#I mutter to myself then write like 3k

[tiredmamaissy]

Forgive Me

🔞 minors, do not interact 🔞

Part II

Characters: jake sully x na’vi reader x neteyam sully

Warnings: pure filth, dark/mean dom jake, hurt/soft dom nete, public sex, rough sex, profanity, squirting

Word Count: 3k [i swore to myself that i was gonna make this short smh]

Author's Note: this is fucked up but writing this had my heart racing, so it is what it is. i love you nete, i'm sorry.

Tags: @b-ritney , you better stop what you're doing because it's out loool (ty for the reblog btw) @jakexneytiri baby hope you enjoy plus everyone who wanted it to be a lil longer

based on this and this

"Take me here." you blurt out, frustration so pent up you couldn’t help it.

"What?" Neteyam breathes, wide eyes watching you back up against the tree.

"Just take me right here. I - I can’t wait any longer" you huff quietly, eagerly untying the knot on your loincloth.

Neteyam looks around, scanning the forest to see if anyone is nearby to witness you stripping. He catches sight of his father, far in the distance sharpening his hunting knife.

"Are you fucking crazy?" he whispers harshly, grabbing your hand that’s so desperately trying to rip your soaked loincloth off you. “My father is right there!”

"So? I need you now." you pant, pulling him in by the arm.

"So? So? So I can’t fuck you here” he leans in to rasp the words, pulling you away from the tree into his chest.

"Fuck. Neteyam. Maybe I should go and ask your father to fuck me since you’re so concerned about him." you hiss, peering up into his eyes.

Neteyam grabs your other wrist, binding them both together in one hand, hard enough to bruise your silken skin. He pushes you back against the scaly tree, pinning your hands above your head. He’s inches away from your face, panting hot air into your face.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he mutters, shoving his knee in between your legs, applying pressure to your needy little cunt.

You can’t help but giggle, pleased with yourself that you know exactly how to get what you want, when you want.

"Haah... I said" you pant, "I said, maybe I should get your dad to fuc-"

Neteyam yanks you towards him once more, spinning you around to shove your face against the tree. He tugs down his loincloth just enough for his painfully rock hard cock to slap right between your wet pussy lips.

"This is what you want?" he thrusts between your folds a few times before lining his cockhead up with your dripping entrance. "Hm? Then take it." he pants into the shell of your ear, slamming his cock inside you. "Take every fucking inch of it." he groans lowly, staying deep inside your cunt - jabbing his swollen cockhead into your cervix.

"F-fuck!" You cry out, walls of your heat clamping around him, trying so desperately to stretch out enough for his fat cock.

A hand flies up to cup your mouth. "Shush, you desperate little thing. Wanting me to fuck you in broad daylight, right in front of my fucking father. Yeah?" he grunts quietly, setting a merciless pace right off the bat.

Your muffled, filthy cries and whimpers only rile him up more, making him pound into your slippery, tight cunt.

Fuck, does it feel good.

"Mmmph! Mmm!" You moan, thrashing your head to get out of his grip.

"Fuck. Don't fight me, baby. I thought you wanted this?" he growls lowly, digging his fingers into your cheeks, "Hush up and take it."

You're so fucking close, you just need him to go a little deeper... a little harder. You arch your back, trying to angle his cockhead to jam right into your sweet spot, all on your own. But all he's doing is teasing you, brushing against it ever so slightly.

It's driving you crazy.

"Look at you squirming around, trying to make yourself cum." he thrusts right into your sweet spot. "Yeah, I know exactly where it is. But, oh sweetheart. You'll have to fucking earn it, won't you?" he pants, plunging two fingers into your mouth.

This how he likes to play. He'll act all sweet, and considerate, and the moment you do something - say something to piss him off he's quick to put you in your fucking place. Then he'll tease, and tease you, taking joy in watching you squirm around as you try to make him fuck you out right. Making you beg him to fuck you faster - harder, all so you can cover his cock with your cum.

Fuck. You couldn't take it anymore.

"Fuck me harder!" you squeal, biting down onto his fingers.

"Sst!" he yanks his fingers out your mouth, "Shut it. You're so fucking needy. So fucking noisy." he growls deeply, manhandling your hips to drill his cock deep inside you.

"That’s no way to talk to a lady. Thought I taught ya better than that, son" Jake interrupts, arms crossed over his chest, leg propped up on a large tree stump.

"Shit. I - I" Neteyam stutters, frozen - cock still buried deep inside you.

You hide your flushed face into your arms, mortified that the Olo'eyktan has caught you two in the act - in public at that.

"Oh, sweetheart. Is my boy not treating ya right?" he clicks his tongue, trying to have a good luck at your face.

"Sir, I - I can explain." Neteyam starts pulling out of you, making you whimper quietly.

"No - no. Go ahead, son. Let's see if you've learned anything that I've been tryna drill into that goddamn head of yours." Jake snaps, taking a seat on the tree stump, gesturing for him to continue.

Was his father really telling him to fuck you? In front of him? The thought of the Olo'eyktan watching you get fucked out only made the blood pump in your veins harder, making you even more flushed... even more aroused. You'd never admit it, but you'd always had a thing for his father. Who wouldn't? A warrior with that much power and strength. Your thighs rubbed together at the mere thought, just as Neteyam slides back inside of you.

Fuck, are we really doing it? You look behind you, shock plastered on your face.

"'m sorry, love." Neteyam whispers in your ear as he pumps his cock in and out of you. He couldn't disobey his fathers orders - he would never dare.

He thrusts into you languidly, keeping his hands frozen on your hips, gaze locked onto anything but the spectator - the judge. You're afraid to make a peep, covering your own mouth as he gently grazes past the swell of your g-spot. Perhaps it was the audience, but Neteyam seemed to have stage fright. He went from pinning you against the tree, plunging two fingers in your mouth and pounding sweet squelching noises out your pussy to - well, this.

"Go on boy. Fuck her like you were before. No need to hold back 'cause of your old man." Jake chuckles, eyes fixated on your bouncing breasts.

Neteyam's hips pick up speed, rutting into you a little faster - a little harder. Little moans make their way up your throat and you try your best to hold them in, squeezing your eyes shut and biting your bottom lip.

Thrust. Right into your sweet spot.

"Oh f-fuck!" your eyes pop open, looking the Olo'eyktan directly in the face as you let loose a strained moan. Neteyam's covers your mouth once more, not wanting anyone else but him to hear your pathetic, filthy, little noises. You can't help but rub your thighs together, arching your back so that he can tickle that sensitive spot deep in your cunt again - all while you stare into his father's eyes.

Jake props his elbows on his knees, face resting in his hand as he holds eye contact with you. It's as if he were asking you for permission to fuck you properly - to fuck you how a real warrior should. You stare at Jake, teardrops crashing onto Neteyam's hand that cups your mouth, silently telling him 'please' as you squirm around trying to make yourself cum. Your eyes fall to the bulge between his legs, earning you a little sly smirk from his father.

Shit. What am I doing? Your eyes flutter before tearing away from the sight of his clothed, growing cock.

"Hands off her mouth, boy. What the hell are you thinking? You tryna suffocate the poor girl?" Jake waves his hand at his son as he gets up, an expression of dissatisfaction smothered on his face.

"Sorry, sir." Neteyam breathes, hand falling back to your hip.

He walks slowly over to you and leans into your face, inches away from your lips. "Are you feeling good, babygirl?" he asks huskily, his predatory eyes boring into yours.

"I - I, uh. Y-yes" you squeak, feeling a little embarrassed.

"Doesn't seem that way, sweetheart. You've been squirming around tryna make yourself cum." he whispers, inching his mouth closer and closer to your ear. "I can help you with that." he whispers before pulling back to look into your eyes once more.

Your eyes frantically search his, brows pinched together and mouth slightly parted - an expression of desperation. You wanted to cum so badly. You wanted him to make you cum so badly. But you didn't want to admit it. You couldn't admit it, not with Neteyam here - with Neteyam still inside you like this. You bat your eyes a few times, breath becoming raggedy. Jake smiles, taking this as your way of saying 'fuck me, please'.

"Alright." Jake stands, huffing out a sigh as if he were about to do some charity work. "Looks like I'm gonna have to show ya. Move out the way." he orders.

Neteyam grinds his teeth, hard enough he may actually chip one. He looks at his father, then down to you with defeat in his eyes. He knew he didn't have a choice here, but that didn't take away the feelings pulsing through his veins, the green flame of envy in his chest - the blood bubbling in his heart. Reluctantly, he pulls out of you and steps back, eyes locked onto his feet.

"N-nete?" you whine quietly, eyes bulging from the sight of his father taking his position behind you.

"Sorry, love." he mutters, retreating to the tree stump.

You watch as Jake quickly shifts his loincloth to the side, unsheathing his massive cock. If your eyes could pop out of your head anymore, they would. You stare at his hung cock in awe, covered in blue prominent stripes with a thick mushroomy head. He's easily a few inches bigger than Neteyam. You gulp down a wad of spit, quickly turning to face the tree once again, squeezing your eyes as you prepare yourself to be ripped into two.

"Easy. I'll take my time with you, sweet thing." he whispers low in your ear.

He clears his throat. "First." he projects his voice, "you need to get her into a comfortable position. If you wanna pin her against a tree, you gotta have her facing ya." he spins you around, bringing you face to face with him.

"Then, you gotta put her leg around ya. Like this." he huffs, hoisting one leg around his hip. "Feel okay, sweetheart?"

"Mm-mhm." you mumble, feeling something thick press between the folds of your pussy.

"Good. See, boy?" Jake raises his brows, "then, you enter her. Slowly. You can't just ram it in."

You look over at Neteyam, elbows on his knees as he hangs his head low, peering up at you through his brows. He's visibly fighting the urge to lash out at his father, or was it... the urge to cry? It's hard to tell. But the more his eyes water, is the more difficult it becomes to keep looking Neteyam in the eye.

But you can't look away.

You feel Jake's bottom lip brush against your ear. "Ready?" he whispers, rubbing his tip against your entrance - lubricating it with your thick slick. You nod slightly, still staring at Neteyam, who watches as your eyes widen, brows pinch and jaw drops when his father slowly slides himself inside of you.

Your hand flies to your open mouth, hoping to muffle your tiny, strained whimpers as his cock stretches you out.

"No need to be quiet with me, babygirl." Jake whispers, rubbing your thigh that's holding tightly onto his hip. "Lemme know if you need a minute, okay?"

Allowing your hand to fall from your mouth, you pant "o-okay. I need... a minute."

"Alright. You're okay." he hums, waiting patiently for you to adjust to his sheer size. "See, son? Their comfort comes first."

Neteyam lets out a silent sigh, closing his eyes and furrowing his brows. The sight crushed his heart.

Jake feels your walls relax around his cock - your body's way of telling you it's ready to be fucked once more. All he does is quirk his brows, silently asking you if you're ready for him to fuck you good - fuck you right. Another hasty nod grants him permission.

"Now watch, boy." he commands, angling his hips from the get-go, prodding his mushroomy head right against your sweet spot. "It's about the angle of your hips. Got it? So when you... thrust ...fuck 'em... thrust ... they can't help but moan your-"

"Ugh fuck, Jake! Sorry, I - I mean... sir." you whimper.

"...name." he smiles, "It's alright sweetie, you can call me Jake."

Neteyam can no longer look, not even at you. He hated seeing your face screw with pleasure, all from his own father's thrusts. He hangs his head low, listening to your broken whimpers and whines that you tried so desperately to keep to a minimum. You couldn't help it though, your cunt is squeezing so tightly around his cock it made it hard to deny how good he's making you feel.

"And when you feel 'em clenching around you? that's when you fuck right..." he shifts his pelvis once more, angling his cockhead right into your sweet spot, "...here."

"Holyy shit!" you let loose a high pitched, lengthy whimper.

He chuckles breathily. "and that's when you pick up your speed, boy." Jake begins pounding into you, fucking the air right out of your lungs.

It's like a fire had been set in your lower back, pooling towards your pelvis to set your nerves on fire with it. You try your hardest not to cum, doing everything in you not to succumb to his insistent, relentless thrusts. But you couldn't help it - oh fuck, it was the best pounding you've gotten in your entire existence. Your pussy walls can't help but clamp around him, just as you feel his hand slide down to your clit.

"Oh, and son? Don't forget to give some love to this little nub here." he gives your clit one, quick swipe with his fingers, sending you over the edge.

"Fuck! Cumming!" you cry out suddenly, head slumping into Jake's chest as your cunt flutters helplessly around his cock.

"There we go. You're alright, sweetie." Jake holds onto you closely, waiting for you to come down from your high. "See that, boy?" Jake raises his voice, looking over at Neteyam. He's got his head buried in his hands now, ears flattened and shoulders slumped. Jake scoffs at the sight. "Not looking, I see. That's why nothing gets through that thick head of yours." he huffs, growing more and more pissed off.

"This boy ever make you squirt, sweetheart?" he hums, carrying you over to the large tree stump.

You're too fucked out to answer. Cock still buried deep inside you, every step he takes feels like a jolt of electricity surging though your spine. Little mewls part your lips, as you try your best to cling on to him for dear life.

"Ah. You're not gonna answer me either?" he clicks his tongue in disappointment, suddenly pulling out of you. "I'll take that as a no. Such a shame." he shakes his head, plopping you down on the ground right at Neteyam's feet. He yanks you up on all fours, hung cock pressing firmly between your folds once more.

"Watch me this time, Neteyam. I won't repeat myself again, boy." Jake scolds him, lining up his tip with your entrance.

You look up, to be met with watery, rage filled eyes, tears silently rolling down his cheeks. "Oh, Nete. D-don't cry." you hiccup, climbing up on his knees, face inches away from his. "I - I'm sorry, my love." you apologize, but not for being so loud and getting yourself into this position, [lol] but for how good a cock that isn't his is making you feel.

His eyes flutter in response, blinking out a few tears that were blurring his vision of you. He feels you grip onto his knees, digging your nails into them as Jake sinks his cock slowly inside of you once more. You grit your teeth, much like he is his, and struggle to hide in your expressions just how good his father is making you feel.

"I - I love you nete." it slips out just as jakes mushroomy head kisses your poor, bruised cervix. "'m s-so sorry"

Jake's only getting more pissed off with the two of you. "Yeah? You're gonna be sayin' you love me by the time 'm done with ya, sweet little thing." Jake groans in your ear, slamming into you so hard he winds you.

"Ahh haah, ngh f-fuck, Nete!” you stare into his teary eyes as you reach out for him, “Please f-forgive me” you pant, stars blurring your vision. Neteyam's dead silent, closing his eyes once more, feeling your little dainty fingers grip him tightly.

"Quiet." Jake spits, getting upset that you're moaning his son's name instead of his.

It was quite silly, really. Jake had Neytiri, and you were his son's mate yet he had the strongest urge to make you his little bitch. To fuck you so hard he'd ruin you for any other man - even if it's his son. Once again, he feels the quick, brief flutter of your pussy walls around him, right before they clench around his cock.

"Look. Look at her, son. Look at how her body responds to me when I fuck into her like this." Jake growls, slamming into you so hard that you’re swollen lips brush against Neteyam's. "This is how a real warrior is supposed to fuck, got it?"

"I love you. I do. I-I really do love you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so- oh fuck!" you let loose a high-pitched squeal, clawing at his hand.

Neteyam's eyes pop open. He can’t bring himself to answer because he’s too busy watching your face screw into that same filthy face you make right before you cum. And oh boy, did that make his heart throb.

Jake gives you one hard thrust, right into that fucked out little sweet spot of yours, making you shake uncontrollably as you gush all over your legs, making a pool of your own cum at Neteyam's feet.

"Got it, boy?!" Jake shouts, thrusting into you a final time, slumping you over into Neteyam's lap before pulling out of you roughly.

"Yes sir…" he grimaces, watching your lifeless body collapse into his lap.

"Good. See to this mess." Jake spits as he quickly fixes his loincloth, leaving you behind for Neteyam to clean up.

-

totally forgot my taglist: also lemme know if you're tagged and don't wanna be <3

Tags:@jakexneytiri @sweethoneycn @deadgirl02 @keijis-wifey @pandorxx @swiftielivvie @teyamfangirl @avatar-lover @sooebear @vanillawhale @bxnnywriting @athenachu @trashboat-the-raccoon @avaixe @qweq-6802 @rodeosayu @girlpostingsposts @erinloversworld @agelsully @zetey @raaaaainn  @eywascall @yawneneteyam @weirdomcu @pandxrastars @eichenhouseproperty @camgod78 @kibiscribbles @bedofpearls @kurtsworld096 @audrinawf @otukirey @deexdeez @c78r @bby-bo @neteyamsmate4life @wheniseeyouigogonutz @sullymenrhot @jakescumdump @erenjaegerwifee @eywaheardyou @saturnheartz @lovekeeho @afro-hispwriter @lovemyavatar @rainbowsocks @eddiesluvt @etherialblackrose @sleepilysworld @fezandashgirlfriend @kahlowy @babyymeme @lovekeeho @ilove444sworld @kaixiio @becksimagination @ameliestsblog @theycallmesia @boooogieman @fanboyluvr @boohoobaby @that-one-lightskin @st-cass @jakesully-sbabygirl @urfavgirlmakenna @zaddyskye69 @doggyteam2028 @iikatsukii @netemoon @onmyknees4loak @1-800-not-simping @khamaniix

[just-some-random-blogger]

Out Of Luck

"Perhaps I'm not the only one who's going to be wed in King's Landing," Sansa jeers with a grin. I glare at her, "if you weren't my sister, I'd have stabbed you." The girl giggles and takes my arm.

Petyr Baelish & Jaime Lannister x Stark!Reader | 3k+ | cw: fem!reader, descriptions of reader (black hair), widow!reader, enemies to lovers?, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: felt right so I'm writing it. Yes, I added Harwin Strong, yes I know it's not canon. It is now in my world 😌 anyway, he's still dead so ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ Cross posted on AO3!

Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @otteropera

"Father" I call with a smile. He spots me and I lift my skirt as I jog up to him.

The man hides what he was holding behind him. He smiles and meets me halfway in the hall. He greets me good morrow when I link my arm with his and kiss his cheek.

"And is that... a very important tool of the Lord Hand?" I tilt my head as I ask, "might I not even see it?"

He sighs and slowly brings the object in front of him. We both look at the brightly dressed doll. My father has an apprehensive look on his face. I hold back a laugh, "ah, a pretty dolly. Are you quite bored of your job already? Do they give dolls to the Hand or were you duped into buying this?"

"I knew you'd say something like this," he mutters.

"If you knew I'd say it, why'd you still get it, papa?" I chuckle.

"I bought it for your sister."

I make a face, "my sister?" I raise a brow, "which between Arya and Sansa do you think would prefer playing with such an ugly dolly?"

He calls my name out.

"What?"

He lowers the doll, "it's not that ugly."

"So even you agree," I snigger, "and yet you still bought it!"

We both begin to walk down the hall.

He warns me, "I'll tell on your mother."

"For what?" I hold back a laugh.

"For calling me papa," he lifts his nose.

I chuckle at the thought. Mother never liked it when I used mama and papa; improper for a lady, she says. I think it's also because when I use it, I pull on their heart strings and manage to make them do my bidding. Twas the gift of the first born.

"I can hear it now," I grin at the man as I squeeze his arm, "Eddard Stark," I motion vaguely, "stripped of his title as Lord Hand for his poor taste in dolls."

My grin widens at the sound if his low laugh. I give a louder laugh, happy to have gotten the reaction I did out of him. It's been a while since I've heard my father chuckle, or anyone from my family, for that matter.

"I wouldn't worry about it, love," father pulls me into his chest, "the king's taste in dolls are surely worse than mine."

I let out a giggle. My father joins in.

I look out the window as we saunter down the hall and turn back to my father when he mutters, "she's changed quite a lot since we've moved here."

He looks at the doll in his hand.

It takes a moment before I smile and give a playful look, "have you seen any of your daughters play with dollies lately, father?"

My words do not work this time. My smile fades at the sight of the line between my father's brows. I mutter softly, "haven't we all changed?"

He turns to me then stops.

I raise my brows. Ned Stark offers me a smile. He takes my hands and shakes his head, "not you, my daughter," he rubs my knuckles with his thumb, "never you."

My heart clenches at his words. I cannot bring myself to smile back because I knew it wasn't true.

"Forgive me for intruding on a private moment."

We both pull away and turn to our side. There we see a blonde doll wrapped in steel. Ser Jaime bows, "Lord Hand, Lady Stark--" he stops himself and lifts his head, "oh, apologies. It's in bad taste for me to call you that."

My father shifts in his spot.

I play it off, "nonsense. I am born of house Stark," I pull my lips into a tight smile, "and my husband is dead."

"Ah, yes," the knight sighs, "poor man. Just had a taste of being one then--" he shakes his head to make his point. He raises a finger, "he was your age, wasn't he?"

I clench my jaw and nod.

Ser Jaime rests a hand on his hilt, "what was his house again?"

Before I can respond, my father blurts, "have you come to rub salt in my daughter's wounds, Kingslayer?"

I turn to my feet with wide eyes. I slowly turn to the see the fuming look on my father's face and whisper, "papa."

Ser Jaime lifts his nose. An smirk masks his face, "not at all, my Lord."

I look back at the kingsguard, not enjoying how quickly tension solidified between us.

"The king demands your presence," growls the Lannister, jaw hardened, golden mane wafting with the breeze.

Father's face is stern but he nods and raises the doll, "I will go to him after I-"

"Get that bloody Ned here now," Jaime speaks. He watches Ned lower the doll. He purses his lips while father's expression sours even more. He shrugs, "King's words, not mine."

In an instant, all the tension in father's body is gone. He looks like he's about to smile and it makes my stomach churn because I knew what that meant. I take the doll from him before anything else. He looks at me and I nod, "I'll give it to Sansa."

He stares me blankly.

"I'll try to force her affection onto the thing," I look at the doll, "maybe she'll let it chaperone us to the tourney later."

I smile at the sound of papa's low laugh.

He nods.

Ned's smile fades when he turns back to Jaime. Jaime gives a wry smile, "I'll escort the lady back to her chambers in her father's stead."

Neither of us decide to argue over it.

Father walks off, eyeing Jaime as he did, and I purse my lips when I turn to him, "I'm actually headed to the library."

"Mmm," he furrows his brows, "then I'm actually headed there too."

We begin to walk down the hall. I laugh as I look at the doll in my hands.

Jaime turns to me upon hearing this. He decides not to note on the ugly doll, "like reading, do you?"

I look at him and smile, "I do."

"You sure you don't go to that musty room to hide from everyone?"

I raise a brow, "you seem to have experience."

"Tyrion was like that," he looks forward, "except father never bought him a doll as a companion."

I look away just as Jaime looks back at me, "does the library match the fantasies of a book lover?"

I chuckle. I turn to his side again. I am unable to stop myself from thinking how dashing his grin at the moment was, "It definitely is as grand as I expected it to be. Winterfell is not blessed with nearly as many tomes."

"The younger Stark girls must not like reading as much as their big sister, considering the ugly thing in your paw," he nods at my direction.

"I'm sure one of them will find use of it," I lift the thing up and look at it. I glance upon Jaime, "oh, goodness. It actually looks quite like you."

Jaime pulls his chin back, "you clearly have issues with your eyes."

"No, it's uncanny. Yellow hair, evil intent."

"Evil intent?" Jaime stops in his tracks, "you mock and slander me," he raises brow and grips his hilt, "I should have your tongue for it."

"Mmm," I turn to him and slowly walk backward, "kingsguard takes the tongue of the Lord Hand's daughter? Sounds like a page out of my books."

He tilts his head, looking me up and down before chuckling as he turns to his feet. He lick his teeth then furrows his brows, "lend me that book once you're done."

We reach the stairwell the connected to the gardens.

I tilt my head and stop in my tracks when I see Sansa and her handmaiden.

"Sansa!" I call, waving at her. She looks at me and waves back.

I turn to Jaime and curtsy, "I have changed my mind, ser," I rise and smile, "I'll be joining my sister in the gardens instead."

Jaime nods and gives a lopsided smile, "very well, my lady. Bid my greetings to the pup. I pray she doesn't get a heart attack from your father's gift."

I chuckle, "she used to have a wolf, you know."

With that, Jaime and I part ways.

Sansa immediately grabs my arm once I am close enough, "what were you doing with Jaime?"

"Ser Jaime Lannister," I correct her, raising a brow, "I didn't know you two were familiar."

"Was he courting you?" Sansa asks as she releases my arm.

I immediately shush her, "do not speak of such things, girl. You know how quickly gossip spreads here." I hand her the doll, "he was escorting me to the library in father's stead."

"This isn't the library-"

"Clearly not."

She takes the doll, "what is this?"

"A gift from father," I grin, "a chaperone to the tourney later."

Sansa glares at me, nearly turning red as her hair. She chucks the doll to the ground and storms away.

I huff and pick up the doll, "Sansa." I follow after her, "it was a joke."

"I haven't played with dollies for years!"

"I know," I rush up to her and grab her arm, "papa bought it for you to try and ease your worries."

She grits her teeth and corrects, "father should just do his job and stop treating me like a little girl." She breaks away from me and moves past me.

"You are a little girl."

"I'm going to be queen one day," she turns to me, "and you won't be able to make fun of me then."

"Sansa, I'm not making fun of you!"

Sansa does not listen and simply walks away.

Her old handmaiden turns to me and smiles. She takes the doll from me, "I'll put this in her room."

I nod and smile.

By the time we were seated for the tourney, Sansa and I made peace by giving the doll to Arya for her to mutilate. All three of us enjoyed the bonding experience very much.

Right now, we were huddled together, pointing at the players. Sansa whispered to me who she thought handsomest and Arya exclaimed over who she thought was strongest. I alternate my attention between them, swooning with one, cheering with the other, but it doesn't take long for them to get into a clash, as always.

They begin to bicker over me and I would have just snapped at them had we not been in public. I instead silence both of them by swooning and cheering for the Hound once we spot him from afar.

Both young Starks gawk at me in disbelief and disgust.

"You can't be serious," Sansa mutters with a pale face.

Arya tilts her head, "I mean, he is pretty big."

I laugh at both of them, "can't I cheer for all the players?"

"No," they say at once.

I tear my gaze from the tourney grounds to look over my shoulder. I gaze upon the crowds, looking to see if father was already here. I mutter to no one in particular, "I wonder what's taking him so long."

"Look," Sansa, on my left, tugs at my arm, "ser Jaime is going to be riding!"

I ignore her and push Arya, who was seated to my right, behind as I crane my neck to look for farther.

Sansa leans on my back and mutters to Arya, "ser Jaime likes her."

Arya grins and looks down at me, "oooh. The lion and the wolf."

I quickly sit up and eye both of them, "shut it, you."

They giggle with each other.

"Father will not be pleased if he hears you are wanting to feed nasty rumors."

"Oh, but nasty rumors are the most intruding, wouldn't you agree, Lady Strong?"

The three of us turn to the man walking over. He stops just below where Arya was sat.

"Or should I say, Lady Stark?" he smiles and nods at me. He looks to my left, "Lady Stark," then to my right, "Lady Stark."

I offer a smile and my first name, "you can simply call me that to avoid confusion, my lord."

"Petyr Baelish," he grins, blue eyes glistening with apparent mischief.

"Lord Baelish," I nod. I squeeze both my sister's hands, prompting both to greet all the same.

Lord Baelish smiles, "I'm glad to finally meet the eldest Stark," he reaches a hand out to me, "the words spoken about your beauty do you no justice."

Both my sisters make a face when I take the man's hand and he leans in to kiss it.

He straightens up and brings his hands behind his back, "my deepest sympathies to you. Lord Harwin Strong left us too soon. I've heard a great many things about Breakbones, how he puts the strong in House Strong."

Arya side eyes Baelish before turning away to look at tourney grounds.

Sansa stares hotly at him as she clutches my arm.

"Thank you, Lord Baelish," I nod and pull a smile, "if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer not to talk about him more than this."

"Of course," he bows. He tilts his head back as he smiles. He walks off and climbs the stairs to get to his seat just behind us.

"Do you know who's going to fight first?" Arya asks as she leans on my lap. I wrap my arm over her shoulders and turn to where she was looking. I spot Jaime speaking to whom was probably his squire from afar.

"Don't worry, little one, they'll announce it," Baelish speaks from behind, making all of us turn to him then back front. When I look back, I see Jaime looking our way.

"I hope ser Jaime starts on our side," Sansa mutters as she leans into me, though her eyes are still fixed on the Lannister.

Arya turns to me and toys with my black hair, "I hope he defeats the Hound to win your affection."

Baelish makes a face upon hearing that.

I snort at the thought then shoot her a half serious face, "shut it."

"I see you girls are fond of the Kingslayer," Baelish says, making us turn back to him again.

Arya side eyes him once more. Sansa looks away, uninterested.

I respond before turning frotn, "he is a rather good swordsman. Or so I hear."

"He usually doesn't play in tourneys. He says he's too good for them," Baelish mutters, "something must have made him change his mind."

"Maybe he's trying to impress someone," Sansa replies, not bothering to look back anymore, "maybe a lady?"

I squeeze her arm when she says this. She does not even spare me a glance.

"Yes," Baelish darting his eyes below him, "perhaps."

We look to the sky when a rumble suddenly cracks.

"What's taking them so long?! It's going to rain, and then the games will be cancelled!" Arya complains.

"They-"

"They're waiting for the king," Baelish replies.

Arya makes a face. I'm the only one that turns back to the man. I smile at his already smiling face then turn to Arya, "papa's not here either. The king is probably making him do something."

Baelish chuckles under his breath, muttering lowly to himself, "papa? How sweet."

Then suddenly, truly out of nowhere, it began to rain.

My sisters and I quickly stand. I immediately grab them and we run off to the nearest place that could offer cover. We head to a tent, but the trouble was, everyone was heading there too.

The rain quickly begins to pour harder.

I do my best to cover Sansa and Arya's head, but my hands could only do so much. The three of us look up when something comes above us.

I feel someone behind me. I turn and see it's Lord Baelish. He's taken his tunic off and used it to cover us.

"Come, my Lady Starks," he speaks over the loud patter of the rain, "I will escort you back inside!"

We turn to him, his dress shirt now dripping and stuck to his form. I nod at him, "thank you, my lord."

"Don't thank me yet," he smirks, face wet with rain, "one of you may yet slip on mud."

Lord Baelish leads the way, uncaring of how wet he's gotten, and offers his arm out to us intermittently. Meanwhile, we hold up his tunic overhead and huddle under it, treading as quickly yet carefully as we can on the mucky ground.

