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holyblonded · 4 months ago

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choices | always sunny in australia

pairings: matildas x teen!reader, sam kerr x teen!reader

summary: you’re deadline of choosing a club is drawing to a close

warnings: tad bit of anxiety

notes: i love writing this series but she doesn’t have a name yet 😭 also please tell me where you want her to go!!

Barcelona, Arsenal, Chelsea, Lyon, Bayern—the list goes on. Ever since your debut with the Matildas, your phone hasn’t stopped buzzing with offers. Some of the biggest clubs in the world want you, and yet, the idea of actually making a choice feels impossible.

You’ve never played for a professional club before. Just your school team—a high-level program that ran things almost professionally, but still, it wasn’t this. This is something entirely different.

And it terrifies you.

Luckily, you had been fortunate enough to run into Nicole— literally. You had bumped into her on the street, and somehow, a simple conversation had led to her becoming your manager. She was American, well-connected in the American football world, and, most importantly, someone who quickly understood you. She had a way of grounding you when your thoughts spiraled, and she had spent the past few weeks constantly reminding you:

“Kid, it’s going to be alright,” she told you over the phone more times than you could count. “You have all these offers because they know you’re great. Because you deserve to be here. The potential? That’s just a bonus.”

It helped, at least for a little while. But now, being in camp with the Tillies, you realize something. You really should have kept this whole thing a secret.

The moment you step onto the pitch for training, it starts.

“So…” Ellie drawls, stretching out beside you, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Lyon’s looking nice, huh? France, big club, great team chemistry…”

“Mate, don’t listen to her,” Steph interrupts, rolling her eyes. “Arsenal is the place to be. Proper football, historic club. You’d fit right in.”

Caitlin nods along. “Arsenal’s a family, you know. You’d love it.”

You open your mouth to respond, but then—

“Oi, don’t fill her head with that nonsense.” Sam appears, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Chelsea, Kiddo. That’s where legends are made. London is blue, everyone knows that.”

Mini, who had been listening quietly, grins and jumps in. “Or, you could not go to London and join Westham. Come on, imagine it—me, Kristie, and Harper anytime you want.”

“You’re really using your child as bait?” Macca snickers.

“She loves Harper,” Mini argued. “Why are you working against me? We are trying to get her to Westham together.”

You groan, shaking your head as they all start bickering. It’s a full-blown debate now, the pros and cons of each club being thrown around like a transfer market panel show. Even Kyra joins in, throwing out a case for Arsenal again (and, unsurprisingly, getting an eye roll from Sam and Mini).

It’s all meant to be playful, but after a while, it starts to feel like too much. Too many voices, too many opinions, too much pressure. Your chest tightens, and you step back, suddenly needing space.

“I—I need a sec,” you mutter before quickly slipping away from the group.

You should have known they wouldn’t stop at training.

The moment you step into the weight room, water bottle in hand, you feel multiple sets of eyes lock onto you. A chill runs down your spine.

“Oh no,” you mutter.

“Oh yes,” Ellie grins, draping herself over the bench press like she’s been waiting for this moment. “Weight room negotiations, baby.”

Alanna claps her hands together, looking far too pleased with herself. “Alright, Sunny. It’s simple, they are prepared to sweeten the deal.”

You blink. “What?”

Steph crosses her arms, tilting her head. “Think of it as… recruitment incentives.”

Mini steps forward first, completely serious. “If you come to West Ham, Kristie, Macca, and I will take you in, no questions asked. You’d have a proper home, actual home-cooked meals, and Harper already loves you. Plus, family. Can’t put a price on that.”

You hesitate. That… that actually sounds really nice.

Ellie shakes her head. “Please. You belong at Lyon. Think about it—France, a club filled with legends, the best players in the world. Plus, French food. And if you come, I’ll personally make sure you get the best local recommendations.”

Alanna snickers, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Ohhh, big promises being made.”

Mini narrows her eyes at Ellie. “You can’t even speak French.”

“I am learning,” Ellie shoots back. “Another pro, language immersion. Learn French from the French with a fresh croissant in hand.”

Steph, watching it all unfold, casually chimes in. “Or, you could just pick Arsenal and not have to deal with all that.”

Caitlin leans against the squat rack, looking casual. “And, Arsenal will pay for your flights if you ever want to visit home. Think about it. Free trips home.”

Kyra nods. “I second that.”

Macca, who has been listening with amusement, finally chimes in. “You come to West Ham, and I’ll teach you how to do a proper Aussie barbecue. None of that tourist nonsense.”

At this point, you’re just laughing. “You guys are insane.”

“Insane, or genius?” Ellie smirks.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you grab a dumbbell. “You really want me to pick your teams, huh?”

Sam shrugs. “Nah, no pressure.” Then she grins. “But Chelsea’s the move.”

Alanna just chuckles as you let out a groan, watching the chaos unfold. “This is so much better than any TV show.”

You find Sam at the edge of the pitch after training, taking a breather by herself, her gaze fixed on the horizon. It’s rare for her to be alone, and you figure this might be the perfect time to talk.

You hesitate, standing a few feet away, unsure if you should approach. After all, she’s been nothing but relentless in pushing Chelsea your way. But then, you remind yourself that she’s been your teammate long enough to know when something’s off.

She turns when she hears you approach, an easy smile spreading across her face. “Alright, kid, what’s up?”

You let out a breath, not sure how to phrase it. “I, uh… I’ve been thinking about the whole transfer thing. I just… I don’t know what to do. Like, everyone’s got their opinions, you know?” You look at her, meeting her eyes. “I don’t know where to go.”

Sam’s eyes soften, and she motions for you to sit down beside her. “Of course, mate. You want to talk about it?”

You sit down, a little closer than usual. The weight of your decision feels heavier now that it’s all real, and Sam seems to sense that.

“You’ve got a lot of people pushing you to choose their team,” Sam continues, her voice calm but not dismissive. “It’s hard not to feel like you’re making the wrong choice when so many people have their own agendas.” She smirks. “I’ll admit, I’ve got my own agenda, obviously.” She pauses, then glances at you, tone changing to something quieter, more sincere. “But I’m gonna put that aside for a second, alright?”

You look at her, a little surprised. “Wait, what?”

“I know I’ve been pushing you toward Chelsea. I’ve been doing it since you got here, but,” Sam exhales, her smile fading as she turns her focus forward again, “I think I might’ve been going about it wrong. It’s not about where I want you to go. It’s about what’s gonna make you feel right, you know?”

You blink, a bit shocked by the shift in her tone. You’ve always known Sam as the kind of person who goes after what she wants with everything she’s got, and yet here she is, backing off.

“You’ve been so caught up in everyone’s opinions,” she continues, her voice low and gentle, “and I get it. I really do. But at the end of the day, it’s your decision. You’re the one who has to be happy with it. You’re the one who has to live with it. Not me, not Mini, not Caitlin or anyone else. You. It’s your future, your career.”

She pauses, looking at you, as if waiting for you to process what she’s saying.

You can feel the lump in your throat start to form, and you swallow, nodding slowly. “I just… I don’t want to mess it up. Everyone keeps saying this is a huge step, and I feel like I’m about to make the wrong one.”

