow. “He doesn’t come close, Joel. Dean, Cowan, they’re just…” You shake your head. “They’re nothing, compared to you. I could never love anyone else the way I loved you.” You pause, chew your lip. “Love you.”

“Liv—”

“But I won’t get between you and Tess, I promise. I like her, and you and me, it doesn’t—”

“Tess broke things off,” he says, and your eyes go wide. “She was right. I couldn’t keep doing what I was doing, pushing you away, thinking it was easier that way. I don’t want to stay away from you anymore. I can’t stay away from you.”

“So don’t.”

“You just said you and Cowan—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter. None of it matters.”

Joel’s brain stalls, for a moment, seeing the flare in your eyes. He gets up slowly. Your hands move to your lap as he rounds the table, pulls you to your feet. There’s only inches between you, the air turning thick with tension. “Say it again,” he says, his voice hushed, almost a whisper.

You close the distance, stepping into his arms. His hands slip beneath the hem of your sweater, resting on your jean-clad hips, and Joel inhales deeply when your palms slide up his biceps, rest on his shoulders, one hand slipping up the back of his hair, wet curls twisted between your knuckles. 

“Don’t stay away from me,” you murmur, tugging lightly at his hair, until his face is angled with yours. He can smell the whiskey on your breath, see the remains of the bruise on your cheek. He can feel your heartbeat, wild against his own, your chest against his. “Be with me, Joel, please.”

Your voice cracks on the please, and that’s what gets him. The tension snaps, and he can’t hold back anymore.

There’s no hesitancy in it. It feels like he’s kissing you for the very first time all over again — feels like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. The press of your mouth is hot and wet, a tiny mewl falling from your lips to his as you hold him to you, your fingers tightening in his hair. He kisses your bottom lip, then the top, sinking his teeth into your flesh, pulling more tiny noises from you. God, he’s fucking missed you, so goddamned much.

You chase him when he pulls away, grabbing his lower lip between your teeth, making him groan into your mouth, giving you a hungrier kiss the second time round. He pushes you backwards, your boots tangling with his and suddenly you’re a heap of limbs on the ground. You actually laugh and Joel kisses the sound right out of your mouth, licking his tongue along the seam of your lips.

The motion makes you whimper, adjusting yourself beneath him until your thighs are spread either side of his hips, your boots planted on the ground. Everything in him feels white-hot, and he can’t stop kissing you, making up for lost time, pouring his apologies into his kisses, memorizing the way you feel and taste now.

“Joel,” you gasp out when he slides his hand along your jaw, tilts your head back on the wood floor, noses his way down your throat.

“Yeah, baby?” he murmurs into your skin, inhaling you deeply, kissing at your pulse.

“Take me to bed.”

PREV | NEXT

[mousy-nona]

Two's Company (Three's a Crowd)

Vox cuts into Alastor's radio broadcast, and quickly figures out why that was a Very Bad Idea.

//

Or, Vox finds out about Alastor and Lucifer. Jealousy ensues.

(Set between chapters 4 and 5 of All of God's Angels)

Lucifer had a radio. He dusted it off and turned it on some nights, when they were playing the oldies, or when he wanted to catch up on current events, or…

Or when a certain strawberry pimp was on air. 

(If he was being honest, he hadn’t missed a single episode since the day they’d met.) 

The demon’s voice was like liquid honey, dripping with dark things and speckled with odd ‘20s slang. It quickly became a habit: turn on the radio, pull up a few of his latest blueprints, and get to work. Some of Alastor’s more… creative suggestions even gave him a few ideas for new horror-themed rides for Lu Lu World. 

My muse, he thought, snorting to himself when no one was around.. 

That particular night, he was humming away, listening to Alastor prattle on about why the Pride ring was categorically better than Gluttony ( more interesting victims, for one! ) when there was an audible screech. The signal wavered, replaced by the obnoxious blaring intro of a news show.

He recognized that sound at once. Everyone in Pentagram City did. It was the breaking news soundtrack for 666 News.

But what was it doing here, on Alastor’s radio? 

He leaned in, new rubber duck design completely forgotten, as he and the rest of Hell waited with baited breath. 

“Gooood evening Pentagram City!” A voice – a man’s, with a chipper American accent by the sound of it – filtered through the speaker. Lucifer cursed to himself. He really needed to pay attention to the politics of Hell. He had no idea who this was. B something? The demon continued, sounding immensely pleased with himself. “We interrupt this not-so-important broadcast with breaking news: why are you listening to this washed up has-been when you could be watching 666 News on the V Network? Get with the times, you—”

The radio whined, letting out an audible protest as the signal was hijacked again – and by the sound of it, far more violently this time. 

The momentary crackle of static, then – “Apologies about the momentary interruption, folks!” Alastor’s cheery voice cut in. But underneath that ‘20s charm, Lucifer could hear a hardness that hadn’t been there before. “A mere technical error, nothing to worry about. I promise you, those responsible will be appropriately punished.” 

The last word practically crawled of the penumbra, of shadows, of Bad Things. Lucifer shivered, finding himself half-wishing he was the one Alastor was talking about. He caught himself with a frown. What the Hell was he thinking?

“Now back to our regularly scheduled programming!” 

The next morning, Lucifer came downstairs to find the entire hotel gathered around a shiny red box. 

“What do you think it could be?” Angel Dust asked. 

Husk shrugged, looking, as always, utterly unimpressed by the whole situation. 

Niffty was flitting around it so fast she was nothing but a blur, panting excitedly the entire time. “Don’t smell bugs,” she muttered, almost as if she was disappointed by the fact. 

“Only one way to find out. Let’s open it!” Charlie bounded forward, one hand outstretched. Both he and Vaggie leapt to stop her at the same time, but Vaggie got there first. She grabbed his daughter’s hand and twirled her away from the mysterious-box-potential-bomb-thing, popping a little kiss onto her nose to distract her when she tried to lunge for it again.

Yeeuch . Good for Charlie, but he was never going to get used to that. 

“What’s up, b–” He almost said bitches , but managed to catch himself at the last minute. “ Boys ?”

Better. Much better.

The “boys” glanced at each other, clearly confused. Vaggie let go of Charlie so fast she almost spun her around like a top. 

Charlie recovered quickly and pointed at the thing they were staring at. “Dad! This got delivered to the hotel this morning. Vaggie thinks someone wants to blow us up!” She said, as if she was announcing someone had sent them a birthday cake. 

Vaggie sighed. “Might, Charlie. I said someone might want to blow us up.” 

“Right! That!” 

“No worries!” Lucifer puffed up his chest, feeling a rush of pride. He was helping his daughter! He could feel their bond growing stronger already! “ I’ll open it!”

“Careful, Dad!” Charlie gasped. Vaggie pulled her backwards, shielding her with her own body. Husk surreptitiously stepped in front of Angel Dust. Niffty stayed exactly where she was – right next to the box – but Angel Dust swooped in and lifted her out of harm’s way. Lucifer waited a beat, wondering if Alastor was going to show up and swoop him out of the way. 

No such luck. He sighed, wondering if he’d gone temporarily insane to even hope for such a thing. Alastor would probably push him into the box if he was here. 

Holding his breath, he quickly clawed at the cardboard seams. The box fell open, revealing…

Angel Dust wrinkled his nose. “Is that…an old TV?” 

“It is,” Husk grumbled, recognition flaring in his yellow eyes.

The hazy gray screen was surrounded on all sides by wood paneling. There were two dials on it, one labeled UHF and the other labeled VHF. Attached to the front was a single note, written in huge, spiky letters: Remember the good times? 

He felt Alastor before he saw him. A mass of shadows bubbled in the corner and burst, revealing the tall, graceful demon in his erstwhile pinstripe suit.

Lucifer puffed up. “Convenient of you to come when the danger’s over, huh? Looks like I saved the day this time –” 

Alastor swept past him as if he was air. All his attention was focused on that damned TV. Lucifer’s voice faltered, sputtering like a flame before it finally went out. 

“Alastor, your buddy sent you a gift,” Husk muttered. 

“So it seems,” Alastor said, cold and cruel. He grabbed the note from the screen, his nose wrinkling as he read it. Then his grin turned sharp. 

Faster than anyone could blink, Alastor skewered the TV in half with his staff. The wood protested, groaning as it fell apart, revealing the black glistening gears inside. Acrid smoke started flowing, and Alastor was soon submerged in an eye-watering cloud, his wicked chuckles reverbrating through the entire hotel. 

“Looks like someone is desparate for my personal attention.” 

Lucifer bristled. Someone? Who? Someone other than him? He opened his mouth, but when the smoke cleared, Alastor was gone. 

Husk tutted and walked back to the bar, mumbling about show offs and annoying dandy-ass motherfuckers. Lucifer followed close behind, practically shoving Angel Dust out of the way. 

“Do you know who sent that TV?”

Husk turned around, so slowly it was like he was moving through molasses. “Yeah, of course. Who doesn’t?” 

I don’t, you smug little house cat. Through a great effort of will, Lucifer managed to stop himself from showing Husk exactly what his new line of rubber ducks could do. “Mind enlightening me?” 

“It came from Big Daddy V,” Angel Dust slid into the seat next to him, fluttering his lashes. Lucifer stared at him. “You know, the head honcho?” Still no reaction. “Vox?”

“Is he the guy with the television for a head?” Lucifer asked. 

“Duh,” Angel Dust said at the same time Husk said, “Who else?” 

“I think he was the one who interrupted Alastor’s radio show last night too. What’s his deal with Alastor anyway?” Lucifer was not annoyed. He was not irritated at how easily he’d been cast aside. He was definitely not upset about how Alastor had disappeared after promising to give Vox his personal attention . 

“He’s obsessed with him.” 

And Lucifer was not tempted at all to rip this Vox’s throat out and leave him to die a very slow, very painful death. “Alastor is?” He hissed.

His chest twisted, throbbing with a pain he couldn’t quite put a finger on. He held his hand over his heart, marveling at the way it pounded as hard as if he’d just fought a grueling battle with the angels. 

“No, Vox is. They’ve had a rivalry going for decades now.” Husk looked at him strangely. “You really don’t know about any of this? Aren’t you the king of Hell or something?” 

Decades. They had decades of history together. Vox would always own a piece of Alastor that Lucifer would never get to know. An irrational anger rose deep from his gut. He knew it made no sense, but it was almost unbearable to think that there was someone out there who may have a claim over Alastor that he didn’t.

And maybe he was a demon just like the rest of them, because a selfish rage rattled in his chest: Alastor was his.

Too late, he realized the silence had stretched on a touch too long. Now both Angel Dust and Husk were staring at him. Angel Dust’s knowing smile in particular was quite unsettling. Quickly, he excused himself and ran back up to this room, where he could not think about Alastor in peace and quiet, thank you very much. But as soon as he opened the door, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. 

Meet me at Rosie’s. 

The note was written in Alastor’s beautiful, old-school cursive.

“That tacky little good-for-nothing,” Lucifer grumbled. “He thinks he can order me around?” 

He crumpled up the note in his fist. He would go meet him – but only to teach the cocky asshole a lesson. 

Right. That was the only reason why. 

(He’d always been a bad liar.) 

“There you are! I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost on the way.” 

Alastor’s wide grin was the first thing that greeted him when he stepped out of the portal. He resisted the urge to smack him in the nose, because he knew how to be the bigger man. Figuratively, of course. 

“Why did you want me to meet you here?” 

“Why do I ever want to meet you anywhere?” 

Lucifer paused, running through some numbers in his head. “But it’s not the first of the month yet.”