"I do hope the rain does not ruin your fine garb, Lord Baelish," I call as Sansa and I lift our skirts up and do our best not to trip on it.

Arya was very much glad to be wearing pants, and cheerfully steps into puddles without a care in the world.

But then she slips.

Baelish manages to grab her arm before she falls. He pulls her upright and chuckles, "careful now. You wouldn't want to take your sisters down with you."

Arya let's out a hmp when she is released.

"And don't worry about my tunic," he smiles at me, "I'd rather it be ruined than have 3 ladies get sick under my watch."

Sansa gasps and grabs my arm when her heels sink in the wet dirt. I help her keep her footing and smile back at the man, "thank you, Lord Baelish."

"As I said, don't thank me yet. It's still quite a walk to the Keep," he comes to Sansa's side and helps her straighten up, "and call me Petyr."

I part my lips at the thought.

He shakes his head and chuckles, "I insist."

[wh0re43van]

Frogger Pt 2 (Peter Maximoff X Reader)

Summary: You return to peters house to finish what you started, but he’s way ahead of you.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Very smutty, Masturbation, sub!peter (no mommy kink tho bc Idr fuck with that), edging, whiny Peter, pantie stealing

A/n: I can’t get this divider to work right and I’ve also just realized that Frogger came out on Atari in ‘83 not ‘73,,, so just ignore that huge plot hole pls 🙏🏻 Speaking of which, I’d like to take this moment to say: Frogger? I hardly know her!

Okay thats it. Thank you for reading!!

Pt 1

After picking my little brother up from school, I pull into our driveway.

“Alright come on, Finn. you’re gonna learn how to heat up a TV dinner today,” I say as I open the passenger door for my brother, ushering him quickly towards our front door.

“Why?” he asks, confused as we enter our home.

“Cause I got shit to do. You’ve got five minutes to ask questions then I’m leaving,” I say as I walk into the bathroom right next to our kitchen to check my reflection. “So, you better start now,” I say as I reapply my lipstick.

“What? Does mom know?” he asks, sounding horrified.

“No and she won’t find out because I’ll be home before she gets back from her Tupperware party and you aren’t gonna say anything,” I say as I shake my finger in his face.

“Y/n, I’m only eight. What if someone breaks in?” he squeaks as he follows my quick steps to the freezer. I open the door, pulling out a random frozen meal.

“Then hide,” I say flatly, knowing that our neighborhood is safe. He looks at me, still horrified.

“Ugh,” I groan before grabbing a pen and writing the Maximoff phone number on our calendar that’s hanging on the fridge. “I’m going to Peters. This is their phone number. Call and ask for me if anything happens. I should be back in an hour or two,” I say before grabbing my keys off the counter and walking to the door.  “Lock the doors, don’t answer for anyone unless it’s me, mom, or dad and stay inside the house,” I say as I unlatch the wooden door.

“Wait! You didn’t tell me about the dinner!” he stops me in my tracks.

“You can read right?” I ask, he nods his head. “Directions are on the box,” I lock the door behind me as I all but run towards my vehicle.

As I take the short drive to Peters house, my heart races in anticipation. I hate to admit it, but I managed to get just as worked up as he did- if not, more. My Fleetwood Mac cassette plays loudly in my stereo, but all I can hear is the whimpers that escaped Peter’s mouth earlier. He looked so fucking pathetic writhing underneath me, mewling through shaky breaths; It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. The image of peter standing half naked, desperate, and confused with his pants so tight around his erection that his button could pop off at any moment makes more core ache. I pull up to the Maximoff house, parking halfway on the curb, but I’m in too much of a hurry to fix it. I sprint up to the door, taking a deep breath to compose myself before knocking. Ms. Maximoff soon opens the door.

“Y/n, back so soon?”  she grins, allowing me to enter.

“Yes ma'am, I have something that I need to finish,” I smile innocently. She nods.

“Peter should be downstairs, I haven’t seen him since you left,” she walks back to the kitchen, leaving me to make my way to Peter’s room. I quietly walk down the stairs, stepping onto the shag carpet. I freeze in my tracks, my breath hitching in my throat and my heart skipping a beat at the sight in front of me.

Peter sitting upright on his couch, completely naked, his head thrown back, resting on the back of the sofa as his hand pumps his rock hard dick. His eyes are squeezed shut as his mouth hangs agape, releasing the hottest whimpers I’ve ever heard. His cheeks and lips are flushed as his nose scrunches in pleasure… then I hear it.

“Fuck, y/n” he mewls, so quiet I could barely hear it, but the sound of him muttering my name as he strokes himself rings through my ears like a trumpet, making my knees weak.

‘Oh, this gonna be wicked!’ I smirk to myself.

“Yes?” I bite my lip, approaching the disheveled boy. Peter’s so stunned that he just jumps up. He doesn’t zoom away. He just stands there with the most horrified expression I’ve ever seen.

“I-I-I didn’t- I wasn’t- y/n,” he sputters, I walk up to him, gently pushing him back down to the couch.

“You weren’t what?” I sit next to him, placing a hand on his chest; He’s hot to the touch. “Rubbing one out while thinking about me?” I ask lowly.

“I well, y-y-you just left me,” he says, staring at me with wide eyes, his dick still standing at attention. “I tried not to, it just wouldn’t go away,” he explains as he pushes his sweaty hair out of his face.

“Hmm,” I tap a finger to my lips in mock consideration. “I think I know how to help you,” I say with a shrug. Peter smiles at me, settling into the couch, closing his eyes, waiting for me to touch him. I get down on my knees in between his legs. “But I need you to show me what you were doing first,” I look up at him, laying my head on his bare thigh. He looks down at me, confused.

“Y-you want me to…” he motions towards his erection.

“Mhm,” I hum, looking at him through my lashes. His cheeks burn bright red, but he slowly moves his hand to his length. I watch intently as he begins to stroke himself. His hand runs over his red, swollen tip and he lets out a quiet whimper. “I wanna hear you, Peter,” I hum.

Even though he’s embarrassed, I can tell that he’s enjoying this. His breath quickens and his dick twitches in his hand as I speak. He picks up speed, obeying my command, letting out a pathetic little moan, as he stares down at me. “I think I know what you’re doing wrong,” the sultry tone drips from my tongue as I sit up on my knees.

“What?” he asks, his voice small as he watches my every move. I take his length into my own hand, dipping my head down, gathering spit in my mouth that I allow to drip from my lips onto his swollen tip. His brown eyes, wide as saucers, watches the saliva trickles onto him.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers as I use my fingers to spread the lubrication around. I hear his breath hitch, then I pull my hand away.

“Now try it,” I smile. I can tell he’s getting sexually frustrated.

“Really?” He whines. “But I want-“ he whines some more before I stop him.

“Do it, Peter,” I say sternly. He gulps, returning his hand to his now slick cock. He moans, throwing his head back.

“Doesn’t that feel better, baby?” I coo. He looks down at me, nodding his head. I slowly shift from my knees to sit on my ass, keeping his desperate eyes locked into mine. I spread my legs, revealing my soaked white panties underneath my skirt. Peter whimpers loudly at the sight, thrusting his hips into his hand.

“C-come on y/n, what are you tryin’ to do to me?” He groans, breathlessly.

“I’m helping you, quickie,” I giggle lightly before I run my hand over my clothed core. Peter shifts on the couch, sitting up to get a better view. His hand picks up speed around his length. I hum at the contact on my core, laying my head back, allowing my hair to fall from my shoulders down my back. I tilt my head to the side, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth when I catch Peters gaze locked onto my dripping panties, not even blinking as he pumps his cock mercilessly. The muscles in his arm tense and his dick twitches, precum oozes out.

“Fuck I think I’m gonna-“ he whimpers breathlessly.

“Stop,” I demand. “Remove your hand, Peter,” I direct him as I continue rubbing circles on my clit through the thin cotton. With a reluctant whimper, he pulls away.

“Mmm,” I slide my panties slowly down my legs, he watches with intensity. I’ve never seen him focus on anything this long before. “Good boy,” I praise, tossing the panties beside him on the couch. He looks at them, then back at me. I giggle, pulling my sweater and my tank top over my head, leaving me in just my bra and skirt. When I return my gaze to the couch, Peters eyes are still locked on me like before, but my panties are gone.

‘That pathetic little perverted kleptomaniac,’ I smile to myself. I don’t mention it-allowing him to keep the drenched panties as a prize for listening so well. Instead, I just bring my fingers down to my now exposed core. His eyes follow my hand like a cat’s follow a laser pointer. I use a finger to dip into my soaking entrance, dragging my slick up to my clit before I begin to rub circles on the sensitive skin.

“Mmm, fuck, Peter,” I relish the pleasure that I bring myself. He let’s out a string of mewls as he thrusts up into the air, desperate for some sort of friction.

“Are- Are you tryin’ to kill me?” He whispers, bringing his gaze from my slick folds up to my eyes. I can’t help but laugh at the desperate state of the poor boy.

“What do you mean?” I play Innocent as I move my fingers back to my entrance.

“I-“ He starts but he’s immediately distracted when I slip my finger inside myself, letting out a pornographic moan.

“Go on Peter,” I smirk. “I’m listening,” I bat my lashes.

“You’re just so-“ he speaks as if his mouth has gone dry.

“Fuck,” I let out another moan, purposely cutting him off again as I slip another finger inside myself and begin to curl up into that special spot.

“Please,” he whimpers, his voice cracks, his legs are shaking, his silver hair is stuck to his face with sweat and his dick is so hard that the tip has taken on a purple hue. Finally, I broke him. “Please, please, please, y/n please I’ll do anything,” he whines, pleading for mercy.

I smile, hoping up then turning around, slowly sliding my skirt down, bending over as I push the thin fabric to my feet.

“Please,” he whimpers again. I turn back around, smiling at the poor boy. “I’m not sure I’m enjoying this as much as you are,” he mewls as I straddle his waist. He winces when his erection slaps against my stomach.

“Oh, don’t lie to me Peter,” I whisper in his ear. I bring my fingers that I was using on myself up to his mouth, he happily opens, sucking them clean as he stares up at me with his big puppy eyes.

Jesus Christ I moan internally.

“You’re doing so good for me,” I bring my face right in front of his, grabbing either side of his cheeks with the same hand. “Don’t act up now,” I say sternly. He responds with an audible gulp. “Tell me Peter. Tell me how much you’re enjoying our time together right now,” I whisper as I ghost the fingers of my free hand over his needy cock. He twitches in my hand.

“I-you-“ he gulps again. His wide eyes looking directly into mine. “Y/n, this is hotter than any porno I’ve ever seen,” he admits whole heartedly, through muffled words as my hand squeezes his cheeks together a bit, earning a genuine laugh out of me.

“Well luckily for you,” I grab his length firmly, beginning to pump him slowly. “You won’t have to rent those stupid films anymore, not with me around,” I smirk before I bring him into a kiss, wrapping one hand in the back of his head. To my surprise, he kisses back intensely. His hands shoot up, grabbing both sides of my face to pull my head closer to his. He kisses me with strong desire.

“You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me,” he groans into the kiss. I lift my hips up, not breaking the passionate kiss, using my hand to line him up with my dripping entrance.

“Of course, I do, Peter,” I whisper before setting down on his desperate cock, taking him all the way into me in one swift motion. He lets out a loud whimper- almost a shriek. “Shhh” I giggle against his lips, stifling my own moan.

“I’m sorry,” he whines. He peers into my eyes with his chest heaving, sweat covering every inch of his toned body while his shaky hands hold their death grip on my hips. I place my hands behind me onto his thighs so I can slowly slide myself up down on his length.

“It’s okay Peter, but you gotta keep it down a bit. Can you do that for me, baby?” I coo. He nods his head as he watches in awe as I fuck myself on him, unable to look away. He fills me up perfectly, his desperate cock sliding in out of my velvet walls earns a few low moans out of me. ”You’re so big, Peter,” I compliment, he smiles at me flashing his dimples. With a surge of confidence, he brings his fingers to his mouth, wetting them before bringing them to my clit, tracing figure eights, watching my face for approval. “Mmm, that feels good, baby. Good job,” I praise him. He moves his fingers faster, and faster, and faster to the point that his hand is just a blur. ”Fuck!” I accidentally shout from the vibrations coursing through my body.

“Shhh,” he smirks. “You gotta keep it down, remember?” he mocks me. I can’t help but laugh, his sudden confidence is a bigger turn on than I thought it would be. He moves his hand from my core- much to my disappointment- before he grabs my hips again.

“May I?” he asks politely, his voice small again as he thrusts into me, wanting to take a bit of control. I lean forward, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“Mhm,” I grant him permission. “Only since you’ve listened so well,” I smirk. As soon as I give him the okay, he’s pounding into me mercilessly.

“Peter!” I shout in surprise and pleasure as he thrusts into me at inhuman rates. The speedster doesn’t seem to hear me as he throws his head back in pleasure.

“Thank you,” he whimpers. “You feel so fucking good, oh my god,” he whines, still somehow sounding submissive even when I’ve given him control. I quickly feel my release nearing as I grip onto his shoulders to keep him from bucking me off. I’ve never been so worked up in my life, my body feels like it’s on fire as I watch the handsome boys hips blur underneath me.

“Peter, I’m close,” I moan, my words come out punctuated as if I’m in a vehicle that’s driving 100mph down a pothole filled gravel road. His head shoots up at my words.

“Please y/n,” he whimpers as I bring my lips to his. “Please I wanna feel you cum while I’m inside you, please,” he whines and begs like a starving puppy, sending me over the edge. Pleasure shoots from my vibrating core throughout my whole body as a string of moans and curses fall from my lips. “Thank you,” I hear him mewl as I chase the euphoria I’m feeling.

‘Did he just thank me, for cumming on him?’ I think to myself. This man knows exactly how to get me worked up, and I don’t even think he realizes it. Suddenly, with a fwp I’ve lost all contact with him as I’m sat beside him on the couch. His eyes hungrily explore my body while he continues to pump himself as whimpers and groans fall from his lips, his dick is visibly twitching.

‘oh’ my confusion subsides once I realized he was about to cum himself. I regain my position on my knees between his legs, watching his face as I take him into my mouth. I consider ruining his orgasm again, but before I can make up my mind, his eyes are scrunched shut and his nose is wrinkled in pleasure as the hottest, most pathetic whimper I’ve ever heard fall from his swollen lips like music to my ears.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he groans as he empties his seed onto my tongue. I swallow the huge load, kitten licking his slit and hollowing out my cheeks a few more times for good measure. He falls onto the couch, lifeless. His chest heaving, the muscles in his legs twitching and his eyes rolled back in his head.

“Peter?” I ask, slightly concerned. “Peter?” I ask again a but louder, slapping his leg as I stand from the ground, sitting next to him.

“I…” he slowly turns his head next to me. I can almost see his heart beating out of his chest. “I think you just changed me as a man,” he pants. I laugh at his revelation, placing a kiss on his cheek.

“Well I’m honored to be the one to do it,” I smile. He slowly sits up, holding his head as if he’s dizzy.

“I’m fucking starving,” he sighs. I stand up, starting to get dressed.

“Well, clean up real quick and we can go get some food after I check on my brother,” I smile. His eyes light up at the mention of food. He stands, taking a step then stopping, looking at me confused. He takes another step, stopping.

“You broke me, I can’t even zoom across the room,” he looks mortified. I giggle putting my hand on his shoulder.

“It will come back soon, give your body time to catch up,” I slip my skirt on, without my panties. “At least I know your weakness now,” I giggle.

“A dominant woman?” he smiles as he slips on his shirt.

“My used panties,” I smirk, motioning to the white fabric sticking out of his bedside drawer. His eyes go wide.

“I’m sorry you can ha-“ I cut him off.

“Keep ‘em. I think you earned it,” I wink. He looks away with blushed cheeks before dressing his bottom half.

[dotster001]

Hello dear writer. I really enjoy reading your twisted wonderland stories. Can you please write a funny fanfic for me?The plot is as follows: the headmaster summons Grimm to his office to appoint him as the photographer for a "beauty pageant" to be held at the college. Grimm agrees to a can of tuna, but since he is very mischievous, he takes pictures of everyone unexpectedly and funny. For example, he can photograph Riddle sitting on the toilet and reading a newspaper. Ace when he secretly ate the "not birthday" cake. Leon with Cheka. Epel in the bath with foam.In general, all of our favorite students, whom Grimm caught on camera at the most inopportune moment. Please🥺

Look at This Photograph

A/N: an anon gave me an idea for a sequel, so just let me know if you want it, hee hee

3k followers Masterlist

"God no," you groaned. 

"Well, you don't have a choice. In my generosity, I can overlook the recent incident, but only if you do what I ask of you."

You gave a pointed glare at Grim, who looked up from licking his paw, and sighed heavily.

"Y/N and I have a deal, where the next time I caused a disaster, I had to do the accompanying task myself."

"A-alone?" Crowley stuttered.

"Yup."

"Like, no Y/N?"

"Yeah."

You leaned forward, the threat clear in your voice. "Grim is the one who blew up the lab, so he should do your little task. Something wrong with that?"

"No! You-you've been so generous up to this point, Y/N."

"Good," you said simply, standing up and giving Grim a final glare.

"Behave, or so help me God-"

"I'll behave! Who do you think I am?"

You gave an unconvinced look, before turning on your heel, and leaving the office.

Crowley handed Grim a camera.

"Get to it, before I change my mind."

….

Riddle had few moments of peace in his life. Especially since the newest batch of freshmen had arrived this year. As much as he was certain the mirror wasn't wrong, and they would grow to fit the ideals of the queen, it was hard to believe it. Ace in particular…

He flipped the page of his newspaper from home. It's not like his mother would fill him in, so he had to fill himself in. 

He was done with his business by now, he just needed a break!

*SNAP*

Startled, he looked up, momentarily blinded by the flash. As his vision cleared, he saw Grim look at a camera, nod, and scamper off. In his shock, he couldn't even utter an "off with your head".

….

Leona hated babysitting.

Well…

That's what he always told himself.

But "princess tea party" wasn't half bad.

As long as he pretended to sip tea every once in a while, Cheka didn't mind if he took naps.

*SNAP*

Momentarily blinded, he heard his nephew giggle, and mutter something about a "silly kitty". But when his vision cleared, it was just the two of them.

….

"Jade, no, if people knew…"

"They won't even suspect."

This was followed by the sounds of heavy making out.

Azul threaded his fingers through Jade's hair, momentarily playing with the long black strand, before closing his eyes again, and just being in the moment.

"Would it really be so bad if people knew?"

He knew Jade made jokes like that, because, in the moment, he liked the way a stiff Azul would cling to him just a miniscule amount tighter.

He didn't truly mean it. He knew Azul was terrified about people calling him soft, and if people assumed Jade had gotten his position solely for being Azul's boyfriend-

*SNAP*

Both mers had miniscule panic attacks. While they had grown accustomed to land, they were used to living in near solid darkness. Whatever just flashed in their faces, felt truly unnatural.

"This is a surprise," Jade heard a well known voice mutter.

If it weren't for his poor boyfriend, he could have taken care of the problem right there.

….

As much as Epel hated Vil's nagging, his skin had never been better.

A cold cream on his face, cucumber on his eyes, a bubble bath with foam specifically designed to make him sparkle?

Sevens, his nighttime routine was the part that was worth putting up with Vil's nag sessions for. 

He took the cucumbers off his eyes, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and made himself a bath foam beard.

"Oh ho ho, Sir Humphreys, are you jealous of my excessive manliness?" Epel boomed in a comically deep voice.

*SNAP*

You get the idea by now. Epel inhaled some of his foam beard, choked a bit, and completely missed whoever took the photo.

….

"Oh! Prefect, I didn't see you there!" Malleus gasped, bowing deeply before a stone gargoyle in a set of ruins he was exploring.

"What? Run away with you?" He covered his mouth in shock, before sidling into the "lap" of the gargoyle/prefect .

"I'm not saying no," he gently caressed where you collarbone would be, his facing moving closer to "your" face. "This is all just," he breathed heavily against "your" mouth, "so sudden."

*SNAP*

….

"As you all remember, we are having a beauty pageant at NRC."

Everyone nodded.

"Well, in my generosity, I remembered that candid shots allow the photo to look more natural, which in turn accentuates your natural beauty. So I have had Grim taking photos of you-"

"That's what those are for?" Ace shouted. "He snapped a picture of me eat-" he trailed off as he side eyed Riddle, "doing some stuff."

The Heartslaybul vice housewarden gave him a suspicious glare, but luckily Riddle himself was distracted.

"It is not okay to take photos of people on the toilet! Candid or not!" Riddle shouted, face turning a crimson it hadn't even been during his overblot.

"My nephew is not legally allowed to be photographed!"

"I have an image to uphold! An expensive image to uphold."

"MY LIEGE WILL SMITE YOU BEFORE ANYONE SEES HIS SHAME!"

Malleus was greatly regretting actually being invited to a meeting.

"Monsieur fuzzball, shall we have a chat about the photos you took of me?" Rook asked with a smile, his eyes flickering venomously.

"I deleted yours," Grim whispered with a shiver.

"Tres Bien," Rook smiled, rustling the top of Grim's head.

"Well let's see what all this is about," Trein moved to grab the camera, but every single student in the area started yelling and grabbing at it.

"Bad boys! Sit!" Crewel shouted with a smack of his pointer. But it seemed to no avail, as a crowd of angry mages chased a tiny gray cat out of the room.

Trein, meanwhile, was laughing uproariously as he scrolled through the photos.

[softlyspector]

Mothers

Summary: A year after his mother’s death, Marc travels back to Chicago to face his father. He doesn’t expect it to be easy but he also doesn’t expect it to be so hard. He especially doesn’t expect to find refuge from the hard moments in a little known witch’s shop a few blocks over. And definitely not in one keeping watch over the family’s piano.

This chapter: Marc is trying. Really, he is. But mothers are never an easy topic. Or, Marc attempts several difficult conversations.

Tales Untold; Part V - Series Masterlist

Pairing: eventual Marc Spector x Reader (eventual minor Steven Grant x Reader and Jake Lockley x Reader)

Word Count: 8.9k

Warnings (this chapter): angst, fluff, Marc Spector's terrible, oblivious flirting, lots of ✨touching✨, known menace Jake Lockley, mental health issues, feelings of guilt, tense relationship with a parent, mentions of past death, mentions of past child abuse

A/N: Hello! Here is the chapter a day early as promised! This part was originally 3k, oops.

I'm still unsure if anyone actually reads the author's notes, but I want to say thank you again. This chapter contains the scene that inspired the series! Memories and relationships are so complicated, especially when your perspective has to shift and you have competing views, and when other things like grief come into play it only makes things more complicated. This chapter tries to tackle that. I'm sure many of you can probably tell, I have issues with my own mother (mine is not like the reader's, or Marc's), and I just want to say thank you for letting me write something so cathartic. Moon Knight in general is really special to me but that facet in particular really hit home and made me question things about myself and my own childhood. I hope it resonates with you all as well and that I've done the topic justice.

Again, I want to give a big thank you to all of you who have been keeping up with this series. I love you so much, and thank you for all the continued love and support. It means everything to me. Comments and feedback are so appreciated! Please let me know if any additional warnings need to be added. For full series warnings, please check the series masterlist, which will be updated as parts are posted!

V.

Tales Untold, Chicago 7:48 PM

Marc sighs loudly through his nose.

“Stop being a pussy about it.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jake.” 

Jake promptly flips him off where he’s reflected in the shop’s front windows. Marc just huffs out another breath, irritated, and tunes out his muttering alter. He grips the cold steel rung of the ladder he’s standing on, both for support and to ground himself. 

He misses Steven at that moment, because Steven would leave him alone about the date. 

Probably.

“...said date -,” Jake continues. “Steven would agree with me. We definitely heard date.” 

Or, maybe not. 

Steven would probably harass him about it just as much. 

“I also heard date, mate,” Steven chimes in agreement suddenly. “Definitely said date.”

Marc rolls his eyes.  

So, he wouldn’t then. He would not leave Marc alone about it. 

Marc grits his teeth and ignores both of them, reaching a hand out to finger one edge of the curling burnt orange wallpaper. 

It’s true. You had said the word date to be sure. 

It’s a date, is precisely what you’d said.

But people said that shit all the time. It was just an expression. 

You hadn’t meant anything by it. 

You couldn’t have. 

It was just an expression. 

It’s just something people say. 

“Fuck off,” he snaps at both of them, when they continue muttering, trying and failing to refocus on the peeling wallpaper in front of him. “You’re distracting me.” 

Jake snorts and Steven shushes him. 

That little outpouring of emotion had been nearly a week ago, and Marc tries not to regret it. He tries not to let the shame that curls around his shoulders, that grows like a slow moving vine around his lungs and heart, strangle him. 

But his heart beats like a caged bird whenever he thinks about it, like it would snap his ribs just to be free from his body. The nervous flutter of his pulse serves to remind him that he’s said too much to you. 

That you did not deserve that kind of weight on your shoulders. 

“I’ll just go on the fuckin’ date then.” 

“You -,” he snarls, rounding on the glass, the ladder wobbling precariously, “- will not.” 

Jake just smirks and crosses his arms, like he’s proud of himself for being able to get a reaction out of Marc. 

Marc rolls his eyes again, so hard this time it hurts a little. 

He’s still getting used to Jake, still trying to come to terms with having him around, especially when Jake seemed content to antagonize him most of the time. 

It’s playful, really. Like the annoyance of a sibling that was intent on getting a rise out of him. 

Even with Jake’s teasing, he’d much rather be here on the ladder staring at your wallpaper than upstairs. 

He feels guilty, for leaving you alone with his father. But agreeing to have him over at your place for dinner at all had been more than enough of a challenge on its own. 

It had been hard. To walk his father over to Tales Untold, his safe place, and meet you at the door. It had been hard to watch you smile and tilt your head, and lead them up the stairs. It had been hard to watch you turn your attention onto someone else. 

They’d sat around your kitchen island, and you and Elias had done most of the talking while Marc sat silent and tense, not sure how to join a familial, familiar conversation. 

You had set a beautiful spread, with candles and your good silverware and crystal, and a tablecloth laid haphazardly across the counter because it wasn’t the right size. 

Although Marc hadn’t spoken for most of the meal, he had watched you, and followed the careful way you made your way through the conversation, the way your hands moved when you got excited about something. 

He’d even learned things about you - like that you hadn’t finished college and were a server before you moved back to Chicago. 

It hadn’t been as awkward or painful as he’d expected it to be. But he feels a large part of that is due to the fact that you were there. He was in your space, your domain, and by extension maybe his own. You’re safe there, and so is he. 

He doesn’t like to think about what that means, that he’s become attached not only to you, but to your place. That he’s starting to feel at home there. 

Home. 

He’s starting to feel at home with you. 

His father hadn’t commented on the piano, and Marc still isn’t sure how to feel about it. But when the plates were cleared away and you offered dessert, Marc hadn’t been able to sit still any longer. A strangely nervous energy had sizzled in his veins, washing away any sense of security he usually felt around you. 

Family dinners weren’t exactly pleasant experiences for him, and it had been a long time since he was forced into that kind of box, especially with his father. 

He shouldn’t have left you alone, but he thinks you probably understand. He’d helped you clear the dishes, before he leaned in next to you at the sink and said, “I’ll wash ‘em later for you. No, listen, please leave ‘em there. I need to go work on the wallpaper downstairs.” 

He hadn’t needed to do anything. The wallpaper is your project and certainly not a pressing one. 

Your mouth had still been parted, where you’d started to protest his insistence with the dishes, and it had been a struggle to maintain eye contact when all he wanted to do was stare at your mouth. “Okay,” you’d pressed your hand against his forearm, warmth jolting up his arm. You’d slid your thumb along his skin and nodded, “Okay. Go ahead.”

And, despite everything, you and his dad seem to get along fine. You found easy conversation with most people and his dad was no different. 

The day before the dinner had been more stressful to you than anything else. You’d fretted over what to make for dinner, and Marc had helped you grocery shop and cook. “My dad keeps kosher,” he’d said while you pushed a shopping cart down an aisle, nervously chattering about what you could make. 

You had paused, head tilting to the side. “He does?” 

“He’s a rabbi.” 

“Oh,” you’d continued pushing the cart before you turned to him with wide eyes. “Oh, my god. Marc, you’ve eaten at my place so many times…It wasn’t - I mean I don’t know if it was kosher -,” 

He’d pressed a hand to the small of your back, urging you along, trying and failing to hide a smile. “I don’t keep kosher. My dad does. It’s okay, it would have been on me to tell you if I did.” 

You still looked nervous despite his reassurance, anxiously consulting the list of ingredients on your phone as you chewed on your lower lip. “Look, a kinda shortcut is to make something vegetarian. It’s usually kosher that way. And I’ll make sure everything in your kitchen is kosher.” 

“Oh! I’m vegetarian.” 

Oh, Steven would love that. 

“Great,” he had reassured you. “Then we don’t have anything to worry about. I’ll help you. I’ll make sure it’s all fine.”

And he had. And it was. And he’d liked cooking with you, even though it didn’t seem to be something you did all that often. 

Marc likes all the little mundane things you do together. Home improvement and grocery shopping and going to the hardware store and cooking. 

He shakes the memory away and looks at the wallpaper again, orange and patterned with gold leaf. It’s curling off the walls, peeling down in strips in other places where you’d torn at it with your hands. 

You’ve yet to paint your flower boxes, and Marc still hasn’t built you a new sign or finished repointing the brickwork. The fucking bell is still rusted where it hangs above your door. 

Only one of the warped glass panels in the wooden front door has been replaced so far. A single pane of colorless glass replaced by a red and yellow image of a bird that you and Steven had made together one evening. 

Despite all of those uncompleted projects, he’d caught you on a ladder earlier in the day ripping down strips of wallpaper when there had been a lull in customers. You’d had an odd expression on your face as you did so, one Marc couldn’t read. 

Marc stares at the peeling paper, and what lay beneath. He wishes you would have said something before ripping it down. He probably could have salvaged it. The design is pretty. 

“Marc!” You call. “C’mere, honey.” 

He gut lurches with that pleasant little nickname you’ve gifted him. It feels unfair, like something he should get to call you, not the other way around. You’d first called him that in the hardware store, your hand curled around his bicep when you saved him from the sales person. 

“Honey,” Jake coos at him. “Aw.” 

“Shut up,” he grumbles before calling out to you, “Comin’!”

Jake cackles, and Marc knows he thinks he’s slick, but it's hard not to notice how much Jake has been showing up lately compared to before. 

Jake likes you too, and he’s really only half joking about being the one to take you on a date. 