Sam chuckles softly, leaning back on her hands. “Listen, I’ve been in your shoes, more times than I can count. The pressure to make the perfect decision, the fear of making the wrong move… but you know what? There’s no such thing as the perfect move. There’s just the one that feels right for you at the time. And yeah, sometimes that can change. Sometimes, you’ll feel unsure, and that’s okay. That’s part of the journey.”

She turns to face you fully now, her eyes kind, but serious. “What I want for you, what I really want, is for you to pick the place where you’re gonna be comfortable. Not the place where you think you’ll get the most fame, or the most money, or even the best team on paper. I want you to pick the place where you’ll wake up every day and feel like you belong. Where the coach sees you for who you are, not just the next big thing. Where your teammates become your family, where you can grow without all the noise.”

You feel a weight lifting from your shoulders, and you let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

“That’s all it comes down to?” you ask, still processing. “Being comfortable?”

Sam smiles warmly. “Yeah. Because you’re gonna face challenges no matter where you go. But if you’re comfortable, if you know deep down that you’re in the right place, you’ll be able to handle those challenges with a clear head. And if things don’t work out? That’s okay, too. You always have the option to move on. Nothing’s permanent, especially in football.”

Her words settle over you, and for the first time since the whole transfer thing started, you start to feel a little more at ease.

“So… I should stop worrying about everyone else, huh?”

Sam shrugs with a grin. “Not stop worrying. But take our opinions with a grain of salt. At the end of the day, it’s your gut that’s gonna tell you where to go. Trust that.”

You nod, feeling lighter. “Thanks, Sam. Really. That… that actually helps a lot.”

She pats you on the back. “Anytime, kid. I’m always here. But next time, pick Chelsea, alright?” she teases, the smirk back on her face.

You laugh, feeling like a weight’s been lifted off your chest. For the first time in weeks, the pressure doesn’t seem so unbearable. It’s not about making the ‘perfect’ choice anymore. It’s about making the one that feels like the best fit for you. And that, somehow, feels right.

You should have really expected it to continue onto the pitch.

The teams are mixed for the scrimmage, but that doesn’t stop the recruitment attempts.

The second you receive a pass from Mini, Ellie, who is on the opposing team, immediately tries to sweet talk you instead of pressing.

“Hey, mate,” she grins, jogging backward. “Think about it— Lyon. France. The best club in the world. You could be teammates with Renard. With Horan. With Diani. And of course, DVD.”

You shove the ball past her, shaking your head. “Not happening, Ellie.”

Across the field, Mini sprints to your side. “West Ham, Sunny! Think about it, me, Kristie, Harper. You’d have a family there.”

Caitlin intercepts a pass and grins at you. “Or, you could be with us at Arsenal, playing beautiful football and winning trophies.”

Steph steals the ball next and points at you as she runs past. “Arsenal.”

Alanna, of course, is eating it all up. She jogs past you, arms crossed. “You know, if you don’t decide soon, I could start some transfer rumors. Just saying.”

“Alanna, don’t,” you groan.

She smirks. “I dunno, mate. ‘Tilies Young Star Leaning Towards Move to—’”

You throw your hands up. “Enough!”

Everyone stops, waiting. The whole team is looking at you, expecting an answer.

You exhale sharply. “I already made my decision with Nicole in the middle of camp. I’m going to sign with-“

#woso community #woso x platonic!reader #woso fic #woso x teen!reader #woso x reader #woso #woso fanfics #matildas x teen!reader #matildas x reader #tillies x reader #sam kerr x teen!reader #sam kerr x reader #auswnt x reader #auswnt #australia #·˚ ༘ always sunny in australia

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genericpuff · 8 months ago

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the Underworld is the only godly realm that was built on capitalism

So what's Olympus built on? Socialism? Are the gods and nymphs there living the good life compared to their underworld counterparts? Are Zeus and Hera good monarchs even if they're not good people? Or is it just bad in a different way?

Olympus does still participate in capitalism to a degree (especially considering that they do a lot of buying and selling between the Underworld, ex. Kore isn't the only one who travels for work between realms) but the realm was originally built on offerings and bartering which is a tradition that's still maintained between the gods themselves - and it's a big reason why they care for the mortals at all, because without their prayers and offerings, the entire foundation of their realm and the gods' status as rulers would crumble.

So in that way, the gods in power - aside from Hades who is an exception we'll touch on in a second - don't really care about the societal institutions of money, because money just doesn't really serve any function for them that the mortals' offerings - and their own abilities as gods - aren't already providing them. The capitalist system that exists in Olympus is more so to serve the residents who aren't being actively worshipped, such as the nymphs and satyrs (though some are lucky to gain recognition in ways that benefits them through offerings) and for budding gods who don't have as much influence in the Mortal Realm yet (such as Kore).

That said, there are plenty of complaints to be made about Hera and Zeus regardless of the economy that exists within Olympus, buuuut we'll be getting into those issues later ;3 As for the quality of life of Olympus vs. the Underworld, there are pros and cons to both, as with any economic system. The Underworld has a bit of a steeper divide between the rich and poor, but living in Olympus comes with the caveats of being in Zeus' territory where life can be... unpredictable, to say the least. BUT the Underworld being built on the free market has provided it with unique advantages through their technological advancements (ex. the existence of cars and cellphones in both realms is largely owed to the Underworld); whereas Olympus has greater access to the resources of the gods themselves due to literally being the home of the King of the Gods who everyone tries to keep in their good graces.

We've seen a mini example of this bartering system already back in Episode 56: Hera telling Kore she was going to help her with her garden wasn't just the Queen dishing out orders, she was telling Kore that gardening would be a sufficient enough trade for having her in her home and feeding her.

She's not offering to feed Kore for free (which WOULD be an honor coming from the Queen), she's telling her "I'll provide you with the company of royalty and good food / wine / etc. in exchange for your gardening services." (that said, it is still sort of a high honor in and of itself considering Hera wouldn't let just anyone tend to her property ;3)

But that brings us to the exception - Hades. The Underworld had to be built on a different system due to many of its gods and goddesses not being commonly worshipped, so offerings and tributes were hard to come by. For Hades especially, how was he supposed to earn the favors of mortals when they wouldn't even dare speak his name? This led to him having to build the Underworld on the value of specific resources - such as the minerals and metals and gemstones found in the Underworld itself - which were later refined into common currency that's now used across the realms.

Fun fact, this is also why Kore is ticked off that the Underworld costs a toll to enter for both shades and gods alike - because there isn't a toll booth to get into Olympus.

The Underworld has truly mastered the art of microtransactions LMAO

To wrap up this fun lil' lore dump, there's a WIP scene I have on the back burner that goes into greater detail on Olympus' bartering systems but I haven't had the chance to work it naturally into the story yet, I'm hoping it'll be included in an upcoming episode soon but it's basically a cute lil' shopping sequence between Persephone, Artemis, and Daphne :' )

(enjoy these never before seen sketches of Daphne sporting Y2K-style fashion LMAO)

#ask me anything #ama #anon ama #anon ask me anything #lore rekindled ama #lore rekindled #lore dump #i hope all of that makes sense btw #talking about economics is BLEH

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allforhee · 1 year ago

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ੈ✩ — 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒. (BLURB) | LEE HEESEUNG

୨୧ pairing — older brother's best friend!lee heeseung x park!fem!reader

୨୧ synopsis — living under the protective eyes of your older brother, park sunghoon, he thinks he knows you the best. but litte does he know that heeseung knows you love your sour patch kids more than you love his usual swedish fish. (inspired by the summer i turned pretty scene where conrad knows belly's taste of candies more than jeremiah)

୨୧ genre — non!idol au, you're 20 and hee is 22, you and hee are dating but sunghoon doesn't know, sort of childhood friends to lovers?