Alastor grinned and pressed in close. His bowtie, usually so neat and buttoned up, was askew. His shirt gaped open the tiniest bit, revealing a hint of mouthwatering collarbone and the barest glimpse at the strong chest underneath. Lucifer felt his cheeks heat. “What’s a little extra healing between friends?” Alastor murmured into his ear.

“We aren’t…we aren’t friends,” Lucifer protested, stumbling only once. “Besides, we’re outside. Anyone can see us.”

“Rosie won’t mind,” Alastor smiled. “What’s hers is mine, and so on and so forth.” He crooked one finger into his tie and pulled, loosening it further. “And the Cannibals know to mind their own business.”

The rough brick of Rosie’s storefront was digging into Lucifer’s back. He winced, a surge of annoyance running through him when he realized that Alastor was pushing him around again . Alastor always did whatever he wanted. He would play with him at home, teasing him relentlessly, making his life Hell, but then he’d run off and play rivals with some other bastard the moment Lucifer took his eyes off of him. 

What kind of heartless, two-timing devil would do that?

Suddenly filled with a burning rage he still didn’t quite understand, Lucifer flipped around so he  was the one pressing Alastor against the wall. Strangely, the demon didn’t fight him. He watched through heavy lids as Lucifer pushed forward until their bodies were flush against each other. Lucifer could feel every one of Alastor’s hard muscles through the layers of clothing between them. The air crackled with anticipation as they stared at each other, the seconds dragging on as time slowed. 

Lucifer licked his lips. Alastor’s gaze dipped down to follow the movement of his tongue. His smile turned lazy, slow – honey dripping on a hot day. He reached up, undid the first button of his shirt, and pulled the collar away from his neck so Lucifer had a better view of the graceful curve of his shoulder and the firm sculpture of his chest. He swallowed, hard. 

“You won’t keep a loyal subject waiting, will you, your Highness?” Alastor asked, his radio static like a live wire against Lucifer’s skin.

Lucifer grabbed his lapels and leaned in close, not sure if he was going in for a kiss or to tear Alastor’s head off. 

“What the hell are you two doing?” 

The first thing Lucifer noticed was a man with a TV screen for a head glitching out in the street behind them. The second thing he noticed was Alastor’s smile – huge, toothy, and so very pleased that Lucifer realized, a second too late, that he’d walked into one of Alastor’s traps again . 

Alastor straightened up and re-tied his bow to cover up all his delicious, bare skin. Even though Lucifer knew he’d been played for a fool, he still felt a pang when he saw it disappear. 

“Are you two–” Vox couldn’t finish the sentence. His screen stuttered, turning rainbow, then flipping to a test screen, before finally settling on the Blue Screen of Death. FUCK YOU ALASTOR.EXE was scrawled all over it. 

“Actually –” Lucifer started, but Alastor cut in, slinging his arm casually over his shoulder as if they did that kind of thing every day. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Alastor grinned, his red eyes gleaming bright with glee. “Maybe we are. Maybe we’re just very good friends .” 

Vox’s face flashed back on screen, his mouth open so wide it looked almost like a glitch in the matrix. “You – I thought you didn’t…?” 

“Didn’t what, my good man? You must start finishing your sentences. How is anyone supposed to have a decent conversation with you if you don’t? But I suppose that silly moth man you keep around might not mind. He doesn’t seem very bright, does he?” 

“Leave Valentino out of this!” Vox roared. 

“Or what?” Alastor sneered over Lucifer’s shoulder. He was still hanging off of him like he owned him. As much as Lucifer hated it…it wasn’t a terrible feeling. “Or you’ll sing a silly little song about me again? Hack into my radio signal? Is that really all you can do – cause me a few technical problems?” 

Vox wasn’t listening to a word he was saying. His eyes were glued to the two of them, taking in the casual way Alastor was touching Lucifer, at the button Alastor had accidentally-on-purpose forgotten to re-button, and the hand Lucifer still had curled around Alastor’s lapel. 

“But you don’t –” he tried again. “I asked you! You said no!” 

“It looks like I found a better offer,” Alastor said. He looked positively demonic as he delivered the blow, his eyes glittering with euphoric glee as he watched Vox sink down from disbelief into a black cloud of depression. As much as Vox annoyed him, Lucifer couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the man.

But that didn’t stop him from doing what he did next. 

Lucifer looped his hand around Alastor’s neck and pulled him down so they were face to face. Before Alastor could react, he pressed his mouth to his. 

Alastor’s lips were cold. They were as icy and hard as the man himself, but his taste…he was like spice and smoke, like cinnamon and poison and the woods in the summer. He tasted better than all of Heaven and the Earth, and for the first time Lucifer understood why humans got addicted to their silly little drugs. If it felt anything close to this…

Alastor broke the kiss first, his eyes hooded and unreadable as he pulled back. He licked gold from his teeth, and Lucifer realized with a start that he was bleeding. Alastor brought his fingers to his lips and licked the dripping gold off of them slowly, his eyes never once leaving Lucifer’s. 

It was the single most erotic thing he’d ever seen. He felt dizzy, drunk with desire in a way he’d never once felt with Lilith.

“Assholes!” Vox’s sudden exclamation brought them both back to reality. “Don’t eye-fuck each other while I’m still here!”

Snarling, Lucifer whirled around. “Do you mind? We were in the middle of something here.” 

Vox cringed backwards, his hands flying protectively over his face. For a brief second, he looked terrified . Lucifer looked at him strangely, wondering what his reaction was all about, when he saw red horns out of the corner of his eye. 

He’d transformed? 

He glanced at Alastor, who was staring at him with an expression he’d never seen before. If he had to describe it, he would say Alastor looked…proud. 

Alastor pulled Lucifer to his side, so smug it practically rolled off of him in noxious waves. “You heard the man. Or rather, shall I say the king?” Canned laughter roared through the street. Vox flinched at the not-so-subtle reminder of exactly who he was dealing with. “It’s been fun catching up, but we must be off. Lots to do, lots to see!”

Waving merrily at the glitched-out TV, Alastor pushed open the door to Rosie’s shop and ushered Lucifer inside. The second the door closed, Lucifer whirled around, glaring at a wholly unrepentant Alastor.

“You planned that.”

Alastor grinned. “Of course I did.”

“You used me.”

He raised his brow. “My dear, I am a demon . Surely you can’t be too surprised I dabble in deception?” His expression darkened. “That fool interrupted my show. That kind of behavior must be punished. Besides, I daresay you used me a little bit yourself.” 

Lucifer’s cheeks reddened and his mouth watered at the thought of that kiss. That magical, wonderful, positively wicked kiss. 

“Ah, ah!” Alastor wagged his finger at him, as if he was a naughty child and not a fallen angel powerful enough to blast him halfway back to Earth. “There will be no more of that today. You’ve got your payment.”

Lucifer sighed. For a man who hated physical contact, he sure could be a massive tease. He was even worse than Angel Dust. “What was Vox talking about? What did he ask you?” What did you say no to?

“He asked me to join his team. A waste of breath, if you ask me. As if I’d ever stoop so low.”

“Just his team? As in, business partners?”

“Why? Does it bother you, your Majesty?” Alastor teased.

Lucifer thought about the despair on Vox’s face as he took in the possessive way Alastor had grabbed his shoulders. The betrayal in his voice as he’d stuttered but you don’t–! The hurt as he slumped to the ground, the electronic nodes of his brain scrambling to understand that Alastor might be capable of wanting more – and that he just hadn’t wanted Vox . 

Would Alastor do that to him one day? Would he leave him half-broken on the ground as he pranced off with his new rival of the month? 

Lucifer turned away, unable to keep looking at him. “No. It doesn’t bother me at all.” 

Alastor hummed, sing-song. “I appreciate your help in this rather annoying matter. I must say, it’s not so bad having a partner after all.” 

Lucifer stiffened, hardly daring to breathe. “We’re partners?”

"Who knows?" Alastor shrugged. "I do so dislike labels. But this is the first time the idea hasn't made me want to vomit. And the look on Vox's face when he saw you..." His laugh was dark and more than a little insane. He wiped a few gleeful tears from his eyes. "I could get used to that."

Lucifer chuckled along, the possessive beast within him satisfied. For now. "I'm a better offer, huh?"

When Alastor looked at him, the odd expression on his face took his breath away. He took Lucifer's hand and kissed it, his sharp teeth grazing the thin skin there. "Certainly the tastiest I've had in quite some time."

Lucifer's heart thudded so loud in his ears it was all he could hear.

"You have any other rivals you want to piss off?"

[stromuprisahat]

The Price of Life

How a single side-character with minimum of appearances manages to convey the dilemma of a person valuing life above everything else, forced to find their path in military, better than a POV character...

… I looked at Fedyor. “If you really believe that saving a life is an honor, then why not become a Healer instead of a Heartrender?”  Fedyor considered the passing scenery. “Of all Grisha, Corporalki have the hardest road. We require the most training and the most study. At the end of it all, I felt I could save more lives as a Heartrender.”  “As a killer?” I asked in surprise.  “As a soldier,” Fedyor corrected. He shrugged. “To kill or to cure?” he said with a sad smile. “We each have our own gifts.” …

Shadow and Bone- Chapter 4

Fedyor did the math and figured a well-chosen strike could prevent death of many. Nina seems to believe nobody deserves to die, which sounds like a similar starting point, doesn't it?

One would expect some moral dilemmas, development... and yes, Nina will face a possibly character-changing decision, when standing against the enemy's special unit including their leader. Right after witnessing this:

“Here we are,” Brum said, stopping in front of a door that seemed identical to the others. Nina peered through the glass. The cell was just like the ones on the top level of the prison, but the observation panel was on the other side—a large mirror that took up half of the opposite wall. Inside, she saw a young boy in a bedraggled blue kefta pacing restlessly, gabbling to himself, scratching at his arms. His eyes were hollows, his hair lank. He looked just like Nestor before he’d died. Grisha don’t get sick, she thought. But this was a different kind of sickness. “He doesn’t look very menacing.” Brum moved up behind her. His breath brushed against her ear when he said, “Oh, believe me, he is.” Nina’s skin crawled, but she made herself lean into him slightly. “What is he here for?” “The future.” Nina turned and laid her hands on his chest. “Are there more?” He blew out an impatient breath and led her to the next door. A girl lay on her side, her tangled hair covering her face. She was dressed in a dirty shift, and she had bruises all over her arms. Brum gave a sharp rap on the little window, startling Nina. “Look alive,” Brum taunted, but the girl didn’t move. Brum’s finger hovered over a brass button embedded next to the window. “If you really want a show, I could press this button.” “What does it do?” “Beautiful things. Miraculous, really.” Nina thought she knew; the button would dose the girl with jurda parem somehow. For Nina’s entertainment. She tugged Brum away. “It’s all right.” “I thought you wanted to see a Grisha use her powers.” “Oh, I do, but she doesn’t look like much fun. Are there more?” “Close to thirty.”

Six of Crows- Chapter 34

This is a man, who quite visibly enjoys his "work". He has thirty people to torture and experiment on in this particular facility.

And Nina decides he isn't just "worth saving" in some theoretical way, but that he deserves another chance, promptly leaving him in his own country in the same position he's at the beginning of the story, only a bit balder and without this particular playground with these particular toys.

All of that because her boyfriend tells her those people fear "her kind"...

I know people, who fear dentists. Does it mean we can isolate them and drug them for our own entertainment?!

But hey- it could be the lowest low of Nina's story! She deserves a second chance too, doesn't she?!

Don't worry, she'll get it, when she discovers another facility- this one systematically raping women, forcing pregnancies and collecting their offspring for further experimentation. Only our life-honouring heroine won't break even after this event, saving the man behind all this once again, letting him remain free to boot!

Saving a life is an honour.