He steps down the ladder to weave through the shelves to the back of the shop. 

You’re just stepping down the last few steps of the back staircase, his father in tow behind you. 

Before he can reach you, you’ve turned to his father and taken his hands in yours. “Thank you for coming over, Elias. I hope my cooking wasn’t too bad.” 

“It was delicious. Thank you…for everything.” Elias’s eyes cut to where Marc stands before flicking back to you, an unreadable look passes between the two of you and he’s left to wonder what Elias means by that, what the two of you talked about. 

Marc’s hands curl into uncomfortable fists at his sides, but he makes an effort to smile.

By the snort you try to choke back he doesn’t do a very good job. “You’re very welcome,” you say to his father. “Marc will walk you home.”

Elias blinks over at him again. “You won’t be coming with us?” 

“I’m afraid not,” you say apologetically. “I have a lot to do around here. You see how Marc has been terrorizing my wallpaper.” 

Marc shifts his gaze to you, glaring. “Right, it’s me terrorizing the wallpaper.” 

To Marc’s surprise, his father laughs. “Okay, maybe another time then. For tea or coffee, whatever you prefer.”

You nod, though Marc knows you have no intention of ever accepting an invitation. Not without him, at least. 

The thought warms him, just a little, that you wouldn’t even walk over to the house with them, not if Marc didn’t want you to. 

He ushers his father ahead of him through the crowded aisles.

But before he can follow, you reach out and cup one hand under his arm, your fingers hooking in the crease of his elbow. “Are you coming back?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay,” you smile, rub your thumb against the delicate ridge of bone in his arm. “Tonight went well.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. 

It did. 

Even if he’d had to escape a little early. 

You laugh again, though he can’t fathom why. “Okay. I’ll be waiting for you.” Your thumb traces over his skin again, before you release him and turn away. 

Milwaukee Avenue, Chicago 8:15 PM

His father is talking about you, moving around the living room slowly, gathering up a book and his reading glasses.

Elias likes you a lot. 

Since Marc’s breakdown, since he finally explained to his father how hard it is to be at home, things have been less strained between them. A certain tension still lingers in the air, but not as thick as it had. It’s possible to breathe now, possible to stand still. 

His father seems to understand why it's hard for Marc to be in the house, why it's hard for him to be around Elias himself. And Marc supposes it's a good enough start. 

Nothing between them is fixed and Marc isn’t sure it ever can be. He doesn’t know if he wants to try, if he wants to reconcile. 

Is there anything to reconcile? 

It’s the one question he consistently comes back to. He doesn’t know if what had been fractured between them can ever be fixed again, or overlooked. 

“Are you heading back over to Tales Untold?” Elias asks as he settles in an armchair, his book on his knees. 

“Yeah.” 

Marc considers leaving then, just turning around and walking out the door without another word. But speaking with his father has become easier in the last week, like Marc broke the protective seal of cordiality that made both of them quiet. 

He can do this. He can ask. 

Elias looks surprised when Marc sits down in the opposite armchair and adjusts himself uncomfortably. “We gotta talk about the piano.” 

His father slips his glasses on and then peers at Marc over the rim. “Okay, Marc.” 

“We gotta talk about everything.” He swallows, remembering the way he’d broken the week before, dashed his heart on the rocks of the house. 

For you. Because he was protective and worried about you. 

But he doesn’t know if he can do all of that in one day. To ask about the alcoholism and the abuse and why his mother had hated him so much and why his father let her hate him. 

“Not right now, though.” You’re waiting for him to come back, and he says as much.

His dad smiles at that, the twist of his mouth soft, and Marc can’t understand why it would garner that reaction. Marc doesn’t comment on it, decides he doesn’t want to know. “Why,” he starts, mouth dry suddenly, his tongue like sandpaper. “Why did you donate the piano?” 

Elias’s shoulders relax, the tension bleeding out of them. “I know you think the worst of me, Marc. And I can’t really blame you. The two of us…we’re not good at talking. We never have been.” 

Marc nods and waits, because it’s not an answer to his question. 

The muscle along Marc’s spine pulls tight while he waits for an answer, like he’s on marionette strings about to be cut. 

“Your mother never played the piano after Randall died, and neither did you. When you left, I still had hope that you’d come home. But when she died, that left me. Neither of you were ever going to play it again.” He glances away, “It reminded me too much of you. It was painful to look at.”

Marc goes still, trying to piece together what his father had just said. 

Reminded him of Marc. Given away because it hurt, not because he was being erased, not because it reminded him of Wendy. It reminded him of Marc. 

“I have to get back to Tales Untold,” Marc says abruptly, standing up sharply. 

Elias nods, “You should just stay there. You’d probably sleep better.” 

The suggestion catches Marc off guard. “I can’t just -,” 

His father shrugs. “You could ask.” Before he cracks open the novel, he says, “We talked about Shabbat. You should both come to a service one Saturday. Together.” 

“I…you did?”

“Yes,” he shrugs. “Seemed interested.”

He’s not sure why he says it, he should just turn and leave. “We had to go shopping for ingredients,” Marc says. 

And then, before he can convince himself not to say anything more, tells his father about how you’d been nervous about cooking for him, and about the kosher incident at the grocery store. 

Elias smiles and then laughs. “I think you’ve found a really good person.” 

The words well up inside him, the urge to tell his father he doesn’t know what a good person is, not really. But the words die in his mouth, because it feels like an insult to you. 

Because his father is right about that, at least. 

You’re an inordinately good person. 

“Goodnight, dad.” 

His father doesn’t look up from his book, “Goodnight, son.” 

Tales Untold, Chicago 8:58 PM

By the time he makes it back to Tales Untold, you’ve managed to rip down the wallpaper on an entire exposed wall. 

“Well,” you plant your fist on your hip and examine the yellowed wall beneath, your other hand still tailing a strip of paper. “I suppose I’ll have to clean the wall.” 

“Then what?” He leans back against one of the shelves, crossing his arms over his chest. 

You purse your lips, humming under your breath. “Maybe I’ll paint a mural.” 

“Oh yeah?” He watches your mouth twist, the flick of your eyes over the blank wall, like you’re seeing more than the empty space. “Why’d you want the wallpaper down anyways? We coulda fixed it back up.” 

“Reminds me of my mom,” you say, suddenly bending down to gather up the paper left on the floor, bunching it up between your palms. “I mean,” your mouth twists to the side a little as you consider the wall. “This is all her. Not me.” 

A sense of vertigo sweeps through Marc, because he associates everything here with you. “It is?” 

You hum in confirmation but don’t look at him, your eyes firmly glued to the paper in your hands. “Upstairs. That’s my stuff. But everything else. The shop and everything out front was hers.” 

And Marc becomes very suddenly aware of the fact that he’s never asked you. He knows nothing about your past, not really. In his mind, you’ve just always been there, standing in the sunlight at the back of the shop. 

He almost bites down the question. But he’s already tried his hand at one hard conversation, maybe he could do it again. 

“What…uh, what happened?” 

You turn and smile at him. “You don’t have to ask,” you say before walking away. 

Marc frowns after you before following. “Yeah well, I wanted to.” 

You stuff the long ribbons of ruined wallpaper into the bin behind the counter, leaning into the wood with your head propped on your fist. “I lived with my dad out of state. Chicago isn’t really my home, but I spent every summer here with my mom. I think she - I think she was like me. I think she felt things from the stuff people donated.” 

Marc leans opposite you, leaving one hand open and extended toward you. He hopes it's not too obvious, that he’s hoping you’ll reach out and fold your fingers between his. 

He feels a spike of jealousy sometimes, for how easily Steven touched you and how easily you accepted his touch. He doesn’t know for sure if it’ll be the same with him as it is with Steven. 

You don’t immediately take his hand, but that’s okay. 

Jake is reflected in a nearby case, gesturing at you. “Just do it.” 

He ignores him, giving the tiniest shake of his head. 

“Maybe that’s why you thought you knew me,” you say, mouth quirking in a smile. “Maybe we saw each other in the summer around the neighborhood.” 

He nods, “Yeah, maybe. You think this thing is hereditary?” 

“Maybe. We never talked about it so maybe she was just intuitive.” You shrug and then reach to take his hand as Jake calls him a coward for waiting. “Anyways, she passed away last year.” You squeeze his hand, “It was right around the time your dad donated the piano.”

You slide your fingers over his wrist, and Jake has gone quiet in the reflection of the case, carefully watching you. “I was meant to clean this place out. Sell it. I’d already gone through most of her things in the apartment and I was just starting on the shop when your dad came by. Something about it…I dunno, I felt like I should stay. Not like I had a career anyways. I never finished college and this place was paid off a long time ago so,” you shrug. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed the rest of the street got gentrified. I wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise.” 

You’re rambling a little, your words nervous in a way they’re usually not. 

You look up and meet his eyes. “It gave me peace. I kept it for you as much as I kept it for me. I should have told you that before.” 

He remembers the way you’d went still when you realized what piano he’d been looking for the first day he stumbled into the shop, the guarded, watchful cut of your gaze before he explained who he was. 

Marc watches you for a long time, trying and failing to grip at the emotions twisting and roiling inside him. He’s not sure what exactly he’s feeling. 

Both your mothers’ deaths had brought you together. His father had. The piano had. 

Without any of that, he would have never had cause to come over to Tales Untold. He would have never had cause to meet you at all. 

“I just left everything alone after that. Well, I moved my things in and repainted upstairs. But now, thanks to you and your criticisms of my storefront,” you smile and roll your eyes, “I decided I should make it more me. Y’know? Like upstairs.” You fidget again, glancing away from him, your grin fading. 

Marc nods, still not sure what to say, the weight of something unknowable setting on his lungs. He never really considered that he might be impacting your life in any way. This weight isn’t uncomfortable, not like it usually is. 

Your hands are still stroking over his, the pressure of your fingers pleasant and warm, soothing, and he doesn’t know what to say. 

“I liked the orange.” 

You grin, the sudden beam of your smile blinding him. “I did too. It just needs an update. I don’t want to erase the character of the shop. And I don’t want to erase her.” 

Marc doesn’t know how to respond to that, since he’s had days he wished he could erase his mother. “I’m sorry,” he says, even though you’ll have no idea what he’s apologizing for. 

“Hey,” you press your fingertips to the pulse point in his wrist. “It doesn’t erase your feelings, honey. It doesn’t make -,” you stop and take a breath. “She wasn’t perfect either, y’know. She was only a good mom when it suited her, and only when I got older. It’s why I lived with my dad. Even though it was complicated, I still loved her.” Your voice is quiet, “I think you struggle with that too.” 

He doesn’t want to admit that. It makes thinking about Wendy all the harder, thinking about his past all the harder. “I don’t -,” he stops, meeting your gaze. 

The shop is usually flooded with natural light. Now, you stand cocooned together in the low overhead lights. It casts odd shadows across your face, and a sudden exhaustion hits him all at once. 

You don’t pull away, waiting. “It’s okay,” you soothe, still working the tension out of his hands. 

“I don’t want to miss her,” he shifts, cradling your hands between his, slowly sliding his touch along your palms and the falls and valleys of your fingers. “That’s…it’s fucked up. I shouldn’t fucking miss her. I shouldn’t remember anything good and the piano -,”

He stops again, not able to continue. “I understand,” you muse. “It’s obviously not the same. But sometimes, I’m mad at her. She didn’t want to change who she was to be my mom. At the same time, I had a lot of good times with her.” 

Marc looks up from your twinned hands at the same time that you do. 

You disentangle one hand to shift an errant curl back from his face. “It’s okay to miss her. It’s okay to mourn who she was before. It’s okay to miss and mourn the mother she should have been to you. It doesn’t make what she did to you any less terrible than it was. It just means things are complicated. It just means you’re human.” 

Marc doesn’t look away from you, chasing the cut of your gaze. Your lashes lie thick against your cheek when you look down, like you’re embarrassed about all you’ve shared. He doesn’t want you to stop talking. He’d listen to you forever. He doesn’t want you to be embarrassed about sharing things with him. 

Instead of saying any of that to you, he nods slowly and says, “How’d you figure all that out?” 

“It’s all I’ve thought about for the last year,” you shrug. “I’ve spent a lot of time with myself. I mean, you’ve probably noticed that you’re kinda my only friend,” you joke lightly.  

“That’s not true.” 

“Name one other person.” 

“That girl at Flour Up. The hardware guy.” 

You smile. “Okay, Marc Spector, the hardware guy is definitely a better friend to me than you are.” 

“He’d like to be though, wouldn’t he?” Marc mutters, thinking of the other times you’ve had to go to the hardware store with him. Your laugh breaks the tension, the edges of your eyes crinkling up before he adds, “Steven, too.” 

You before he can stop you, you’re tugging your hand out of his grip. 

His grief only lasts a second though, because a moment later you’ve rounded the counter and yourself fitted into his arms, hugging him tightly. “You’re safe here,” your mouth is by his ear, your voice soft, and he can feel the movement of your jaw where it’s tucked against his shoulder. “You can talk to me.” 

“I know.” And he does. “My dad said to ask if I could stay here.” 

“You can stay here,” you say, even though it wasn’t a question. “Always.” 

Marc turns you gently in his arms, presses you back into the counter. Your hands fly up to press against his biceps, your hands warm through the fabric of his t-shirt. “What?” You smile at him when he doesn’t say anything. 

“My dad told me that he got rid of the piano because it gave him hope I’d come home. When my mom died, that hope died. He was alone. The piano was hope for him. It reminded him too much of me. And before.” 

You blink, “What’s the piano for you?” 

Home. It’s home. 

It reminds him of his mother and what should have been. 

He doesn’t answer you. 

But you nod anyway and stroke a careful hand across his shoulders, drawing him in closer. You’re warm against him, pliant and relaxed against his chest.

You smell like peace, like warmth and that signature lavender. 

Marc decides to accept the moment for what it is, whether he should or not, gripping you back tight. He slides one hand up your spine until he can cup his palm against the back of your neck, the other winds around your waist. 

For a moment, he thinks your breath stutters, before it rushes out of you in a sigh and you soften against him. 

It’s a show of trust he didn’t know he needed. 

You hold him just as tightly, adjusting your grip around his ribs. 

“Ask.” It’s Steven this time. “You’re clearly flirting with each other. Go on, Marc, ask about the date.” 

He closes his eyes to Steven’s reflection and shakes his head as subtly as he can. 

Marc doesn’t let go of you. 

He doesn’t ask you either. 

Tales Untold, Chicago 11:24 PM

Marc does the dishes, just like he’d promised to. 

Like always, he refuses your help but lets you watch. 

You stand close to him, just so you can feel the heat rolling off his skin. And although you want to touch him again, you don’t. 

He’s much quieter than usual, and for someone like Marc that means he’s practically nonverbal.

He doesn’t seem upset, merely introspective. 

But it doesn’t stop anxiety from swimming in your belly, worried you’d overstepped yourself downstairs. 

Your situation with your mother was very different to his, that much you know even if you don’t know the details.

When he’s done with the dishes and the water is draining away you decide to give him a bit of space. “I’m going to take a quick shower.” A knot of unease rests uncomfortably in your throat that you aren’t sure how to swallow down. You aren’t quite sure what it means. 

Despite the worry rooting down in your veins, you manage to smile at him, showing him where the remote to your TV is. “If you’re still hungry, the leftovers are in the fridge and there are snacks pretty much in any cabinet you open. Okay?”

“Okay.” He only answers you when the door to the bathroom is nearly closed behind you. 

You suck in a breath and try to put Marc out of your mind and how much you’d said. 

Too much probably, considering what you had been talking about. Marc is already so closed up, you should have just left it. He didn’t need your shit weighing on him too. 

A laugh escapes you and you press a hand over your mouth, stifling the laughter when you remember accusing Marc of being closed off. 

Maybe you were the same, and overthinking it too. 

You can’t find it in yourself to regret touching him though. The memory of the warmth of him against you fills you both with an odd peace and a giddy nervousness. You’d never wanted to move. 

You stare at the crescents in the tile under your feet, remembering the heat of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the scent of him something heady and uniquely Marc, the way his palm felt both possessive and protective on the back of your neck. 

You shake your head as you step in the shower, trying to clear away the wings of thought that closeness carried. 

Marc trusts you with the pieces of himself as he works through something you only half understand. You can’t break that, you won’t.

The warmth of the water serves to wash away some of the tension lining your spine, ease the anxiety still bubbling inside you. 

You don’t want to admit it, but you’re eager to be back with Marc. 

You roll your eyes at yourself and flip off the water, annoyed. 

It feels like a crush. It makes you feel stupid, like you’re a kid again, how much you like him.

It takes you a moment to hear it, over the sound of the bathroom fan and the still dripping water from the showerhead while you towel off. 

Piano notes.

A song is being played slowly and deliberately, a little clumsily as though the person hasn’t played in a very long time. 

You find yourself smiling as you listen. Still dripping water onto the floor, you wrap the towel around your body and step out of the shower to push your ear against the door. 

Marc seems to pick up confidence the longer he plays, the notes faster and more sure, though he does make quite a few mistakes. 

He plays beautifully, if a little inelegantly, the same song you usually play for him. You close your eyes and listen, not sure what it means that Marc is finally playing the piano. You pull away from the door and go through your after shower routine as quickly as you can before dressing, not able to wipe the smile off your face, worries forgotten. 

You half expect the music to stop as soon as you have the door open, but it doesn’t. 

Marc doesn’t even glance up as you creep closer and perch on the edge of the bench, like he isn’t entirely aware that you’re there. 

You don’t touch him, just listen quietly for as long as he plays, itching to play alongside him but not daring to interrupt. 

When the song eventually tapers off, Marc doesn’t turn to you, like he’s afraid to look at you.

You scoot closer to him on the bench then, until your shoulder bumps his. 

His breath hitches when you pillow your head against his shoulder. “Beautiful,” you murmur. “Really.”

Marc carefully lies his cheek against the crown of your head. “Thanks. Little rusty.” 

“Not too bad,” you hum. “I’m definitely the better player though.” 

You think you feel his lips ghost against your temple, but you can’t be sure. 

The feeling is so brief, you’re sure you imagined it. But you definitely feel the little huff of a laugh against your forehead. “Yeah, you are.” 

He lifts his head away from yours, but his hand finds yours, the warmth of his palm enveloping yours. 

You don’t try to hide your smile when you stand and attempt to tug him up from the bench. “C’mon. That’s enough emotional turmoil for one day.” 

Marc manages a laugh but doesn’t follow the pull of your touch. “What?” you ask when he just looks at you. 

For a moment, you think maybe you’re looking at Steven and you just hadn’t noticed the switch, before you realize Marc just has his guard down. His gaze is wide and gentle. The ease of trust makes him look younger, looser. 

“What?” you repeat. “What’s wrong, honey?” 

That word on your tongue seems to pull him out of his thoughts, whatever doubt was making him hesitate. 

“C’mere,” he says, his eyes going soft and shaded. “There’s somethin’ I wanna show you.” 

You tilt your head and watch curiously as Marc releases your hand and stands. He pushes the piano bench out of the way, and then folds himself to lie beneath the piano. 

Intrigued, you bend at the waist and meet his eyes. “Is this your way of telling me you wanna sleep there?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Just c’mere. I’m trying to show you something,” he grumbles. 

You straighten and pluck a pillow off the sofa before returning to him. 

It’s shadowed beneath the piano, the air cooler than the rest of the apartment. You tap Marc’s forehead so he lifts his head and you can fit the pillow beneath his head before you settle next to him. 

He’s warm, his skin molten where it presses against yours, and that odd little flutter returns to your chest. 

You don’t even consider looking up, tilting your chin in his direction instead. His lashes look impossibly long against the arch of his cheekbone, his skin golden brown in the soft lighting. The dusk of the little cocoon you’ve created in the shade of the piano feels strangely safe and peaceful. 

You wonder how much of that is Marc’s presence, and how much is the piano’s energy. 

Marc’s normally stormy expression breaks and he smiles at you suddenly, letting you watch him before he reaches out and taps two fingers under your chin. “I know I’m pretty, but you can stare at me some other time.” 

You scoff, despite the prickle of embarrassment that itches under your skin. “Sure, flatter yourself, Marc.” 

Marc just guides your head up, until you’re staring at the underside of the piano. 

Etched into the wood are two sets of initials. 

M.S. R.S. 

“Oh,” you say, reaching up to trace the outline of letters clearly made by a child’s clumsy fingers. “M S, Marc Spector,” you whisper and trace the letters slowly. “Who’s R?” 

Marc doesn’t immediately answer. When you hear him swallow loudly, you turn your head to look at him, hand settling atop your stomach when you lower it. “Marc?” 

“My brother. Randall.” 

“Randall,” you repeat. “Right. Your dad mentioned that when he dropped it off. Said you and your brother played it together.”

Marc nods, just the slightest dip of his chin. “Yep. We did.” He reaches up and traces the letters now, and you watch his face carefully. He’s nervous, but otherwise fine. “That was before he died.” 

“Oh,” you murmur. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, Marc.” 

He turns to you, eyes flicking over your face. “Look, I don’t wanna - we don’t gotta talk about it.” 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” When he just stares at you, you tilt your face toward his. You turn on your side and tuck your knees up against the side of his. Something warm roots down in you when he presses his hand over your waist and helps you wriggle closer to him. “It’s not about me, honey.” 

His brows furrow. “Why do you call me that?”

“‘Cause you’re sweet,” you tease and smirk when he rolls his eyes. He leaves his hand where it rests against your waist, his wrist draped casually on your hip. His fingers flex on the edge of your t-shirt, fiddling with the edge of it, when he turns fully toward you on his side. 

“I don’t know how,” he admits, fingers tightening on you, like he’s afraid you might slip away. 

You tilt forward carefully, until your forehead rests against his. Marc keeps his eyes open and on yours. His eyes are like amber, threads of coffee and umber darkening his irises. Pretty, expressive eyes dig into yours, rounded with something you can’t identify. “No one really does. It’s not easy.” 

“Was it easy for you? Talking about your mom?” His nose touches yours, his breath warm where it fans over your lips and chin. 

It’s a little hard to breathe, even harder to focus. 

Really, you think, no person should be allowed to be so beautiful. 

“No,” you manage to laugh. You hadn’t talked about your mother since she died, since her funeral. “I went in the bathroom and panicked about how much I said,” you admit, and Marc frowns at you, starts to open his mouth when you continue. “It took a lot of…of y’know, internal work, to make peace with it. Only really started to get past the grief and confusion when you showed up.” 

You fold one of your hands into his chest, trying not to feel nervous about the closeness, the vulnerability. It would be so easy to roll into him, to press yourself into his chest and absorb the heat of him. “Really?” 

“Mmhm,” you hum. “Reminded me that this place can still change, and so can I. I’ve been like a bug trapped in honey. Everyday was the same. Long shifts and terrible dates. And then you showed up.” 

Marc blinks, like he’s confused, like he never considered that he might be impacting your life. At least not in a positive way. 

It’s quiet for a long time, and you shift to tuck your head under his chin, so you were both more comfortable and the position was slightly less awkward. 

Marc does tuck his arm fully around you then, dragging you closer. 

You can feel his eyes on the underside of the piano, on his brother’s initials. 

“He died when we were kids,” Marc swallows and the sound of it is like grief and mourning. “That’s when she changed. He wasn’t there and she was different. My dad didn’t know what to do. And I was…alone.” 

You try to piece together what exactly Marc is trying to say. He has a way of speaking cryptically, saying one thing that was coded for something else. He always treads lightly, like he’s trying to lighten the load of whatever he’s passing on, making the smallest mark possible. 

You think of the way he’d told you about what happened the night you met Steven. How he’d said he was stretched thin, a mild turn of phrase for what had clearly been mind numbing fear. The strength of his grief had been enough evidence, the tears and stress and those tiny broken blood vessels beneath his eyes. 

“So,” you hazard a guess, “you only have nice memories of both of them with the piano?” 

He relaxes against your hand when you press it up the length of his spine. “Yeah.” 

“That’s why it’s so important.” 

“Yes. And I don’t think -,” he struggles with the words for a long moment, clutching you tighter. “I don’t think I got to mourn. Either of them. I wasn’t allowed.” 

You rub his back quietly and wait to see if he’ll say more. 

You already knew, you could tell, that Marc just sits with pain, buries it, ignores it. But to hear him admit it shocks you a little. 

When he stays quiet, hands drifting over your back and along your sides as though grounding himself in you and the fabric of your shirt, you say, “You have time now. I’m glad you came to get it. It’s okay. To have good memories, of both of them. It’s okay to want the chance to mourn.” 

Marc’s arms tighten around you, and you burrow down into him, resting your face against his chest. 

You consider asking him if he’d like to move somewhere more comfortable, but you’re already comfortable with him and sleep pulls you under too quickly. 

When you wake, Marc’s arms are tight around you, your head pillowed on his chest where he’d turned onto his back. 

The sun has long ago risen, and Marc is still asleep. 

Halsted Street, Chicago 4:56 PM

Marc watches the hardware guy flirt with you again from the rearview mirror. This is your fifth trip to the store since the first one. 

You had decided to layer neon lettering over the new sign Marc was making for you, smiling at him apologetically when he’d groaned. “Now we gotta go back to the hardware store.” 

“Sorry,” you’d said. “I know you hate having to go out with me.” 

His stomach had done a weird little somersault at your words. “That’s not - that isn’t why -,” 

“Marc?” 

“What?” 

“I’m joking,” you’d winked at him. “I know you hate my hardware store friend.” 

He’d just grumbled, “We should go to another fucking hardware store.” 

But you are attached to this one now, the one Marc had dragged you to in the first place. It’s something he’s slowly come to realize about you, that you easily get attached to things and routines and people. 

He hopes you’re a little more attached to him than that fucking sales associate with a crush. 

At the end of the day, though, he’s just some guy with a crush too. 

“Crush, eh?” Steven is watching you from the side mirror of the truck. “Me too, I think.” 

Marc watches Steven for a moment, his eyes flicking back to where you laugh with the sales guy, still chatting about something in the afternoon sun. It’s hot, summer falling on the city with a vengeance. Your shoulders are partially bare to the sun, and you have one hand lifted to shield your eyes despite having sunglasses clutched in your other hand. 

Steven is watching you too, his eyes round and big, like cartoon hearts are about to start floating around his head at any moment. 

He’s put off telling Steven about the piano, and he’s been more than patient, even if he’s begun harassing Marc daily about the Cubs game that may or may not be an actual date. 

It had only gotten worse since he slept with you in his arms, under the piano no less. He’d tried to stay awake that night, so he could have the memory of holding you that way, apparently completely at ease, relaxed enough with him to fall asleep. 

The teasing from Jake had been brutal, while Steven had been delighted. “Nice innit?” he’d asked none too casually.

He told you about Randall and his mom. He asked his dad about the fucking piano. 

Steven deserves to know, too.

He can do one more hard conversation, he’s done it twice already. 

Besides, Steven always knew better than him anyways, was better at seeing up from down. 

“Steven,” he says, catching his alter’s attention from where he’s staring at you with lovestruck eyes. “I wanna tell ya about the piano.” 

“Bloody hell, Marc, right now?” He blinks away from you to Marc. 

When Marc just stares, he nods. “Alright then. Go on,” he encourages quietly. “I’m all ears.” 

Marc swallows, leans his head against the frame of the door. “Mom and me used to play the piano all the time.” He swallows, “All my - everything I remember is good.” 

The image of the living room bathed in gold swirls back to the front of his memory. The dust motes, the laughter, the quiet of a Saturday morning. 

For a moment, he can’t continue, his throat swelling closed with unshed tears. “That’s - that’s a good thing, innit?” Steven asks gently. 

Marc swipes at his face even though no tears have escaped. “Yeah. I guess so. But it feels fucked up to - to miss her.” Steven sucks in a breath but Marc barrels on. “I can’t be angry at something that was good. When Randall - when he died, we stopped playing it. We never touched it again.” He presses his head back into the headrest and closes his eyes to Steven. “How am I supposed to hate her when I remember loving her so much?” 

“Oh,” Steven whispers, his breath a rush, like he finally understands. “You can do both, I think. I do.” 

“You do?” 

Steven sounds meek when he answers, “Well, yes. It was hard. Knowing all the love I remembered, well, that it came from you. And knowing-knowing what she did to us. It was hard. It is hard.” Marc opens his eyes to meet Steven’s gaze. “She loved us. We’re allowed to love that part of her. No matter what came later.” 

A tear does track down his cheek then, and Marc hastily swipes it away. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Well, that’s why the piano is so hard.” Steven nods, encouraging. “It’s not just about mom though, it's about Roro too.” 

“Randall played the piano too?” 

“I was just - I had just started teaching him. He wasn't good at it. It came naturally to me. One morning, we - instead of practicing, we scratched our initials into the bottom of it.” Marc stops and checks the rearview mirror, to make sure you’re okay, to make sure you’re still there but not approaching the truck yet. 

You’re smiling, one hand still lifted to shade your eyes. 

“Anyways,” Marc says, glancing back at Steven. “I don’t like having good feelings about any of it. It feels wrong. Like I’m forgiving her.” 

The image comes unbidden again. The warmth of the living room, Wendy’s hands over his, the sound of prayer and breakfast being cooked, the dust motes hanging suspended in the air; Randall begging Marc to show him how to play, even though his hands were much too small. 

He hates that he remembers laughter and love when his mom bent down to ask them what they were doing under the piano. She hadn’t even gotten mad when she discovered what they’d done, just smiled and held out a hand, beckoning them out. 

“You can have both,” Steven says. “It’s alright, Marc. It doesn’t have to be all bad.” 

It’s the same thing you’d said to him. 

But it had been easier when it was all bad, simpler. 

“I know,” he says. “I think I do.” 

Steven starts to respond when the passenger side door opens suddenly and you climb into the cab. “Marc,” you say his name, huffing out a wild breath as you adjust yourself in the seat and yank your seatbelt into place. “We gotta go get some ice cream. It’s so fucking hot,” you swipe a hand over your sweaty brow. “It’s full of tourists, but do you wanna try Navy Pier?” 

If it were all bad, he thinks suddenly, maybe he wouldn’t have met you. If it were all bad, he wouldn’t have found out that his father missed him, he wouldn’t have had a reason to hunt for the piano and visit Tales Untold. 

Marc reaches over and takes your hand, folds your fingers between his. He says your name and when you meet his eyes, your smile disappears, replaced with a fretful expression. “What?” 

“Nothin’,” he shakes his head. 

You reach up with your other hand and touch his cheek, the corner of your mouth twitching upwards again. “Alright, go ahead and be cryptic and weird.”