୨୧ warnings — cursing, forbidden (ish) romance, cute fluff where heeseung knows you best, backstreet dating behind sunghoon's back, heeseung and sunghoon having a little quarrel, possesive/sassy-ish hee

୨୧ word count — 562 words, 3148 characters (sort of proofread?)

୨୧ author's note — first blurb and i lowkey wrote this on my phone during english class.. had to get this out of my system cause i absolutely loved this scene in tsitp. plus i felt like i needed to write something since i won't be releasing "it's a crisis"'s full fic anytime soon since i'm busy with exams coming up :(

𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓.

the car comes to a stop under the gas station’s bright led light. sunghoon takes off his seatbelt as he grabs his wallet in his pocket, before exiting the car, leaving you and heeseung alone.

you could feel the tension between you and heeseung. the heavy rain outside making it seem louder. he was slumped over in the backseat with his phone in his hand, the bright light illuminating his features.

when did he become so handsome?

sunghoon opens the driver’s side’s door, “we’re two hours away from home, gas is filling up and i’m gonna get some snacks. you want any y/n?”

“i’m down with anything, honestly.” you respond.

as sunghoon is about to close the door, heeseung takes off his seatbelt, whispering a “i’ll come with.” before closing the car door.

the mini market’s door rings a slight ding! as sunghoon pushes the door open. the constant buzzing of the refrigerator and the broken acs filled the room. the two split up searching for bare necessities like snacks and water to keep them company on the way home.

as a couple minutes passed, the two found each other again at the cash register, dropping the things at checkout.

in sunghoon’s hands was a bag of swedish fish, meanwhile in heeseung’s was a bag of sour patch kids.

“don’t waste your money bud, she likes these better.” heeseung snickered, a smirk on his face.

sunghoon lets out a sigh, “they’re practically the same.” he defends himself.

“not to y/n. she thinks swedish fish tastes like candles. she likes sour.”

“why do you even care, hee?” he asks him. “she’s my sister, i know her.”

heeseung licks his lips as he lets out a small laugh, “i don’t.”

“that’s bullshit.” sunghoon scoffs.

“you still want these?” the cashier asks the two, pointing at the swedish fish.

“yes yes, of course.” sunghoon answers.

“i tried to warn him.” heeseung laughs at his best friend.

“why are you acting lik—like this?!” sunghoon asks, a slight bit of anger heard through his voice.

“relax, you big fucking baby. i’m just messing with ya man.” heeseung chuckles, giving his best friend a pat on the back.

with a glare, sunghoon taps his debit card at the scanner, paying for their snacks, picking up the plastic bag and murmuring a small thank you, to the cashier, before they rush out back into their car in the pouring rain.

as the two car doors slam, you take the plastic bag from sunghoon’s hands, diving in.

“what did you get?” you ask the two, ruffling the inside of the bag.

“ooh! sour patch, my favorite!” you glimmer, opening the package as you dive into the sour goodness. but you didn’t miss the bag of swedish fish in sunghoon’s hands.

“oh! i could, um, eat this swedish fish… after?”

sunghoon opened the bag before he responded with a “no, no it’s okay. i got them for me.” as he popped a little fish in his mouth, chewing with disappointment.

“okay.”

sunghoon’s brows furrowed, knowing damn well that his best friend was right.

even from the backseat, he could feel heeseung shooting him a look that was screaming i told you so! before he put the car into ignition.

as sunghoon pressed the gas and started driving into the dark rainy night, his sister chewing on her sour patch kids, he heard heeseung letting out small whisper right in his ear.

“you see? my girl knows her sour patch kids.”

taglist; @ariadores

back to my masterlist?

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literaryvein-reblogs · 8 months ago

Text

Writing Notes: Fashion History

for your next poem/story (pt. 2/2)

1950s

The 1950s were a time of large cultural and social change, which was reflected in the world of fashion. The Korean War began in 1950, followed by the introduction of the color TV in 1951. And in 1954, the modern civil rights movement began.

As the suburbs became popular, family and domesticity for women became a prominent force in society. Additionally, teenagers became fashion consumers and market leaders for the first time.

Due to technological advances, new fibers such as polyester, triacetate, and spandex are introduced.

The prominent trend of the time was femininity, as shown by the prominence of Christian Dior's "New Look". Shape was emphasized by full swing skirts or narrow pencil skirts, as well as fitted bodices and a small waistline achieved with the help of petticoats and girdles. Elegant accessories and jewelry such as hats and pearls were popular at the time, and high heels were ubiquitous. Other trends included Peter Pan collars, tapered or capri pants, and the introduction of the bikini.

1960s

The Beatles led the music and fashion “British Invasion,” influencing teenagers with their Mod aesthetic.

The Civil Rights movement led to the popularity of ethnic and African-inspired garments such as dashikis and caftans.

The 1960s were marked by eclecticism, both in fashion and society. A plethora of styles were fashionable at one time, ranging from space age fashions using vinyl and synthetics, to bold prints, colors, and disposable paper dresses inspired by Pop Art.

Mod fashion appeared on the London scene, with fashion designer Mary Quant as the “high priestess” of the style, and Twiggy as its supermodel.

Boutiques, a 1960s creation, began offering designer ready-to-wear collections, while easy-care fabrics were increasingly used by the general public.

Longer hemlines were dominant with maxi skirts and granny dresses, while hot pants and mini skirts were adopted by the younger market. These shorter hemlines popularized the use of pantyhose for modesty. As the decade progressed, chemise dresses that typified the dominant straight A-line silhouette became popular. Turtleneck blouses and sweaters were common, and sleeves were usually three-quarter length. Sleeveless tops were worn after the mid 1960s.

Jacqueline Kennedy became a major fashion icon, famous for her sophisticated style, pillbox hats, and pearls. Overall, hats in general experienced a decline in use, due to the popularity of high bouffant hairstyles.

Knee high go-go boots were popular, patent was often used, and low-heeled, square-toed shoes were common.

Popular accessories included headbands, bold jewelry, and matching shoes and handbags.

1970s

During the 1970s, the eclecticism of the previous decade continued, and influences from subcultures dominated fashion.

The Vietnam War ended in 1973, and the first Earth Day was celebrated in 1974.

The hippie subculture emphasized environmental awareness and social acceptance, translating into the popularity of natural fibers and earth tones, loose garments, blue jeans, and ethnic influences in dress.

Peasant blouses and skirts and psychedelic prints were popular, as well as historic revival styles.

In the late 1970s, music styles such as glam rock, disco, and punk influenced fashion and resulted in flashy, often shocking styles.

For the most part, clothing was loose and unstructured compared to previous decades. Skirts came in a variety of lengths — mini, midi, or maxi — although the mini and maxi were the most popular.