Saving a life of unapologetic murderer targeting defenceless people is more desirable than hoping his demise might prevent unimaginable atrocities done to other human beings.

Nina believes all human beings deserve to live, even though their continued existence is the direct, intentional cause of plenty more deaths.

I don't know what to think about this. Nina doesn't even have the excuse of not seeing the direct consequences of her decision. Did she intend to become a Healer? Was she forced to switch to the "easier" choice once her training got cancelled?! A person with this sort of belief has nothing to do in the field, facing the enemy! Making decisions impacting others.

She isn't just incompetent, she's dangerous to those she should protect!

[thebettermoon]

Chapter 1 : Runaway bride

Eiser Grayan x BlackChubbyReader

Warning : Very minor mentions racism , fat-phobia and bullying

Chp2▪︎》 Masterlist

Eiser had no interest in someone known not to meet the standards of high society, someone who operated in the shadows and wasn't a great "look" for him.

The plan had been for Younger Sister Serena to fit perfectly, but since her strong rejection of the idea, you were the next best thing to gain control of the hotel.

That fateful morning, your wedding day, the day he would whisk you away to "love" him. You bolted!

You managed to sneak around the courthouse, but guards blocked every exit. You followed your trail as you ran into the gardens, a last-ditch attempt. The walls were tall, but manageable. You gathered your dress and discarded your expensive shoes. Walking through a freshly watered flower bed, you realized you needed a head start. The weathered stone walls were perfect to climb, but too tall to scale in under a minute. Considering she had been gone for over an hour now and I am sure your family has probably been able to break the toilet door down to see in their horror she had jumped out the window.

You readied yourself, pushed down your nerves, and calmed yourself. You just needed to push hard to get halfway.

"Is there a problem, ma'am? Why are you here?"

No, no, no, no, no, no, NO, NO!!

You were so close. Now some guard with a condescending tone thinks he can stop you by snooping around in others' business.

You turned around to confront the guard trying to get him to leave, but you were instead shocked. He wore an all-white suit with gold accessories, was tall, a good foot or two taller, with pale pearl skin, jet-black hair, and a blank expression, but most striking were his piercing blue eyes. It didn't take an idiot to know all that equaled to a Grayson, aka my future husband if I don't start moving.

"I think you got it wrong, sir. I am just a maid." Your voice creaked as you slowly walked backwards, but he followed you.

"A maid in the very expensive wedding dress I paid for and not on my wife, that's a new one." A deep chuckle came before he leaned in so close, his breath was fanning you.

His expression was blank but still intimidating as if he couldn't care less if you were was killed on the spot.

"I understand you're scared, but this is not the way you confront this reality that we are getting married." Eiser leaned back to show his full height, giving some much-needed space.

"I am scared too, but seeing you try to run up a wall at just the thought of marrying me is making me feel wayyyyy better." Eiser cracked a wide smile and leaned back to let out a deep laugh. He smiled... Is this man a Grayson or an imposter?

In my state of shock, Eiser walked around to get my shoes, cleaning the dirt off and came to kneel in front of me. He touched my ankle with his icy fingers, snapping me back to reality.

"I was able to convince everyone to let me search alone for you, but they are going to come after me too. If they see you like this, they are going to know what happened. Good thing the dress isn't a mess at all."

He lifted up my feet and slipped my feet gently into the heels. He unintentionally sneaked a hand up my thigh to steady me after going to the next foot. My skin shivered as he squeezed it slightly. I don't know what is happening and how he is so nice. Every time I heard of the Graysons, it was anything but human, know one of them were on their knees to someone like me...

He stands up yet again. He eyes analyse with a pleasing look at his work untill he met my eyes. Sieltly reassuring me this is fine and... i beleve him. I know that if he can be this understanding and comfort maybe their is a chance to be close in anyways that 2 people in a contract marriage can be but still need

"I know this is scary. Marriage will always will be like that and with a stranger it is even worse but..." He takes out his hand , urging to take "when I first saw you I knew that I was willing to make it work and I hope i am of worthy of your the time , space , mind and... body to make it work" He takes

My breath was caught in my thoart. What was happening? This man was being eerily so nice to me but at the other hand having someone so willing to work this tough from the start and to make it more bearable from the start made we feel less scared about this.

I take his hand , showing him my willingness to trust him but still now shakening the feeling that this is wrong

Chp2 ▪︎》

[miabebe]

I Am What I Am (V)

A man of the shadows and a woman who belonged in the skies - fate could not have brought two more different people together. But was this fate or was this a choice?

Pairing - Im Changkyun x OC, Kim Mingyu × OC

Word Count - 7.3K

Warnings - guns, slight mentions of violence blood, death.

Chapter summary - Running down the dark tunnel looking for light was turning out to be a never ending loop. It wasn't like nothing was before her, rather Na bi couldn't understand what she was seeing. And more importantly, what she was feeling.

| Previous chapter | Masterlist |

Much to her surprise, when Na bi woke up the next day, it was already past noon.

She had passed out from all that exhaustion quite early last night - the muscles of her legs were still sore but the warmth of the bed and the weight of the duvet were comforting. She had forgotten to close the curtains before dozing off and now the yellow of the sun was all over the room. The trees outside were standing still as ever, birds chirped all around - The forest looked so alive, yet still felt so daunting.

Dragging herself off the bed, she closed the curtains, submerging the room into darkness before flipping the switches of the lights.

Something had changed.

Na bi walked up to the small study in the corner, eyes falling on the new contents on the table. It was her belongings - her unnecessarily thick medical textbooks, study guides, lecture notes - all her personal material from home, neatly stacked. On the shelf were her novels, magazines she liked to flip through, journals she had filled over the years. How did he manage to get these?

Even her toiletries were arranged for, neatly laid out by the sink - new bottles of her soap, shampoo, creams and serums of her night routine. In the ten minutes she took to wash up, a fresh set of clothes which, albeit she didn't change into, were laid out for her and outside, on the table was a piping a hot coffee and biscuits. Her bed had been made, the curtains were pulled back again, and the fire of the night had been put out. It was as though Changkyun had a bunch of elves working around here for him - efficient, meticulous and invisible.

Na bi sipped on her coffee as she looked through the books and papers on her table again. When Changkyun said whatever she needed would be arranged for, he kept his word - every small thing, down to drawing pencils and her favourite set of highlighters was here.

Everything except her laptop.

Na bi looked around, eyes searching for it as another realisation slowly dawned upon her. She hadn't seen her phone in very long either. Panicking slightly, she left her coffee and rummaged through the sheets of the freshly made bed - it was not there. She opened the drawers of her bedside table hurriedly, scoured the shelves and cupboards of the room, checked the bathroom, checked the closet but it was nowhere to be found. She tried to  recall when she last saw it. A very faint memory told her it dropped out of her hand when she was shoved into Wonho's van.

Fuck.

She needed that phone, how was anything going to work out without it?

Na bi sank onto an ottoman, massaging her temples, her mind behind it racing. She wasn't prepared for this. She hadn't expected things to be in motion so soon; screw Mingyu for not so much as warning her before putting their plan to action. But now it was too late to curse him - she was already in the middle of it all and she had to figure it out on her own, there was no other way.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed her hair back, pulling it into a tight ponytail, something she rarely ever did. Leaving her half empty coffee cup on the table, she stuffed two biscuits in her mouth for some sugar and slowly opened the door of her bedroom. If she was going to crack Changkyun's empire, his house would be the first place to begin.

When Na bi stepped into the familiar corridor, she found herself alone again, a chill running down her spine. It wasn't eerie or haunting in anyway, but the thought of just what she might discover in this inhabitation was terrifying her already. Cautiously, she began walking further down the corridor, doors of two rooms coming into her view - one she assumed was the second guest bedroom Changkyun mentioned and the other was perhaps his own. Surely if there was any place in this house that could give her a clue, it had to be his room.

Opening the first door on her way, Na bi immediately concluded it to be a guest room for the layout was unmistakably, exactly the same as hers - the colour of the walls, the sheets, the furniture, all of it. Except the view from the window. From the left most corner, Na bi caught sight of a sliver of the beach she saw yesterday. So it wasn't a mirage conjured by her exhaustion or a figment of her imagination.....

Gulping at the possibilities, she slowly left, proceeding to the next room, only to find it locked shut. She tried the handle a few times, with both force and technique but neither could open it. Stepping back she glanced at the walls that spanned on either sides of it. It had to be a huge room, which meant it most definitely was Changkyun’s but clearly, neither was he home, nor was anything about him accessible to her.

Na bi though, wasn't one to accept defeat. Besides, how hard could it be to break into a room? One bobbypin and she could have easily found her way in. And perhaps she would have too if she didn't hear the strange sounds of clanking metal from a distance. Frowning, she turned, walking towards the source, trying to locate it. Softly she whispered Changkyun's name, guessing it was him and instantly, the noise stopped. And so did Na bi.

After a long silence and a long period of immobility, Na bi finally took another daring step ahead, the living space downstairs slowly coming into view. It was just as empty as yesterday, only more harshly lit by the afternoon sun. It looked just as beautiful though, she observed as she walked down the stairs, looking around. Changkyun was definitely a man of strange taste but she didn't expect to find herself in approval of it. Except those ceiling high windows. Those still made her stomach churn with discomfort.

When Na bi managed to make it all the way down to the last step, she stumbled, noticing a door she hadn't really seen before. The walls felt warm and she could hear the sound of firewood crackling from the other side. Wondering if that was the source of the noise, she knocked softly before grabbing the handle and pushing the door, only to feel a hand rest on her shoulder.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

Na bi bit back a scream, turning to meet the eyes of a  woman almost a whole head smaller than her, looking at her fiercely. Her salt and pepper hair was neatly pulled back into a bun, and with her cute little pink apron and half moon glasses, one would think she was a sweet old lady, but the sharpness of her tone told Na bi otherwise.

"I'm...I'm looking for Changkyun." Na bi watched the woman physically wince at the mention of his name. "Where is he?"

"Master's not home." Master? She wiped her hands on her apron before walking past her and closed the door loudly. The point had been made. "If you there's something you need, you can ask me."

"Is this Changkyun's room?"

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Yes, it is."

Na bi's eyes flickered between her and the room. What was in there? And if this was his room, who did the room upstairs belong to? And why was it locked?

"Wait, wait." She rushed as the older woman began walking away, following her footsteps. "Where's Changkyun?"

"Master is a busy man." She huffed. "He comes and goes as he pleases-"

"Goes where?"

"He doesn't inform me about his whereabouts."

"When does he usually come back?"

"Whenever he decides to."

"When is that usually-"

"Ms. Baek," Na bi's lips parted in surprise at the mention of her name. And at the faint but apparent annoyance in the woman's voice. "I do not concern myself with master's business and frankly, neither should you. But if your curiosity cannot handle the ignorance then I suggest you ask him yourself, whenever he's back."

And with that, she walked off into the kitchen across, a lot faster than before. Na bi stood in the middle of the hall, staring at a loss.

There's a lot you need to learn about this place Ms. Baek.

Indeed there was. The rooms of this house were just the beginning of things. If she was to be successful in her mission, she needed to know all that was there to know. She had to unravel Changkyun’s world down to the core and she had to do it without letting him get even the faintest idea as to why she was here - that would ruin everything. So right now, what Na bi most desperately needed..... was a friend.

She turned to look at the only other person she had seen here, standing behind the kitchen island, mixing soup in a pot, cutting up some greens and putting something into an oven, all simultaneously. She was perfectly efficient, timing her moves just right, smoothly executing her tasks. She looked not too old, perhaps in her mid fifties, crowsfeet aligned by her eyes which were somewhat soft under all that snappy exterior. If Na bi made the right moves, she knew she could break through that hard perosona of hers and make a potential ally. Only problem was, Na bi had no idea how to make friends.