“Hey,” he catches at your hand when you start to pull away. You look beautiful, your skin is glowing. Marc tries not to stare and fails. “We gotta get tickets. If you still wanna go to a Cubs game.” 

You blink at him; long, slow blinks where your lashes kiss the space beneath your eyes. “Yeah? I thought you were getting them.” You tilt your head, “And then - pizza after? Isn’t that what we said?”

You’re close to him, your eyes wide as you lean closer to him over the center console. You smell like sunshine, like sun on skin, and beneath that like your usual lavender. 

Marc presses your hand harder against his cheek, tipping his head towards yours. Your breath shakes when you inhale and your mouth parts gently when you glance down at his lips. 

He wants to kiss you so bad there’s an ache in his chest. But he keeps his eyes on yours, your breath fanning across his lips, the scent of you like sweet mint. 

When you meet his eyes, you look mildly confused, and Marc wonders for just a split second if you’re as unsure as he is. 

Your eyes flick down again, and Marc watches your face curiously. There are no walls between you. He doesn’t feel like he has to hide anything from you. You’d already caught him at his very worst. 

So, he should do this right - shouldn’t he? 

He should wait. Do it properly. He’s never gotten the chance before, not really. 

He clears his throat and inches back from you, pulling your hand away from his cheek as he goes, patting your fingers gently. The last thing he wants to do is let go of you, and so he doesn’t, folding your fingers between his instead. “Yeah, I can get us tickets. Just wanted to make sure you still wanted to go.”

You smile and then narrow your eyes. “Did you forget about it or something?” 

Marc scoffs, feels the beat of the pulse in your wrist against his. Like he could fucking forget about it. “Of course not.” 

“Not,” you repeat with the same inflection, a tease in your voice. “Listen to that accent.” 

You glance over him, a strange fondness lodging in your eyes. “You alright? Looked like you were thinking pretty hard about something.” You reach up when he doesn’t answer to push a lock of hair behind his ear, like you’ve done a million times before. 

But this time you say, “You should let your curls out more.” 

Your fingers brush along his temple, the pads of your fingers soft. Marc basks in the warmth of your attention, the feeling of your hand against his skin. 

“You like the curls, huh?” 

You huff out a laugh and ruffle his hair until it falls in loose rings around his forehead. 

He glares at you, and you throw your head back and laugh. The sound is unbelievable in its joy and he’s surprised he managed to draw it out of you. 

Marc’s breath catches somewhere in his lungs, and he finds it hard to swallow down the feelings welling up. 

Should he wait? Should he do anything at all? 

This can’t last, this happiness in you. It never does, not when he’s around. 

He hates the uncertainty that snaps a steel trap around his heart. But it's true, it’s always been true that people are better off without him. 

You smile and twist a curl around your finger. “Look how pretty,” you coo at him. 

Marc finds himself leaning into your hand when you cup his jaw. He wants to close his eyes and melt into it because he can’t be sure how long it will last. Your fingertips are just brushing his cheek when -

“Stop it. We are not doing this again, Marc. Stop thinking like that, asshole,” Jake says from the rearview mirror so suddenly that Marc flinches away from your touch. 

You suck in a hard breath, and unlike the other times, it’s not a pleasant sound. “Sorry,” you pull back from him, looking horrified as you drop your hand. 

“No,” he reaches for you again. “No, it’s -,” 

You lift a brow, move your hand out of his reach, “It’s what?” 

“Not you,” he shakes his head. “It’s not you.” He glances at Jake, who has the gall to lift a brow at him though he does look guilty for startling him, and then back at you.

“Oh,” you murmur. 

Your face is closed off now, your smile a little strained, and he can’t tell what you’re thinking. “Okay.” You swallow, “I wanna go. With you. Just to be clear.” 

Marc isn’t really sure what to say as you tuck yourself back into the seat, practically against the door, readjusting the seat belt before you fiddle with the radio, not looking at him, like you’re trying to give him space he doesn’t want. 

He sighs, glares at the rearview where only his own face stares back at him now. He should know by now to take the chances offered to him, because nothing ever goes right otherwise. 

He wonders again, why he even tries. 

And this time, Jake isn’t there to interrupt him. 

Thank you for reading! A special thank you to those keeping up with the series, and for all the continued love and support.

Comments and feedback are so appreciated. New parts will be posted Saturdays at 3PM EST! You can add yourself to the tag list on the series masterlist.

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[mochees]

— two tortured souls

dazai osamu x chuuya nakahara | wc: 3k | crossposted to ao3

TAGS: drabble, angst, depression, post-corruption ability use, soft/comfort, generally low mental health mentions, chuuya has a BATH, use of petnames for teasing.

A/N: hihi!!! long time no write!!! remember when i dropped the most depraved, disgusting, self indulgent eremin fic ever and then dropped off the face of the earth with empty promises? me neither, moving on! anyway. been wanting to get back into writing lately but yknow..... the undergrad life........ but i find myself with too much time now that the semester is over so have a drabble thing i wrote a year ago and then just never posted lmfao. it was supposed to be longer but i just couldn't get the ending right so i left it kind of open i guess? anyway skk is real to me

Willingly sacrificing your autonomy is so much more than physically exhausting. Corruption leaves Chuuya feeling truly empty and insignificant. It makes him feel as though he really is just a vessel for something else. An empty, fleshy shell that doesn’t even belong to him. Unlike the physical exhaustion, however, the feeling lingers. It hangs around like a morning fog, obscuring everything as far as he can see. It’s disorienting and restrictive. Most of all, it’s loud. The voices that dwell in the fog are so loud, much louder than anything Chuuya has ever heard, and they echo. They echo, bouncing off of each other and amplifying every emotion, every word, every moment of despair.

Chuuya can’t remember how many days have passed since he used corruption. At least two, maybe even three. The fog is so thick that days eventually just blur together, and time turns into molasses. Resigning himself to a night or two in darkness, he tucks his knees against his chest and covers his ears with his arms, attempting to block out as much of the noise as possible. 

But you can’t silence your own guilt. 

It was pitch black in the house by the time Dazai arrived, which was unusual, but he figured that Chuuya was either tucked in and fast asleep already or strewn across some surface with a movie.

“Chuuya ~,” he sang. “I’m back ~!” Concern grew on Dazai’s face when the routine groan of usually completely false annoyance didn’t sound. He counted all the hats in the closet as he tucked his own clothing away and muttered to no one in particular, “he’s definitely here…”

The detective took a few steps before he sounded again, “Chuuya? Where are you?” The absence of an answer worried him further. No matter how tired, angry, or drunk Chuuya was, he always made a point of greeting his partner as unenthusiastically as he could.

Dazai made his way through the house, checking a few rooms before he found Chuuya. Scrunched up in the far corner of the bedroom, his faint form was desperately trying to be swallowed by darkness. Even for someone who consistently allowed themselves to actually be swallowed by the darkness, seeing Chuuya in such distress and anguish was deeply unsettling for Dazai. Chuuya always surrounded himself with people, and for him to look so alone–

Dazai shook off his thoughts and made his way over to the man, crouching low a few feet away.

“…uuya? Chuuya?” When he didn’t respond, Dazai raised his volume a fraction.

“Are you alright?” Chuuya jumped a little, unaware that someone had crossed into his world of anguish.

Dazai chuckled. He couldn’t help but find it a little humourous; it’s not often he was able to get the jump on him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“Dazai?” Chuuya’s voice was hoarse and distant, and Dazai immediately steeled himself.

“Are you– what happened?”

The executive didn’t answer. He just stared—not through Dazai or at anything; he just looked ahead with no purpose. Chuuya could hear something but could not decipher the sounds for the life of him. He only realized they were words when he noticed Dazai’s mouth moving.

There was nothing about Chuuya's demeanour that told Dazai he was conscious. But he also wasn't unconscious. God knows Dazai is all too familiar with Chuuya's unconscious mind, and this wasn't it. There was no light in his eyes, but they weren't lifeless. It was as if Chuuya had trapped himself in his own body, caught between two states of being. He didn't know if Chuuya could even process what he was saying in this state, but he also didn't want to stop. Perhaps Dazai believed in a silly idea that the sound waves might reach him, that they would guide him through whatever limbo he was in. 

Once he finished, Dazai rose from his place on the floor and made his way to the bedroom door. Chuuya could see him leaving, but he couldn’t hear his footsteps. All he could focus on was the voices getting louder again, and the second that Dazai was out that door they started to echo again. Unwilling to fight them, Chuuya lowered his head back down and let the pressure build in his chest and ache his muscles.

Physically, the pain was no different from a hard day's work, but emotionally, it was excruciating. Every breath was hell. Each inhale wound a cord up tightly, but breathing out did nothing to release it. All of the fibres in Chuuya's body felt like they would snap and finally grant him a moment's release, maybe even exhaust him enough to sleep, but they didn't. Instead, they grew tighter and tighter, digging into every strand until it inevitably cut him into a million little pieces.

When Dazai returned, he was greeted with a sight more devastating than before. Tension was emanating from Chuuya like heat from a grill, and he looked positively hopeless.

“Chuuya,” Dazai’s voice was uncharacteristically soft—unfitting, really—but he hoped it might help Chuuya focus. “Will you come with me?” He waited a few moments, giving the redhead extra time to process.

To Chuuya, the sounds outside his head would die before they could fully reach him. The echo was good at drowning everything out like that. 

But luckily, Dazai always did have a talent for evading death.

“You don’t have to do anything, I promise. I’ll–” He hesitated. How can you promise to take care of someone else when you’ve never been able to care for yourself?

“–I’ll help you. Please, Chuuya. If you stay here, it’s not going to get any better.”

Chuuya Nakahara knows that he is right. Of anyone, Osamu Dazai would know, wouldn’t he? It takes him a little while, but with a few shaky breaths and silent tears, he lifts his head and places his hand in the one outstretched before him. This won't fix him, but he has to admit that when Dazai rubs his thumb along his skin, it releases some of the tension in his shoulders. Dazai leans forward and slowly reaches for Chuuya’s other hand, stiff from how tight he was grasping onto his other arm.

“Okay, up we go.” Wasting no time to get Chuuya out of the isolation he'd built for himself, Dazai does his best to support as much of his weight as he can while holding his hands. He doesn’t know how long Chuuya had been sitting there, but he reckons his legs have probably gone numb. As if on cue, Chuuya almost falls right back down before Dazai has a hand on his waist.

“Careful.”

Chuuya's eyes are red and puffy, and his agony has left trails down his cheeks. Chuuya has always been beautiful to Dazai, stealing heartfelt glances when the former isn't looking. But seeing him like this is, in a way, even more breathtaking to Dazai. It means that after all these years of being so sick of each other's mere existence that Chuuya, his rival, his partner, trusts Dazai enough to shatter before him completely. Bringing Chuuya's hand up to his mouth, he lets his lips linger for a few moments as they wait for Chuuya's legs to regain feeling.

Once Chuuya is stable, he lets go of the shorter man’s waist and leads him with one hand, still petting his thumb across the freezing expanse of his hand.

Chuuya doesn’t know what his partner has been doing, or maybe he does. He can’t remember right now; he doesn’t want to. Wherever Dazai is taking him, it takes no longer than twenty seconds, but he feels like a stranger in his own home, wading through the thickest pool of molasses. He can see a straight hallway ahead of him, but it seems like an endless maze of twists and turns. One foot in front of the other, he tries to tell himself, but it’s hard to tell your feet what to do when you feel like a stranger in your own body to. He can feel his face growing wetter as they arrive at their destination. However, in a brief moment of relief, he realizes that they're not tears but steam.

For the time that he had disappeared past the threshold, Dazai had run Chuuya a hot bath and made him something simple to eat. Knowing all too well what feeling this way does to one’s motivation and desire. But honestly, the last thing Chuuya wants to do right now is to bathe. It’s far too much work, and he’d rather be back in the dark in the corner or under a blanket. Even if it meant he’d be alone with his stupid fucking thoughts.

“I know it seems like a chore, but it will help, Chuuya.” Dazai’s familiarity with the muddied waters of one’s own psyche was currently vastly irritating. Chuuya knows that he’s right. He does, but even then, it’s still too much for him to handle right now.

Dazai takes Chuuya’s other hand back in his own. “Do you want me to stay?”

“I– I don’t know.” His voice sounded better to Dazai, the steam probably settling in his throat.

“It’s okay not to know, but I can’t stay here with you if you don’t know.”

Chuuya snaps his head a little at that, shooting his partner an exhausted expression. Dazai gives a slight smile at the motion and gives the others' hands, still in his own, a reassuring squeeze. Perhaps it’s a little morally wrong given the circumstances, but he thinks that he could have a little, tiny bit of fun with this.

“Would you like my help?” He asks again, and Chuuya nods his head before practically collapsing into his arms.

Oh, it is absolutely morally wrong, but he can’t help himself, so he softly teases the man. “Such a gentleman! Flirting with me before we spend the night in each other's company!”

That earns a tired groan from Chuuya who is not willing to put up with Dazai’s usual jeering, but also not unexpected of the brunette to choose the completely wrong time to make his jokes.

“I’m sorry, my darling.” He uses the pet name, knowing he’ll be able to get away with it tonight since Chuuya is too tired to fight him. He runs his fingers through red strands, waiting for Chuuya’s breathing to even out in his hold before moving his hands down to the hem of his shirt. Deft fingers slip underneath and rub small circles into the skin there.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Upon receiving a satisfied hum of approval, he lifts Chuuya’s shirt over his head and drops it onto the counter. Staying out of your head is hard when you’re alone. Knowing Chuuya has already surmised his partners' intentions of distracting him, gently, Dazai pulls him back into his chest and runs his nails down his back. Chuuya’s skin was already freezing before, so he can’t tell if his goosebumps are from chills, or from him. He hopes it’s the latter. After a few seconds, his movements shift into steady pressure trying to work out the tension that Chuuya had cultivated. When he feels Chuuya fall further into him, Dazai is pleased with his work already.

“Chuuya,” he presses harder when he finds a particularly knotty spot at the base of Chuuya’s neck. “Unless you want to get in with your pants on, you’ll have to take them off.”

This earns Dazai a particularly unimpressed look when Chuuya pushes off his chest.

“What?”

Chuuya continues to stare.

“Did you want me to do it for you?”

Well, Chuuya supposes that Dazai can’t help the fact that he is an idiot. After all, he did promise to help. He rolls his eyes and lets out a particularly rumbly sigh, and drops his pants himself, kicking them to the side.

“So forward of you~” teases Dazai.

Turning towards the tub, Chuuya grumbles. “I hate you.”

Dazai grins again. Even if he still feels worse than shit, he’s glad to see Chuuya with a little bit of his fire again. “I know you do. Here, let me help.”

Holding onto Chuuya’s forearm, Dazai helps him settle into the bath. Chuuya resumes his form from earlier in the night, but much more open. His arms are propped on top of his knees, hands hanging down, and fingers just dipping into the water. Dropping his head in between his shoulders as the heat surrounds his aching body, blue eyes fall shut. Then, he releases a deep breath he didn’t even realize he was holding in. Dazai has his arm across the edge of the tub, resting his head with eyes full of admiration. With Chuuya completely bare in front of him, he traces the flow of his body with his eyes. Stopping often to archive all the little things he loves. Soft red hair that he can't help but play with. Shoulders that he's cried on. The gentleness of his otherwise blood-soaked hands. Even the scars littered across his skin, Dazai loves. They look much better on Chuuya than on him. He reaches out and just barely grazes the sides of Chuuya’s fingers above the water.

“What are you so happy about?”

Dazai hums in response, and Chuuya blows a ripple on the water. They spend a while like this—still, just next to each other, the only sound being an occasional jittery breath.

Dazai interrupts the silence by dipping his fingers into the water and letting the droplets roll off onto Chuuya’s shoulder. 

“Feeling better?”

Chuuya wiggles his fingers in the water, trying to find an answer below the surface.  

“C’mere, and turn around.”

Chuuya turns his head, resting it along his arm and staring the man down.Dazai can read it in his eyes: For what. 

“You’re still tense. So come here.” He presses his finger on the edge of the tub. “I didn’t get to finish getting all the knots out.”

Dazai is not as good at hiding his intentions from Chuuya as he thinks he can be. “You just want to play with my hair.” 

Dazai knows this. He feigns being insulted anyway, throwing his hands into the air. “And so what if I do? Is that a crime? Is it wrong of me to want t–”

“You’re real insufferable, y’know.” Chuuya turns his back to the side of the bathtub.

Dazai smiles sweetly. He likes that so much of their relationship can be left unsaid. Sure, sometimes it probably shouldn’t be unsaid, but it’s fine. Dazai is happy. “It’s why we work so well together.” 

He gets to work on dissipating the rest of the fear and anger in Chuuya’s bones, occasionally and very intentionally, getting sidetracked and twirling a lock of hair around his fingers. At the mercy of Dazai's frighteningly deft hands, a particular spot just above Chuuya's shoulder blade earns Dazai a groan—one he oh so graciously accepts. Working lithe fingers around it, Chuuya leans his head back onto Dazai as the little ball of stress is pulled apart, strand by strand. 

Chuuya's neck is deliciously bared, and Dazai is an opportunistic man. He trails kisses up to just below red lashes, slow and endearing. He continues massaging throughout, placing a final one on fluttering eyes before dragging his lips back down to Chuuya’s ear. 

“The water’s getting cool, my love. You should really get out soon.” Dazai is very pleased with himself when Chuuya shudders.   (He is an opportunistic man, after all, and it truly is such a wonderful opportunity to be the most annoying man on the planet.) He lets his mouth fall down to Chuuya’s shoulder, resting for a moment and trying very hard to hold back the biggest, dopiest grin. Of course, Chuuya can tell. He can sense the smallest shifts in Dazai's behaviour. Although, this time he could tell by just feeling Dazai's facial muscles straining against his shoulder. But Dazai doesn't need to know that. 

 "...Shut up. Get me a towel." Chuuya does a very bad job of hiding the blush on his cheeks. 

Dazai just smiles at his partner, he can't see, but it's a smile full of fondness. One with admiration, love, and as much as he'd rather die than admit it, respect too. Letting someone see you have a complete breakdown, watching as the industrial strength glue you've used to keep yourself from falling apart rapidly starts to degrade, and still trusting that they won't think any differently of or diminish you, takes so much courage. It takes so much trust to rely on someone, even someone you love, to help you set the pieces back together. 

That's something Dazai has never been able to do. He can't let go of that vulnerability, and he cannot have it used against him. Of course, deep down, Dazai knows that Chuuya would never do that to him, but it's hard to turn off those thoughts. It's hard to think of yourself as worth loving and caring for when you have never loved or cared for yourself. 

"Hey, are you okay?" The smile on Dazai's face is forlorn. Realizing that Chuuya is reading him like a book Dazai masterfully shifts his expression, changing the atmosphere around him. This is not about him, and he shouldn't be making it so. 

"I'm just peachy, Chibi!” Chuuya doesn't press any further.

Dazai wraps the towel around him, pulling at the ends to bring his partner closer. Taking a second to look over Chuuya, he notes that his eyes are no longer red and puffy, and his skin has a sheen from the moisture in the air. He truly is the most breathtaking person Dazai has ever had the displeasure of meeting. 

With Chuuya at his chest, he leans down and kisses the man. It's needy, in a way. Soft and tender, but full of so much want, so much need. Like if he couldn't be close to Chuuya anymore, he would simply explode. Dazai doesn't know how to express it though. How he would articulate these thoughts in a way that feels right, so he settles for something simple. Maybe it's not as meaningful, but he trusts that Chuuya understands anyway. 

[sweet-lost-husbands]

Seek Forgiveness

Prompt from @marchtothefuckingsea: you all like the trope of character being so delirious from their injuries that they don't realize someone on their team trying to help them, so they fight back, but I offer you: Character, delirious, weakly fighting someone trying to help them, but they finally recognize who it is and they fight even harder.

Hurt/Comfort

I absolutely loved writing this! Hopefully you enjoy reading this, please feel free to give any advice as well.

Word count: 3k on the dot 🫠🫠

Summary: Reader gets hurt on a hunt and she is forced to rely on someone who has hurt her in the past, to save her life.

Warnings: Serious injury, blood, broken bones, extreme gore, restraints, potions, accidental torture?? but only to save her. Reader is scared of Castiel.

No usage of y/n.

Italics are the character's thoughts

It was a simple mistake- and yet an unforgivable one. That was the irony to it. 

I limp forward, slowly catching my breath as I walk. I hold my cold hand against my abdomen, Warm blood leaking through the gaps in my fingers and the fabric of my clothes, coating my body like a blanket as gravity beckons it down. I know I needed to put more pressure, but I can’t bring myself to do it. 

I take another sharp painful step, when something crashes into my side, and I'm thrown to the unforgiving floor. I hear the snaps before I feel the hot pain that explodes in my ribs. My lungs gasp for a single breath of air but it seems to fall short.  

I have been in this situation once before; it gives me back memories I try deeply to forget.  

Then something is on me, clawing at my flesh. I recognise that smell anywhere, the blood thirst- the unholiness. A vamp. 

I fumble with the machete, begging my numb fingers to work. My heart pounds in my chest and ricochets of skull, so loud that I plead for moment of silence. 

My fingers grip around the handle and gain just enough leverage to sever its head with one flick of the wrist.  

I collapse backwards, coughing and spluttering as the world spins and blurs. An all too familiar metallic taste erodes my mouth. All my limbs ache with exhaustion. My eyelids feel heavy, and my mind begins to drift into unknown places. 

I almost reach the blissful darkness when an agonising burst of pain brings me back. I scream, thrashing against the sudden pressure on my abdomen. My muscles tense and I arch upward, whimpering as the force increases.  

Take it away take it away takeitaway 

Water brims in my eyes; I twist my hands up and latch around the unknown arm, in a weak attempt to pry it off. My vision smudges and I can't see their face. They take the moment to increase the pressure even more, so that now I'm sure they are pushing their whole weight against it. I let out a strangled cry and can’t stop from writhing beneath them. 

Stop it, pleaseee 

“Shhhh, I know it hurts.”  

I barely make out the words because they are clouded by a layer of fog. Briefly, a feeling of warmth floats over my forehead, then disappears again, followed by some faint muttering.  

“Leave. Me. The. Hell. Alone.” I pant, continuing to push at his arms, anything to get away. When all fails, I start to turn in on myself, but he manages to keep me in place.  

Please 

“Hey, easy, easy, don’t move!” 

I can’t.  

One hand continues to put too much pressure on the wound while the other starts skimming over my skin, looking for injuries before coming to rest on my shoulder. 

“Oh god, your cold. We have to get you out of here.”  

Before I can protest, he pulls me into sitting and drapes my arm over his shoulder to support my weight. I let out a weak sob at the movement, doing what little I can to resist. A moment later, I am hoisted up. 

It starts with a few steps, but my side screams at me, and I try to double over and lay back on the ground.  

“Crap.” I hear him say, as he repositions my arm to keep me standing.  

He reaches under my knees and across my back and pulls me into his chest. I weakly shove at it, squirming from the shift in my ribs. 

No no no no 

“I know, I know.” He says something more, but I don’t mange to make it out. 

The next few minutes go by slowly. Each step moves me, and I can't do anything to stop it. At some point my eyes flutter shut. Yes, darkness. But a sharp pain blossoms as he purposely jolts me awake.  

I gasp, once again trying to free myself but he only tightens his grip.  

“Stay with me. Don’t you dare close your eyes.” 

“No....” 

“Yes.” His voice is firm like an order. “Yes, and if you don’t, then I'm going to have to force you back again. And you don’t want that do you?” 

“No.” 

“Good.” 

Eventually I feel him ease his arms that secure me and delicately place me down on something soft. Hopefully a bed but I'm too tired to care. Where am I? 

Hands glide over my face and cup it. I try to wave them away, but they don’t budge. A blurry figure is pulled into my eyesight and just for a second, I am able to focus enough to recognise the face. Cas. 

Damn it, I should have realised earlier. Not him. Anyone but him. He’s going to hurt me again. 

Suddenly I pull every tendril of remaining energy from my body to fight his grasp and propel myself away. The cool floor meets my face and I scramble weakly along it. Whimpering and curling up in a ball, tears adding to the already blood-soaked floor as my limbs finally give out. I’m aware that I'm shivering but its only when I look ahead and see a mirror, do I realise how pale I actually am. 

A finger taps my shoulder, and I can sense his presence next to me. 

Please don’t hurt me 

“Go away!” My voice strains. 

“You know I can’t do that.” He brushes a stray strand of hair from my face and forces our eyes to meet. It almost catches me off guard; I see something there that I have never seen before. Pleading. 

Why? 

“Don’t you dare.” I whisper but he ignores me and tries to slide his fingers to the hem of my shirt. I bat his hands away once more. 

“Stop fighting me!” His head is tilted in pure concern. 

Why does he care, why is he different? 

I start to mumble a response, but a coughing fit quickly wracks my torso. Cas acts quickly, bringing my head up to rest on his lap until it subsides. From there, he lifts me onto the bed and lays me out flat, which I instinctively start to curl.  

“I can’t heal you but let me help.” 

“No, g’t aw’y fr’m me. Anyth’ng b’t your help.” I slur. 

“Okay.” His voice is laced with remorse and heartbreak. “Then you leave me no choice.” 

First, he grasps my arm and gently tugs it away from me, securing it with rope; the next is my other hand and then both my legs, until I am fully outstretched. I almost can’t stand it; the pain intensifies. I feebly yank on the restraints, trying to get free myself, but they are unyielding.  

I only notice that Cas had left the room when he returns, holding a med kit. He sets it down on the bed-side table and starts taking things out and positioning them in a certain way. “I’m sorry but I’ve already caused you enough pain and if you die and I had a chance to save you......” He trails off. “I won't be able to forgive myself.”  

He pauses, taking out a wad of gauze and a bottle of alcohol.  

In the haze, I almost miss the stray tear making its way down his cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

“You d’d.” I rasp, narrowing my vision on what he is doing, with an expression of horror on my face. Don’t put me through more pain, just let me go, why can't he let me go? Surely, he can see that I don’t want this. Surely.  

I pull at the restraints again. 

“I know.” He purposely hides his face so I can’t see the sadness in his eyes, “And yes, while it may have been true that I was under a spell and couldn’t help it; I am sorry. I will do anything to make up to you, but first let me help.” 

Nothing manages to leave my throat as he turns back to me. Was that true? Was it not his fault? I feel the blood drain from my face. Last time he had tortured me and left me for dead, I was lucky that Dean made it to me in time. After that I became a hunter to stop things like what happened to me. But maybe Cas wasn’t a monster- not anymore. 

“Stay still.” He says and gives me a sad smile; like he hates what he is about to do. I feel his gentle fingers at the hem of my crimson-soaked shirt, and he carefully lifts it up. 

He grabs a few things. “This will hurt...... I am truly sorry.” 

There is a slap of elastic gloves being put on and then he nears. I feel as he places one hand a couple of inches above the wound, which I realise is to keep me in place.  

The moment the alcohol-soaked gauze skims over my tender skin, I screech, lashing out, fighting the rope bound around me. It burns like my whole abdomen is lit aflame. 

Can’t get free can’t get free cantgetfree 

My body trembles as Castiel begins to push it in further to clean it. I struggle against him, pushing back into the bed as much as I can, but it doesn’t help. Nothing stops him from taking his time to thoroughly sterilise it. I jerk at every movement of the gauze- back and forth, pushing in the skin, not failing to get right into the corner. Each inch forcing it way through my tender flesh. I cry from the pain, still tugging at the restraints and recoiling against Cas’s hands, completely helpless to free myself. 

“Easy, easy, almost done.” He says as he wipes the wound one last time and pulls away. 

Sweat trickles down my forehead and I visually relax, panting. 

“I’m sorry but that had to be done.” He says over his shoulder as he fiddles with something else in the med kit. “Dean and Sam will be here by tomorrow evening, but you’ll bleed out long before they get here; I'm going to have to stitch it.” 

“Nooooo pleaseeee.” I whine. 

He lays a comforting hand on my shoulder and starts rubbing soothing circles. “Trust me, I don’t want to do this either. I would give anything not to have to hurt you again.” The way his words quiver like there is a lump in his throat, sells the line. 

He waits a little longer and then lets my shoulder go and brings the needle and thread to the bed-side table. 

“C-cold.” I stutter. 

“I’ll get you a blanket once this is done.” 

Castiel places the same hand on my chest again but this time, he applies a little more pressure. “Don’t move if you can help it, it could cause me to stitch all wonky. I know this isn’t ideal, but we can’t waste any more time. Please forgive me.” 

I flinch the first time the needle pricks my pale skin, then still. I stifle my groan which soon turns into a quiet sob as he continues relentlessly. I am barely aware of him muttering hush apologies to me at every groan, cry and beg. 

The pain expands though my side with each new stitch, constantly lingering. I try to focus on the ceiling, but it doesn’t distract much, since there is no way to not feel the movement of the needle. God I hate needles. 

"Stop tensing the area I'm trying to stitch." Cas orders and clamps his hand down a little more. 

“Yeah, well if you, AAGH.” He hits the spot which is the deepest and it causes me to jump. 

“I told you to stop moving!” 

I nod and clench my hands until the knuckles are white, to stop myself from wriggling. 

“You know,” He starts his next stitch and pinches the skin together, ignoring my wince. “You are quite remarkable; a thousand others would’ve passed out long before this step.” He threads it through and ties it.  

My skin is so tight around the wound, and it feels like a white-hot sting that won’t go away.  

“Holy Shit!” I swear, as a sudden burning rushes through the wound. He puts the alcohol on the table and gives be an apologetic smile. "You could have warned for that." 

He shrugs. "Sam says it’s better without a warning."  

I whimper as he places a large bandage over the top and starts clearing everything away. 

“It’s done for the time being.” He comforts, and lightly kisses me on the forehead. “You can sleep now.” 

I feel my head finally lull to the side and I allow myself to drift off. 

~ 

When I open my eyes, my head throbs and the world spins. I see Cas and for an instant my mind takes me right back to when he was a monster, and I bolt up. 

He rushes to my side and to pushes me down with his angel strength. 

“Hey, hey, it’s just me. Slow down.” 

I relax in his arms once I realise.  

“There.” He soothes, shifting so that I am lying flat, but his voice soon turns serious. “Stunts like that could tear your stitches.” He peels the bandage back and takes a look. “But thankfully it hasn’t.” 

He pulls the blanket back over me and carefully holds a glass of water to my lips. “Slow.” He says and tilts it a little. 

I hadn’t realised how thirsty I was and start to lap it up. He pulls away and I chase after it, but he continues to hold my clamp down on my shoulder with one hand. 

“Slow.” He repeats and brings the cup back. I do what as he says until it's gone. 