Unisex styles in clothing became a trend and were perpetuated by Diane Keaton’s character in the 1977 film, Annie Hall.

Trousers and blue jeans were worn by women more than ever before. Designer jeans arrived on the market, resulting in the birth of “licensing” for non-fashion products. Polyester was the other preferred textile for trousers.

1980s

With the rise of new media such as MTV, the 80s fashion landscape began to shift rapidly.

The televised wedding of Prince Charles and Diana Spencer caused a fashion frenzy, with "Lady Di's" elegant hats, tailored suits, and evening dresses making her a global style icon.

The 1980s were known as the "Me" Generation, with an emphasis on logos and designer labels.

The decade also saw the rise of yuppie (young urban professionals) culture, and the introduction of the fitness craze.

In the world of high fashion, postmodernism and avant-garde fashion were vastly influential. With the introduction of yuppie culture, business attire and "power-dressing" with items like shoulder pads was a popular trend.

In light of the fitness craze, leg warmers, tights, and leotards were widely worn, and women accessorized with big hair, flashy costume jewelry, and bright heels.

In terms of undergarments, Madonna and Jean-Paul Gaultier inspired an underwear-as-outerwear trend alongside the popularity of Calvin Klein.

1990s

The 1990s reflected subcultures such as punk, goth, and grunge in fashion.

Hip-hop music became popular and as a result, urban fashion was popularized.

Unlike previous decades, the 1990s was notable for a more relaxed and casual look, as well as the introduction of technology such as cell-phones and pagers.

With the rise of globalization & technology, the fashion cycle began to speed up.

1990s style was often considered "anti-fashion," with purposefully clashing or contradictory aesthetics.

Black, minimalist styles were popular, as well as vintage and 1970s style.

Many younger people sported crop tops, cargo pants, and blue jeans, and athletic wear in daily life. In terms of shoes, high heels, wedges, sandals, platforms, and sneakers were all widely worn.

More Notes: On Fashion ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

#writing notes #fashion #fashion history #writeblr #studyblr #spilled ink #dark academia #writing reference #light academia #creative writing #writing inspo #writing ideas #writing inspiration #literature #writers on tumblr #writing prompt #poetry #poets on tumblr #writing resources

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starryylies · 1 year ago

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Hear me out now… ghost has a voodoo doll of you and he uses it to tease you in meetings and when you’re home and he’s at base😻

BEING SIMONS OBEDIENT LIL’ DOLL

Ongggg I love you and I love this ask so muchhhhhh ongggggg and I know I say this in every ask but sorry for replying late 😭

my finals start on Wednesday and these days I’m just clearing out my drafts for my recent posts in so sorry 😭😭

That’s like a plot from the webtoon I love (act like you love me, it’s soooooooo good)

goin to a shady ‘spiritual’ market with you was the last in his wish list buy when you were sooo insistent on buying crystals and quartz he just couldn’t say no :((

It was a chance meeting really you were just going home when you saw,

A shop in the corner of the market adorned with beautiful gems and red coloured leaves, it had no banner but the mysterious aura of the shop lured you in

Going inside you guys found an old lady selling dolls and you just couldn’t stop to look at one of them.

A doll that looked exactly like you

The skin colour, the hair, shape of your eyes.

it was exactly you.

Well a mini you,

While paying the lady told simon to keep the doll safe

He nodded along not thinking too much of it

That day When you and Simon were sleeping he accidentally slept on the doll which led to you feeling squished a suffocated

Waking Simon up with the sound of you choking

He quickly got up to see what’s wrong and the minute he got up from the doll you were fine

And You noticed that

You felt crazy ar first for believing that.

But proving it to Simon was hard,

he didn’t believe it until you made Him tug the dolls arm through which he noticed the pain caused on the exact spot

god he felt crazy too but he believed you

And the thing is your horny mind came up with a crazier idea-

An idea that stated that he has the consent to control you through the doll for when he’s gone for deployments and when he needs to go to the base

And what’s more insane is that he agreed.

So this crazy arrangement really ended up being a success

Whenever si went out he would take the doll with him, he would purposely use the doll to his advantage to tease you just slightly

The slight brush on your tits during your lecture?

That’s Simon

The sudden touches on your sensitive spots?

That’s Simon too

God he loved teasing you.

Especiallyyyy when you’re at home,

Telling you to wait and be a good girl till he comes back.

On one particular day,

He had been at the base all day to train the new recruits and you were at home and bored :(

Out of nowhere you felt a sudden caress and pinch on your nipples with your clit being rubbed in circles simultaneously.

It felt sooo good,

until it stopped.

You felt so frustrated.

You had to cum :((

So how could you not touch yourself :(

But before you could start you felt a restrain on your hands.

You couldn’t reach your hands further than your waist now

Just then you a got a message from Simon

An image of you, well mini you it’s hands tied around it’s waist

And a small text saying, “told you to wait princess, be a good girl f’ me”

That sly bastard

Really, visiting that store was a blessing curse in disguise.

But maybe giving Simon indirect control to your body wasn’t half as bad especially for those days when he felt generous :)

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writtenbyan-aries · 10 months ago

Note

I LOVE THE WAY THAT ON TWITTER WHEN GRACE POSTS A PIC OF HERSELF SMILING OR SMTH HE ALWAYS WITH “Happy girl” IM ACTUALLY IN NEED OF SOME SORT OF FLUFF INCLUDING THATTT, IT CAN HAVE SMUT IF U WANT BUT I FEEL LIKE IT WOULD FIT A MINI FLUFF ONESHOTTT

Happy Girl | Johnnie Guilbert

Warnings: just fluff

Short & definitely sweet 🖤

You and Johnnie have been friends for years, one thing led to another, and now you’re together.

You’ve been keeping the relationship kind of private, mainly because you just wanted to see how the two of you two do as a couple before the entire world knows.

Needless to say, it’s going great.

“You think it’s time?” You ask rolling over in bed, your head laying on his chest. He turns his head, giving your forehead a kiss, “Time for what, love?”

“To let the whole world know that I snatched the Johnnie Guilbert off the market?”

He laughs gently at your words, “That’s up to you, baby.” He looks down at you, “We can be subtle about it? I’ll just comment a bunch of times on your Instagram?”

You laugh, “I don’t think a bunch of times, is subtle.”

You roll over and grab your phone, “I have a few pictures that I want to post.”

“I didn’t hear you say no to that.” Johnnie sits up, rubbing his hands over his face before reaching to grab his.

He lays back with you, watching as you put your pictures in order, “Wait.” He moves your hand, “When did you take that one?”

“Which one?” You play dumb, looking at him with a smile, “Oh! You mean the one of you in my bed being all cute?”

He nods, “Yeah.” He laughs, “That one.”

You shrug, “Must have been when you weren’t paying attention.”

He laughs and wraps his arm around you, “You sure you want to do this?” You nod, leaning in to kiss his lips, “I don’t want to hide anymore, J.”

He nods and you look back at your phone, typing out a caption, “How’s this sound?”

He reads over it and smiles, “Perfect.”

You hit post and wait for the comments to come flooding it, and it doesn’t take long.

——

Thank you so much for reading! I love you all so much! See you in the next one! 🖤

Likes and reblogs are majorly appreciated!