Silently going back to her room, she threw herself on the bed and stared at the grey ceiling. Her whole life, much to the contrary of what most people believed, Na bi was quite the loner. She rarely went to team dinners, never joined them on karaoke nights and barely ever participated in birthdays or other celebrations. She wasn't hostile to people or unfriendly, no; she just didn't have the time and energy to engage in social niceties. She had cordial relationships with her colleagues and neighbours but that was about it. Seokmin was the only exception in her rather isolated life.

Two years ago, when she first joined the hospital, he too was just like everyone else, a mere acquitance. Somehow, over time, he warmed up to her and honestly, rather insistently inserted himself into her life. Thank god for him though. Na bi didn't know what she would do without that crazy guy who somehow always there when she needed him (which wasn't very often), who always tolerated her rather unbothered attitude (which was very often) and who would always look out for her, no questions asked.

Even though Mingyu had asked her not to inform a soul about her mission, she regretted not telling Seokmin about everything. He was probably worried by her lack of response, but hopefully, he just assumed her radio silence to be just one of her usual unsociable moods - she often ignored him over the weekends and holiday season, knowing he would attempt to set her up with one of his many, many friends.

But Na bi wasn't the kind to date either. Dating apps were completely out of question - they demanded way too much time and commitment. Over time, she disliked meeting the people Seokmin or her other colleagues set her up with too; it was just hours and hours of talking leading to nowhere. Can a person really be understood over a meal and a conversation held specifically in order to impress? It didn't make any sense to her.

Rather, she preferred her not-so-regular-but-quite-frequent rendezvous - Flirting with men at the bar, hooking up at the convenience of their cars or homes, and leaving, first thing in the morning, never to see them again. Atleast those encounters were honest in intention and brief with expectations. Seokmin often ate her ear off about how now that she was getting older, maybe it was time to settle down with one person and though she heard him (and partly agreed), she as usual feigned ignorance.

That's why when Mingyu walked into her life, she decided to take the chance. Things with him flowed so smoothly and were so easy going, she thought perhaps finally, she had managed to find someone more permanent. She found herself willingly going on dates, happily having hours of conversation and was pleasantly surprised that they were on the same wavelength about most things. He seemed to understand her; he was willing to go the extra mile whenever she pulled herself back, he was ok with taking a step back when she wasn't ready - it was as though he knew exactly what she needed.

Except he really did know exactly what she needed. He was nothing but a facade, a man tailor made for her after days of observing and studying her, presented in a way they knew she would be interested enough to meet again and again. It worked. Oh it worked wonderfully well for them, because honestly, Na bi did not ever see herself dressing up for a man but..... it wasn't their triumph.

Deep down Na bi knew what was the exact and the real reason she met Mingyu time and again. It was because he was a cop. It was for Changkyun. It was because should anything happen to Changkyun, Mingyu would be one of the more reliable sources to find out from.

Na bi sat up, crossing her legs, just the thought of it making her nauseous. Sure she was attracted to Changkyun, sure she knew he was dangerous but she did not think he would be the one responsible for Ana.... of course, since she found out, she no longer had the same kind of interest in him.

But the moment he appeared before her yesterday, the moment he met her eye, something in her stomach dropped and she knew - the effect he had on her was far from gone. Na bi though, wasn't insensible or unreasonable. She knew what she was here to do and no matter what happened, she was not willing to end up as the prey in this hunt.

So, to begin with, there were 2 things she had to focus on - 1. breaking the ice with that older woman and 2. figuring out this strange place she was holed up in. And with that clarity, Na bi began her mission, scribbling down the details of her discoveries in her new journal every night.

Day 1

I got together a bunch of papers and started drawing out the layout of the house. Whatever I've seen of it at least. I need to map the whole place out, and whatever is around here too - the forest, the beach, find other landmarks, any and all clues that can help identity this location. I shall do it, one step at a time. But I need to be careful. That older woman, who I think is the housekeeper here, tends to walk into my room anytime. Thank god I managed to hide the papers when she came to give me lunch. (Kimchi pasta and orange juice, absolutely delicious). There's a loose floorboard I found by the fireplace. These drawings should be secure there as of now.

But I don't know what to do about the her. When I smile at her, she simply nods and walks away. She's going to be a tough nut to crack. I watched her all afternoon, sitting in the living room with my books. She left from the backdoor at 3 and came back only at 5. I ate dinner with her at the breakfast bar, tteokbokki and orange juice again, not that I'm complaining. I told her to not refer to me as Ms. Baek and to call me Na bi. She said I could call her Mrs. Lee. She didn't speak much after that, just cleaned up everything and disappeared. Its almost 11 at night now, and I don't think I was really successful with anything today but I'm trying. One step at a time.

Oh and Changkyun didn't come home the whole day today.

Day 2

Changkyun did come home today.

I made it a point to wake up earlier than usual and as I got out of the room, I saw him, sitting at the breakfast bar, eating an omelette. But by the time I got down the stairs to approach him, he left. I don't know if he saw me or if he was ignoring me but I keep missing out on opportunities to talk to him.

I think I made a little more progress with Mrs. Lee though. If my eyes didn't betray me, she might have given a small smile when I thanked for coffee and my favourite breakfast, avocado toast and milk. I watched her again today - she has the exact same routine. She served me kimchi rice and orange juice at 12 and then by 3, she disappeared out of the back door. I followed her this time. There's this small garden at the back of the house with all sorts of vegetables and herbs but there was also a path, leading to a cottage. When I looked through the window, it seemed like Mrs. Lee was getting ready to nap. I think she lives there. It makes sense because there was no other room in the house that could belong to her. Which meant that locked room upstairs belonged to someone I don't know about.

Obviously I broke in. Somehow. I couldn't find a hairpin but I managed to grab a few old pens and do the trick. It was nothing like I expected though - it was a plain old bedroom, albeit bigger, brighter and disappointing. I was hoping to find something concrete here, anything at all, not just antique furniture and vintage dresses which oddly looked very similar to the ones I was dressed in when I first got here. I searched every inch of that place, there was truly nothing of value or even a clue hinting who it belonged to. Only Mrs. Lee could answer that question for me.

I wasn't really sure how to bring it up to her, so I just tried to make casual conversation about it using the dresses. I brought them down before dinner, showed it to her and-

Na bi looked up from her diary, the conversation replaying in her head.

"These clothes." She placed them on the kitchen counter. "I never got the chance to thank you for them."

"You don't have to thank me." Mrs. Lee glanced at them, mumbling. "I thought the red one would look nice on you."

"It is beautiful." Na bi sat down, softly running her fingers over the material. "I'm so sorry, it tore....are they yours?"

"Imagine a hag like me in dresses like that." Mrs. Lee scoffed. "It belonged to my mistress."

Na bi felt something sink in the pits of her stomach. "Mistress?"

"She loved dresses, had a huge collection in fact. A perfect one for every occasion." The use of past tense did not slip past Na bi. "A beautiful woman who only made the dresses she wore more beautiful."

"I should probably apologise to her then. Where is she...." Na bi trailed off looking at the woman's eyes become slightly wet.

"She was the sweetest thing alive. I don't think she would have minded. Master on the other hand, I'm afraid he was a little... displeased."

Na bi tugged the edges of the dress nonchalantly. "He must really love her."

"More than anything in the world." She sighed, slowing down her stirring. "That's why he's always hurting...."

Her voice softened as she looked at Na bi, eyes shaking like she spoke more than she should have. This was what Na bi wanted anyways - carefully guarded information being let slip. But she had to take it slow, to not raise any suspicions. And Mrs. Lee didn't seem like she was willing to let anything else slip as silence took over between them again.

-she said it belonged to her Mistress. Whoever she is, or was, either she doesn't live here anymore or she's dead, I don't know which. But it's proved Mingyu wrong. Changkyun cannot possibly be interested in me. Not when he had someone else in his life. Someone he cared enough about to still hold on to her personal belongings. Then why was he looking out for me? What do I mean to him?

Who knows? He could answer my questions, he's the only one who can but yet again, he didn't come home.

Day 3

Today I drew more of the map. I left the house before sunrise, followed the same route I took the time I first ran out of here and yet again, it took me to the beach. I passed almost 58 large trees, ran almost 3km west of the house to reach it. I still don't understand how I can possibly be near the sea. Where on Earth is this place?

I made sure to return in time for breakfast though, but Changkyun was not there today. I had toast and milk again and Mrs. Lee seemed more guarded than usual, perhaps after yesterday's slip up. But she didn't seem as unfriendly, maybe because I squeezed the orange juice for lunch by myself. When she was gone by 3, I knew what I wanted to do today - search through Changkyun's room. So I did just that, except today..... he was inside.

Na bi felt her hands shake as she recalled the encounter.

"Ms. Baek."

Na bi froze, hand on the handle as the voice boomed behind her.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She turned around slowly, eyes falling on the not so large room with a really large table in the centre, Changkyun seated behind. 

"I uh...thought I heard you in here." She slowly walked in.

"Really?" He looked at her amused. "I'm known to be quiet as a cat."

Na bi gulped, clearing her throat. "You.... haven't been home in a while."

"Neither have you." He titled his head at her. "I stopped by your room this morning."

Na bi felt her heart hammering away in her chest.

"I....must've been in the shower."

"I didn't hear the water running."

"Oh then," Na bi looked away, at the fireplace, thinking quick. "You probably came when I was in the garden."

"You left the house?"

She stared at the flames harder, hoping not to give herself away. "Why? Am I not allowed to?"

"No." Na bi turned to him surprised as he continued. "There are no restrictions on you here Ms. Baek, you are free to do or go wherever you wish."

"Really? There's a room upstairs though....that you keep locked." She looked at him, trying not to seem too inquisitive, probably horribly failing at it. "Am I not allowed in there?"

"Can locked doors possibly keep you away?"

Na bi blinked at him. Did he know that she...

"That door has been like that for years." He clarified. "Simply locks every time it's closed."

"Oh." Na bi licked her lips, walking closer up to him, the contents of his table getting clearer with each step. "Then what about this room? Mrs. Lee stopped me from entering it a few days back."

He smiled. "Perhaps because entering someone's personal room in their absence is a sign of poor etiquette."

"Of course." Na bi glanced at the papers on his table, holding her breath as she did.

Maps. Hundreds of them. Much like the one stashed safely in her room, the one she was drawing out.

She looked up meeting his eye. "So you're not....hiding anything here?"

Changkyun leaned back, expression unreadable but he shook his head. "Not from you, no."

Why not though?

"What are all these then?" She pointed, stuffing her hands in the back pockets of her jeans so he couldn't see them shake.

"Maps of different areas in Seoul." He spread them out further, allowing her to take a closer look. "This is how I keep my business organised."

"Huh." She nodded, noticing red crosses and black circles scattered all over the papers. "What kind of um business do you-"

She jumped a little, at the sound of a strange static noise, unable to recognise its source.

"What's that sound?"

"My cue. I have to go, there's a meeting..." He got up and Na bi immediately took a few unnecessary steps back as he walked up to her. "Meanwhile, the reason I was looking for you..."

He handed her a familiar, shiny black device that felt cold in her palm.

"Wonho said you dropped it when he picked you up."

Her phone.

Na bi inwardly sighed in relief as she wrapped her fingers around the cold metal. Changkyun walked up to the door, donning a blazer over his trademark black shirt. Na bi followed him out, her mind still focused on the contents on the table. She knew she was far from done with this room.

He returned my phone to me but its as good as not having one. There's a crack, right across the camera lens, rendering any picture I take absolutely unfathomable. And I don't get any signal here, not one bar. I can't contact Mingyu or Seokmin, that phone is as good as a brick.