I wiggle my feet enough to find that he must have taken the restraints off while I was out. 

He takes a seat next to the bed and squeezes my hand. It's so warm. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Like I've been stabbed.” 

Cas smiles. “How do you really feel?” 

I sigh. “Tired, everything hurts.” 

“I’d assume that’s normal considering what you’ve been through.” He tilts his head towards my ribs. “When you're ready, I need to take a look, okay?” 

I swallow thickly. “Okay.” I chastise myself at how the words break in my throat, I know he's only trying to help. 

A shudder escapes my lips as Cas’s warm fingers skim over my ribs. I hold back a choked cry as he presses into them, testing the bones. By the time he finishes, I am as far away from him as the bed allows. 

“A couple are broken; I'll go get you an icepack.” 

When he re-enters and positions the icepack over my sides, his face has saddened like he isn’t telling me something. 

“What is it?” I ask. 

He doesn’t hold back. “There’s been a slight delay with Sam and Dean, they won’t be here for a few more days. We are in a small cabin out in the woods, it's not safe here. The vampire's that did this to you could be back with the rest of the nest.” 

“Oh.” I manage to say. 

He wipes a finger over my face to stop the tears. “We need to leave but we can’t do that with the condition you're in now. And I can’t heal you because they used a blade warded against angels.” 

“So, what do we do?” I take his hand and intertwine our fingers. 

“You know I don’t want to put you in more pain than I have to.” I can feel him shaking now; he's scared. 

“Cas.” My tone is slightly louder than I wanted. 

There's a pause. He readjusts his trench coat like its uncomfortable. “There may be a healing spell that could help but I'm told that the procedure will be...... unpleasant, to say the least.”  

His whole face screams regret but I surprise him with my answer. “Do it.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah..... I trust you.” 

~ 

“Okay.” Cas says, more to himself than me. He places the neon purple potion on the table and undoes his belt. “Open,” he commands, “It should help with the pain.” 

I reluctantly take in the leather and bite down. 

“I have to restrain you now. If you mess with the potion even a little, it could prove faulty and there is no way in hell, I'm putting you through this twice.” 

I give a slight nod and he starts tying my limbs with rope. I get more scared by the second, I can already hear the rhythmic beat of my heart. This time he also adds some rope over my thighs and chest so I can move even less than before. 

Once he’s finished, he fetches the potion and hovers over me. 

“If you have somewhere you find soothing, go there in your mind.” 

Then he begins, first removing the bandage to expose the wound then pours it in. 

A blazing burst of pain explodes through my body, everything feels like it's on fire. Then his hands are on me, rubbing it as deep into the wound as possible while I strain and fight to get away from the hands that are hurting me. He manages to shove it through the gaps in the stitches so it can travel deeper. I scream and cry around the belt, every muscle tensed so much that it cramps. I can feel as every rib welds itself together and every cell in the wound presses until it's all combined.  

When all the pain finally simmers, relief washes over me. Cas whispers comforting words and praise as he undoes the restraints and pulls me into a hug. I am too weak to resist the movement, but I don’t want to, its sweet and warm. He saved me. 

“You did so well,” He soothes. “I am so proud of you. Are you okay?” 

“Yes,” I answer simply, “I am now, and I forgive you.” 

[perverse-idyll]

Fic Stats Tag Game

Rules: Give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words.

Thank you @danpuff-ao3 and @likelightinglass for tagging me! I've got an hour to relax, and this is just about my speed at the moment: something fun but not demanding. (One hour, my arse. It took me three days!) Who else would enjoy doing this? @ac1d6urn, @ripeteeth, @squibstress, @yletylyf?

Most Hits

The White Road, Snarry, 48K. I knew the answer to this one without having to check. TWR is my most popular fic by every metric and the one most Snarry readers know me by, not to mention it's old enough now to be a high school sophomore (or possibly an A level student). I'm happy I somehow managed to pull off a nonlinear fic, plus I was so, so in love with the Snarry ship and all its possibilities, and I think that shines through. I let myself explore Lily's character and responded in fic to the way Snape's story ended; gave Lily and Severus one last chance to face some hard truths; and - well, no need to flog it, there are just a lot of scenes in this fic that make me clutch my heart to this day. And I let myself be a bit romantic about my OTP! With a happy ending and everything! (Okay, I'm always romantic about Snarry, but you can't always tell that from my fics.)

If you have any desire to hear me natter on with more Writerly Thoughts about this fic, I recorded an interview with ChaosBlue over here: Fanfic Maverick episode 25

Second Most Kudos

Soft Touch, Snarry, ~15K. This was a sleeper hit. I never expected it to be popular, and it's not a fic people love, exactly. But the combination of mindfucky unethical massage kink plus character study brought readers to the yard - although, really, I doubt it has much to do with the "character study" part. I'm going to cheat here and borrow a bookmarker's comment to describe it: "Very sensual almost eerily so. Actually somehow slightly creepy at times yet very seductive at others. A weird read." I like how they can't seem to make up their mind! Because, yeah, IMO the appeal lies in that uncomfortable overlap between sensuality and creepiness, and the touch-starved atmosphere that hangs over it all.

Third Most Comments

The Afterlight, Snarry, WIP, currently at 46K. This is one of three melodramatic and, yes, romantic Snarry WIPs on my plate - ridiculous amounts of whump and/or emotional turmoil, plus a triple whammy of overwrought happy endings (but only after I put them through hell). Apparently after the last 10 years of Life Shite, my fannish desires are all about shameless self-indulgence now. This one has a serial killer subplot that's giving me conniptions, but I'm in love with the ending so I need the fic to get all the way there. It also ponders, in a "one dark thread running through the whole work" sense, what it means to die and come back, and I'll just say that Snape experienced death very differently than Harry did. I suspect this fic has as many comments as it does because readers were kindly encouraging me to continue after years of me not posting very much. I'm currently finishing up a Snape/McGonagall fic, but The Afterlight is next on the menu. Fourth Most Bookmarks

Warm, Snarry, ~11K. Hah! My PWP made the list! It's also a character study of Snape and Harry with an established couple dynamic, but come on, those bookmarks aren't about the settled kind of domestic bliss. They're more about the "naked by the fireside fucking each other's brains out" bliss. I wrote this fic for a prompt and to help me scrape the rust off my creative wheels after several years of writer's block. In doing so, I found that porn without plot doesn't come naturally to me. Or established relationship, either. Where's the angst? I muttered constantly to myself about the paucity of sexy anatomical slang and the problems with pacing a fairly drama-free fic. (Solution? Don't write 10K words of PWP when 3K words will do.)

Fifth Most Words

The Blood of Stars, Snarry, WIP, ~44K. This is the fic that started my journey into the melodramatic & romantic combo, but it hasn't been updated since 2014 (aka The Worst Year of My Life). However, it's alive! I've picked it up again and have been scribbling and revising scenes in between working on three other fics. This was also the start of my So What If It's Messy and Imperfect phase, which is a challenge as a perfectionist but a necessity in my current circumstances if I presume to have delusions of ever finishing anything ever again. It's a challenge in another sense, too, since I committed myself to writing Harry's section in first-person POV, just to see if I can. (The jury's still out on that.) It's also got book-ended sections written in third-person Snape (an obscure and hard-to-master dialect)(kidding), and I'm not terribly confident writing from his POV, either. But the fic's got one of those can't-stay-away-from-each-other plots (I love these), and Harry being unfaithful to Ginny (yes, I know, don't send the OOC police after me). It's full of emotional flailing and obsession and beloved characters behaving badly and Snape coming to a tragic end - but wait! There's also Love after Death and Snape having meltdowns and in the end sort of getting everything he ever wanted. In case it isn't obvious, I am wallowing like a pig in mud. I love this fic. 🥰

Fic with the Least Words

Truce, Doctor Who, Twelve/Clara, a classic drabble of 100 words. This won't make sense to anyone who hasn't seen their series arc and the last encounter between them. It's a drop in the bucket of my undying love for them, but alas, my fealty has already been pledged to my endless Snapely WIPs. But Twelve and Clara deserve so much more than I'm able to give them.

[idyllic-ghost]

vacation; dino x reader

synopsis: you and your boyfriend had a fight, but still decided to go on a road trip together.

a/n: not requested, but i got the sudden idea and had to write something about it.. this is mostly for myself. this was supposed to be very fluffy first, but then i changed it...

cw: past argument that hasn't been sorted out, creepy man at the gas station

genre: fluff, slight angst, comfort, established relationship

word count: 3k

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The clouds finally cleared up, leaving a gorgeous view of the blue morning sky. You had been in the passenger seat of Chan's car for almost an hour now, watching different sceneries pass you by, and you were enjoying every second. A soft tune, something R&B from one of Chan's playlists, was playing in the background - but you weren't paying close attention to it. The window was open on your side of the car so that you could stick out your hand and let the wind pass through your fingers like sand. As you played around with your arm out the window, you were deep in thought. This would have been the perfect road trip if it weren’t for one small detail. It had been a quiet ride for a reason: you and Chan had an argument the day before your planned road trip. The aftermath of the argument was bringing the mood down, and it was only going to get worse. Your friends had planned to meet up at a hotel by the beach and stay there for a few days, which was a nice idea for the summer - except that it was so far away. You had been excited about the long road trip, but considering the mood between you, you wished that you had just stayed home.

"Could you close the window?" Chan suddenly asked.

Except for a quick "good morning", and asking if you needed help with carrying your luggage, this was the first time he had spoken to you all day. The day was still young, of course, but it was unusual for the two of you to not speak to each other. You couldn't remember what the argument was about anymore, but he had upset you and had yet to apologize. You weren't going to bring it up first, according to you that should be his job - and you were stubborn, but so was he. Still, you pushed the button to roll the window up and watched as your only distraction went away.

"Can I put on a song?" you muttered.

Chan nodded and handed you his phone. You knew his passcode, and quickly typed it in and opened Spotify. After looking through some of his playlists, you decided to search for a song instead. Snooping through his search history, you found "Lights On" by H.E.R. and decided to play it. It wasn't a song that you were very familiar with, but you faintly remembered liking it the last time you listened to it. As it started playing, you thought nothing of it but Chan seemed to tense up a bit. As the chorus hit, you realized why - the song was on the playlist he put on whenever you would try to make your sex life more romantic.

From time to time, Chan would insist on planning a romantic date for the two of you - the last time was during your anniversary a week ago. He had woken you up with breakfast in bed, taken you out to dinner in the evening, and as you came home he turned on his newly made playlist, which had this song on it - the song being in his search history being proof of how recent it had been. It was sweet of him to try to make everything as romantic as possible. You never really listened to the music that much whenever it happened, since you were focused on something entirely different. However, Chan clearly remembered - which was expected since he was the one who made the playlist in the first place.

As the song kept on playing, you folded your arms over your chest. When you glanced over at Chan, he was trying to keep it cool and tightened his grip on the steering wheel to get out some tension. Now that you remembered the song, you couldn't help but think about it and everything that it entailed. As Chan gripped the steering wheel, the veins on his arms grew more prominent. Looking at his forearms leads you to look at his biceps, which are on show in his black tank top. He looked as good as he always did, but now that you had sworn to not give into his charms it seemed like he had grown even more handsome. You want what you cannot have. When you finally looked up at his face, he turned his eyes to you for a split second - making you look back at the road.

"Did you pick this song on purpose?" he asked suddenly.

The chorus played again, and images of his lips hovering over your skin and his hands gripping the flesh of your thighs flashed before your eyes. You had to stay strong and stand your ground.

"I don't know what you mean," you said, your face growing increasingly red. "I just picked a song."

He was quiet again. As the song continued memories continued to attack your brain. It was apparently very easy for you to remember things by simply listening to music. However, you weren't going to turn it off because that would give you away. The song finally came to an end, and the next song started playing - a happier one, and less suggestive than the former. For once you didn't mind a cock blocker, as the tension was immediately released from the tight space of the car. You felt as if you could finally breathe. Just as you started to calm down, Chan pulled into a gas station. When the car came to a stop, the two of you only sat there. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn't dare to look.

"I'm going to get something from the store," he said, "Do you want anything?"

You finally looked over at him and wished that you weren't so stubborn. If you weren't so stubborn you could've forgiven him for the stupid argument and enjoyed this trip thoroughly. If you had maybe laughed and joked about the song earlier, you could have forgotten yesterday's event and this wouldn't be so terribly awkward. By the look in his eyes, Chan seemed to wish for the same thing. Neither of you would admit that.

"A coffee," you said, "and something to eat, I'm getting hungry."

"I told you to eat a proper breakfast." He sighed and got out of the car. "Could you get the gas for me?"

Before you could start arguing with him about breakfast, he was walking to the small gas station store. Usually, he would've asked if you wanted to go in with him, and the two of you would look at the magazines by the counter and laugh at the weird titles. Instead, you were stuck pumping the gas in the prickly heat. This wasn't how you wanted your vacation to go.

You got out of the car and started to pump gas. You held the pump against the car and took a deep breath in an attempt to breathe out all of the negative emotions. As you were going straight to the beach after getting to the hotel, you were dressed up a bit more than a normal person would be during a road trip. It was also because you thought you could get Chan's attention with it. Instead of your boyfriend's eyes, you seemed to have captured someone else's. You were approached by a stranger with a bright, charming smile. When you saw him walking up to you in the corner of your eye, you tried to ignore him and thought that he would go away if you showed no interest. Nevertheless, he was as good at being a creep as he was at smiling.

"You're very dressed up for a gas station," he commented.

"Well, this isn't exactly my final destination," you said, and gave him a polite smile.

You were never good with strangers, having Chan around always gave you an excuse to walk away. Without him there, your brain was emptied of excuses.

"Of course not." His big, shining smile never faltered. "Someone as beautiful as you should be surrounded by beautiful things, right?"

You really didn't want to talk to him and opted to just give him an awkward yet polite smile and a nod. It was an understatement to say that you were a bit uncomfortable now. However, if you got into the car, you would be even more trapped. You could go into the store and ask Chan for help, but the stranger would most likely follow you - and you didn't want to bother Chan now that he seemed so easily agitated.

"Listen, I wanted to come over here to ask for your number," the stranger continued.

You pulled out the gas pump, put it back in its place, and went to pay. The stranger's voice hadn't reached your brain yet, you were still worrying about what your vacation would look like now that you and Chan weren't getting along. The man was introducing himself, talking an endless amount before making his offer of giving you his number again. You didn't respond.

"Can i take your silence as a yes?" he asked.

"Sorry, what did you say?" You sighed, at this point your annoyance was obvious to anyone within earshot.

"Your number. Can I have it?" he repeated.

"They're not interested." Chan's voice sounded like heaven on Earth when he interrupted the stranger.

He didn't spare the stranger a glance, and only put in the stuff he had bought into the car. The stranger didn't leave even with Chan's presence. When Chan was done putting the food in the car he leaned on the roof of the car and looked over at you.

"Did you get the gas, sweetheart?" he asked.

His eyes were softer than they were before in the car, any remnants of the argument erased from his mind. It must have been because he could see that you were uncomfortable with this stranger. All you could do was nod, not sure of how else you could respond. You looked over at the stranger and gave him another polite smile to try to get him to move so that you could go to the passenger seat. He wasn't moving.

"Could you please move?" you asked, thinking that he maybe just didn't understand your non-verbal cue.

"I want to hear your answer first," he said, "Not his."

"Jesus fucking Christ." You groaned. "Could you just move? Do you really think that I would say yes to that when I have a boyfriend? And when he's literally standing right next to you?"

He moved out of the way, with a comment about your looks that you didn't bother listening to. The stranger walked off as you closed the door to the car, although you were sure that he would try to open it again if Chan wasn't there. You took a shaky breath, jumping a bit when Chan closed the door to the driver's seat. He looked at you, but you couldn't respond to his gaze.

"Are you okay?" he asked carefully, and placed his hand on your thigh in an attempt to comfort you.

"Just drive," you replied, but it came out colder than you wanted it to.

Without another word, Chan handed you the bag of snacks he had just bought. He started the car, following your order. You looked through the bag and noticed one of your favorites lying at the top. When you looked at the cup holder you noticed a cup of coffee waiting for you in one of them. He had interesting ways of apologizing, but by now you knew that this was the beginning of an apology for the argument. However, because you had already forgotten the argument, and considering what just happened, you found more comfort than forgiveness in his actions. Chan was too busy with looking at the road to notice you looking over at him.

"Thank you," you said as you took out the bag of your favorite snacks.

He acknowledged your thanks by placing his hand on your thigh again. This time, before he could pull his hand away, you put yours on top of his. Your fingers intertwined after he turned his palm to meet yours. A small smile spread across your lips as he gently squeezed your hand.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The rest of the car ride was silent, and much less chaotic than before. The playlist was filled with happy songs, some of them being your favorites, and Chan's hand never left yours. This half of the drive was much more comfortable than the first. Chan hadn't apologized, but you had already forgiven him - or at least, you were letting it slide. When you reached your destination, you immediately saw your friends waiting on the patio of the hotel.

"You guys are late," someone said as you got out of the car.

"We got caught up at the gas station," you explained, skipping the detail of the creep.

They helped you carry your bags to your room, and no one seemed to notice the tension between you and Chan. If they did, they had nothing to say about it - which you appreciated. The room was small, but big enough for you and Chan. There was a small TV in the corner, a big bed pushed against the wall, and the bathroom was just fine. You weren't going to spend much time there anyway.

"Where are the others?" you asked as you put your bags away in the corner of the room. "Were we the last ones to arrive?"

"We're still waiting for a couple more people, but most of the group is already at the beach," they explained. "They brought some equipment for a mini-barbecue, so lunch should be ready soon."

"Oh good, i'm starving!" you exclaimed. "Let's go already!"

Your friends left first, and when you were about to follow Chan grabbed your wrist. When you turned back to look at him he had a worried expression on his face. He told the other's to go on without them, that the two of you just needed a moment to freshen up. You said nothing, although you knew he was lying.

"Shouldn't we talk about what happened at the gas station?" he asked. "Are you okay? Did he do something to you before I got there?"

".. I would rather just forget about it," you lied. "Besides, we're here to have fun. Let's focus on something else."

You walked over to the door, but Chan got in front of you to stop you. A clump started building up in your throat at the look on his face. The corners of his lips were slightly turned down, his eyes filled with both worry and regret.

"Just wait a bit." He sighed and closed the door behind him. "I want to apologize."

He put his hands on your upper arms. Chan looked worried and disappointed, but most of all he looked like he very desperately wanted things to go back to normal.

"I'm sorry for saying those things yesterday, it was childish of me," he admitted. "And I'm sorry for taking so long to apologize, especially since I ruined the trip for you."

"You didn't ruin anything for me," you tried to console him.

"No, I did." He shook his head. "I know how much you were looking forward to the road trip, and this vacation, and I just ruined half of it already."

"... can I tell you something?" you asked and he nodded. "I forgot what we were arguing about before."

The two of you looked at each other for a while and then broke out into a small fit of laughter. He hugged you, one of his hands on the back of your head, and your hands snaked around his waist to bring him in closer. You missed feeling close to him, even if it had only been a day. You took a deep breath, attempting to get even closer to him by nuzzling your face into his chest.

"Can we talk about what happened at the gas station now?" he murmured against the top of your head.

"He was just creepy," you muttered against him. "You came just in time... but I guess he did kind of ruin the rest of the car ride."

"I'm sorry, love." He kissed your temple. "Are you okay now?"

You started feeling the familiar stinging in your eyes, you hadn't realized that it had scared you as much as it had. It felt somewhat stupid since he hadn't actually done anything but talk, but having Chan here now made you feel relieved and safe enough to let go of the tension in your muscles.

"... I don't know." You sniffled. "I just wish it hadn't happened at all... is it weird that I got scared? I know he was just talking to me but-"

"Not at all," he assured you. "He was being a creep, and it's totally understandable if he made you feel that way, but you're safe now okay? I won't leave your side."

You brought your hands to his chest and gently pushed him away from you, only enough to be able to properly look at him again. chan gave you a reassuring smile and caressed your cheek with his palm. you smiled and leaned into his touch - finally, you were able to enjoy his presence again without hurting your pride.

"We should go eat," you said, "I'm still starving."

He agreed, and the two of you got down to the beach to meet the others.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . �� . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

At the end of the day, you were in the hotel restaurant. The lunch was a success, but you all decided to buy dinner because none of you wanted to put up with the small grill anymore. Most of your friends had gone back to the beach to watch a bonfire, an event that the hotel put together. You were sitting on the terrace, next to Chan on a comfortable sofa, holding a drink that was brought to you by a waiter. You didn't know what it was, but it tasted good - subsequently, it also made you feel warm and tired. The latter might have been due to the late hour, mixed with the comforting feeling of Chan's fingers rubbing soft patterns into your upper thigh. His arm was around your waist, as you snuggled up against his shoulder.

"Do you want to go down to the beach?" you murmured in his ear.

"Are you sure you can walk that far?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Of course I can." You smiled wide and stood up.

The lack of your presence made Chan let out a dramatic sigh, even if he was enjoying watching you walk away. Not being in a forgotten argument with you proved to be rewarding, as he couldn't quite shake the feeling of being the luckiest man in the world. When you turned around, you caught him staring.

"Are you coming or not?" you asked with a knowing smile. "You'll miss the bonfire if you just sit there all night."

He got up without any hesitation, sprinting towards you to grab your hand and run for the beach. The sand had been heated up throughout the day, but it was a nice combination with the chilly breeze. When you caught up to the others, the bonfire had been burning for a while already. As you and Chan took your place beside some of your friends, Chan wrapped his arms around your waist from behind - pressing your back against his chest, and leaning his chin on your shoulder.

"I'm really happy to be here with you," he whispered in your ear and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

You hummed in agreement and leaned your head against his. The flames danced in front of your eyes, but nothing could make you feel warmer than Chan's embrace. You finally relaxed, accepting the zero responsibilities of vacation.

[drabbles-mc]

Who You're Dealing With (Pt. 2)

Steve Murphy & Javier Peña & OC Carolina Rodriguez

(background Javier Peña x OC Carolina Rodriguez)

For @narcosfandomdiscord's Day of Conflict: fistfight and "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Warnings: 18+, language, fighting, mentions of alcohol, mentions of blood/injury

Find Part One HERE

Word Count: 3k

A/N: I didn't ever plan to write a follow-up to Who You're Dealing With but this prompt just felt too fitting! I simply couldn't help myself! Hope you enjoy. xo

Narcos Taglist: @garbinge @winchestershiresauce @sizzlingcloudmentality @panagiasikelia @616wilsons @hauntedforsst @mirabee @buckybarneshairpullingkink @boomclapxox @nessamc @supersanelyromantic @padbrookcottage @mysun-n-stars @raincoffeeandfandoms @justreblogginfics @ashlingnarcos @proceduralpassion @artemiseamoon @narcolini @hausofmamadas @cositapreciosa (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

For as much as Carolina didn’t even want to look at Javi in that moment, she also had no interest in going home alone to an empty house. What happened to her was Javi’s fault, certainly, but even so he was one of the only people who would be capable of providing her with any kind of comfort after everything that had unfolded. Some of that comfort might come in the form of her giving him snippy responses to all of his questions and statements, but she more than earned the right to do that.

Javi pulled into the garage at of the apartment complex that he and Steve were both placed in. Other than him asking Carolina if she wanted to be dropped off at home, and her brief response of, “No,” the ride had been completely silent. He didn’t expect much else. Once he cut the ignition on the car, leaving only the tiny light above the rearview mirror on, he turned and looked over at her. Given the events of the day, part of him had wondered if she was going to just pass out and go to sleep on the drive home. She didn’t have any such luck, though—she was wide awake and staring out the windshield at the concrete wall of the parking garage.

Clearing his throat like a warning, he asked, “Ready?”

Carolina let out a deep sigh, one that caused her to wince slightly in pain after the fact. “Yeah,” she muttered, exhaustion managing to drip off the singular syllable.

Javi would’ve gotten out and gone to open the car door for her if he thought that it would be genuinely helpful to her, if he thought that she even wanted him to do it. But he knew better. Stepping out, he shut the door and patiently waited for her to do the same before locking the car and walking over to her so that they could both enter the building together.

It was late, and quiet. The hallway lights were all on in the apartment complex, but there wasn’t the usual noise of TV and music flowing out from the cracks along the bottoms of everyone’s doors. The building wasn’t ever overly noisy, but given the events of the day, the quietness of it all felt more noticeable.

They slowly made their way down the hall, passing Steve’s door as they went. There was no light coming out from underneath his door despite the fact that he was a night owl as much as the rest of them—neither of them had the energy to think any deeper on it.

Just as they were about to reach the stairs that would take them up to Javi’s floor, Carolina stopped. Her head dropped back and she fought the urge to let out a groan. Instead, she let out a quiet, exasperated, “Fuck.”

Javi stopped, immediately looking at her and trying to figure out if something was hurting her. Or, at least, hurting more than everything else was at baseline in the moment. “What’s wrong?”

She looked over at him. “My gun. It’s in your car.”

“So?”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to bed without it tonight, Javi.”

“Caro—”

“Give me the keys,” she held out her hand, “I’ll get it myself.”

He waved her off. “I’ll get it.” As much as he wanted to argue, try to tell her that they were okay now and that he would keep her safe, he knew that he wasn’t going to win the argument. Even on a better day it would’ve been a longshot. So, rather than handing her his car keys, he gave her the one to his apartment. “Go let yourself in. I’ll be right there.”

That suggestion was one that she didn’t argue with. She swiped the keys out of his hand without another word. Javi turned on his heel and started heading back down the hall the way they just came. He looked down at the floor for a moment while he fished his car keys out of his pocket. He only looked up when he heard the door at the end of the hall open. His eyes widened and his feet stopped in their tracks when he saw Steve walking into the building.

Steve’s face instantly contorted in confusion when he saw Javi walking towards him. “Javi?” His gaze flitted down the hallway and he caught sight of Carolina almost at the base of the staircase. “Caro? What the hell?”

Javi was usually much quicker on his feet but his brain wasn’t working fast enough to come up with a good excuse. “Long day.”

“Yeah,” Steve chuckled light-heartedly, “I’ll say. You look like shit.”

Javi’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you drunk?”

Steve waved him off. “Fuck off. No, I’m not.”

“Where were you?”

“Don’t do that. You’re the one who’s being—”

Carolina spoke up, cutting them both off. “Can we finish this conversation later?”

Steve might not have been completely sober, but he wasn’t so drunk that he missed the twinge of pain lingering in Carolina’s voice as she asked them that very rhetorical question. He knew what she sounded like when she was pissed off, even knew what she sounded like when she was sad. This wasn’t either of those things—she sounded hurt.

His expression sobered even if the rest of him didn’t. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Javi answered for her, not wanting to get into all of this here.

Steve pushed past Javi, earning a slightly pained grunt as he did. With a few long strides he was easily able to catch up to Carolina at the bottom of the stairs. Once he got closer, he could see the state that she was in—the dirt, the dried blood, everything. He saw the way that her hand was trembling as it gripped the key to Javi’s apartment.

He couldn’t keep the concern off his face, or the pity, as he said, “We gotta get you to a—”

“The only place I’m going is to bed,” she said, trying to sound certain the way she usually did, which was a difficult feat when so much pain and exhaustion was weighing down on her shoulders.

“What the fuck happened with you two?” Steve asked, looking back and forth between them. “Why didn’t you fuckin’ call me?”

“We were a little caught up,” Javi answered with a scoff as he backpedaled and put himself closer to the two of them.

“With what?” Steve pressed.

Javi didn’t want to get into any of this with Steve no matter where they were, but he especially didn’t want to get into it in the middle of the hallway of their goddamn apartment building. “Steve—”

“Cut the shit, Jav,” Steve stopped his excuse before he could even get it started.

Javi looked over at Carolina, hoping that she would give him a lifeline of some kind. Her word was so often the final one—if she told Steve that they would talk about it in the morning, he’d listen. But she stood, silently, and waited for Javi to figure out how to handle this one himself. He could only imagine the twinge of satisfaction that it gave her to see him flounder like this. No matter how much pain she was in, no matter how tired she was, she would never be too exhausted or pained to not be angry, too.

“I’m not talkin’ about this here,” he said, his voice hushed. It was a Hail Mary of an attempt to put off the conversation.

Steve wouldn’t have bought it for a buck even if he had been sober, even if Carolina and Javi didn’t both look like they’d been dragged behind a truck for a few miles. He definitely wasn’t going to be put off that easily now. “Tough shit.” He watched as Javi tucked his chin down towards his chest. “Who the fuck did this to you guys?”

Javi couldn’t bring himself to say it. All of the struggles he’d gone through trying to keep his connections under-wraps, and within the span of one day two of the people he wanted to keep out of it the most were going to be put right in the middle of it. Steve was just going to hear about it, at least, unlike poor Carolina who had gone through just about the worst initiation to the situation that there could’ve been for her. But even then, at least he didn’t have to spell it out. He didn’t have to say it, didn’t have to admit to one of the people that he cared about the most just how far down the rabbit hole he’d fallen.

His silent contemplation was taking too long for Steve’s liking. “Javi? What—”

“Javier’s been out making new friends without us,” Carolina finally grit out when she saw that Javi wasn’t going to be able to say it. Her voice was low, sharp in a way that Steve hadn’t heard in a long time.

“New fr—” he stopped himself short as he shook his head. “What the fuck kind of new…” he trailed off when he saw the guilt saturating Javi’s face. All of the puzzle pieces started to snap together as he looked back and forth between his two partners. His eyes settled back on the man standing in front of him. “Javi,” was all he managed to say, the whiskey on his breath not softening the weight of the emotions behind the one word.

“I’ll explain everything tom—”

“What the fuck are you thinking?!” Steve snapped. He looked at Carolina again, the rips in her clothes, the mess of her hair that was usually so impeccably done, the stains of blood that weren’t going to wash out of the jeans she was wearing. His gaze returned to Javi. “They…they did this to her?”

Javi felt the shift in Steve’s demeanor just as much as he heard it in the tone of his voice. Whether he was blackout drunk or stone cold sober, one thing that Steve could always manage to be was pissed off. Every now and then Javi was able to diffuse the situation, but he had a feeling that this wasn’t going to be one of those times. But he still had to try. “Steve—”

He didn’t let Javi get the second word out. Quicker than any of them could bat an eye, Steve cracked his fist against Javi’s jaw, sending him stumbling back a couple steps into the wall behind him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Carolina’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. Of all the things she’d been expecting, that hadn’t been one of them. She didn’t know if it was the shock or the exhaustion that made it hard for her to move and intervene. Or maybe it was the fact that she thought Javi deserved to get his shit rocked a little bit. It was anyone’s guess.