#samandcolby-ownme #Johnnie Guilbert #Johnnie Guilbert fluff #Johnnie Guilbert x reader #johnnie guilbert blurb #Johnnie Guilbert one shot #fluff #fluff blurb #Fluff blurb Johnnie Guilbert #johnnie guilbert one shots #johnnie guilbert fanfic #Johnnie Guilbert x you #Johnnie Guilbert x y/n

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flowerandblood · 1 year ago

Text

The Gate of Salvation [2/3]

[ young pope • Aemond x catholic • female ]

[ warnings: fingering, smut, sexual tension, angst, religious guilt, doubts related to faith, chauvinism ]

[ description: During the conclave, a new pope is elected, but to everyone's surprise, he does not intend to show himself to the crowds waiting for him. His ideas terrify the cardinals, and one of them convinces his niece, who is studying marketing, to talk to the new head of the Catholic Church in his presence. Main theme: sexual tension & holy touch. ]

A mini-series created as a thank you and celebration of my 2'500 followers. I initially plan that it will have about 3 chapters.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The Song of Songs (Oneshot) Death and Ressurection (Oneshot)

Aemond as a Pope Edit Series Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

After her meeting with the Pope, she had been writhing around all night, terrified and humiliated, unable to sleep. She couldn't forgive herself for her stupidity, for not seeing in time that it was obvious her uncle was trying to slip her over to the head of the Catholic Church like a snack he might be tempted to focus on.

The worst part was that he had hired her and she didn't know how she could take it back, defy the Pope himself, communicate that she was rejecting his proposal.

She got up before dawn, recognising that she would not get any rest anyway, and decided to take a warm shower. She thought while standing under the stream of hot water that she would try to distance herself, be professional and not give satisfaction to either her uncle or the Pope himself.

She hoped that when he finally decided to give any sort of interview the commotion around him would quiet down and she could quickly offer her resignation.

She sighed heavily, running her hand over her wet face, wondering how she was supposed to reconcile this madness with her classes at the University.

A car with the same driver as the day before arrived outside her townhouse again and took her straight to the Vatican; driving through its streets, she noticed that many people had pitched tents in and around St Peter's Square, waiting for any new information about their Pope.

She sighed quietly, resignedly thinking about how unnecessary his stubbornness actually was.

This time it was not her uncle waiting for her in the square, but a middle-aged priest who could have been her father, dressed in a plain black cassock. He smiled at her in a way that seemed genuine to her and she reciprocated the gesture when he indicated with a movement of his hand that she should move to follow him.

"The Pope is just having breakfast in the garden and he will receive you there." He said as they walked along the marble corridors filled with works of art; she looked at him surprised and sighed quietly, glancing out of the window, finding that it was indeed pleasant warm weather, the sky was cloudless.

They walked out one of the back exits to the cloisters into a small garden consisting of a maze formed of walls of shrubbery, which, however, easily led them to its centre, on which stood a large arbour styled in antique manner, with a dome and Corinthian-style columns.

She grinned with some kind of disbelief when she spotted his figure seated at an ornate small white table, his cassock also white, he held in his hands a newspaper he had just been looking through.

She thought with amusement that he was reading about himself.

Only when they got closer did she notice that other gazettes from different countries lay folded on the table top; the front pages of each asking who the new pope was, why he wasn't showing himself, why he was silent.

"Your Holiness." Said the priest standing next to her and nodded; the young pope, however, did not even bestow a single glance on them.

She pressed her lips together as she saw his thumb go to his mouth, he licked it and then used it to flip the page of the newspaper.

The priest who had brought her left them alone, as if he had already become accustomed to the lack of reaction and any culture on his part. She stared at him in silence for a moment, standing in front of him in the same dress as the day before, not having time to buy anything else.

"Holy Father." She said softly, wanting to get it over with, standing a few steps beside him.

He did not look at her, instead lifting his hand and extending it towards her, a signet ring of pure gold on his heart finger.

She looked at him for a moment in disbelief, then swallowed hard and walked towards him, grasping his warm hand in hers.

She leaned in, placing a quick, brief kiss on his ring and let him go immediately; he took his hand without even giving her a glance and went back to reading the newspaper.

She pressed her lips together feeling his intense, pleasant-smelling male perfume again.

"What do you think of what they write about me?" He asked, carelessly tossing the newspaper he had just read onto a pile of others, the discouragement on his face bordering on disgust, as if what he had read made him sick. "They are already reaching my family. Day and night they chat outside my mother's house."

She felt a tightness in her throat at his words and some kind of sympathy, because although he must have known what his decision entailed and what the consequences would be, some journalists crossed all possible boundaries, recognising no sanctity.

She shifted from foot to foot, looking at the French croissants that lay on one of the porcelain plates and a jar of strawberry jam, and reminded herself that she hadn't eaten breakfast. She grunted quietly, looking away, staring at the field flowers that grew around them – she spotted a gardener in the distance who was cutting the shrubs with his big steel shears.

"They won't stop until you give them something, Holy Father." She replied truthfully, hearing him snort under his breath.

"They will always want more." He replied dryly and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye – he was staring at her sitting with his legs crossed.

She shuddered and looked at him in disbelief as he pushed the other chair in front of her with his foot clad in white elegant shoes, moving it away.

"Sit down, child. You are pale. Did you eat breakfast today?" He asked disapprovingly, like a parent expressing their discontent. She shook her head and he sighed heavily, indicating with his hand gesture to the seat next to him.

She thought that this certainly had nothing to do with behaving according to protocol, but decided that it probably didn't matter much to him. She sat down next to him, smelling the intense scent of his perfume again, adjusting her dress, remembering not to sit with her legs crossed.

"Eat." He said dispassionately; she wasn't going to argue, figuring that since she was being forced to be at his every beck and call now, she could get something in return.

Therefore, she reached for the croissant and jam, which immediately drew the attention of her stomach – she casted him a wordless surprised glance as she heard the sound of the lighter being lit and the hiss of the cigarette he held in his mouth.

He took a deep drag and spread out comfortably in his chair, looking at her thoughtfully, letting the smoke out through his nose. He smirked, as if something in her gaze amused him.

"My chancellery contacted your University. They were happy to hear that you will be doing a sort of…internship here. You don't have to worry about your exams or classes." He hummed as if he was talking about something trivial and uninteresting, an irrelevant piece of information he had to convey to her, and took another drag, the tip of his cigarette igniting red.

"− what − but −" She started, but decided it made no sense; whoever he was, this man had clearly already planned everything for himself and had no intention of changing anything, much less asking her opinion.

"I thought you'd be pleased. Your uncle arranges for you accommodation and studies, the Pope makes sure you pass your exams without your personal involvement. Isn't that beautiful?" He asked with a sneer, and she felt a tightening in her throat, a cold sweat on her back; she stared wide-eyed at the half-cut croissant on which she had just spread jam, but lost the urge to eat.

He knew everything about her and thought she and her uncle were the same.

She pressed her lips together and leaned back against the backrest, placing her hands on the armrests even though she shouldn't be doing so and crossed her legs. She saw his gaze drop involuntarily to her bare knees, his cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.