When Mrs. Lee came back, I helped her with making dinner. I know I'm no cook but I can follow instructions and I think I did a good job of it? She was afterall talking to me sweetly and even gave me an extra helping of her special homemade kimchi. Maybe I'm not far from making a friend here but Chankgyun.... I still can't figure him out.

I still don't get him.

Day 4

I covered the North side today.

It's.... its the same. Almost 5km of trees, trees and more trees and the end of it all, a beach. I'm getting a faint inkling as to where I actually am but..... I don't want to think about it. If what I'm assuming is true, I couldn't be more trapped.

Yet again I didn't see Changkyun for breakfast but I didn't see Mrs. Lee either. She was back in the garden, trying to deal with some weeds and dying tomatoes.

Fate, if its real, must be trying to help me because who knew better about gardening than I did. I think that hour we spent, fixing up those shrubs probably broke the last of the ice between us. Mrs. Lee was smiling more than usual, talking about the plants and all her recipes, and just seemed to have warmed up to me now. So I thought it wouldn't be too wrong to ask her the question.

"Mrs. Lee, I was trying to call a friend yesterday. You see I didn't get the chance to tell anyone I was going to be away, but I wasn't getting any signal? Is there.... is there any place where I can get better cell service or something?"

"Around here? No dear, there's no cell towers for miles." She tugged the weeds. "We don’t need them anyways, no one around here uses phones."

Na bi felt a wave of apprehension wash over her.

"Then... how do you contact people? Like your family?"

"Master is all the family I have." She smiled. "And need."

I think don't know if Mrs.Lee was telling the truth about the phones. But her statement did confirm something else I've been wondering - we're not the only ones, there are others. Others who lived around here and perhaps, they can help me understand more about this place. I just need to find them.

After lunch today, I wasn't able to explore anymore - Mrs. Lee needed help with the garden again. I wasn't able to extract any more information from her either, she was too focused on the task at hand. But over dinner, she did say something that surprised me.

"You really seem to like my kimchi."

Na bi took a break from shoving a huge bite into her mouth and looked up, nodding.

"I like everything you make. I don't get to eat much fresh food at home. I pretty much survive on kimbaps and instant noodles."

Mrs. Lee frowned at her, shaking her head. "You poor thing. Must be tough, having to eat those miserable packaged food."

"I don't really mind it." Na bi confessed. "I actually really like it-"

"Well you're not going to find any of that poison in this house." She crossed her arms. "I don't allow it. It's unhealthy and atrocious. Master is already picky with eating vegetables, imagine adding those preservatives to his system."

Na bi raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't eat vegetables? What a five year old."

"Indeed." Mrs. Lee broke into a fond smile. "You should've seen him when he was actually five. He wouldn't even take a bite of the kimbaps I used to make. Always spat it right out."

The image of his full cheeks as he munched on the kimbap in her home flashed in Na bi's head. I'm not picky.

"Thanks to you, I've been able to get him to eat at least a few vegetables a day. Even though he still insists on having some meat every meal-"

Na bi tried to swallow her bite quickly. "Because of me?"

"Yes you. I've been cooking more vegetarian dishes recently since, well, Master told me you're a vegetarian. And so I can..."

Na bi didn't hear anymore. Not with her mind full of thoughts.

He knows what I eat. He knows what I wear. He knows what I smell like. He knows everything yet I don't know why. Why did he bother to know so much? If like Mingyu said, he is interested in me, why hasn't he made any move, or even conversation?

I can't figure him out. I can't figure him out at all.

Day 5

Today morning I managed to cover the South side. It took considerably longer cause it was much larger, 10km at least, but to no one's surprise, ending at a beach. 3 directions, all ending at a beach, I think what I fear is true..... perhaps tomorrow I will be able to prove it.

But there was something I didn't see elsewhere - a helipad. At least that's what I'm guessing it is. It was just a large clearing in the woods, and by the way the impressions looked in the grass, that seemed like the most probable explanation. Yet another factor supporting my theory....

Also, I found out how they do it. Live without cell towers and phones that is.

Walkie talkies.

I saw Mrs. Lee talk into one over breakfast today. I don't know how I've never noticed it before, this black box like machine sitting in the corner of the kitchen counter. She said we were running out of rice and by the evening, there was a huge sack of it, sitting by the back door. I don't know much about walkie talkies and how they work, but I am aware that both parties need to be in a certain range. That's only further proof that there are others here, people who might be able to help me but also people I've never managed to catch sight of over the many days I've roamed around here. I need to explore the east side tomorrow. That might be the last piece to finish the puzzle of this place.

While Mrs. Lee took up most of my day, trying to teach me some simple recipes, I did manage to slip into Changkyun's room once again after lunch. There were no papers on the table this time, in fact it was completely empty. I tried looking through the drawers, the shelves - they were all empty.

The only other things in the room were a bed, a couch and a wardrobe. I looked through the wardrobe too - it was just a bunch of suits and hoodies that looked a whole lot more comfortable than the clothes kept in my room. Maybe that's why at that moment I decided to strip out of the really uncomfortable blouse I was wearing, into one of the hoodies....

"You really have a mind of your own don't you?"

Na bi knew before turning that Changkyun had just walked out of the bathroom; she had heard the water running. What she didn't expect was that he would be clad in nothing but his towel, hanging low on his waist, little rivets of water streaming down his torso. Na bi could not hide the way her eyes roamed over his body.

She cleared her throat, turning back to the wardrobe. "As should everyone."

As he began walking up to her, she grabbed a pair of pants and a shirt and threw it to him over her shoulder. The muffled sounds told her he had caught them and was slipping them on and it was only when she felt his breath on her neck that she knew he was done.

"You keep forgetting to breathe when you're around me Ms. Baek."

His voice was a soft whisper, making Na bi realise that she had indeed held her breath all this while and allowed herself to exhale. When she turned, she found herself trapped between him and the wardrobe behind her, her eyes flickering to between his lips and eyes. Changkyun raised his eyebrow as he looked pointedly at his grey hoodie which she had donned.

"You really oversold yourself with whole 'whatever you need will be arranged for' statement." She crossed her arms. "The clothes you filled my wardrobe with look like the personal collection of someone who cannot decide between being a victorian widow or a rebelious milkmaid from the alps."

Changkyun laughed, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. "I knew Wonho didn't know a thing about women's fashion."

Na bi blinked at him. "Wonho bought the clothes?" Changkyun nodded.

"How... how did he know about the... blue?"

"I told him."

"Did you also tell him the scent I use?"

Changkyun nodded but scoffed looking at her expression. "It's a colour and a smell Ms. Baek. I have good memory. You need not feel grateful for the bare minimum."

"Okay then, How did you know I was vegetarian?"

"I guessed? Based on the your eating habits."

"But you were barely with me for a day. How could you know?"

Changkyun grew silent for a minute, looking rather amused.

"Your questions are rather different from what I expected you to ask me Ms. Baek." He leaned closer, as though he was searching her face for something. "You're rather unpredictable."

Na bi wanted to laugh at that. Maybe she would have if Mrs. Lee didn't knock to call them for dinner. As Changkyun left, Na bi winced at the loss of his warmth and his scent around her. No, no, no. She had to snap out of it.

He had dinner with me for the first time today. Mrs. Lee was right, he was indeed picky with his food and his vegetables - he refused to even touch the kimbap. He really had enjoyed the one I made him though. I don't know if he liked my food or dare I say, if he likes me....

I don't think I'll ever know.

Day 6

I was supposed to explore the east side today but I couldn't - Changkyun was home all day.

He was there eating breakfast with me. He was there, playing the piano as I pretended to read through my books. He was there for lunch, and there when Mrs. Lee took her usual siesta. We played chess all afternoon, which he, not surprisingly, ended up winning. I let him win - it was our first game afterall. I wanted to crack his gameplay more than I wanted to defeat him, see how his brain works, figure out how he thinks. He's..... straightforward. He wasn't hiding behind any moves, or playing any mind games. He was simple and upfront. I don't understand him any more than before.

After that I caught him leaving the house so this time I asked him where he was going. He said for a swim and asked if I wanted to join. I probably shouldn't have but....

Na bi followed Changkyun out of the back door of the house, walking the opposite direction of Mrs. Lee's cottage. She hadn't had the chance to explore the east side yet so she took each step behind him carefully, looking around as she moved. When the trees cleared before her and Changkyun moved out of her view, her eyes fell on a water spring, pouring out from behind stacked rocks into a small pool reflecting the blue of the skies and white of the clouds.

Na bi stared at it wordlessly, missing the moment Changkyun stripped out of his shirt and pants and jumped into the water, disappearing under it. Coming back to her senses with the splash of droplets all over her, she looked around in the dead emptiness of the woods.

Changkyun’s head appeared above the water, hand pushing back the dark hair sticking to his face as did the familiar sight of his drenched, sculpted abs. He looked at her, head tilted, eyes questioning.

"I... don't know how to swim." Na bi confessed. The pool didn't look too deep, one definitely didn't need to know how to swim to get in there but Changkyun didn't point  that out as she pulled her pants up to her knees and sat on a rock, legs dangling in the waters.

Instead, he smirked. "Did you offer to come along just to watch me Ms. Baek?"

"Maybe." Na bi answered truthfully, trying not to let her eyes wander anywhere below his neck. Changkyun chuckled, disappearing under the water again, as Na bi relished the feeling of the cool waters around her legs.

He swam around for a while, submerging himself for long periods of time like a child trying to see how long he could hold his breath under water. Sometimes Na bi panicked when she didn't see him come up soon enough, but he always came up - the man could clearly hold his breath for a ridiculously long time.

As the sun began to set, the cool waters started feeling a lot colder, making Na bi pull her feet out, shivering. Watching her Changkyun got out, shaking the water off like a wet dog, making her cover herself, looking away. Grinning like a child, he walked away and to her surprise, began collecting a bunch of sticks and twigs from here and there. In five minutes, he stacked them all and pulled out his lighter from the pocket of the discarded pant and started a fire.

Na bi scooted closer to the flames as he dried himself off beside it and sadly, dressed himself up again. When he sat down across her, poking the sticks, she slowly began questioning him.

"So this is what you do around here?" She rubbed her hands warm. "Play the piano, swim out here, all alone?"

"When I have the time yeah." He replied, nodding. "Which is not often. I'm usually far too busy with my business to find time for such things."

What kind of business?

Strangely, Na bi felt bad for him. He didn't look like he was much older than her which meant he was in his late twenties too. She wondered how it was, living a life so isolated, so alone, so far away, in the shadows. She liked being alone too but his life seemed so.... lonely.

"I can't imagine. I've been here barely a week and I feel like I'm already losing my mind."

"Go out then." He stated like it was the obvious solution. "Some city air should help."

"Wait I..." Na bi tried not to look too shocked. "I can leave this place?"

"Of course Ms. Baek." He glanced at her amused. "You're not my prisoner."

"No I just.... thought it was too dangerous for me out there?"

"It is, but Wonho and my men can accompany you, make sure you're safe when you're out."

Of course, she would still have company, of course she'll still be watched. But she had to get out, she had to meet Mingyu somehow, tell him everything she found out so far.

"And when will I be able to go back home?" She added. "My home."

Changkyun took a deep breath. "Soon. I admit we haven't made much, actually, any progress on finding those who are after you but hopefully....soon."

"Well I can't stay here forever. My suspension ends in less than 2 weeks, I need to be back at work, back at home."

"You may return whenever you wish Ms. Baek. Today, tomorrow or in 2 weeks. I can arrange for your protection wherever you choose to be." His gaze pierced her. "I meant it when I said I'll look out for you."