Steve stepped in and swung again. It didn’t connect as nicely as his first punch, but it didn’t miss, either. Javi had finally recovered from his own shock enough to try and defend himself. He swung back, but it was half-hearted. He was too tired to get into whatever it was that Steve wanted this to turn into, but he wasn’t just going to take it without a little bit of a fight.

“Alright, alright,” Carolina spoke up, trying to keep her voice down as she looked at all the doors in the hallway, waiting for one of them to open and reveal a nosey neighbor. “Enough. This is the saddest fistfight I’ve ever seen either of you get in.”

Javi mustered up one last rush of strength to shove Steve off of him. It was enough to separate them, and Steve still had just enough alcohol in his system to have a bit of a sway in his step as Javi made him stumble back. They each forced themselves to stand as upright as they could manage, trying to pretend that they hadn’t just been acting the way that they were.

Steve looked at Javi for a few seconds longer, anger etched deep into his expression. When the sun came up and they were both walking around with clearer heads, Steve would piece Javi apart the best way that he knew how, he’d get answers to all the questions he had because now Javi had no choice but to tell him everything. This affected all of them now in a much more direct way than any of them ever wanted, than Javi had ever bargained for.

When that thought crossed his mind, Steve’s expression shifted, almost softening but not quite as he turned and looked over at Carolina. She looked like she was ready to just lay down on the stairs and sleep there for the night. He had the urge to hug her even though he knew it wouldn’t do her any good.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding surprisingly genuine.

She shook her head. “It’s not on you, Steve.”

Her words knocked the wind out of both Steve and Javi for different reasons. Javi felt like she’d just slapped him across the face, though he deserved it at that point. Steve just hadn’t been ready for the intense disappointment and hurt in her tone as she said it. She was right, of course, none of what had unfolded during the day had anything to do with Steve, but he still felt like he should be doing something to fix it.

He pointed back over his shoulder towards the door to his apartment. “Do you wanna stay?”

In spite of everything, a weak smile crossed Carolina’s face as she shook her head. “It’s alright.” She let out a sigh, pushing her hair back behind her shoulders and out of her face. “Thank you, though.”

The silence amongst the three of them was thick with tension. Carolina had nothing left in the tank, too tired to cause much of an issue with either one of the men standing in front of her at this point. She was ready to pack it in for the night, had been for a long while now. She wanted to think that both Javi and Steve were ready to shelf their argument until the morning at least, but with how stubborn they each were, she couldn’t be sure.

When a few more seconds passed without anyone saying anything, making any move at all, Carolina cleared her throat. The simple action prompted both men to snap their attention to her. She looked at Javi, the anger drained out of her as her fatigue won out. “Please go get my gun.”

Javi wouldn’t, couldn’t tell her no. No matter what his deal with Steve was in that moment, would be when he came back, there was no way that Javi could do anything but what Carolina asked of him in that moment. If the guilt shredding through his chest said anything, it was that he was going to be feeling that way for a long time. Without another word to either of them, Javi turned and headed back off on the simple errand that had spurred the entire interaction in the first place.

When Javi was gone and out the door, Steve turned back to Carolina. She could see it in his eyes that he was trying to figure out of he wanted to say something kind and comforting to her, or something scathing and pithy about Javi.

She took the chance away from him as she asked, as sarcastically as she could manage, “How you holding up?”

He couldn’t help but to laugh, and Carolina could smell the liquor on his breath when he did. “Better than you two.”

“Por dios.” She shook her head, a hint of a smile attempting to tug at her lips. “Eso no dice mucho,” she said as she leaned against the railing of the stairs.

Steve scoffed. She always did that to him, reminded him that he should be learning Spanish because she wasn’t going to take the time to translate everything she said. “Sure, yeah, whatever you say.” They both shared a quiet, weary chuckle over it before his face grew serious again. “We gotta talk about it, Caro.”

She nodded. “I know.” Both their attentions shifted as Javi strode back into the building. Looking back at Steve, she reached and gently rested her hand on his arm for a moment. “Not tonight though.”

He knew better than to argue, so he gave a small nod. “Alright.” Javi was standing right with them again but Steve didn’t even want to pay him any mind. “If you guys need anything,” he spoke about the two of them in one swoop but he was still refusing to look at Javi, “just call. Or stomp. Whatever works.”

Carolina took a deep breath, letting out a small sigh of relief. The day finally felt like it was really going to come to an end. “Thank you.” She said a quick goodnight to Steve before turning to Javi, taking her gun from him, and finally heading up the stairs.

It left the two of them at the base of the stairway. Steve was finally looking at Javi again, but there was nothing but anger in his expression. All of the comfort he’d been ready to offer Carolina was now gone. The only reason it bothered Javi was because he knew that Steve had every right to feel the way that he did about it all. He had nothing to try and defend himself with.

“All you had to do was keep her out of your shit, Jav,” Steve finally said.

“Can this wait till tomorrow?” Javi asked as he shook his head.

“Unbelievable,” Steve scoffed.

Javi’s jaw tightened. “You think I don’t fuckin—” he stopped himself short. Nothing good, or productive, was going to come from the two of them talking about it anymore in that moment. Running his hand back through his hair, Javi said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

If the stakes had been different at all, if Carolina wasn’t waiting upstairs by herself, if Steve wasn’t steeping in his own personal shit on top of all of this, maybe his response would’ve been different. But it was what it all unfortunately was. “Yeah,” Steve said as he walked away, “you fuckin’ will.”

[just-some-random-blogger]

hello gorgeous! if you don't mind modern au, i have an idea. if you don't feel like writing anything it'd be great to hear your thoughts abt it. daemon x wife!reader (who's somehow connected with magic but not targaryen) who are devoted to each other like madly in love. before daemon has to go to war they're saying goodbyes kissing, crying and not being able to let the other go. feeling like something's off he says smth like "i'll find you in another life. i'll find you in any time we'll be existing. i will love you any time i am alive" (in high valyrian or calling her some name in it) kissing her knuckles and going away. unfortunately, he was right. reader died some way while he was away and he remains faithful to her for the rest of his life (oc but whatever) and in the modern world he does find her. maybe targaryens are some sort of royal family, maybe they keep a family business or an ordinary family with lots of relatives. but he fins the reader and they somehow just feel. sorry if it's too much. i'd really like to read something about it but it absolutely ok if you don't feel like it. thank u in advance! take care!

Waiting For A Lifetime

Part 1 2 3 ?

Daemon Targaryen x Reader + Aegon Targaryen x Reader cos it just sorta happened

Summary: Overcome by grief, Daemon turned to black magic to revive you. Moved by pity, the witch who casted the spell promised you would live until you met your love again in his next life.

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: Modern AU, fem!reader, mentions/depictions of death/still birth/war, my pretty boy aegon whom i would die for, angst, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: i saw this last night when i woke up in the middle of my sleep and couldn't stop thinking about it. I changed a lot about your req nonnie. I do hope you still like it though. I absolutely could not help myself with this one and I got so carried away T_T also a lot of facts about the Targaryens have distorted so just just just roll with it ok ok ok thank you And yes i know this is a gif from the crown but i love it so much the hat falling off the kiss ITS EVERYTHING I WANT TO BE HERRRRRRRRRRRRR also i do acknowledge the fact that this anon came to me with this idea after i reblogged this amazing moodboard sooooo yeah i think this post sparked this fic idea lol ALSO ALSO ALSO 2022 MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!! LOVE YA ALL imagine seeing this post in like 2032 or smth shit thats like 35 years from now Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony pssst i made p2 "Never Before"

Daemon's face was streaked with tears and sorrow. His eyes were bloodshot and his voice was as sure as it was grave as he repeated the word he uttered to the shaman, "anything."

She looked at him, able to taste the desperation in the air, "even if it costs your life, prince?"

Daemon looks at his love before him, his love that was carrying his child. He places his bloody palm on the gaping wound on her stomach.

"Your child will not live even if she does."

Daemon screws his eyes shut tightly. He begins to quiver in anger, in grief, in pure sorrow. He mutters, "anything," he slowly opens his eyes to gaze upon her lifeless face, "better it me than her. There is no world worth living without her."

The woman narrows her eyes at the prince. She knew he was the Targaryen, once heir, known to be rugged and harsh. The Rouge Prince. Yet, there was no trace of malice within his being, only what she would describe as true devotion, true love.

"So, may it be done by the gods old and new," she says, drawing the prince's attention to her, "I will plead for her soul that she may live."

Daemon watches the witch, as she stands to her feet from the ground they were both sprawled on, in front of the body of the dead woman.

"I will plead that she may live long enough to meet you again in another life, so that you may have the love you have now once more."

"Another life?"

"Yes," she says, "the gods recreate humans they are pleased with to grace the earth again. I am certain they will let you be reborn to be with her again. I will make it certain."

Daemon grabs the cold hand that was beginning to stiffen.

"Although, I am unsure if they will allow you to remember her."

"I will remember her," Daemon retorts, kissing the hand of his love, "I will remember her no matter form I take... I will, I must."

"So it remains to be seen," she says before speaking out her incantation.

And it would not be seen until nearly 2000 years later.

The times have changed drastically. Women wore pants and voted. Men where made to take more responsibility for their actions, though still got away with things.

And yet...

... my love for him never faded.

Every prince that was born and named Daemon, I hoped would finally be him. It went about like this century after century, war after war, plague after plague, rise after fall. I had feared the Targaryens would die out, but they proved to be as strong as the very foundations of the earth.

And it took the televised of the marriage of Viserys XXIX to Duchess Aemma of Eyrie for me to see the face of my love: Daemon, the Wild Child, the Knight of Knickers, as penned by the press. Ultimately, the prince of my heart.

I burst into tears when I saw his cheeky face as he nudged his brother at the isle. I pressed my hands on the screen, thinking to myself, the wait was finally over, he was finally here.

All that was left was for me to meet the Prince of Valyria.

Yes. That would be no problem at all.

Except it was, because Daemon was just as mad as he was in this life as he was in the last.

After all, he did not get those nicknames from the press for nothing.

I used up so many of my resources to even just get a glimpse of him. It was hard to catch him in one place. I mostly caught him with a scandalous headline in the cover of magazines and newspapers.

Tonight, it was a newspaper.

"You know," the bartender taps his finger on my newspaper that was sprawled out on his bar, "he's a frequent here."

I turn to the blonde, in his white dress shirt, black waist apron, and black slacks. I raise a brow as he purses his lips as though the information was ground breaking. He wipes on a glass with his blue towel.

"Gee, Aegon," I lean on the surface before me, "I would have never guessed that from the picture on the wall."

I nod at the said picture. It's one of Daemon and the current owner of the bar, Tywin Lannister, who also happened to own Lannister Land Corp, shaking hands. Oh, Lannisters.

"Hey," Aegon shrugs, pulling his lips down in a nuff-said manner, "it had to be said, since you're literally the only patron here that has not interrogated me with questions about the Knight of Knickers."

I snort, "then allow me to change that," I rest my head on my hand, "is he truly so dashing that his looks practically steal the knickers of the ladies around him?"

Aegon finishes buffing his glass and puts it down, looking up in thought, "mmm, I think it's mostly cause he's a prince that he's got the effect he's got. I've got no idea what possessed the first girl to throw her panties at him."

I giggle, "are you saying the prince is ugly?"

"Bit harsh, innit," Aegon pulls back, getting another glass, rubbing it down with his towel, "your words, not mine."

I roll my eyes, shaking my head, as I laugh at the light haired boy's muses, "you know, if we had been living at the height of the Targaryen rule, Daemon would have had your head for that, pretty boy."

"Gods, to be beheaded," he sighed, "a dream, rather than working here, taking about some monarch who lives off the money of the people."

I snort once more. Aegon's face softens as he breaks into a laugh himself.

"No, but honestly," he says putting down the glass and the towel, "you, my dear, are my saving grace. The highlight of my begrudgingly stretched out day," he stretches out a hand to me.

I chuckle at him as I take his hand. He presses a kiss on the back of it, making me grin at him in amusement.

"You're the only sane person here," he releases my hand, "everyone else is so desperate to brush shoulders with the prince, or simply even catch a of whiff of his flatulence."

I break out into a fit of chuckles, slamming firmly at the wood between us.

"No, I'm serious! I heard the fittest gal, a total bombshell, boasting with pride about how she managed a sniff of the bloke's fart."

I'm wheezing with laughter, unable to believe what I'm hearing.

Aegon releases a deep and dramatic sigh, "what has the world come to?"

I wipe a tear as Aegon watches me empty myself of laughter. His face crinkles in a pleased expression, Adam's apple bobbing as he chuckles airily.

I sigh, catching my breath, "well, if I ever become that desperate, I ask that you pray for my soul."

Aegon presses his palms together, "praying for that girl as we speak."

I chuckle, folding the newspaper before me, "I must say, I am actually desperate to meet the wild child myself."

Aegon drops his hands along with his humored expression.

I cannot help but laugh at him as I continue to fold the paper, "though, I would say I am the desperate kind that is so desperate..." I eye him as I press the grey material together, "that I, somehow, dread to meet him at all."

Aegon snorts, screwing his eyes shut as he wipes his face, "the Stranger. Don't say things like that! I nearly had a heart attack believing you."

"No, but it's true, Aegon!" I say with a faux wounded pout, "prince Daemon is my great love, we have been destined to meet for millennia!"

Aegon leans on the table, humming as he nodds his head, "yes, and I suppose I am Aegon the Conqueror."

I lean towards him and grab his jaw, "no, you look more like Aegon II. The spitting image, I dare say."

He scoffs, swatting me off, "I'm hotter than him."

I pull away, "yes. That I can agree with, pretty boy. Personal hygiene does wonders."

Aegon snorts and plays off the blush on his cheeks by wiping his nose with his thumb, "you speak as though you met him."

I straighten up, "that's because I have. He was once my nephew."

He narrows his eyes and crosses his arms. His face contorts at the thought.

I raise my brows at him, "have I not told you I am not only a Targaryen historian, an expert at that, but I am also a patron of the Museum of Ice and Fire? I'm married into their family."

"Okay," he raises a finger, "ew."

I snort.

Aegon lifts his jaw and hums, "well, now that you mentioned it, I always knew you were one of those insanely rich blokes who frequent here. I was thinking you were a mafia boss or something though."

I scoff in amusement, raising my brows at him.

He pushes his white sleeves up then raises his hand in defense, "you have a very intense aura about you."

"That's because you trigger my fight mode," I retort.

He huffs, "do I? I'm scared to know what you'll do to me when I've seen what you do to men who hit on you."

"Aww, don't worry," I coo, "I wouldn't hurt my pretty, baby boy."

Aegon doesn't get to reply when a customer calls his attention. With this, he pulls away and leaves me to my own devices.

We don't get to continue our conversation at all, for it was clear that the rush hour had begun.

I eventually pulled back and decided to entertain myself while my favorite bartender was busy. I swiveled on my stool, looking out to the room, spotting the jukebox collecting dust in the corner. I smile at the sight of it, thinking about how it was still here after all these years, in spite of being older than Aegon.

I stand from my seat and walk over to it.

Aegon, finding one patron missing, frantically looks around then calms, raising a brow.

I place my hands on the jukebox, bending over to check if it was plugged in.

Aegon snorts as he hands a man a beer, eyes not at all fixed on him, "that doesn't work, love."

"Mmm, ye of little faith."

Aegon is annoyed by the man that sits on the vacated stool, blocking his vision. In retaliation, he blocks out the sound of his voice. Aegon calls out, "if you can make that hunkajunk work, I'll clear your tab for you."

I chuckle as I pull the machine forward, checking its wiring, "I wouldn't want to make a kid working on minimum wage to pay for me at all."

"I only said I would clear your tab, doll face," is all he replies before he goes back to tending to drinks again.

I break into chuckles as I fiddle with the wires on the back. I admit, it took me quite a while to go through everything, which was why Aegon warned that he would not call an ambulance for me if I got electrocuted.

The sight of the jukebox coming to life was enough to shut him up.

I get to my feet with a huff, brushing my hands off with each other. I turn to Aegon, who was already looking at me in astonishment, along with a few other people in the room.

I smirk, "my tab then?"

"Good as gone," Aegon shakes his head in disbelief, cutting his hand across his neck.

I release a satisfied sigh as I punch at the hardened buttons and play whatever it was that was available to be played.

When the music starts, I close my eyes and allow myself to drift off with the music. The sound brings back some memories I had in the 1940's. If I recall correctly, it was around this time Daemon's father, King Baelon, was crowned.

I slowly moved to the rhythm of the song, swaying my hips, waving my extended arms out as I made my way to the center of the room.

Aegon stilled in his spot upon seeing this. His breath caught in his throat and he was only brought back to reality when someone demanded a gin. He looked around the room as he poured that idjit his drink and clenched his jaw tightly when he saw the onlooking crowd.

He snorts loudly, grabbing his towel, throwing it over his shoulder roughly, clearing his throat with more noise than necessary.

I smile to myself when I hear Aegon's familiar coughing. He had a tendency to do this whenever men around me started to be a bother. And I loved him dearly for it. He was a sweet boy.

With my eyes still closed, I continue dancing to the soothing song. My smile grows bigger when a section comes that tickles my musical senses. I chuckle as I twirl in my spot.

When I felt a hand come to my waist, I didn't have to open my eyes to know it was Aegon. He wouldn't have let anyone come near me at all without barking up a storm.

I hummed at the scent of him, familiar yet foreign to me at once. He must have changed his cologne. I prefer this one better. He pulls me close when I reach out to him, grabbing one of his hands and placing a palm on his shoulder. His dress shirt is softer than what I imagined it to be.

I am surprised when he leads us into a ballroom dance. In fact, I am so shocked, I open my eyes and see a blur of his white shirt and blonde hair as he spins me around.

I break into a fit of chuckles, screwing my eyes shut in pure bliss when he dips me, "I had no idea you were a dancer, pretty boy."

"Yes, well, journalists don't find it interesting enough to write about."

My eyes burst open at the sound of the deep voice.

My heart is pounding at the sight of the smirking man with silver hair. I nearly faint at the violet irises so close to mine.

"I do say," his hot breath fans on my face, "if we were spotted by one now, they'd have a field day."

I jolt upright and shove the man away. He doesn't seem to be offended by my harsh actions, and, in fact, chuckles as he reels back from my action, "not what I had expected and not the reaction I usually get, but there's a first for everything."

My breath hitches when he smiles at me. I turn from him, to Aegon, who was staring coldly from his place behind the bar. It seems the rest of the people here were doing the same as well, gobsmacked by the presence of the man in the middle of the room

I roll my shoulders back, turning to my dance partner, "Prince Daemon," I mutter, bowing my head slowly, "pardon my rudeness."

He chuckles, waving me off as he stuffs a hand in his pocket, "oh, no need to be so formal, my dear. I can understand the shock," he tilts his head at me, lips still curved, "you surely weren't expecting to be dancing with the prince and thought me to be someone else, no?"

I look at him and stare in silence. For the first time in my life, I was at a loss for words.

Everything was suddenly so real, and it was making my mind and my heart race.

Aegon watches this and clears his throat loudly.

It does not help anyone.

Daemon raises his brows at me in expectation, placing his other hand in his pocket as he leans on one leg.

I open my mouth. A second passes before I mutter, "I thought you were my pretty boy."

His lips spread into a toothy grin. Airy chuckles leave him, "I can be your pretty boy."

When he extends his hand out to me, it was like the heavens opened and I could hear the angels sing.

This was the moment I have been waiting for since that day that I came back to life and kissed him goodbye with a promise of finding him in his next one.

My breath was heavily taxed when I lifted my hand.

My soul nearly leaves me when I jolt in shock over the sound of a record scratching and jumping, repeating over and over again.

In that moment, I am hit by an epiphany. I am so overwhelmed with emotions that I could barely breathe. The sight of Daemon before me brought tears to my eyes. This was all I ever wanted, and yet-- and yet-- I was drowning. I could not breathe properly.

"I..." I shudder, making Daemon's face fall, "I have to go," I mutter through a strained breath.

Daemon knits his brows, shifting in his spot with his hand still out, "what?"

Aegon watched with tightly knit brows as I ran out of the room.

The prince drops his hand and spins on his heels, eyes locked on the runaway. His nostrils flare as his face contorts in confusion, "wait! Stop! Where are you going?!"

I heave heavily as I push past people on my way out. I am absolutely winded when I exit the establishment, hands shivering from both the cold and the nerves that were getting to me in this moment.

I walk aimlessly farther out, down to the lawn that was now dark, since it was gods-know-what hour.

"Wait!"

My heart drops.

I spin around when someone grabs my wrist. My heart is still quick in my chest when I see Daemon, heaving. His short, light hair was slightly tousled in its place. He knits his brows at me, tilting his head, "you dare leave your prince, Cinderella?"

My jaw hangs low.

He releases a sigh, shaking his head, "I forbid it."

Seeing him here and now made everything feel more Real with a capital R.

Daemon adjusts his grip on my wrist, pulling his hand back, so that he was now holding my hand.

I look at him, blinking the glassiness of my eyes away, still in shock of his presence. A million questions were running through my head, and I was glad to be able to even have the mind to ask one in this moment, "do you know me, Daemon?"

He tilts his head upon hearing this, brows knitting, lips curving. He releases a chuckle at the lack of formality and how haphazard the question was, but finds himself further drawn because of it, "no," he shakes his head, "but I would love to know you."

Hearing the words come out of his mouth shatters something in me.

He did not know me.

I turn away from him as I try to even my breath. I retreat my hand and step back as a shiver runs down my spine.

And yet here he was, chasing after me.

Daemon steps forward to make up for the space between us, "don't leave. Come back inside with me. I'll give you my coat, then you can boast that the prince of Valyria gave it to you."

I continue stepping back as I shake my head, "you don't understand," I mutter under my breath in High Valyrian.

"Then make me understand," he retorts in the same tongue with a chuckle as he shakes his head and takes a wide stride over to me, grabbing my hand again.

I gasp at the warmth of his touch. When I turn back to him, tears have finally fallen from my eyes.

Daemon's face hardens at the sight of it. His hand reaches out to my face, wiping the wetness away. The sight of his torn expression tears at me, bringing me more tears.

"Why are you crying?" he asks in High Valyrian.

I do not get to reply, as suddenly there is a loud burst from behind us, commanding both our attentions.

It's Aegon. He busted through the door with my things in his hand. Upon catching the sight of the two of us, he freezes, breathing heavily as the looks out.

Daemon's expression hardens; his grip on me tightens. He turns to me, jealousy coating his mouth when he catches I where I am looking, "is that your pretty boy?"

I do not reply to him as Aegon walks over.

Daemon pulls me close to him. I look up at him with teary eyes. Aegon looks between us, jaw tense as he hands me my bag, coat, and newspaper.

"Thank you, bartender," Daemon dismisses, patting Aegon on the shoulder, before turning from him to face me again.

When I catch Aegon's face, I finally have the wits to move.

I pull away from Daemon to put my coat on. I swallow a heavy lump in my throat at feel of the stares of the two men.

Once I have my coat on, I pull a card from my bag, handing it to Daemon. He wastes no time in taking it from me, immediately scrutinizing it.

"I'd..." I start, taking a deep breath, "like to see you again."

Daemon's eyes dart to me, breaking into a smile.

Butterflies explode in my stomach at the sight of him.

Aegon's face tenses.

I release a breath before asking, "when are you fr-"

"Whenever," Daemon blurts. He places the card in the breast pocket of his white shirt, "I'm free whenever."

I nod slowly at his words, "I have work tomorrow, but I do have a long lunch at 12-

"I'll call you a 11:55."

I purse my lips at his words, trying to hold back my chuckle, but failing, "11:55?"

Daemon grins, nodding once, "on the dot."

I chuckle, turning to my feet as I nod at his words, "11:55 then."

"On the dot," he nods, extending a hand out to rub his thumb on my cheek.

I turn to him just as Daemon pulls away and stuffs his hands back in his pockets, "I'll walk you."

I shake my head, turning to Aegon, who was still standing there, watching the whole interaction between us, "you don't have to. I have a car parked nearby."

"Then I'll walk you to your car."

I turn back to Daemon, who then offers his arm out to me. I smile, unable to deny him, or myself, of the offer. I take his arm, and the next moment, he leads us off.

I turn over my shoulder, raising a hand at Aegon while I offer him a smile, "see you, Aegon."

Aegon watches as I turn back.

There is a twisted feeling inside him that grows. He mutters softly. It is too soft for anyone but himself to hear, "see you."

[dunefeather]

Bit nervous to ask but, if you could is it possible you could write a Trans FTM!Reader x Paul Atreides smut fic ? I'm mostly looking for a plot where the reader is super self-conscious about their body and Paul is being a supportive husband and it starts out with soft and gentle smut but quickly turns rough and stuff <3 (and if it's okay to also request, can there be something related to breeding in there). If you can't then I understand but if you can then it would be greatly appreciated <3

I'm sorry for the time it took me to write this, I had a lack of inspiration for fics in general. Hope you like it ! :D

Unchanged (18+)

Paul Atreides x FTM!Reader

Content : smut, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, allusion to anal sex, trans reader, dirty talk, dom!Paul, angst, fluff.

Around 3k words

Paul couldn't care less about people's opinion as long as it didn't endanger anyone near him. The problem was when his loved ones started to endanger themselves. Not that it reached a turning point about you, but it still worried him. Nevertheless he did'n't like to talk openly about it. It tended to turn into some unsolvable drama in your couple for several days. But was there any choice remaining when you would frown at your own reflection ?

“You know you look pretty like this.” He commented quietly.

His attempt only deepened the frown on your face as you turned around to stare at your reflection in more detail but he got used to it.

“I don't know Paul. I don't know. It would certainly look better if it was someone else looking like that.”

“Are you accusing me of getting blinded by love?”

Perhaps you would prefer him acting more childishly and dramatic at least in private? Who knew. Nothing succeeded and that couldn't hurt you.

“I don't doubt I might look good for you and but I don't good for myself. Look at that mess!” You exclaimed as you groped your own breasts barely visible under your nightgown. “Look at that !”

“I like them.” He mumbled uncertainly.

“Well. I don't. And today it's even worse than usual.”

It was painful to see you disliking that body Paul got several opportunities to fell in love with, however the most disturbing for him was to picture the inner debate you had had for so long when you couldn't talk about it all to anyone. Of course himself had some complexes about some parts of his own body, but it sounded a thousand times worse for you. He was a powerful man but had limits on what he could do, and using the Voice on you wouldn't solve anything.

“Come here my dove.”

The young Atreides embraced you from behind and this time even got the right to press a gentle kiss on your cheek as his arms snked around you softly. The large fabrics masking your feminine shape started toshow some of your hips and he loosened his grip immediately not to make things worse.

“I love you dearly.” he commented as he crossed your defeated gaze in the mirror.

“I know Paul, and I love you too. Thanks for supporting me despite my... mood swings,” you sighed.

“Isn't it the proof we were made to live together?”

“Would you still want me if I changed?”

“I thought someone knew my answer already?” He taunted you before kissing the top of your head.

The first chuckle in a few weeks erupted from your lips and the heir peppered butterfly kisses all over the right side of your neck as your hand reached his hair to grab them gently.

“So handsome,” he muttered between two slight pressures.

The day he found out you preferred to be gendered as a male, he felt almost weirded out. He never thought this kind of thing would have to be taken into consideration from the very person he fell head over heel for. Would it have happened to a friend, a subordinate, a servant, a foreign diplomat then nothing would have changed at all for him. But now that he knew that every little sentences meant from the bottom of his heart could have hurt you in your every day life and even in bed... so he decided to reappropriate this intimacy he thought to be lost between you, and started to use more masculine terms to talk about you. In private only for now as he doubted many would appreciate this unplanned turn of events and his position was still too fragile to lose support, but he did his best to use more neutral expressions in public. From his “wife” you became his “partner in life”, you remained his dove as as he made you notice there were male doves as well and quite frankly this was his favorite nickname for you and wouldn't get rid off it under any pretext. Sometimes he failed but you never really got mad at him for this, after all when it was still a dark secret for you you always felt the need to emphasize how feminine you were. You gave him time to accommodate just like he did let some time to reveal the truth he felt suspicious about.

“How can you want me that much ?” You moaned as he nibbled on your throat.

“You are hot, considerate, strong-willed... did I say hot ?”

“Strong-willed but still unable to stop complaining every two seconds.”

His hands and long fingers started to lift your nightgown up slowly as you eyed your legs up and down with a slight grimace before feeling him caressing your smooth skin in a loving gesture.

“I really like them you know,” he whispered, “I would never let you talk badly about yourself. I am against all kind of injustice in this world and against that injustice in particular.”

“No wonder you are so good at politics, you talk too well for everyone's good my love.”

“Is it working ?”

“You always find a way naughty bastard,” you chuckled.

Relieved by your lightened mood and distracted by the underwear he could feel at the tip of his fingers, Paul pressed his crotch harder against you. He had absolutely no idea of what he would do of the love he hold for the thought of impregnating you. That was precisely what afraid him to no end when came the moment you admitted your little secret. What would happen the day he would get you pregnant – if this worked – and how would you live with it ? No conversation had ever led the both of you so far and he remained afraid of the potential consequences, so for now, he made sure to make the unknown last for as long as possible.

“Call me naughty bastard once more and I will make sure you understand that insulting the new Duke is a bad idea.”

A slight pinch to his heart didn't stop him from refocusing on you. The thought of his lost father shouldn't undermine the importance of his couple and how to solidify it even more. For himself, for you, for Caladan, and for the universe. He had great ambitions, and one of them was to make you a child. And if that child was to be born, then he would make sure that this child received as much love as he receivd himself. This was the best thing he could do to honor his father's wish for this House and family.

“Hm. Make me understand then because you remain a naughty bastard using useless and empty threats,” you said as you pouted.

As soon as his hand found your entrance he smiled at your reflection. All wet for him and him only, and even hating on your own body it didn't stop your from looking at his ministrations with interest, even withdrawing that nightgown to reveal all of your bare skin of not for the underwear getting soiled.

“Now that's really hot of you but you remain to be punished,” he commented.

He loved your breasts and sadly you would never understand it fully. They would be smaller or bigger it would be the same.

“Please do. I might deserve some reminder.”

For someone so insecure you did know a thing or two about how to arouse him, starting with your buttocks rubbing a little against his needy crotch.

Paul was not the kind of man that liked wasting his time, so he cupped your breast with his free hand to pinch the erected nipple, sucked on your throat and inserted a finger inside you. If you were to be punished he would do it gladly.