"My uncle wants you to take me to your bed, Holy Father." She said quietly, recognising that she didn't have the strength for this, for their games, their hookups, the secrets they obviously adored, of which the entire Vatican was made.

She blinked when he chuckled, his pointing finger hitting his cigarette so that the ash from it fell to the stone floor beneath him.

"Tell me something I don't know. Eat. We have a lot of work ahead of us." He muttered, taking one last drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke out through his nose, extinguishing the remnants of it on his plate.

She stared at him with her heart pounding fast, thinking in disbelief that he really was a few steps ahead of everyone else.

He was perfectly informed, and although his words and actions seemed chaotic, there was purpose in them.

"What do you want, Holy Father?" She asked lightly, taking a piece of croissant into her mouth. He threw her an amused look and raised an eyebrow.

She had the impression that he took satisfaction in teasing her, his gaze fixed on her lips, which she involuntarily licked.

"Many things. Above all, holy peace and quiet, but I am not afforded it. Get up, let's take a walk." He said matter-of-factly and rose abruptly, putting his hands behind him, moving ahead without looking at her towards the corridors made of tall, evenly trimmed bushes.

She quickly swallowed the piece she just had in her mouth and stood up, following him, levelling her step with his, sunshine and birdsong all around them.

"We're being watched. It's harder for them to eavesdrop on me as I walk." He said coolly; she turned behind her and saw the gardener she noticed before, who was apparently just pretending to water the flowers around the arbour.

She looked at him in horror, realising that he must have been spied on all the time.

That they all wanted to know what he was going to do, surely he must have kept them in an iron grip since no picture of him had leaked to the press yet.

"What's going to make the atmosphere calm down and the journalists back off?" He asked discouraged, and she sighed quietly, looking up at the cloudless sky.

"Your private invitation."

She was surprised that her idea that he would hold a press conference where he would be invisible and only his voice could be heard appealed to him. He felt that, in fact, his faithful should hear his words and what he has to share with them, and this did not require his image to be revealed at all.

He decided to receive the TV and newspaper envoys in the Sistine Chapel, recognising that this was some kind of milestone moment that required a special place, a black veil was placed in front of his papal throne.

Although on the one hand it looked comical, on the other it added a sort of solemnity and impression of holiness, something tangible and yet inaccessible.

The cardinals and his office workers had prepared a script for him, which he tore in front of her eyes before the speech itself, handing her the shreds that remained of the pages, staring blankly at the black fabric in front of him. She took it from him, not knowing what else she could do; he demanded she be by his side in case someone asked an uncomfortable question.

Her heart was pounding like mad, she could feel the cold sweat on her back and wondered if he felt a similar anxiety.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and although his face was stony, he seemed even paler to her than usual, his large hands on which she could clearly see the outline of his veins clenched on his armrests – he sat comfortably on his throne with his legs crossed.

"Holy Father, why don't you want to show your face to your faithful? Is this some new kind of Vatican policy, a way of getting the whole world's attention?" They heard the question echoed by the first journalist on the other side of the curtain; she saw him press his lips together and swallow loudly before his cold, matter-of-fact, dispassionate voice began to spread around them.

"My face is not useful to my faithful for anything. They need my action. My causality. They need my intervention in matters of urgency, in the problems of paedophilia in the church, in the embezzlement and misuse of church assets, in the restoration of law and order, in the opening up of the church to young people who feel forgotten and unwanted. My face, my history, my personal views will distract them from all these things."

He said without stammering. She looked at him in disbelief, realising that he couldn't have prepared this answer beforehand.

He was saying straight from his heart what he was thinking and there was something touching about it.

Somehow she understood what he meant.

"What about the pilgrimages, what about the Sunday masses celebrated by the Pope?" Asked another journalist. She heard him sigh heavily, noticed that his hand trembled as he raised it to his face, tightening his fingers on the base of his nose.

"The Pope is not alone, he has his cardinals who can assist him in his missions around the world. As for the masses, I will attend them as a guest, but I will not be visible. The Pope is not unique. The Pope is chosen as first among equals. As Pope, I still remain a cardinal, one of the apostles. I am not Christ. I am not God."

She looked at him in pain, breathing unevenly through slightly parted lips, remembering what she had told him a few days earlier.

They need a guide, not another invisible God.

She couldn't believe that after what she had heard she had begun to feel sympathy for him – his answers seemed thoughtful and sensible, and she wondered if she had just seen his true nature, or if he was as perfect a manipulator as any of the cardinals.

She wondered how he had convinced them.

How he became Pope.

When it was all over he left without a word; the journalists were led away, and she prayed that it would help, that public opinion would calm down a little.

She watched all the news editions that evening with bated breath – the whole world quoted his statements and his decision, to her relief, most of the experts spoke warmly of him. The newspaper headlines also left her under no illusions.

The Pope has spoken. He doesn't want to show his face, only his actions.

The Pope who chooses the fight against paedophilia over the glamour of glory.

The Pope without a face − a new beginning.

The end of splendour − the Pope retreats to work like any of us.

The end of the church as we know it. The Pope at last again the voice of the weakest.

The next day she arrived in the Vatican with a stack of newspapers, eager to show him the result of their work, hoping it would satisfy him and allow her to return to normality.

"The Pope is exercising, but he said he would receive you." Said the priest, who was called Father Lenz, and who was apparently his private secretary, always waiting for her to lead her wherever he just happened to be.

"He's exercising?" She asked with amusement, and he just raised his eyebrows, himself clearly not knowing what he thought about it.

He opened the door for her and she stepped into a large room, with a beautiful baroque vaulted ceiling and hundreds of paintings on one side, rows of tall windows on the other, illuminating an exercise machine consisting of a small bench with a mattress on which he placed his back as he pulled on the railing at the end of which the weights hung, his legs braced on either side of the machine for balance.

He was dressed in white tracksuits.

She stared at the sight in disbelief, waiting for him to notice her; it only happened after a while when he took a break and sat down, reaching for a bottle of water standing on the old wooden floor. She lifted up a bundle of newspapers and he nodded, running his fingers through his hair, trying to calm his breathing after his exertion.

She walked over to him and handed him the magazines she held in her hand; she felt a pleasant throbbing between her thighs feeling the smell of his sweat mixed with the scent of his perfume, his lips slightly swollen and pink from the blood that pulsed faster through his body.

He flipped through the front pages of the papers one by one and sighed quietly; she thought with surprise that there was a sort of expression of relief painted on his face, as if what was happening frightened him somewhere deep inside and filled him with anxiety.

He put them down at last, looking ahead, grabbing the white towel that hung over the railing at the other end of the machine.

"I prayed to God after I was elected. I prayed that he would show me the way, and although he usually answered me in some way, that evening he was silent. It was a silence full of rejection, as if the heavens did not agree with the decision of the conclave. How was I to go out to the crowds in such a situation, to convince them that Our Father in the heavens was sending me to them?"

He asked, rising with a quiet creak from the metal bench, surprising her completely with his words; because of his clothes and the way he spoke she had cognitive dissonance and had to remind herself that he was the Pope and not just a young man close to her age.

His confession touched her in some way – she was able to imagine his despair on the evening he was elected as people chanted his name, but it was the voice of God that he wanted to hear.