Why why why Changkyun?

Na bi wanted to ask him, she wanted to ask him so much more but there was something about the silence that fell between them that didn't allow her to talk. She...liked it. She had often craved for a silence this comfortable and warm and to find it here was.....terrifying.

It persisted till the fire finally burnt out, submerging them in the darkness of the evening, dimly lit by the swarms of fireflies. Changkyun finally got up, brushing off the dried twigs and leaves off his pants, as Na bi  struggled to do the same with her foot fast asleep. Laughing at her stumbling movements, he walked up and pulled her onto her feet, her hands flying to find their place against his chest, face inches away from his.

You could put her at gunpoint but it was moments like this that Na bi dreaded more. Moments where she was so physically close to him that her defences, her inhibitions, everything crumbled down, overwhelmed by the desire to just feel him against her, just once.

But then Ana's image flashed in her head. Her lying sprawled on a forest floor much like this, all that blood.... this was sick. This man was a murderer, this man killed her friend, yet she... she couldn't do this. She shouldn't do this.

Before she could separate herself from him, it was Changkyun who pulled away, not meeting her eye.

"The temperature tends to drop fast around here after sunset. We should head back." And with that he walked away, leaving her to follow him, perplexed by his behaviour as always.

My clothes are all here. All that blue miserableness in the closet is gone, Changkyun arranged for my own clothes to be brought from home. I showered for longer than usual today. I don't know, I just felt strangely dirty.

Then I had dinner with him again. Mrs. Lee was the only one who spoke the whole time though. I couldn't find any words to say to him, he didn't seem to have any either. After dinner he informed me that Wonho will take me wherever I want to go tomorrow.... I need to figure out how to meet Mingyu. The map isn't fully done but I need to tell him whatever I know and to give him... 

Na bi looked up from her diary at the gun on the table.

She found it, in the pile of clothes Changkyun had discarded before he jumped into the waters. She'd recognise it anywhere - it was the same one he had on him the night he came to her house. The same one who's bullets implicated her in this mission with the NIS. Perhaps the same one that committed many crimes.

She just needed to get it to Mingyu somehow. She would've given it to him too. If only.....

Next chapter

[izurusstuff]

Coal Miner's Daughter

(click here for last chapter)

‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐: 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐭 ‧̥·̊‧̍̊┊ ˚➶ ｡˚ ☁️

message from izurusstuff: i am so so sorry it took so long for pt 2, i couldn't get it to sound right and i had to go through like 564 rough drafts to get it </3 but anyway!! the action starts here!!

also!! there's two new characters and some updated character descriptions, so i recommend checking them out!!

summary: A blonde boy comes into the story... ;)

⋆·˚ ༘ * "𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞~!" ༉‧₊˚.

June 2nd, Snow Residence, The Capitol. 

The moonlight spilled in through the bedroom window, blanketing the entire room in a soft silvery glow. The window is open, letting in the gentle caress of the late-spring breeze to temper the warmth and add onto the humidity of the air inside; bedsheets rustle with the light wind and shadows flicker in response to the silver light shining through the curtains. There’s a faint scent of fresh flowers lingering in the room, mostly due to the flowerbed that laid directly under the windowsill. 

A frail blonde boy was in the bed that was pressed to the wall in the tiny room, unable to sleep and deep in thought. He laid in the bed looking up at the night sky. The moonlight that trickled in through the open window illuminated his face as he thought to himself... He had a concerned look on his face, but the sound of the gentle breeze carried a sense of calm and peace over the room... In that moment, he could almost forget his worries. Almost.

The boy was Coriolanus Snow, a senior at The Academy.

He was one of the more well known students, mostly because he put on the grand persona of being rich and powerful— and that’s what was keeping him awake, if he was being honest. He wondered when someone would notice his facade; Coriolanus may walk with a sense of superiority and importance, but underneath the surface, there was a boy struggling to survive… a boy that could only afford to eat cabbage soup that was mostly water. He was hoping his cousin or the Grandma’am somehow managed to get more food the evening prior, so he got himself out of his bed and crept to the kitchen.

The fridge door swung open, letting out a little puff of cold air. Great. Not only was there just cabbage soup left, but it was half gone by that point too. He scoffed and slammed the refrigerator door before giving up and going back to bed. 

-- 

The next morning, the moist air felt like it was wrapping Coriolanus in a hug. It was miserably saturated and rather annoying. Although he slept shirtless, the heat and humidity was overwhelming— even against his bare torso. He scoffed in disgust at the sticky air that was touching him before he got up for the day. 

Coriolanus walked to his small wardrobe that contained four outfits at most. He tried to piece together the most fancy one he could, because today was the day the Plinths were throwing a feast at their house to celebrate the ending of their son’s final year at The Academy. But he couldn’t dress too fancy, because he had to save his fanciest outfit for The Reaping ceremony that would take place in a few weeks. So he settled for a red shirt and black vest to go over it. He found some matching black trousers to go with it, too. The blonde ruffled his hair to make his curls stand out, then rolled up his sleeves before he went downstairs.

“Coryo!” His cousin gasped– Tigris was always his number one supporter. He gave an awkward smile to her praise and did a little courtesy. 

“Here! I stole some bread from work last night…” Tigris murmured, sliding Coriolanus stale bread that was wrapped in a napkin. It wasn’t exactly the most tasteful thing out there, but it was much, much better than the watery cabbage soup he ate most nights. He gave her a sweet hug and nodded.

“Are you going to the feast at the Plinths’ later?” Coryo asked. Tigris shook her head while she did dishes. 

“No… I’d love to, but…” Her eyes widened when she realized she was about to snitch on herself. Tigris had a big, big surprise for Coriolanus that she was going to work on at her job. She quickly got herself back together and turned to Coyo while she hand-washed a glass plate.

“Fabricia said she needed me today, so it looks like I’ll be working overtime-!” Even though it didn’t seem that fun, Tigris still had a smile on her face. Coryo didn’t question it, though. He finished up his bread and walked to the Plinths’ house. 

--

June 2nd, Plinth Residence, The Capitol.

Coriolanus’s classmates gathered in the gardens of Sejanus’s house, all of them in the finest outfits he’s ever seen. Even the people he utterly despised looked gorgeous… Arachne was in a floor-length white dress with her hair down over her shoulder, she was talking to Clemensia who wore a black pantsuit lined with diamonds. Hell, even Festus looked good; he was wearing a deep v-neck blouse that loosely fit him, which made his toned chest stand out. Coryo didn’t want to stare too long though– he wasn’t gay, he was just appreciating what was in front of him. But then there were the people Coriolanus despised…

Sejanus Plinth and Arizona Mayberry. They didn’t deserve to step foot into the fucking party, even if Sejanus literally lived there. Coryo hated that they came from the districts and acted like they were one of the Capitol citizens. They were nobodies, just poor people that got lucky– Sejanus had his daddy’s fortune and Arizona had her body to get what she wanted, including the heir to Dr. Gaul, Helios De Vil. Both of them disgusted Coryo down to his core, but Arizona more so. Thankfully Arizona was talking with Helios, so he only had to deal with Sejanus… who was currently walking up to him. The audacity.

“Thank you for coming, Coriolanus…” Sejanus said with a sad tone. How could he be sad if his parents literally threw this fucking party for him?!

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss out on it.” He was definitely bullshitting. He’d miss out on the party even if it meant he had to go hide in the districts. But he was a damn good actor, so Sejanus believed him. 

“I appreciate it, dude.” He exclaimed, then wrapped his arm around Coriolanus. Coryo was definitely trying his hardest to not vomit right there. 

“You made it.” Clemensia said with her soft yet stern voice. Arachne and Lysistrata followed after her. Coryo gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek, which she reciprocated. 

“We have something to celebrate, don’t we? I’d be a fool to miss it.” 

“You look nice, Coriolanus.” A nasally, jarring, disgusting voice told him. When he turned around, it was exactly who he thought. Arizona Mayberry. Her hair was up and had flowers in it, which matched her sheer green dress. The outfit was what someone could expect from a glorified District 12 peasant… but by her side was the far more tolerable Helios De Vil, who was rocking their white suit that was topped off with a gold corset. 

“As do you, Mayberry.” He snarled. If it wasn’t for the crowd of their friends, Coriolanus would call her out on her fake kindness. However, he had to put on a show– he gracefully grabbed her hand and kissed the top of it. He made a mental note to himself to deep clean his mouth when the party was over. Thankfully, Helios was right by Arizona’s side, so Coriolanus ignored the girl after their interaction and went right to Helios. 

“Gold, huh? An interesting choice.”

“Why, thank you. Your outfit is also outstanding. Did Tigris pick it out?”

“No. I did.”

Helios playfully gasped in surprise. Coryo was good looking, but he did not know how to dress himself. So when he revealed he picked out his own outfit, they were baffled. 

“...our last year at The Academy, huh?” Lysistrata spoke. She was quiet all evening, which wasn’t unusual… it was just odd to see her so solemn. 

“Why are you sad? We get to get the hell out of here and start our own lives!” Festus cheered. 

“The Hunger Games will probably relate to our final project…”

“Oh? Do you know something we don’t, Sejanus?” Arachne spat out after she noticed Sejanus’s solemn tone. Only him and Arizona seemed upset about it; everyone else was placing bets on how the games would relate to their final project… and the person who would know the most about it would be Helios. Everyone’s eyes were on them and their fear was plastered on their face. 

“Hey! Don’t look at them like that! They could get in major trouble for even alluding to this!” Of course Arizona had to put herself into it. It’s not like she knew how to shut up. Festus and Coriolanus looked at her in annoyance. 

“You don’t have to let your chihuahua guard dog speak for you, but alas, we’ll back dow-” Coriolanus got interrupted by Helios’s blunt statement.

“We’re being mentors. That’s how we relate to the games.” 

The group looked around in shock at what they just said. Mentors?! How the fuck would they work?

“Uhm… what?” Arizona asked Helios the question everyone was wondering. Her gaze looked annoyed as she let go of Helios’s arm. 

“If you tell anyone what I’m about to say, I will actually end your bloodline, do you understand?” The others gulped and nodded. Helios was hilarious and outgoing, but everyone who knew them knew that they never bluffed. They looked around and whispered into the group that huddled in a circle. 

“From what I know, Dr. Gaul and Dean Highbottom came up with the idea of making the twenty-four top performing students mentor the tributes. We’re responsible for training them in combat and presentation… that’s our final exam.” 

Coriolanus wasn’t as happy anymore. He knew he’d usually excel at any task given to him, but if Highbottom had anything to do with it, he knew he’d have all odds stacked against him. 

And Coriolanus was right. 

--

July 4th, Reaping Day, District 12. 

Y/n stood in the crowd in her dirty coal mining uniform. After working in the mines for over a month, she finally saved up enough to buy a uniform that fit her. It wasn’t as dirty as Ridge’s, but it was definitely covered in soot.

Thanks to her disappearing off the face of the Earth after she was betrayed, no one even recognized her… the y/n that went from wearing pastels and denim was now dirty with soot. Her hair was up in a bun, whereas she used to let her hair flow freely. She stood there with a determined look on her face. Y/n wasn’t afraid anymore. After being put through hell and back by her two favorite people, she didn’t give a shit about anything; including what she knew was going to happen. 

Tripp took to the stage and gave a speech about how The Hunger Games were a punishment, blah blah blah. Y/n didn’t care. She just wanted her name to be “drawn” and get it all over with. Sure enough, it was.

“The girl representing us… Y/n Vespertine.” Tripp pretended to be distraught over it, but y/n knew his bluffing. She gave him a hug to help him keep up his act of losing his “beloved daughter figure” in The Reaping. Big shocker there– Tripp was team Savani. 