“Paul I swear,” you chuckled breathlessly, “I don't understand how you can love it that much.”

“Don't swear little brat, I expected you to be a good girl in the past and now you are going to act like a good boy, do you get it ?”

At the brutal goosebumps that shook your whole body enough to make you press against him, he deduced that you indeed loved it.

“Shhh Paul, don't start that hard,” you moaned.

“Then be a good boy for me if you can,” he cooed next to your ear.

“Hmm, I don't know. I might be able to do that.”

“Then do it by lying down on our bed. Face against the blanket.”

“Not even a please ?”

He spanked you pretty hard before turning you around forcefully, his laugh barely repressed as you let a genuine laugh out.

“Not even a please for me. That's an order.”

“As you wish sir.”

Still fully dressed in his night outfit, Paul was feeling hot, enough for him to need to take his large white shirt off as he watched you kneeling on the edge of the bed, already knowing the position he was waiting for. He only had to watch you as he undid his pants as you exposed your bare and arched back to him, your wet entrance showing between your legs.

“Good gi-boy, see ? You're hot enough for this.

It felt so good to simply rub his leaking and pulsating shaft against your buttocks. It's been a long time without having you this way. Insecurities didn't make it easy to express his love in a more physical way. Then when he rubbed it against your wetness ? It felt like heaven. His instincts pushed him to thrust inside you mercilessly and without even preparing you just so you could get his seed. He really wanted that. But at the same time he had no will to rush it.

“Such a good boy for me. Good boy,” he praised gently as he listened to the filthy sounds.

“Please Paul I need it.”

You sure did as your body started to clenched around nothing. There was something fascinating in holding his cock so close to your hole and seeing it more than ready to close around it to keep it inside of you. His soft tip harassed your impatient flesh glistening under the light, poking where it wanted to go to tease that sensitive spot. Paul made sure to press it on the side, enough for you to feel it without it entering you yet.

“Bastard,” you whined.

And what about that tiny hole above, exposed to him and still completely unviolated? He thought about it a pair of times. Despite not being made for that use originally... it seemed to be plaesant to penetrate according to some dirty discussions between some soldiers coming back to their barracks. But that was for prostitutes right ? And that would hurt if he got it right. But at the same time if one day you expressed your wish to change your body completely... that would bea reliable option.

“Paul, what are you doing, it's right there!” you complained while staring at him from above your bare shoulder.

Maybe one day he would have to forget that feminine face he loved, and your voice too. And your hair. And your shape. The woman he fell in love with wouldn't exist anymore. Same as for that wet pussy he loved to caress and kiss. Everything would change. This current you would be part of his past, like all the happy memories that remained linked to Caladan.

Finally he penetrated you, your hot moan erasing the tears that started to form in his eyes. He watched you pressing your head against the mattress, and his features hardened as some anger arose in him. He hated getting stuck in the past after all those sufferings. He loved you and would still love you despite his fears. He would give you a child, or children, and if you wanted to look like a man then you would and all those that would want you to perish would perish under his reign.

“Didn't know such a good boy could turn into such a beggar,” he whispered loudly.

That anger wasn't directed to you but remained fueled by that sexual desire now that your tightness welcomed his shaft. His hands held your hips, grabbing your flesh to make sure you would understand that you were his. He would leave marks there, and how loudly you would moan for him.

Once, twice, three times, four times, his skin started to slap against yours at a regular rhythm as he listened to the bed creaking under his motions. Then several other times as he closed his eyes to engrave that moment in his memory. He had never been more determined to be rough with you in bed or even in general but it was getting stronger than him.

“Paul, it fels so good already how are you do...” you breathed out.

“Shut up and be a good boy like I ordered.”

“Yes sir sorry sir,” you squealed.

A satisfied grin appeared on his lips as he slammed inside you even harder, his stare barely veiled by the few dark curls falling over his forehead. What a pleasure to see and feel your ass briefly rubbing against him at each thrust. He really wanted to have access to it next time. He was now staring at it, one of his hands still on your hips getting closer to it as his thoughts started to derail completely. It felt feverish to have so much control over you after weeks spent at listening you complaining all the time helplessly. You may be hating your body right now but it wasn't impossible for him to make you love what it could feel.

“A beggar, and now a bitch.”

Never before would he have allowed himself to say such things but now knowing you liked it he had no interest in stopping.

“I'm close Paul, I'm so close,” you panted.

“I feel it.”

He spread your asscheeks with his hand, his eyes unsure of where to focus. The view of his wet shaft sliding in and out was as amazing as every other time but now that he pulled a little on your flesh it also opened your other hole just a tiny bit, enough to make him fantasize harder about it. He would never last long enough to get the chance to enter it but he could find something, and he chose to rub his right thumb in your wetness then all over your swollen clit.

As you came with a feverish convulsion that made him moan loudly, his thumb started to rub your anus. This confused you as he could hear in the middle of a pleasured scream, but it didn't stop him as he kept on thrusting inside you.

“Paul please please please,” you pleaded in a moan muffled by the blanket, “please yes right there spit there.”

Deep down he remained a simple man and obeyed. His thumb pressed on the side of the hole just a little, enough for his saliva to enter it. Your head emerged from the covers with a chuckle.

“It feels so weird.”

It took him a few seconds to feel that part of you by rubbing his thumb insistantly, opening it up just enough for his spit to finally get inside you. However that would be all that would enter you from there as he felt himself coming deep in your pussy, his whole body tensing up as he let his orgasm take him over.

He wasn't over yet with that new little fantasy. Now that he would potentially impregnate you soon, he took his shaft out of you to direct it to your buttocks and with a satisfied smile, watched a few drops leaking onto the small hole he managed to stimulate all to briefly.

“Paul?” You questioned him as you tried to kneel up onto the mattress.

“Stay still,” he demanded.

He hummed as he witnessed your hips trying to get away as his seed started to enter you from there.

“Are you being serious now,” you exclaimed with a laugh, “I'm not against it but tell me what you want.”

“Can't have enough of your ass you know it.”

This wasn't a defeat. Next time or a bit later he would get it the way he wanted. Apparently it was something you wanted to try as well so... who knew ?

[searchingwardrobes]

Scarborough Fair: 7/?

I was shocked to discover that I last updated this at the end of October! I still love this story, though, so I hope you all will stick with me. Writing this chapter was great therapy for me, but in addition to that, I really enjoyed writing the dynamic of this quirky and unique little family. I also rather like how this chapter ends, if I do say so myself. It’s a nice bit of levity in what has so far been a dark story. 

You might want to go back and read Mary Margaret’s journal entry from chapter 6 (the part in italics) to refresh your memory about how the curse in this story works. I know it’s been a while! 

Summary: Seventeen-year-old Emma Swan has had a charmed life, despite being a foster child. She has a wonderful family who loves her, and the best friends in the world. The only thing that mars her idyllic existence is her birth mother: a homeless woman who mutters nonsensical rhymes and claims to be Snow White. One fateful night, however, Emma’s world is shattered. Perhaps her mother’s rhymes aren’t nonsense after all.

Rated: M for date rape, dubious consent, teen pregnancy, and sexy times (the good kind!)

Words: Over 3k in this chapter

Chapter One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six

Also on Ao3

Tagging:  (let me know if you wish to be removed or added):  @snowbellewells @teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @xhookswenchx-reads-blog @thisonesatellite @welllpthisishappening @spartanguard @ohmakemeahercules @tiganasummertree @sparlecorn93 @sals86 @pirateprincessofpizza @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @huntressandlioness1 @jamif @undercaffinatednightmare @onceratheart18 @sparlecorn93 @sals86 @pirateprincessofpizza @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @huntressandlioness1​ @jonesfandomfanatic

Emma descended the stairs with the pregnancy test in the pocket of her jeans, one hand clutching her mother’s journal, and the other clasped firmly in Killian’s. If not for his presence beside her, she would have collapsed. 

It hadn’t taken them long to come to this decision. Their very unique family had come together through a series of crazy tragedies. Some would call them a series of coincidences; but to every family member under this roof, it felt like fate. If Emma was cursed to follow this path, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she didn’t have to walk it alone. Elsa and Anna hadn’t been alone after their parents died in a boating accident - their Aunt had immediately taken them in, and they’d gained a third sister in the process. Killian hadn’t been alone when his father left and his mother died - a brother he had never met stepped up. Then Ingrid Arendelle and three little girls had knocked on Liam Jones’s front door with a platter of cookies to welcome him and his little boy to the neighborhood, and well - fate took over once again. 

As for Emma, what would have happened to her if Mary Margaret had never met Ingrid? This Dark One her mother wrote about in her journal couldn’t have anticipated Ingrid. Or Liam. Or Killian, Elsa, or Anna. Hiding this from them just wasn’t an option. Every time they faced difficulties, they were stronger together. 

Emma and Killian paused at the bottom of the stairs. Ingrid, Liam, and Anna were bustling about the kitchen. Anna was opening the boxes of pizza that had just been delivered, Liam was pulling paper plates from the cupboard, and Ingrid had just walked in the kitchen door after fetching sodas from the extra fridge in the garage. She kicked the door shut with one foot, her arms loaded down with soda cans. She froze, the laughter on her lips dying as she saw Emma and Killian standing there. 

“We need to have a family meeting,” Killian announced. 

All three of them looked from Killian, to Emma, then to their joined hands. Anna’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. Ingrid and Liam shared weighted glances. 

“Okay,” Ingrid agreed as she began setting the soda cans one by one on the kitchen counter. “Let’s grab our food and gather around the table.”

Killian looked at Emma and gave her an encouraging smile followed by a squeeze of his hand. Emma nodded nervously, then let go. She sat down at the kitchen table, hugging her mother’s journal to her chest. Everyone resumed dinner preparations, although their voices were softer and the laughter had floated away. Emma wasn’t hungry, but she tried to pick at the slice of pepperoni Ingrid set before her. 

“Well,” Ingrid announced, taking charge as always, “do we want to eat and then have the meeting, or talk while we eat?”

“I’d really rather get it over with,” Emma said softly.

Ingrid nodded. “Okay, then. Do we want to try and include Elsa in this?”

Emma wet her suddenly dry lips. She really just wanted to rip this off like a bandaid. “If she could, that would be nice, but I don’t want to wait.”

“Liam, see if you can get ahold of Elsa for a Zoom call.”

A series of texts were exchanged, Liam set up his laptop at Elsa’s usual seat around 

the table, and suddenly, there was her older sister, via the magic of technology. Thankfully, dinner time around Boston was lunch time in the North Sea, so Elsa was on a break from her intern responsibilities. She waved at Emma, her smile still holding that edge of concern as she asked how she was doing.

“In truth,” Emma confessed, “I’ve been better. Which is why I called a family meeting.”

“You both did, actually,” Liam clarified, giving his brother a weighted look. He glanced down to where Killian’s hand rested atop Emma’s on the table. 

Had he reached for her hand or had she reached for his? Emma wasn’t sure, but it felt right, as if it were the only way she could face this. 

Emma let out a long breath as she reached into her pocket. “There’s not really a way to ease into this conversation, so . . .”

She pulled out the pregnancy test and set it in the middle of the table. The reaction was immediate. Anna gasped, Liam made a strangled noise, and Ingrid pressed a hand to her mouth. Elsa’s confused voice came out distant and tinny from the computer screen. 

“What is that? I can’t see.”

Emma lifted the pregnancy test and held it right in front of the camera. 

“Oh . . . my,” Elsa breathed. 

“What the bloody hell have you done, Killian?” Liam suddenly burst out. 

“Me?” Killian shouted. 

“You mean you think it’s his?” Emma choked out. 

The other three female members of the family began shouting over each other in chastisement. Liam lifted both hands placatingly. 

“They come walking down here hand in hand, calling a family meeting, then she pulls out a pregnancy test? What was I supposed to think?”

Ingrid glared at her husband and smacked him in the shoulder with the back of her hand. “You’re supposed to think about Neal Cassidy and what he did to her just two months ago! Not to mention have more faith than that in your brother.”

Liam’s shoulders slumped. “Neal?” he whispered as he looked apologetically at Emma.

She nodded solemnly in reply. 

“So now we need to support Emma instead of flying off the handle,” Elsa proclaimed from across the ocean via Zoom.

Emma leaned towards the screen to address her sister. “Don’t be too hard on him. He looks pretty awful right now.”

“Well,” Ingrid announced, splaying both hands on the table, “you have options Emma. Tomorrow we can -”

Emma cut her off with a raised hand. “This is about more than an unplanned pregnancy.” She looked at Killian, pushing the slim volume with the tattered green cover towards him with her free hand. He never had let go of her other one. He squeezed her hand now and gave her a nod in understanding. 

“I found this the night of the prom in Mary Margaret’s things,” Killian explained. 

“It’s her journal,” Emma added, “and she wrote it for me.”

“Emma,” Ingrid breathed, reaching hesitantly across the table, and then drawing her hand back, “I had no idea . . .”

“I read it,” Emma continued, ignoring her foster mother, “and then I had Killian read it, and . . . well . . .”

“It explains some things,” Killian filled in for her. 

“Right. It explains things. I made Killian promise me something before he read it, and I’m going to ask you the same thing. Promise you won’t think this is crazy, or that I’m crazy.”

Any other parent would probably jump in at that point with an adamant denial that they would ever entertain such a thought. Emma’s foster parents, however, knew the gravity of what she was asking them. So did her sisters. Ingrid and Liam exchanged marital looks that spoke without words. Anna and Elsa, even through a computer screen, did their creepy sister telepathy. Then the four of them solemnly promised Emma that they would all have open minds. With that vow, Killian picked up the journal, opened it, and began to read it out loud.

He still didn’t let go of Emma’s hand. 

She refused to look at her family as he read aloud, afraid of what she might see in their expressions. There was an audible gasp from all four of them at Neal’s name, but other than that, it was eerily silent as Killian read. When he finished, he set the journal down on the table, and Emma finally raised her head. Ingrid’s brow was furrowed as if she were mentally reviewing every moment with Mary Margaret over the years. Liam stared at a point somewhere over Emma’s shoulder. Anna blinked and shook her head slightly in shock. Elsa massaged her brow with the slender fingers of both hands. The silence stretched. 

Anna, unsurprisingly, was the one who broke it. 

“That . . . actually explains a lot.”

“A curse then,” Elsa said, leaning closer to her screen, “so how do we help Emma break it?”

Liam banged both fists on the table. “I should have punched that kid when I had the chance.”

Ingrid rose, strode to the kitchen drawer, grabbed a pad of paper and a pen, then sat back down with pen poised over paper. “Repeat that riddle to me again, Killian.”

He read it again, and Ingrid scrawled furiously. Liam leaned over her shoulder. 

“I could do more research into the song,” he told everyone.

“And that art professor?” Ingrid asked, tapping the paper with the end of the pen, “What was her name? The one who did her dissertation on textiles?”

“Kate Freemont?”

“Yes, her! Maybe she could look into fabrics that would work for this first riddle.”

“How is that even possible?” Anna asked, leaning over her aunt’s list. “If you sew a shirt, doesn’t it have to have a seam? And how do you make it without a needle?”

“I can ask around here about the third riddle,” Elsa spoke up. “It seems it would be pretty hard to sow an acre on the shore before the tide comes in, but some of these scientists I’ve been working with have traveled the world. Maybe they know of a place where that would work?”

“Forget the tide,” Anna scoffed, “how do you sow an entire acre with only one kernel of corn?”

“The agriculture department!” Liam exclaimed. “I’ll ask around.”

Emma’s eyes welled up with tears as she watched her family roll up their sleeves and jump right in to solve the riddle. Not for one second did they scoff at her or turn away. Ingrid met her watery gaze, and her expression softened. She put down the pen and raised a hand to quiet the rest of the family. 

“Before we go on, there’s one solution we haven’t voiced.” She looked intently at Emma with eyes full of compassion. “The curse says that you have until your child is born to solve the riddle. If you terminate the pregnancy -”

“No!” Emma cried, placing a hand protectively to her abdomen. 

“Sweetheart,” Ingrid said gently, “you were raped. No one would fault you if -”

“I can’t,” Emma protested, shaking her head. “I can’t explain it, but my gut tells me things would be worse if I did that. I think this baby is the key to breaking this curse. If I did what you suggest, I have a feeling the madness would take me then, and my parents would be cursed forever.”

Ingrid nodded, blinking back tears. “Okay, then. Well, everyone, how do we go about finding a town that no one knows?”

Emma’s smile grew, and she felt herself relax in her chair as everyone’s voices overlapped one another. Except for Killian. He sat silently, her hand still in his, his thumb idly rubbing across her knuckles. It soothed her. 

Then he cleared his throat. “I have something I need to say.”

Everyone stopped and looked at him. 

“I’m in love with Emma.”

The words shot through the quiet room, and then Liam spoke up.

“And you all wondered why I thought the baby might be his.”

[flamingo-writes]

You’re All I see — e.m.

(Prequel to Fade To Back )

Eddie Munson x Wheeler!Reader (she/her pronouns)

Fade To Black: Part 1, Part 2

A/N: Even though I only wanted to write both parts of Fade To Black, I found myself developing this idea, thinking of how things were before and after the events of FTB, so I decided to write this prequel and might as well add an epilogue with a proper happy ending. Yes, this is a fix it fanfic ajsjdjdf I refuse to believe what happened to Eddie.

Title based on You’re My Best Friend by Queen

Summary: Eddie and you had quite a reputation as a couple in high school. A couple no one saw coming, and a couple everyone tried to break up. However, Eddie and you overcame the adversities, at least until time came for you to move out for college. And now, having returned to Hawkins for spring break, you come home to find your ex, Eddie Munson, is wanted for murder. Prequel to Fade To Black, this is just a more in depth explanation of the relationship between Eddie and the reader.

If you want to be tagged in the epilogue chapter, let me know

Warnings: cursing, mentions of bullying and jealousy, mentions of breakup, mentions of the reader being sexually active.

Genre: for the most part, fluff. Sprinkles of angst.

Word count: 3K (3K words worth of various small floofy interactions between the reader and Eddie)

It was no secret that Edward Munson did not particularly enjoy school. However there were a few classes he did enjoy. English, Math, even History. And weirdly enough, he also looked forward to Biology. And if he was being honest it wasn't even because of the class. It was because Mrs. Sanders thought it would be a good idea to have a partner with whom they'd be working with the rest of the school year. He thought of how lucky he was to have been paired up with you.

Having attended the same middle school as you, he already knew a little bit about you. You were the goodie two shoes, straight A's students, teacher's pet and over all nice and polite. Eddie saw this as his chance to an easy A with you as his partner. And on top of it he did find you cute, much like everyone else did back in middle school. However, he didn’t let himself fall flat on his face head over heels for you within your first class together. He eventually did, like every boy in middle school, but it took him longer. And unlike any other boy in middle school—and in high school— you had laid eyes on him.

"Eddie, right?" You said on your first day of school. It was Wednesday, barely 12:15.

"You know who I am?” Eddie frowned slightly confused, not expecting for someone as popular as you to recognize someone like him.

"Of course I know who you are, we went to the same middle school. Besides, the talent show…you played with your band, didn't you? Corroded coffin" You said sitting next to him. "Cool name, and you did a pretty cool job…all of you, I mean”

"Thanks?" Eddie said smirking, still confused but deeply flattered, as he ran a hand through his buzzed hair.

"That Iron Maiden cover you played in the talent show was great" You mumbled a little too fast. "I like Iron Maiden…I don’t look like it, I know…but I do. I think they’re great—" Eddie chuckled uncomfortably, hearing you word vomit nervously.

"Wheeler, no offense, but, do you ever just…shut up?" He asked, cutting you off softly as you stopped and looked at him, with wide eyes, "Listen, is not that I don’t care. I actually think it’s awesome that you like Iron Maiden…but you’re acting a bit weird…”

"I'm sorry," You muttered. "I’m actually…anxious" Eddie raised an eyebrow.

“And what could possibly have you, Ms. Popularity Wheeler nervous?" He smirked, but soon his smile faded away when he saw your eyes get wider and more concerned.

"You're going to think its dumb..." You sighed looking away and shaking your head defeated.

"Well, it can’t be dumber than my dad...so, try me" He said resting his elbows on your shared desk and looking at you with wide curious eyes.

"I was asked by the popular guys from other years to sit with them at lunch…" You whispered, almost as if you were scared to be heard.

"So?” Eddie shrugged.

"So?" You gasped "Thats intimidating!"

"Wheeler, if I were them, Id be the one intimidated..." Eddie reassured you, his voice softening as he leaned over the desk, trying to get to meet your stare.

"Oh shut up" You replied shyly.

"Hey, I mean it" He chirped, his smile only growing wider "You're the sweet girl, you get along with everyone. The popular kids, the jocks, the nerds, the freaks, even the teachers who seem to hate kids. You're basically a walking sunshine," His eyes looked at you with a glimmer of sincerity, making something in your heart feel tight and cheeks grow warm.

"You think so?" You pouted.

"I know so," He affirmed. "And let me tell you, I’m not precisely knowledgeable in many things. But trust me on this, nerd" He muttered, the nickname slipping affectionately from his lips.

"Thank you Eddie" 

—

You became part of the popular squad but that didn't stop you from becoming friends with other people. Just like Eddie had said, the popular guys got you to join their little squad, but knew you didn't exclusively hang out with them alone. Sometimes you'd hang out with other people, specially people who you happened to be with before lunch break, continuing a conversation more often than not.

Fridays slowly became Eddie’s favorite day of the week. Because he had Biology right before lunch break, and over the course of the school year, he found you terribly endearing. In middle school, he'd heard you were sweet and easy to talk to, but he'd never really had the experience first hand. Not until he was paired with you for Biology. And every Friday, after biology, the two of you would spend the entirety of the lunch break sitting underneath a tree just talking and being silly with each other.

Eddie began to understand why people found you so charming. And why every guy you talked to seemed to have a crush on you. Soon, Eddie found himself growing feelings as well. Specially after he noticed how every Friday you'd spend the break with him, while every single day you'd hang out with someone randomly. He was the only constant and expected thing. Your friends even called them your Freaky Fridays since you insisted on hanging out with Eddie Munson, the freak.

He found himself becoming slightly possessive of you. Given than you were among the popular kids, and yet you hung out with him regularly. It somehow made him unpopular by association. Everyone talked about Eddie and how he hung out with you. Spreading horrible rumors about it, but never really saying anything bad about you. They said he used you for popularity and to be untouchable by bullies, that he had done some freaky mojo to make you fall in love with him. But truth was, you never listened to them, and Eddie found them amusing. Ironically, and what pissed you off the most, was how somehow your reputation was intact. No one said anything bad about you hanging out with him, but everyone criticized him for hanging out with you.

"Have you've heard the news?" Eddie said one Thursday morning, walking behind you and whispering into your ear softly.

You looked over your shoulder as you pulled out the books from your locker.

"Good morning to you too, Eddie" You giggled as he shot you a cheeky smile. "What news?"

"Now people say I'm seducing you to join our satanic cult" He stated proudly.

"By our you mean...Hellfire?" You wondered.

"Yes ma'am"

"Oh come on, D&D is not satanic...and why are people saying this?" You chuckled bitterly, yet again annoyed by people’s ridiculous assumptions.

"Someone saw you playing with us the other day" He said calmly and watched you roll your eyes.

"Jesus, people need to learn to lay back and stop sticking their noses in other people's businesses..." You said shutting your locker closed.

"That's what I like about you, Wheeler" He said wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leaning closer to you. "You're so laid back and don't give a shit about anything, sweetie"

Nothing had ever made your heart skip a beat and eyes widen like that just now. That little pet name quickly rising and clinging to your cheeks as you stared at him.

"Did you just call me sweetie?"

Eddie stiffened and took a step back.

"Too far?" He sounded slightly concerned.

"N-no. Not really, it took me by surprise, thats all" You muttered, feeling your cheeks warming up.

"So, is it cool if I call you sweetie?"

"Yeah, sure, why not?" You muttered shyly, Eddie smirking at your flustered state, making his gut twist excitedly. He'd gotten to make your eyes open up in surprise and shy.

"Well, sweetie. Let's go, then" He said confidently as he picked up your backpack from the floor an swung it over his shoulder.

"Where?" You chuckled, raising an eyebrow at Eddie.

"You have geography, don't you? With Mr Owens..."

"You remember?"

"Yeah?" Eddie mused looking at you.

"You've got a good memory, Ed!"

"Do I?" He asked looking at you, raising an eyebrow, the little excited smirk you had made his heart flip. "What?"

—

The news spread in the school faster than wild fire. It was during the winter prom, the two were hanging out by yourselves, laughing and joking, when one thing left to the other and you kissed Eddie. You had kissed him. At the tender age of fourteen, you had given your first kiss. And not only yours. Eddie had his first kiss as well.

The cold winter seemed to fade away, as the both of you burned with the tender, innocent warmth of two teenagers, experimenting love for the first time. It was awkward, but soon, you figured it out together, how each other's lips moved, how you moaned into each other's mouths shyly.

And since, the both of you became not only close, you two became inseparable. The week before the prom was the last time Eddie buzzed his hair. And kept growing out his hair, constantly using it as a marker of how long you’d been together. At least until it reached shoulder length and he decided he did not want to look like Rapunzel, hinting that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.

And as time passed, people every now and then caught an odd interest in your relationship. Guys trying to seduce you into leaving Eddie to be with them. And girls making up rumors to make you dump Eddie. But the school was genuinely surprised time and time again about how good you both were together. You were best friends, and were completely honest with each other, breaking you two up soon seemed like something impossible. And despite everyone’s prejudice to Eddie, people admired how strong your bond was and how much you loved each other.

Moving away for college sure complicated things.

You’d grown used to see Eddie every day, talk to him every day, kiss him every day, hold him, and fall in love with him all over again on a daily basis. And having to leave all of that behind was rough. It made you feel something you swore was Abstinence Syndrome. Boy, was it rough. Between your classes consuming your free time, and missing Eddie, the first weeks were rough. But as time went by, they only seemed to get rougher.

Whenever you went back to Hawkins to visit your family and boyfriend, you’d hear silly stories from your friends and whatnot. Silly stories of drunken adventures and high trips, parties, things you’d love to go to when you were back in high school.

A new fear started to cling to the back of your neck, weighting on your shoulders. How many things was Eddie missing out of for staying a loyal boyfriend to you? You heard the stories of your friends hooking up with the most random people, trying random stuff, meeting new people. And this same fear constantly whispered into your ears that perhaps you should break up with Eddie, to let him enjoy his youth, as opposed to staying loyal and devoted to a girl he saw once a month, perhaps sometimes two.

Eddie said he didn’t care. But he did. You said you could deal with the distance. But you couldn’t. He knew you didn’t want to break up, and neither did he. And it was a common agreement the both of you got to one night. That night, he saw you cry because him for the first time. And he cried too. He was convinced that he didn’t want to spend his life with no one else but you. He didn’t want to kiss anybody’s lips but yours. The two of you kissed like never before, a deadly kiss that broke each of your hearts. But before the sun rose the next day, you’d promised each other you’d try again in the future.

You still would see Eddie every time you went to Hawkins, and you would eventually end up tangled in his bed sheets with your clothes decorating his floor. It was almost as if you hadn’t broken up at all. However, knowing Eddie was single and free to do as he wanted made you feel more at ease, despite the fact that Eddie never really get involved with anyone. Sure, he’d flirt with people every now and then, but only for the thrill of flirting. As soon as he sensed things might escalate, he’d stop and draw his line. He never kissed anyone else, and simply because he didn’t want to.

—

Amidst the rough times, Eddie The Banished was slowly making his way to the woods, looking for a hiding spot, feeling like he was running out of options with every passing hour, and that eventually his name was going to make it to the news.

"Dustin, for fucks sake" He spoke into the walkie-talkie.

Feeling sick and tired of his current situation, it was hard for him to focus on the bright side. After what happened last night, he knew he was going to be chased by the entire town with torches and knives. His empty stomach somehow threatened him to make him puke anytime now as the anxiety clung to his throat and the stress had kept him awake all night.

"Eddie!" Dustin replied alarmed. "Eddie we’ve—"

"Wait, Eddie Munson?"

Eddie stopped dead on his tracks, feeling his heart about to jump out of his chest when he heard your voice, followed by Dustin cursing. The world seemed to spin faster for a second, as he felt his throat close and he’s eyes get teary. God, he was in such desperate need of comfort. But your comfort in particular, he craved the most.

"Eddie? Is that you?" You asked, your voice concerned.

The echo of his name made his sound return to his body as he felt slightly relieved just by hearing your voice.

"Oh, shit, baby? Fuck, princess is that you?" He felt like he could catch his breath for the first time in the last two days.

"Eddie, what’s going on? Where are you? Are you okay, baby?"

"N-no. I’m most certainly not okay, love…" He sighed, his hand gripping tightly on the walkie-talkie.

"E-Eddie? Explain, a-are you hurt?" You asked panicked, making him push his lips together.

"No, not hurt…not yet at least" he chuckled bitterly. "Just barely holding up, you know?"

“Where are you?"

"I’m…" He stopped as he thought perhaps Dustin was listening. "Skull rock…" He muttered, thinking of how this spot was your runaway spot, and how many things happened in this same spot between the two of you. A place he liked to remember as the place where you two almost lost your virginities of it wasn’t for the forest ranger that appeared out of nowhere.

"I’ll be there in a bit. Just wait for me, Ed"

"I’ve been this entire time, love" He sighed breathlessly.

Dustin as well as the others heard the conversation and soon interrogated you about it. Specially because of the amount of pet names, sure, pet names were normal coming from Eddie. But you calling him baby was something odd. Also Eddie’s last line before you returned the walkie-talkie to Dustin.

"You know Eddie?” Dustin asked confused and intrigued.

"Yeah, we were in the same year all of high school, except…well, Ed didn’t get to graduate…" you over simplified.

Nancy looked at you, knowing you’d deliberately given just the bare minimum, and wondered how much exactly did that pain you to do. Keeping your relationship with Eddie a secret from your parents meant keeping it a secret from Mike and his friends. Specially because back when you were in high school, they were still far too young to be trusted with a secret like that. The last thing you wanted was your parents complaining for dating a freaky guy who lives in a trailer and his dad was a criminal. And also, breaking the news right now that Eddie and you not only were dating back in high school, but you considered him to be the love of your life, was going to cause some unnecessary interview on the matter when the clock was ticking and time was running out. It was best for them to put the pieces together.

When you saw Eddie, you sprinted towards, and so did he, crashing against each other, he quickly latched on to you as if he was scared that someone might rip you away from him.