He stood a few steps away from her, drinking the contents of his small water bottle to the end, and stared ahead, as if he had returned with his mind to that time, as if he needed to get it out of himself.

"That's why I asked my faithful to pray from me. And what did they do? They despaired. They despaired that they could not see my face, that they could not touch me, tear me apart, dissect my private life and my past. I have never felt so lonely." He said with a regret from which she felt a squeeze in her throat and lowered her gaze, not knowing what to say, reminding herself with shame that she had thought the same thing about him as all those people.

"Perhaps it was also the will of the heavens. In the end, when the time comes everyone will face God alone. Maybe it was his words: don't follow the crowd, don't conform, that's not why I sent you." She said softly, but immediately regretted her words, recognising that she had no right to interpret anyone's spiritual experiences, much less those of the Head of the Church.

She heard him snort with amusement; he pulled a lighter and cigarettes from his pocket and for a moment she thought he would want to smoke in this beautiful baroque chamber, however, he moved ahead towards a small door other than the one she had entered through.

"Come." He hummed, so she moved after him, knowing that it was pointless to resist.

For the rest, the more she got to know him, the more she liked him.

They passed through a narrow corridor and began to climb up a stone staircase that spiraled around a large pillar – it seemed to her that they were in some older part of this great complex. They reached a small wooden door, and when he opened it they emerged onto the roof of one of the buildings located to the right of St Peter's Square.

The view in front of her struck her –the sun was rising over the Vatican, lazily leaning out from above the church standing in the centre of the square like a nimbus, the air around them pleasantly cool and crisp.

She watched as he moved ahead and walked closer to the stone wall, firing up his lighter and leaning forward with a cigarette in his mouth – there was something so obscene about the sight that she smiled involuntarily.

He looked at her over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, taking a drag, then slid his cigarette out of his mouth with a motion of his hand and let the smoke out silently through his nose, shaking the ash to the ground with a flick of his finger.

"It has been reported to me that journalists are slowly making their way into my past. Don't worry, I don't think it's your fault. I knew it would happen, but I thought I had more time." He murmured lowly seeing her surprised, horrified face, suddenly as if tired and discouraged, taking another drag with a quiet hiss of fire.

She thought looking at his silhouette illuminated by the first rays of the sun, that he looked like a saint.

"I want you to hear it from me. Will you listen to what I have to say?" He asked calmly and she nodded, feeling her heart pounding fast, looking at him with her lips slightly parted, terrified of what he wanted to tell her.

"My mother I told you about is a nun. She adopted me a few years after I was placed in a convent orphanage." He said calmly, looking away, staring at the crowds of people walking around St Peter's Square.

"They took me from the woman who gave birth to me because she liked to inject various stimulants into her veins. She was asleep when one of her men decided he didn't like the way I looked at him, that I was complaining about being hungry. He decided that he would gouge my eyes out, but he only succeeded with one, my screaming would wake even the dead."

He muttered, not looking at her but somewhere in the distance, letting out a puff of smoke with a deep breath; she looked at him with her eyebrows arched in pain feeling the squeeze in her throat, her cheeks red with emotion.

She wanted to say something but was afraid to interrupt him, she knew that what he was telling her was of the utmost importance and she wondered if anyone else knew about all this, if he had confided in anyone.

"Sister Alicent after I was brought in wouldn't let me call her my mother. So I called every woman I saw that, cooks, cleaners, teachers. She adopted me in the end, unable to look at it anymore. She got a dispensation from the Pope." He said lowly, throwing the cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it with his completely white Adidas.

"Some trashy, cheap magazines are already writing about the fact that I am the son of a nun and the Pope, others with mockery recognise that I am certainly her immaculate conception. That they mock me doesn't bother me, but it fills me with sadness that journalists stand outside her house all day. She can't even go out shopping or gardening. I guess you think the only way out of this situation would be an interview where I would tell my story?"

He asked disapprovingly, looking at her finally; she was shocked and horrified that he was asking her opinion on such an important matter. She shook her head helplessly, shrugging her shoulders.

"You cannot allow them to make your mother a hostage, Holy Father. You must show strength. Call press conferences where you talk about what decisions you make, but don't answer questions about your family. In the Vatican, you are Pius XIII, not Aemond Targaryen. When they see that they cannot blackmail you, they will let go. In my opinion, you both have to bear it." She said what she thought, thinking in the back of her mind that journalists would always want more and the matter would only get worse.

He looked at her silently as if analysing her words and sighed finally, kicking a stone that lay under his feet with his shoe.

"Have you ever kissed?" He asked lightly and she looked at him with shock written all over her face, feeling her heart pounding like crazy, her cheeks burning with heat.

She couldn't believe such a question had come out of his mouth.

"You don't have to answer. I'm just curious. I've never kissed anyone." He replied after a moment, seeing her embarrassed reaction, as if he wanted to clarify and elaborate that his interest was purely scientific and theoretical.

She swallowed loudly, pressing her lips together, thinking that he had told her about himself, about the most private aspects of his life, and decided that nothing bad would happen if she answered him.

"Once, in high school." She muttered, stroking her arm in a gesture of uncertainty and embarrassment, looking away. She heard him hum under his breath, intrigued.

"Did it feel good?" He asked softly, standing a few steps away from her with his hands tucked into his snow-white tracksuit bottoms, cocking his head.

She looked up at him in disbelief, breathing erratically, clasping her hands tighter, involuntarily her gaze escaped to his full, glistening lips.

"It was a very moist, soft and warm sensation." She muttered feeling a tightness in her throat, her gaze fleeing from his eyes to his lips, unable to stop herself from imagining how wonderful it would be to feel how they tasted.

"Hm." He murmured, looking away thoughtfully.

They stood like that for a moment in silence – she could feel the wordless tension around them, as if electricity flowed through the air with their every word and movement.

"Did you confess this deed?"

She blinked and felt her heart stop. She shook her head, looking at him with slightly parted lips.

"Pardon?" She asked in disbelief, feeling discomfort in her lower abdomen and a cold sweat on her back, not believing that he was suggesting such a thing.

"Failure to maintain chastity before marriage is a sin." He replied indifferently; she pressed her lips together, feeling tears of shame and humiliation under her eyelids, her eyebrows arched in pain.

"So I am a sinner, Holy Father." She said coldly, and turned away, leaving without any pleasantries or even a simple goodbye.

She burst out sobbing as she ran down the narrow stairs.

It was only a kiss.

She just wanted to see what it was like.

In fact, she felt bad afterwards, but not because she thought it was a sin, but because she was not in love with this boy.

She asked Father Lenz for any of the drivers to take her home; seeing her face red from tears he asked what had happened, but she did not answer him.

She opened up to him, spoke about an intimate part of her life, and he could only judge her, make her another Eve, a fallen woman.

It was only a kiss.

She returned to her flat filled with regret and disappointment – she angrily pulled off her long dress she had bought and chosen specially to be able to present herself as expected, to keep herself humble, but for what?

She decided that she would never appear there again.

There was no kind of real contract between the two of them, she had only signed documents regarding her collaboration with the Pope's secretaries and a confidentiality clause.

She changed into her pyjamas, undid her hair, took the box of leftover cakes from the cupboard and lay in bed, browsing social media platforms on her phone, trying not to think about what had happened.