“The boy representing us will be… Leif Huxley.”

--

July 4th, Reaping Day, The Academy. 

Everyone was getting assigned their mentee in The Games. Coriolanus’s name hadn’t been called… maybe that’s how Dean Highbottom would screw him over. Maybe he didn’t even give Coriolanus a tribute to make him look stupid.

“The girl tribute from District 12 goes to Coriolanus Snow.”

Oh. That’s how he was going to get fucked over. Great! He could just walk out of the amphitheater right then, that would be less embarrassing than having to mentor a poor little girl who didn’t stand a chance. When the live feed for District 12 came on, he saw y/n, who was wearing a cute dress, but her hair and face were covered in some weird black dust. His jaw was on the floor… there was no fucking way Highbottom was serious. 

While Coriolanus mourned the fact his victory was out the window, Arachne was cackling her ass off. Arizona surprisingly looked upset for the boy… being from District 12, she knew what it was like out there. She knew y/n didn’t stand a chance.

“Awww! Coriolanus gets the scared little rabbit!” Someone in the audience exclaimed. Coryo looked at the voice in horror… this was really happening. He got some poor, innocent, rabbit girl from the worst district. She was too cute to even step foot into the games, let alone win it!

He had his work cut out for him…

[youaremyhome]

Pieces of the Night: The Archer

Warnings: Dark!Rafe Cameron x Reader, 18+ NSFW, smut, HEAVY non-con/dub-con, drug use, possessive behavior, DARK. More to add. Read at your own risk.

Notes: 3k words. omg yall i'm so sorry for the long wait, just started a new job and it's kicking my ass lol i'm real nervous about this chapter idk why so this will be the first time im asking to pls pls pls let me know if yall like it or not! thanks!

taglist: @belcalis9503

let me know if you want to be added to the taglist :)

True to his word, Rafe demonstrates how he fucked you when you were too high to remember.

How he had you on your side, one leg hoisted up to his shoulder, hugging it as he pumped into you. On your stomach, hips smacking on your ass as he kissed his way down your back.

The most sleep you got was a few hours before he was stretching you open again. The fight had weakened by your third orgasm, mind too foggy with involuntary pleasure to work your muscles against him. It was easier to roll in with him like the tide. When you did fight, he would grip your arms tight enough to bruise, and choke you until the air was the one thing you were worried about and not his cock in you.

Even now, in the hot shower that’s supposed to soothe your achy body, Rafe is a leach and demands your attention.

You don’t know how he’s managed to keep going all night like this, figuring he would get spent at some point. Clearly, you’re mistaken as his cock’s sliding slow but deep, hurting as you feel him right behind your bellybutton. You face away from him as he crowds you against the tiles, his hands on top of yours. The spaces between your fingers are filled in by his, his palm covers your hand entirely. Rafe leans on you, cheek to cheek as your moans twist together to create an echoing harmony.

Lazy scattered kisses are dragged across your skin, Rafe’s tongue peeks out to lick the water off you. His groans are almost infectious, a vibration at your back from his chest. You watch as his middle finger strokes down the length of your own.

“Next time you flip me off…I’ll bend this finger so far back you’ll never be able to do it again.”

Fear fires through you.

The queasy squirm in your stomach swoops down lower, creating a frenzy that revolts you. Your muscles squeeze hard, Rafe sighs your name. His face burrows against yours, hot shuddering breaths fan down your neck, his blunt teeth grazing your jaw as he speeds his hips. That heady burn breaks when the tip of his cock slides directly against that special spot. This orgasm is weaker than the others before, but it lasts longer, barely registering as Rafe spills inside you for the umpteenth time.

Big hands pet over your waist as he pulls his hips back, cock slipping out. The water rinses away his cum as it runs down your thighs. He steps away, going under the spray of the showerhead, not sure if the fog on the glass is from the stream or your activities. You lean on the wall, side-eyeing him as he begins to shampoo his hair.

The rest of the shower is awkward, at least for you. Rafe acts completely normal like nothing is out of the ordinary. Like he hasn’t forced himself on you throughout all hours of the night. He washes himself with small glances to you, no words to exchange now that he isn’t balls deep inside while he threatens and praises you. Wary, you stay away until he’s done and stepping out, only then do you take your turn.

Treading out into your room with dripping hair, towel securely wrapped around you, Rafe is there with his towel low on his hips. You advert your eyes when it drops to the floor, getting a brief flash of his ass as he steps into his pants. He comfortably moves about the room, fluffing his hair with the towel.

“I need Plan B.” You blurt out.

Rafe pauses. You can see his back muscles move smoothly beneath his skin as he turns his head to you. He gives a raised eyebrow. You despise the relaxed quiet he’s adapted as the result of your torment. An unrecognizable look shadows his face before it disappears.

He nods. “You’re coming with.”

The words are hardly out of his mouth when you’re interrupting. “No, you go and come back. You’re the one that came in me.”

Rafe sits on the bed, pushing his hair back, and stares at you. A small smile on his lips as he shrugs. “Looks like I’m not going then.”

“Ugh, are you always so childish?” You squeeze your arms against your chest, still in the doorway of the bathroom. You lose the staring contest with a defeated sigh and look away. “Let’s go.”

“Happy birthday to me.” Rafe claps and continues getting ready.

Sarcastic jerk.

Sneaking out is easy since you’re on the first floor, early enough for everyone to be sleeping in. The morning wind combined with damp hair gives you a small chill as you walk to Rafe’s car which he said was parked by the next house. Rafe looks annoyed when the wind tangles through your hair, another shiver racking through you.

“You shouldn’t go out with wet hair. It’s cold.”

“S’fine.” You mumble, keeping your eyes straightforward.

You drown out his rebuttal because that’s when you see his car. Correction, truck. The same one that drove by yesterday, all slow and curious. You itch to yell at him, run back to the house, and lock him out. Although you are on birth control, Rafe came inside you too many times to count. You were getting that damn pill. Even if that meant hopping into the passenger seat, slouching as Rafe started it and drove off.

It's just a few minutes' drive to a local pharmacy, radio playing in the background. Rafe parks, picks his wallet out, and hands you something.

“You have to buy it.” Rafe states, extending several twenties to you.

You blow a raspberry, but don’t move to take it. “What a gentleman.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a small town. People will talk if they saw me and tell Ward.”

“You got a warden?”

“My dad.” Rafe smiles amused.

“Ah, yes. Can’t let daddy know how deprave his son is –”

“Get the fucking shit before I take you back home without it.” Rafe’s hits the wheel unexpectedly. You flinch back.

Snatching the money from his hands, you jump out and march into the store. Angry, at least you found a weak spot of his: his dad. Poor rich boy.

Mulling over how to irritate Rafe with his daddy issues, you walk between the aisles, smiling when you get your hands on your desired product. Rafe gave you more money than necessary, so you head over to the refrigerated section for a drink. And there, staring at the clear glass of the doors is Kiara. Kie had been distant yesterday and you assumed was because of her intense dislike for the rich, which she now viewed you as.

Your feet stutter on the linoleum, shoes squeaking as you backpedal into an aisle. Changing directions you scurry to the cashier, keeping your head down as you pay, and fast walk yourself out of there.  

“What the hell was Kie doing in there?” You demand right as you shut the door of the truck. Glaring at Rafe. “I thought this is supposed to be the crook side?”

“Kook.” Rafe corrects. “And it is. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, her parents are kooks.”

“So… she’s a kook?”

“No. She’s a damn pogue.” Agitated, Rafe thumbs his forehead before flexing his palm out.

“But her parents… you said… you don’t make any sense. This whole island doesn’t!” Grunting in frustration, you prop your elbow against the armrest, leaning your head in your hand. Rafe pulls out of the parking lot.

“Then let me make this perfectly clear to you… I see you with those pogues again –”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’ll punish me, hurt me.” You mumble. “Whatever.”

“No… I’ll hurt them.”

Cautiously, you angle your head to peek at him. That same fear from before ignites in the pit of your stomach. Veins weaving up his arms are bulging as he white knuckles the wheel, his eyes steady on the road. He’s relaxed back into the seat, but the tension of his shoulders is undeniable, the quick tapping of his fingers on the leather is louder than the music. The rhythm of his lower mouth tells you he’s biting the inside of his cheek as a strange air raft off him. And though he knows you’re staring, Rafe makes no move to look at you. Sensing you’re edging dangerous territory with this particular subject, you turn back to the window silently.

When the car enters your driveway, your fingers grip the handle in anticipation, and hearing the unlocking click you…hesitate.

Waving the little blue box, you keep your eyes down on the leather seats. “Thanks, uh – thanks again.”

“You didn’t thank me the first time.”

Rafe’s voice is tinted with humor, your eyes flipping up to see that stupid smirk. Instinctively – like a goddamn idiot – you smile back. Just a tilt of the corner and you’re pulling the handle to open the door.

Rafe says your name.

Halting your movements, you look on as small expressions twitch on his face. Mouth open for words but all there is, are audible breaths. His eyes bounce between yours, fingers twitching and tapping once more as you sit and wait.

“I, um…I –” A breathy laugh as he shakes his head. “Never mind.”

You dip your head down slowly in a nod, opening the door fully and slipping out. It isn’t until you’re on the first story that you look over at Rafe’s idle truck, wondering what he was waiting for. You finally hear the tires crunch on the gravel as you turn the corner of the porch. 

Inside the bathroom, you swallow the pill with tap water, letting the sink run as you slurp water from it. Wiping your mouth with your fingers, you distantly stare at your reflection. Gaze slowly losing focus until your vision is blurring, but you barely blink. You let your mind drain out your flooding thoughts, like a drain unplugging.

“Someone’s up early.” Your mom says as she breezes into the kitchen.

“I guess.” You mutter, watching the coffee drip into the mug.

“You ok, honey?”

You want to tell your mom everything, from that Halloween night up to this morning. Logically, you know she would be by your side. She would rally and fight for you. She would be your defender until her dying breath.

She would break.

Your mother had a big heart that was dominated with melancholy. A soft thing that bruises even in gentle hands. That would disintegrate with your confession.

Never wanting to add stress to her, you hid most of your conflictions. Why you choose the less expensive university when money was tight after your sister’s choice of an ivy league and hardly any scholarships had your parents struggling. Why you were the good girl, the easy child while your sister had caused constant head and heartaches for her.

All your mother ever wanted to do was to do good. To be good. Those same ambitions had transferred to you. You were cursed with your mother’s tender heart.

“I’m just sleepy.” You kiss her cheek as she walks past.

“We have dinner plans tonight so don’t be running off anywhere.”

Together, you and your mom enjoy your morning coffees. Lounging on the plush couch watching daytime TV, gossiping, and laughing. She’s in a bright mood today which in turn lifts yours, forgetting about the darkness that’s tainted on your skin in hickeys.

By late afternoon, you two have barely moved, total couch potatoes with various snacks and cups across the coffee table. Lauren and dad had joined but neither of them could sit for long, so they had come and gone as you two had stayed put. After another lifetime movie, you decide it’s time to get ready for dinner.

Mom had said it was a nice restaurant, so you opt for a white dress, the hem a couple of inches above your knee. Your mom approves when you show her, Lauren complaining about how she has nothing to wear. Lauren had always been about the dramatics, so you pull out an extra dress you had packed just for her.

 “This is where we played the other day,” Laurens says as you all walk into the country club.

“Aren’t you supposed to be like, members or something to be here?” You ask, looking around. People aren’t as discreet as they’d like to think as you catch eyes with multiple patrons.

“We were invited by this lovely couple we met; they have kids around your age too!” Mom smiles, following the hostess to the table.