‘So much for "we were in the same year"’ thought Dustin, as he paid close attention to how Eddie nuzzled his face against your neck, and his arms possessively wrapped around you. And you, running your hand through his hair and the other caressing his back. It was a hug that looked too intimate to be looking at it. Dustin turned surprised to Steve, who didn’t seem to be as surprised. Sure, Steve was a junior when you were a senior, Eddie and you were already a famous couple in school when he got into freshman year.

"Fuck, princess, I'm so fucking happy to see you. I’ve had the shittiest two says ever,” He murmured against your ear as you felt a lump on your throat grow.

"It’s okay, baby. I’m here. I’ve got you, everything will be fine, yeah?" You replied, breaking the hug as he nodded and you cupped your face in his hands.

"Yeah, I don’t know but, you immediately make everything bearable" He whispered looking at you and leaning forward, pressing his forehead to yours. "So, uh…how’s college?" He chuckled bitterly at his poor attempt to change the topic.

"Same old. Busy…tiresome…slowly driving me insane" You joked softly.

"Okay, lovebirds, that’s enough" Steve said catching everyone’s attention as you let go of Eddie and the both of you turned to meet him. "What are we going to do?"

[marchtothefuckingsea]

Never - Geralt of Rivera x Reader

hi! another hurt/comfort fic because my brain is rotting. I completely made up the creatures in this one lmao forgive me. all I know is I vaguely remember reading/seeing something about creatures with deadly venom on their claws so I just took that and ran with it.

ALSO I'd like to ask a quick favour!! if you could let me know if you are more inclined to click "read more" on fics with or without gifs I'd really appreciate it :) personally, I click on ones with gifs more but I prefer not using them on my own fics. but that's just me!

Hurt/Comfort, no usage of y/n (I try not to use it in any of my fics), i don't thing I even used pronouns I this one reader is gender neutral because that's what I imagined when writing it :)

Word count: 3k

Summary: Reader and Geralt get into an argument. Reader gets hurt and tries to hide it but eventually passes out, Geralt has to care for them.

Warnings: Injury, blood, canon violence

"Geralt I swear, I'm fine," I insisted, pushing down the pain in my ribs so as to not show him how bad it really was. I was fairly certain I had cracked one during my nasty fall down the hillside.

To be fair, it wasn't entirely my fault. I had been caught off guard by some weird creature that, to be honest, looked like an enormous, armored lizard darting through the trees. It hadn't been after us, as seconds before a smaller, but equally as frightening, lizard had skittered past us and through the undergrowth.

I had lost my footing and slipped, falling down the incredibly steep hill, no, mountainside, and had miraculously caught onto a sapling. I had hauled myself up onto a ledge, where Geralt had angrily given me his hand and tugged me the rest of the way up. He had held me tight to his chest for a moment, before shoving me away. And here we were now.

"You almost died!  Take a good look over that cliffside. You caught onto the last fucking handhold before you would have went tumbling over to your demise."

"But I didn't-"

"It's always that, but one of these times you will and I'll be stuck with your dead body." He growled. "And I'm not fucking burying you."

"Wow thanks, Witcher." I snorted.

He was silent, stalking down the path like a mountain lion.

As we continued on, I could feel the tension growing in the air between us before he finally halted, obviously feeling it too.

"You're clumsy. Useless." He spun around on his heel, his yellow eyes piercing into mine.

"Excuse me? You're the one that brought me along with you, you offered to train m-"

"Only because you attached yourself to my sleeve like a parasite! You're worthless. No amount of training will get you anywhere." His voice was low, dangerous. "Fuck." He muttered. He sharply turned, taking in the area. "We set up camp here." His voice was emotionless. How quickly he could change.

Usually, we slept under the same makeshift tent. Tonight, I tossed down my things along with my bedroll down by the base of a thick tree, facing the opposite way of him. I could feel his gaze glaring at by back. I ignored it.

I knew what we were in the area for. There had been reported sightings of these "giant, insect-like creatures" with "venom on their claws that could easily kill a man with two swipes". I figured the large lizard-like creatures we had encountered earlier only solidified the claims.

I grunted slightly as I laid down, sending a sharp pang through my ribs.

I lay there for awhile, my breath slowly turning into short pants as it became harder to take in deep breaths without causing myself any sort of pain. I groaned, unsteadily rolling to my feet. I glanced over at Geralt, who seemed to be sleeping soundly.

I knew it wouldn't take much noise to wake him up so, as quietly as I could, I snuck out of out makeshift camp, sword hastily tucked onto my belt as a precaution.

As I drew further from camp, I allowed myself to limp a little, not so concerned about being quiet anymore.

Soon, I had become short of breath. I leaned my back against a tree, slowly sliding down it as I tried to get oxygen back into my muscles.

As I regained by breath, I contemplated.

I still couldn't believe what Geralt had said earlier. All those times he had praised me, told me how quick and well I learned, how efficient I was and how he trusted me at his back, were all those times lies?

They had to be. I had known him for a little over a year now, and I knew he was not someone that said things purely out of anger. No, each word was calculated, thought through before it even left his mouth.

All this time, I had been a burden to him.

But then, I didn't know him to lie just to make someone feel better. He was blunt.

I was teetering on the edge of making the decision to leave. I could pack up at daybreak and be well on my way by the time the sun was at its peak in the sky. I would no longer be a parasite to him, I decided. I didn't want him to think of me that way and, if he really was keeping me around out of pity, I didn't need it. Didn't want it.

My brain was fogged, tired. I didn't have the energy to think about this anymore.

The exhaustion that I couldn't find to overtake me back in camp suddenly hit me, and my limbs felt too heavy to move. I took a deep breath, wincing, before staggering to my feet.

"Fuck." I hissed. I hunched over and clutched my side. I hadn't even thought to wrap my ribs until now. Too late.

I stumbled forward, in the direction I was 98 percent sure was camp. My ribs felt like they were shifting about much more than before.

I had barely limped another hundred feet when my steps faltered. I heard a hissing in the bushes. I started panicking, my chest tightening causing my breaths to come in short, sharp pants.

Ordinarily, I probably could've take this creature on my own. Given, I wasn't exactly sure how to kill it, but I could've at least injured it enough to get away.

Right now, I was in no shape to fight it but I had no choice. I shakily pulled my sword out of its hilt, raising it with a single hand, my other still clutching my ribs.

I gave the sword a couple of experimental swings. I was incredibly off-balance. It was way too heavy for a single hand.

I slowly removed my hand from around my ribs, gritting my teeth. I got into the proper stance just as the bug leapt at me.

I barely dodged it, crying out in pain as I threw myself to the side. The creature recovered far quicker than I did, taking another running jump at me.

This time, I was ready. I dodged it in time, holding my sword out to where I had been moments before, effectively slicing one of its many legs off.

It screamed out a horrible screech, landing with a thud, but that didn't stop it. It immediately scrambled up onto its remaining legs and readied itself to pounce once again.

Studying it, I noticed a soft, fleshy looking spot on its side; a hole in its armor. Glancing quickly at its legs, it had 5 left. 5 incredibly dangerous legs with venom-tipped claws. If I could manage to slice them all off without getting struck, I could sink my sword into the weak spot on its back.

With a plan now in mind, I lunged at the creature, somehow catching it off guard and slashing another of its legs off.

The oversized insect became more aggressive. As I dodged one of its swiping claws, I tried to duck underneath to hack into it when I heard the sickening sound of tearing flesh. I felt the white hot pain less than a moment later, searing, burning its way through my side. I gasped, dropping my sword to the ground and curling up in a ball despite my ribs protesting.

My hands shot up to the gash, instinctively pressing down on it to slow the bleeding. I cried out.

The creature, sensing my weakness, slowly approached, assessing my state. I shakily, weakly, reached for the dagger on my hip. As it grew closer, I readied my dagger. As soon as it was over me and about to strike, I let out a fierce cry and drove the dagger into its side, past the armor and straight into its flesh.

With one last, inhuman shriek, the gigantic insect collapsed on the ground next to me, it's remaining legs twitching slightly.

Gasping, I forced myself up, feeling the pain burning through my side. I slapped my hand over my mouth, muffling a choked sob.

Slowly, I made my way back to camp. As quietly as I could, I dug through my bag, pulling out bandages and a couple of clean rags. I stuffed one in my mouth and dampened the other with liquor, pressing it onto my side firmly, tears welling up in my eyes. I was breathing hard through my nose as I squeezed my eyes shut.

I wadded up another clean rag from my bag, holding it against the wound as I firmly wrapped the bandages around my middle, extending it up to my ribs and snugly wrapping them as well.

Afterwards I allowed myself to slump down onto my bedroll, falling into a restless sleep.

When I awoke, the pain was immediate. A dull burning in the surrounding area around the gash. It was nothing I couldn't handle.

The sun had yet to come up over the horizon, though the dim light from it's rays were just barely lighting the ground. I fell back onto the blankets, wrapping them tighter around me as I shivered. I had a fever, and not from sickness or an infected wound. The gods only know what the venom of that thing would do to me.

After some uncomfortable and restless shifting, I once again drifted off into a fevered rest.

I was met with the nudge of a boot. "Time to go." The witcher grunted. I could hear rustling as he packed up the makeshift camp.

I groaned, tightening my arm around my side and squeezing my eyes shut. My head was pounding horribly and my entire body ached. The dull burning around the claw marks had, surprisingly enough, subsided quite a bit. But according to the stories, this was just the calm before the storm. Either way, I'd take it.

I staggered to my feet, clutching onto the tree for dear life when a sharp jolt of pain ran through my entire body. I couldn't help the gasp that escaped my lips.

I could feel Geralt's gaze on me, I knew he wanted to say something, but he stayed silent. I glared up at him as  he turned away to finish packing.

I tied my bedroll and tossed it along with our other supplies onto Roach, biting back a groan as I did so. He said nothing to me. I was getting sick of his silent treatment.

We continued down the not-so-beaten path, tension still hanging heavy in the air.

"What the fuck is your problem?" I interrupted the tense silence. "Are you still mad about yesterday?" Nothing.

"Get over it. When we get to the next town, I'm done. I'm leaving." That got his attention.

He slowly turned his golden gaze towards me, glancing over his shoulder. I refused to back down, I glared right back at him.

"You're what?" Underneath the anger, I could hear the masked surprise.

"I'm fucking leaving Geralt. You said it yourself, I'm a burden to you. I don't want you to keep me with you just because you feel sorry for me, I don't need your pity." I spat, disguising my pain with the betrayal and anger I had been feeling since he had spoken those words to me.

"I'm not-" I was cut off with a strangled gasp as a pang of literal fire burned and sliced through me. I clutched my middle, falling to my knees. I curled into myself, whimpering.

I heard his footsteps approach rapidly, then saw his boots. My head shot up and I scrambled back away from him. "Get the fuck away from me." I hissed through clenched teeth.

I forced myself onto my feet, hunching over and now clutching both arms to my side where the gash was. It had opened up again with the fall and I could feel warm blood soaking the rag. I barely choked back a sob as another fiery jolt ripped through my abdomen.

I stumbled backwards until my back hit a tree, then slid down. I heard Geralt approach me again, but I paid no attention. The fire felt as though it was spreading into my veins now and dots were starting to creep into the edges of my vision. My breathing was sharp and irregular.

I sensed Geralt's presence in front of me. I could hear his voice far away.

Involuntarily, my head lolled to the side, my grip on my stomach loosened. My eyes slipped shut. The last thing I felt was burning, white hot fire spreading through my veins, my arteries, my heart.

I woke in the soft bed of an inn.

The fire in my veins wasn't so hot or sharp now, but it was still very noticeably there. I whined, turning over onto my side and curling into myself, arms wrapped around my side.

I soon realized I was swimming in a large tunic that wasn't my own and the bandages on my side were fresh and clean.

I started to push myself up onto my forearms, vision still hazy. I began to panic, suddenly wondering where I was. The fire only increased as the blood pumped through my veins at the movement.

I held back a whine,vmanaging to prop myself up against the wall behind the bed. My breathing was pained and ragged.

I heard a door open across the room. I struggled to swing my legs over the mattress, my breaths quickening. Blackness crept back into my sight as I shakily stood up, leaning heavily against the wall. I realized I had no weapons.

I barely heard their quiet footsteps quicken as they rounded the corner and I slumped over in relief before remembering our confrontation.

"You're awake." I said nothing, glaring at him. I now realized it was his shirt that I was wearing.

"Look- Fuck. I don't even know where to start." Geralt sighed, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"It doesn't matter. I'm leaving," I hesitated. Looking to the frosted window outside. It looked to be late in the afternoon. "How long was I out?"

"Three days." He said softly. A tone I never thought I'd hear out of him.

"When did that thing get ahold of you?" His voice rose back to his normal, flat tone.

I ignored his question. "I'm leaving tomorrow. You won't have to worry about me 'clinging to your sleeve' anymore." I quoted him harshly. I moved to push past him as another sharp pain tore through me, leaving a burning trail behind it. I gasped, doubling over and leaning on the bed.

Geralt took two strides over to me, gently holding me by the waist to support me. "Lie down." He instructed. I didn't argue, curling up on the bed and wrapping my arms around myself. My hands tightly grasped Geralt's tunic I was wearing.

A sob escaped my throat as I felt the bed dip beside me. He gathered me up in his arms, pulling me to his chest and softly stroking my hair. My breath came in short pants as the pain worsened. I clutched onto his sleeve, curling further into him.

He hummed, a sound I heard more through his chest than anything else, pulling me closer. My eyes started to drift closed when another wave of pain wracked through my body. I didn't have the energy to do anything else but whimper. I lay there limply, dreading the next excruciating jab.

I tensed in his arms. "Shhh. The potion should kick in soon." He murmured.

"Potion?" I rasped, raising my head.

"Don't worry. It won't harm you."

"But I thought humans couldn't-" I broke off with a weak cough.

"Shh. I wouldn't use anything on you without knowing its effects."

Not exactly reassured by his words, I lay my head down all the same. After a few moments, when I didn't feel the same agonizing pain, I wondered.

"Why?" I mumbled.

"Why what?" I felt him shift beside me.

"Why take care of me? You said I was 'seless you should've left me by the side of the road."

"I didn't mean that. You scared the shit out of me." He sighed.

"You know they say whatever you say in anger is true."

"Not always." He whispered. After a moment of silence, "You're the strongest person I know. I wouldn't trust anyone else at my back."

"Why didn't you tell me? How long had you been hiding it?" I knew exactly what he meant.

"After our argument. After you went to sleep,, I took a walk." I paused before adding, "At least I killed the damn thing."

"You should've told me."

I managed a hoarse, humorless laugh. "You already told me how useless I am, you really think I was going to give you a reason to drive that in deeper?"

"I-" His voice was hesitant. "I'm so sorry. I never mean to make you feel like you can't come to me for anything. Especially when it's something that could kill you."

"I've lost so many people in my long life. But you. Anyone but you." I tensed as I felt another burning pain, not nearly as intense as the others but still agonizing nonetheless. Geralt had loosened his grip on me, but tightened it again when I tensed up.

I felt safe.

"I think the potion is starting to take effect now." He rumbled, pulling away. He must've noticed the confused expression on my face. "The pain has lessened?" I nodded slightly. I was still incredibly weak.

He gently tucked me back against his chest as my eyes drifted shut. The dull burning sensation was now almost gone as well, though I wasn't sure how long it would last, I was going to make the most out of it. I was exhausted. "You're not leaving." He mumbled into my hair.

"Not unless you want me to." I barely managed to get the words out as I was fading into sleep.

"Never."

[silkscream]

SWEETEST KILL | PART TWO: VERDICT

pairing: peter parker x silk!reader

warnings: mentions of sex, angst, tony stark

wc: 3k

summary: an unexpected invitation to stark industries makes you question everything.

a/n: not my favorite. it feels like filler but i suppose it’s important for context n plot development. also, i love writing a sarcastic reader. also, did i only just post part one yesterday??? yes. it’s called These Have Been Sitting In My Drafts And I'm Bored As All Hell

↳ series masterlist / main masterlist / taglist

↳ part one: delirium / part three: kismet

“So, what, you think she crawled her way here from a different Earth?” 

“No, she’s… definitely real. I’ve gone to school with her this whole time. She was bitten by the same spider as me!”

Tony Stark furrows his brows, partly from disbelief, partly from the fact that Peter’s eyes are bugged out and his appetite is curiously insatiable, considering the boy keeps taking more and more of the man’s fries. Tony swats him away.

“Hey, I said a couple,” he scolds. 

“‘mmsorry,” a muffled Peter mutters, fries in his mouth. Tony rolls his eyes.

“Is she a threat?” 

“Um, I don't think so… we kind of…” Peter trails off, looking away from his mentor. He fixates on the lucky cat in the window waving its paw at him tauntingly. Tony doesn’t understand Peter’s affinity for these combination bodega/Chinese takeout/diner places, but the kid was frantic and was most definitely not in the mood for a place that served Chardonnay, much to Tony’s dismay.

“You what?” Tony asks impatiently.

“Like… my senses were on overload, I’ve never felt like that before…” The boy stammers as his cheeks grow red.

“Oh,” Tony nods, blinking at Peter with indifference. “You use protection?”

“No, we didn’t get that far!” Peter exclaims, covering his face with his hands in self-consciousness. “I.. just… it felt so weird. Like I couldn’t control myself. I couldn’t get why.”

“Well, kid, if she was bitten by the same spider as you, you probably both have the biological urge to mate. Didn’t school ever teach you about pheromones?”

A raised eyebrow bluntly contrasts Peter’s worried gaze.

“I thought that was just for animals, not humans,” he shrugs.

“Okay, well, you’ve got yourself a little spider-girlfriend. What exactly did you want me to do about this? Give you a little run-down on sex education?” Tony nods at the disgruntled middle-aged woman at the front, waving her over for the check. He takes a sip of his Diet Coke and looks pointedly at Peter. “What, does she not know who you are yet?”

“No, I thought it’d be a bad idea to tell her. Should I? I feel like… this is big, Mr. Stark. Like, what if she’s secretly a villain, or if she’s not, then I feel like she needs guidance, you know? Maybe she should train with us?” Peter’s eyes are pleading.

“Well, kid, we’re not the damn government. We can’t have a profile on every person that has sticky hands like you. But fine. You know her name?”

Peter nods.

___

“Congratulations, Miss Y/L/N, you’ve been anonymously referred by an academic advisor to participate in an exclusive workshop at Stark Industries!”

“What?” You nearly spit, squinting at the guidance counselor in front of you. You were sure Betty had given a tip to Mrs. Cooper about skipping class or your last chemistry test or your general emotional malaise. You were expecting a lecture on mental health, not this.

“You should be proud of yourself! Many people who participate in student activities under Mr. Stark end up becoming interns and employees! This will look ah-mazing on your resume!” 

Mrs. Cooper was the human equivalent of what you would imagine a middle-aged, female Spongebob to be like. You didn’t hate her, but you hated her chipper attitude and the way she constantly piped about academia like the world was fresh daisies. Not to mention, she never gets your name correctly even though she's been your assigned counselor since freshman year.

“Right… um, thanks,” you mumble, taking the paperwork from her as the bell rang. You’re relieved as you walk out her door — any longer in that room and you feel like you would’ve imploded. Or she would’ve turned you into an inanimate object with bippity, boppity, boop.

You already know whose eyes are surging through your body. Peter Parker stares at you from your locker and it takes about half a millisecond to stare back at his sharp jaw and the pinkish flesh of his thin lips. A tiny cut on the corner of his bottom lip ordains something that makes you breathless. You want to lick it. 

He looks at you like he has something to tell you but ultimately looks the other way. Before you even realize your compulsion to walk towards him, Betty Brant links her arm with yours and greets you. You’re still glancing at Peter, half-listening as she babbles about her date with Ned.

“And he got me daisies! Isn’t that just the most romantic thing in the world? I didn’t even tell him they were my favorite,” the blonde gushes.

“Yes, you did. We were sitting together at lunch last week and you were loudly ranting about how no one’s ever gotten you flowers before,” you remind her, bluntly. She rolls her eyes.

“Okay, but it’s the fact that he listened!”

“I love Ned, but that is quite literally the bare minimum.”

Betty makes a face, scrunching it up like she’s tasted a lemon for too long.

“You’re just grouchy,” she teases you. “Maybe you need to go on a date. Peter Parker’s been staring at you this whole time, you know.”

The sound of his name makes your heart leap. 

“Shut up.”

“Oh, he totally is into you! I just saw him lick his lips!”

“Betty, if you keep talking about him, I am going to hurl your pretty ass into a locker,” you shush your friend when her voice squeals like nails on a chalkboard. You and Betty contrast one another comically — you in your entirely black outfit and her in a Vineyard Vines cerulean sweater. 

“Ruuuude,” she whines.

You roll your eyes again, shuddering from the weight of Peter's gaze and the fluorescent lighting that bathes you in the wide hallway. You blink back at Betty’s heart-shaped head as she purses her lightly glossed lips, eyes bright and wide like a squirrel’s. 

“So why did Mrs. Cooper wanna see you? Did you get into a fight again?” It’s funny, the crease on the blonde’s forehead. She looks like a real-life Barbie doll.

You scoff. “No, I just… got some academic thing. At Stark Industries.”

“Like Iron-Man Tony Stark?” she squeals again. 

“Yes, that one,” you hiss, pulling her towards the classroom before she can get any louder. Peter watches you carefully from the back of the room.

The blonde mouths oh my god and you flash her a fake smile in an attempt to mirror her delight.

__

“Hello, do you have an appointment?” the redhead at the front desk asks you. Her red lipstick is the color of blood, matching the color of her suit. Her sharp green eyes look you up and down. 

“Um, kind of. I’m here to see Mr. Stark for the workshop,” you explain. 

Tick, tick, tick. The clock seems like the loudest thing in the room. You wonder if the secretary hears you at all, but just as you’re about to repeat yourself, she cuts you off.

“Name?” She doesn’t look up from her computer. You tell her.

“You can take the elevator down the hall to your left. Twenty-third floor.”

“Thank you,” you mumble softly. 

You hate the fact that you’re here. You didn’t love the grandiose, exaggerated luxury of this skyscraper knowing that its glory was sensationalized by a pro-capitalist industrialist. You don’t care about military technologies and weaponry. In fact, you despise it. But you weren’t stupid. Any ticket to a good university was worth it, admittedly. 

The doors open to a room with sleek, modern furniture, black tiled ceilings, and floors illuminated by studio lighting. Uncomfortably, you take a seat on one of the red couches. It was impressive, the decor, but it still felt clinical and cold to you. Especially considering you were alone.

Your ears perk up to the sound of a door opening and footsteps echoing on the tiles. Around the corner, a pair of luminous brown eyes meet yours. 

“Peter.” It’s not a question, more of an observation. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m, uh, Mr. Stark’s intern,” Peter replies, smiling in a thin line that looks fabricated. What is he hiding?

“Did you ask him to ask me to come here?” You narrow your eyes.

“What? I didn’t even know you were, uh, coming here. What are you doing here?”

“Peter Parker, I know we aren’t the best of friends or anything, but you’re a terrible liar,” you sneer. You like the way his mouth quirks up into a defeated smile along with his pink cheeks. Your eyes widen when your gaze traces the length of his jaw. “Sorry, not sure what’s formal right now. Mr. Spider-Man.”

“Huh?” Peter’s mouth is agape but he makes an attempt at being casual by sauntering into the kitchen, turning away from you to look blankly into the fridge. 

“Would you rather be called that?” Curiously, you get up from your seat and walk over to the island of the kitchen. Everything looks too clean to touch, let alone use for cooking food. 

“Um…” Peter genuinely doesn’t know what to say. He forgets how to breathe once you cross the invisible threshold in the middle of the room because now that you’re closer, he can smell your skin. 

“Can I try something?” You echo his words from the other night. You feel bad — the boy looks terrified despite the way he carried himself during your accidental rendezvous. He’s trembling. 

Awkwardly, you take your hand and touch his shoulder, causing him to jerk without warning. He mumbles an apology as he looks at his shoes. You don’t know what compels you to do this — you’d never in your right mind do this in any other context — but you kiss him. It’s a soft, slow kiss. A short one, thanks to the voice in your head screaming for you to release yourself. 

“Yup. You are definitely Spider-Man.”

The voice of another human booms in your presence.

“I see you two have met,” Tony Stark grins, walking towards the island. “Parker, Y/L/N, follow me.

___

Peter’s body is betraying himself. It’s difficult to stay still in his chair when he’s only about two feet away from you. Tony doesn’t understand the extent of the… problem, and dismisses the boy’s behavior as normal teenage ADHD. Peter can never stay still anyways. 

You’re somehow better at controlling yourself, crossing your legs tightly, and keeping your palms in your lap. You’ve always been good at controlling yourself. But maybe that was the girl-instinct inside you, the ability to fold yourself over and over to be contained, small. 

“Well.”

The three of you switch glances at each other awkwardly. You feel like you’re in the fucking principal’s office.

“There isn’t an actual workshop, is there?” you ask bluntly.

“Smart girl, I can see why Peter likes you,” Tony quips sarcastically. Peter glares at the man, shaking his head as if he’d just let out a secret. Which it was, maybe. At least a surprise to you.

“Why am I here?” You want to choose your words carefully, but if Peter’s the one who brought you here, there was no point in hiding Silk. “Are you trying to use me for biological warfare? Don’t you have him for that?”

You nod towards Peter and he sighs. Tony chuckles. 

“The kid seems eager to get to know you, which he could easily do himself. You’re not in any trouble. Dr. Banner would just like to run some tests on you to know more about the spider, see how you differ from Peter, etcetera. We aren’t going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

“You just said you were going to run some tests on me.”

For the first time since you kissed Peter moments before, you look him in the eye. “Why exactly do you want me here?”

“I just wanted… to help you. You said you didn’t tell anyone about Silk except me,” Peter stammers. He plays with his fingers. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m not a therapist or a guidance counselor, so if Peter can do the honor of showing you around, go ahead,” Tony says dismissively. The door behind you opens automatically, to which you storm off before Peter can catch up to you.

“Y/N, wait!” Peter calls after you.

“What?” you seethe. “I don’t want to be a hero, okay? I told you this already. I don’t want anything to do with the Avengers, I don’t care if we have the same powers, but it’s not my responsibility to be your weird little test subject.”

“It’s not like that! Don’t you want to know more about your own powers?” Peter’s voice is raised slightly as he takes your hand. “Listen to me. You told me you don’t have anyone. But I promise you, you have me. If you’ll have me.”

The earnest look in his eyes makes you want to jump his bones. God, how pathetic. You hate how weak you are for this boy, and how his puppy-dog eyes are boring into your thick skull, and how if Tony Stark wasn’t on the other side of the wall next to you, you’d pounce on Peter Parker like a tree.

“Don’t you want to know why you feel like this?” the brunette asks softly. Your fingers are intertwined, his thumb rubbing your skin innocently. It makes you jump slightly as if you’d gotten burnt.

“Fine.”

___

You always hated doctors. You hated the mundanity of the waiting room, the cold setting and sterile environment that housed tragedy despite the cut-throat policies of America’s awful culture of medical insurance. You aren’t even in a hospital, but these thoughts flood your mind all the same. You shift in your seat in front of Dr. Banner.

“Okay, Miss L/N, I’m sure you’re familiar with all your powers. Arachnid abilities, superhuman strength, speed,” Dr. Banner drones. The sound of his voice almost calms you. Like a history channel documentary. “Now, what we did find out is that mutagenic enzymes in the blood of the spider that bit you give you the ability to be in perfect physical equilibrium, in any state imaginable. That, and your Spider-sense is actually much, much sharper than Peter’s.”

You raise your eyebrows. 

“Seems like the glands inside your arms help you produce your own web fluid too, which is... different.”

You nod politely. Dr. Banner didn’t really tell you anything new, but it was enlightening. Like you were getting Officially Diagnosed. You look pointedly at Peter.

“What? I had to make my own web-shooters!”

“Sucks to suck, Parker.”

“Do you have any more questions, Y/N?” Dr. Banner asks. You shake your head.

With a smile, you listen to Dr. Banner and his conversational asides with Peter. Ignoring his presence, you scroll through the apps on your phone to return some texts and check the schedule for the nearest metro. The sound of Peter’s erratic beating heart drowns out your ears like white noise. You hate that he can hear yours too.

“Why’s your heart beating so fast?” you give him a scowl.

“You know why.” Peter reluctantly flashes a peculiar look at Dr. Banner as if prompting him. “It’s the, uh…”

“Pheromones,” Banner chimes in. “That’s probably why both of you are so hyper-aware of one another. Because you were bitten by the same spider, your bodies naturally have the desire to mate when you’re in close proximity.”

Your expression is unwavering while Peter’s face grows redder and redder. You wouldn’t be surprised if he were to start melting.

“Is there a way to tune that down? So we can, like, coexist like humans?” Peter asks.

“What, like an anti-horny pill?” you chuckle darkly. Peter throws a glare at you. “What? Do you want me to transfer out of our classes? We already know what happens in Twilight.”

“I can arrange something like a serum that allows you both to control your impulses,” Banner says. “In the meantime, Y/N, you’re always welcome to the lab for any purpose. Not in a scientific prodding way, but in an inventor way. Your natural web fluid is pretty remarkable.” 

“Thanks, Doc,” you sigh. Peter’s eyes flicker between Dr. Banner and you, catching you in an unfathomable grimace that turns up into a smirk when you realize his eyes on you. If there was one true fact about Peter Parker, it was that he was easily flustered by pretty girls. 

“Well, I guess I should go. See you later, Peter.” The name leaves your lips like it’s yanked out of you. The sound of it gives Peter a slight pang to the diaphragm. His nervousness and immeasurable attraction to you manifest itself as a dunce cap atop his head considering how calm and collected you are, a direct contrast to his enchantment. You reciprocate these feelings in a watered-down way though you won’t show it, because despite the fact that the boy you like deliberately lured you to meet him in this bizarre, clinical setting, you still took the bait. Without another beat, you leave the room.

Peter is just able to catch you before the elevator doors close on him and you huff at how quickly he’s able to catch up to you. The silence is awkward. The drop of a paper clip would probably sound like an earthquake if not for both of your irregular breathing.

“Shouldn’t you be staying away from me?” you sneer with gritted teeth.

“What if I…” Peter trails off. What if I don’t want to? “I understand why you’d be angry with me but I really do want to help. I do want to be your friend, you know.”

“You sure that’s not your dick talking?” you taunt.

Peter gives you a pained, puzzled expression. He takes your hand, desperate for you to understand where he’s coming from, but you’re much too stubborn to entertain any of his theories or plans to make you stay. 

Before Peter can answer, the elevator doors slide open and you leave as quickly as you came.

___

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