You and Lauren share a dubious look. Sitting at the round, cloth table, long menus are handed out and you immediately flip it over to the back. The alcohol selection.

Skimming through it, you decide on a white wine when your dad speaks.

“Hey, Ward! How’s it goin’, man?”

Your eyes snap up over the menu, the unusual name clicking something in your brain. Your dad stands, shaking hands with a man. They’re all smiles as your mom stands too, hugging a blonde woman as they gush over each other.

Rafe rounds around your parents, his eyes immediately connecting with yours. Your menu drops to the table in shock as you gawk at him. This feels like horrible déjà vu, your eyes wide and frozen in your seat. His eyes darken as they take you in, quick to pick the seat right next to you.

“Well, hello there,” Rafe purrs your name.

Looking to the other side of him, Sarah has an alarmed expression as her eyes volley between you and Rafe.

“Oh my God, Sarah! Hey!” Beaming, you get up to hug her. Your voice lowers once you force her into the embrace. “Act cool. Don’t say anything.”

Sarah adapts quickly, hugging back and matching your tone.

“How do you girls know each other?” Ward chuckles. Everyone takes their seats and reluctantly you sit back next to Rafe.

“We met on the beach when she first got here, right?” Sarah asks expectedly.  

“Yeah! She showed me around the island.” You give Ward your best smile and it leads into a small conversation about the godforsaken town.

Ward goes around to introduce his family, and the man next to you is introduced last.

“And my son, Rafe. Goes to UNC –”

“Oh, Y/N goes there too! What a small world.” Your mom titters.

“Small indeed.” Rafe hums lowly.

The conversation is paused as the waiter greets the table and goes around for drink orders.

“I’ll have a vodka tonic.” You politely say.

“Make that two.” Rafe holds up two fingers, a quick wink to you.

The topic gets switched to Sarah and her gap year (going on two), Ward making a patronizing comment on how she’s just trying to figure out what she wants. Sarah interjects about how she’s taken this time to do different internships, learning various subjects with professionals in their field. You don’t miss the disapproving side eye Ward gives her, so you tell her how impressive that is.

“Yeah, I mean, look at me. Graduated from Stanford and I’m traveling around before I settle down.” Lauren simpers, taking a drink of her lavish cocktail.

You bit the inside of your lip to control the urge to smile, the look on Ward’s face disgruntled as he’s outnumbered.

“What classes are you taking this semester?” Ward asks with your name, wrinkles accented with his eyebrows raised up.

“Oh, uh, logistics, programming, ethics…”

“I am too. Which one are you in?”

Your brain struggles to compute that Rafe is openly talking to you. In front of both your families. When he had been filling you only hours before. Your eyes met with his again, he’s curious and with everyone waiting for your answer, you give it.

“Ethics in Marketing.”

“Funny. I wonder if we’re in the same section.”

“Probably not, I’m in the 8 am.”

“I thought you said all your classes were in the afternoon, hun?” Your dad asks cluelessly.

“…Yes.” You take a sip of your drink. “Must’ve been mistaken.”

The waiter saves you by returning to take the food order, but you wish this dinner would end already. The conversation flows around the table, but you can’t ignore the loud staring of Rafe. Lounging back in his seat as he sips on his drink, nibbles at his food.

Fine grooves graze at your bare thigh. Your knee jerks up causing the table to clatter noisily. Rafe snickers as you feel your face get hot.

“Sorry, had an itch.” You say softly.

Rafe continues to mess with you throughout dinner, but you paint your face with a polite smile and appropriate laughter. It feels like he’s trying to get your façade to break, going so far as to squeeze your thigh up high beneath your skirt.

When touches don’t work, he moves on to words, talking under his breath so only you can hear.

“Hm.” Rafe’s fingers pull at your dress, rubbing the cotton material between finger pads. “Who knew white could look so sinful?”

“You’re disgusting.” You hiss, hiding your words beneath the cloth napkin as you pretend to wipe your mouth.

“Did you wear this dress for me, angel?”

“Shut up.”

You earn a rumbling snigger for that one, Rafe having too much fun to get angry at your snippy tone.

It’s exhausting to try to appear normal as your new bully sits next to you. Dinner goes by painstakingly slow as both your parents take their time talking and eating. Once plates are empty and bellies are full, you hope it's finally time to leave soon. But then Ward makes a not-surprised-surprised noise and suddenly, a piece of cake is being set down next to you with a candle burning. People start singing.

Happy birthday to you… Happy birthday dear Rafe…

“Make it a good wish!” Ward calls out over the clapping.

Rafe’s eyes meet yours, a dark glint flickering as he genuinely smiles. The moment feels longer than it should, blue eyes the same color as the hottest point of the flame. Sucking in a big breath and puckering his lips, he lets out a forced exhale. Snuffing out the tiny spark.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

i assume you'll be coming for blood (that makes two of us)

Chapter 5

Ao3 | 1.4k Words | Sweetheart's POV

Sweetheart faces off with the shade, with themself, with the ghost of their mother and the pain they've caused the people around them.

TW: Major injury, blood, creepy descriptions of a shade, memories of a dead parent and the effects that has on a child. It's a rough one, ya'll.

Somehow, the thing was bigger and scarier when fully formed than it had been when intangible. A day ago, you couldn’t imagine anything in the world scarier than the half-translucent, skeletal figure that had sucked the life out of you in the dark and cold. Now, you were finding that your imagination had its limits. 

It was a scrawny thing, despite the fact it had had a fresh meal in the form of a powerful, empowered kid. That would be enough to fatten anybody up, but it remained gaunt, smoke like skin stretched over the notches of its elongated rib cage. It towered over you, The top of its rounded head capping out over the tree line. The sapling oaks didn’t provide much cover, but it somehow formed itself to the shadows, its long, clawed fingers curling around one tree’s trunks, its spine bending into an unnatural ‘ s’ shape to duck its other half behind another. 

You had asked Cam if these things used to be people. You couldn’t imagine that anymore. This wasn’t human. This wasn’t some lost soul, confused and stumbling through a world it couldn’t make sense of. This was a creature, a monster, a thing waiting for its next meal to stumble across its unfortunate path, and you wouldn’t let anything make a meal out of you. 

It hadn’t noticed you. Your core ached with effort, but you remained cloaked, remained hidden from its acute senses a yard off from it’s position. If you timed it right, you could dispatch of it without it ever even noticing you. 

You didn’t know why, but it was fire you called on when deciding how to handle this. Heat curled around your fingers, an unnatural magic for your body, just this side of too hot for you to control. Your core strummed uneasily as you gathered a spark between your fingers and let it grow. It was bright and hot and loud, and you pushed your cloak out to make sure it was concealed. Your head pounded, but a ball of fire the size of your fist bobbed above your right palm, ready to be used. 

“Don’t let anyone dampen your light,” your mom had said to you. She’d taught you all of the fire magic that your core would allow, and pushed you to blow past your limits and use more. “ People are going to underestimate you. Never let them trample you before you’ve even gotten the chance to show just how incredible you are.” 

You’d managed to hold your own in an elementals class when you attended D.A.M.N.. It was nearly unheard of for a stealth to be able to utilize other forms of magic, given how specialized your core was. You were, as always, the exception to the rule. 

When the heat began to overtake you and you felt the skin of your palm burn and bubble under your heat, your mother’s heat, you let it loose. The fire moved where you wanted at great speed, cut through your cloak, and found its home in the shade’s chest. It scrambled back from its hiding spot, a high, ear-ringing screech cutting across the park. You stumbled back, your face flush with victory as its long body met the ground, curling around the point of impact. 

Everything went still. You moved forward, your cloak falling away, unprompted. Your core was exhausted already, and that particular choice of offensive magic didn’t do you any favors. You’d be surprised if you could muster the strength for a simple dampening for the next few days. That was fine. Your work was done. 

You nudged the shade with your boot and watched its strange, disproportionate features up close. You could see your mother’s face somewhere in its gaping mouth, its empty sockets, the hollow, serene pose of its body. Tears pressed, unbidden, against your eyes. You sniffled and stepped back. 

Not fast enough, apparently. The shade moved so fast you couldn’t track its movements. You had enough time to wonder if they had any relation to vampires before its claws carved into you. 

You’d been hurt on the job before. Magic was hard to control, especially in a combat scenario. You’d been caught by friendly fire once, an electro energetic who couldn’t quite contain their lightning when in a large, open space during training. That was the incident that made you start wearing rubber-soled shoes, and put you on heart medication. A packless, panicking shifter had caught your arm in their teeth while you were assisting on a case a few days after the Quinn incident. They were a kid, humanborn, and most likely in an inordinate amount of pain after being shot at by their father, who assumed, reasonably, that a bear had managed to get inside his teenage child’s bedroom. You’d received an apology card at your desk a few days later, long after the bone-crushing bite wound had been healed. The kid was doing alright, in contact with the Talbot pack, and being supported by their parents. 

Both of those incidents had been painful. But this was something else entirely. Its claws were razor sharp and cut through you with no resistance. The swipe was long, curving from the flat of your stomach up your chest, your neck, your face. Your vision went red and dark on the left side. The burn of it seared every inch of you. The pain was impossible, impossible to feel, impossible to contain. You howled like a wounded dog. 

Your back met the ground as the shade rose, burned and broken but still kicking. You managed to suck in a breath before one freakish hand found your throat, the other circling around your right thigh and squeezing until you felt something crunch. 

You were tapped. You had no magic left in you. You’d been going for days and days and then used an unnatural form of magic like an idiot. You were such an idiot. 

You’d never told Milo you were sorry. 

You opened your mouth to protest, to cry out, to curse this stupid fucking shade to death, but all that rose out of you was hot, copper blood. It filled in the space between your teeth, the hollow of your cheeks, slicked the underside of your tongue. You reached desperately for your core and found nothing. You were so cold, so tired, so in over your fucking head. Your dad was right. Cam was right. Collins, Jet, Milo. Everybody had been telling you for weeks; you couldn’t handle this. You weren’t equipped to take this on alone. Everybody around you had been able to see it. Everybody except for you. 

You remembered, inexplicably, the screaming matches your parents got into late at night when your mom came home banged up or wrung dry. Your dad would beg her to quit, to put her family first, to at least let other people at D.U.M.P. help her. 

“Your children are going to grow up without their mother!” He had screamed one night. You were curled in on yourself at the top of the stairs. You were so little, so frightened by the idea of it. When your mother walked up to kiss you goodnight, good morning, good-whatever-it-was-at-this-point, she found you there, panicked and hyperventilating. 

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” she had whispered into the crown of your head as she held you, “don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. Don’t let anybody tell you what you can and cannot do. If they try, just prove them wrong.” 

You’d been repeating that in your head since you were seven-years-old like a promise, like a prayer. 

And she was wrong. And now your dad was going to lose another person he loved to this stupid job, to their own stubbornness and idiocy. 

Something sparked inside of you. You needed to tell your dad that he was right. You needed to tell Dr. Collins that he didn’t deserve the shit you’d said to him. You needed to tell Jet where he could shove this deadly, meaningless job. You needed to tell Cam ‘ thank you’ for trying to help you, even as you fought him tooth and nail. 

You needed to tell Milo how sorry you were, how right he was to worry, how you’d be honored in another life to be called his mate. 

Heat pooled in your hands. You core stuttered, threads plucking an uneasy, familiar tune. 

“Mom,” you whispered, more movement than sound. Her core was always so bright, nearly tangible. You stretched out your fingers and took hold of it. Fire lit up around you, blotted out what was left of your vision. 

Your mother was in her coffin and in your blood. She rose up out of you like a creature from Death and sent the shade screaming back where it came from.