She tilted her head back and groaned in frustration when she saw that her uncle had started to call her. She muted her phone and flipped the screen down, sighing.

She lay back on her bedding, staring blankly at the window, and thought with pain that the man who should be giving her the strength to be a better person had made her doubt herself, made her feel sinful and dirty.

She started to think that maybe she should go to confession after all, that maybe he was right, that she was only making excuses for herself without wanting to admit that she was wrong, but she felt even worse at that thought and just burst out crying.

Exhausted by sobbing and remorse, she finally fell asleep, seeing only through her closed eyelids that the phone display lying next to her glowed again and again.

She shuddered, rising quickly to sit up in complete darkness when she heard someone's loud knock on her door; she looked around with a pounding heart, not knowing where she was, whether it was evening or morning.

She glanced at her phone and saw that she had slept for several long hours and the sun had set, on her screen 20 missed calls from her uncle and a plethora of text messages that she didn't have the energy to read.

She sighed heavily and got up, walking reluctantly to the door, knowing her uncle would now make a litany for her; she turned on the night light on the way so she wouldn't trip over anything and she turned the lock, opening it.

"Oh God."

She muttered, seeing the figure of the young Pope in front of her, still in the same white tracksuit and sneakers.

He had his hood up over his head.

He pulled the white earphones out of his ears with a soft flick of his hand – she could hear the heavy metal music playing from them.

"Will you let me in?" He asked indifferently; she looked at him in disbelief, thinking he was risking a lot by going outside just to see her.

She sighed quietly and stepped back, allowing him to go inside. She leaned out wanting to check if anyone had seen him and closed the door quickly.

She glanced at him over her shoulder and saw that he had turned off the music on his player and put it back in his pocket.

They stood for a moment in silence, his gaze focused on her naked thighs; she swallowed loudly with shame at the thought that she was standing before the Head of the Catholic Church in nothing but pyjamas consisting of cream shorts and a shirt buttoned up the front, under which she didn't even have a bra.

She turned her head, running her trembling hand over her face, her heart pounding like mad.

"I made a mistake." She heard his voice full of regret. "I wanted your uncle to pass it on to you, but you didn't answer."

"I didn't and don't feel like talking to anyone, Holy Father." She muttered, feeling a tightening in her chest, fiddling restlessly with the cross hanging on her neck.

She heard him swallow loudly and look to the side, pulling the hood off his head.

"I made you doubt in yourself. In your purity and your value in the eyes of God." He said lowly, and she felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes for the umpteenth time that day. She closed her eyelids and tilted her head back, trying to control herself, not letting them flow out.

She did not reply.

"My words arise from my depravity, which I fight unsuccessfully. From my vanity and jealousy. I would rather have you locked up in a convent. You could then be by my side and no one would ever touch you again. You could be mine." He said softly, thoughtfully, looking at some point on the floor, as if he had drifted off completely in his musings – she felt her lips part in disbelief, her brow arching in pain.

I would rather have you locked up in a convent.

You could be mine.

What was she to reply to such a shocking confession?

She shuddered when he finally turned his attention to her, the gaze of his healthy eye sharp and piercing, while his artificial one was empty, white, lifeless.

"Though never before have my members reacted to the sight and thought of a woman, when I see you, I long to touch you, to taste you, to smell you. I have become addicted to your scent and try to recall it after evening prayer before I fall asleep." He spoke calmly, as if it was not an emotionally driven statement but something thought out, something that had been going on in his head for a very long time.

She felt with fear how her body reacted to his words with a greedy throbbing between her thighs and a moisture from which the material of her underwear was getting wet, her nipples hardened, more clearly visible from under her shirt.

She froze when she saw his gaze flee to her breasts, seeing exactly what she feared, his full lips parted slightly; she could hear his breathing clearly, fingers of his hands rubbing against each other in an anxious, nervous gesture.

"What do you feel now?" He whispered and she drew in the air loudly, feeling a tightness in her throat. She licked her lips dry from stress, taking a step backwards, hitting her back against the wall, feeling that she had nowhere to run. She helplessly clenched her thighs together, wanting to stop what was happening, seeing that his pupil widened at the sight.

"I'm wet." She confessed in shame, recognising that there was no point in pretending that there was something innocent in what was happening – her body was twitching with desire, begging for his touch and relief, her heart pounding like mad.

She heard him draw in a loud breath at her words while looking straight into her eyes, she saw fire in them, heavenly or hellish.

"Does it feel good?" He asked softly, gazing shamelessly at the spot between her thighs – she felt a wonderful heat in her lower abdomen and a tickling inside her, her walls were clenching around nothing at his question.

She thought helplessly that she had never felt anything like this before in her life.

"Yes." She whispered in a trembling voice, feeling her whole body quiver and pulsate, feeling desire in her fingertips, in her lips and down there, deep, deep inside her.

She shuddered as he approached her with a slow step and lifted her terrified gaze to him. His lips were parted in an anxious, hitched breath, in his eyes heat and darkness from which she felt a squeeze in her throat and between her thighs.

He stood over her, for a moment just looking at her – his trembling hands finally raised, reaching for the buttons of her shirt. They looked at each other with some kind of pain and suffering from which she felt a sting in her heart as a coldness enveloped her naked skin.

It seemed to her that it lasted an eternity – he took his time, his gaze fixed on the line of her bare body as he unbuttoned her shirt fully; he didn't expose her breasts, he just looked at her.

She gasped when he lifted his hand and ran his fingertips slowly over her sternum down to her stomach – she closed her eyes and sighed quietly, feeling her lips pulsate with desire, swollen and thirsty.

"− so soft − so warm −" He whispered; her quivering palm rose and touched his fingers, his hand larger and more massive than hers, she could feel the outline of his veins clearly under her skin.

She pressed his hand to her heart, heard him draw in the air hard as he felt it beat beneath his fingertips.

He looked at her, remaining still, as if frozen, knowing that one word from him, one expression of hesitation and they would be left with only shame, only regret, only disappointment.

She felt the tears under her eyelids, which involuntarily one by one ran down her face; he noticed it and shook his head, his breathing shaky, uneven, despairing.

"− you're so pure −" He whispered, nuzzling the tip of his nose into her cheek as if seeking refuge. She clenched her eyelids in shock at how intimate and desired this closeness was, his scent filled her entire lungs, his warm breath enveloped her cheek.

"− looking at you I feel terror because I regret − I regret that I will never feel you − that I will never give you what I want −" He muttered in a trembling voice; she felt his warm tears running down her skin.

They both gasped when his shaking hand tentatively began to slide lower and sobbed in pleasure as his fingers slipped hesitantly under the material of her shorts, deep between her thighs.

They were panting and quivering with desire, her trembling hands clenched on his arms as his fingertips pushed the material of her underwear aside with a shy gesture full of shame, she heard his low, helpless groan as he felt how wet she was.

"− God, help me −" He mumbled in a broken voice full of guilt – she tried but was unable to stop the moans of pleasure that left her mouth with each tentative movement of his fingers that brushed her swollen, throbbing womanhood, her body was so tense she felt she was on the edge.

"− please −" She whimpered pleadingly, placing her hand on his with a gesture full of desperation, wanting to feel him harder, deeper.

She tilted her head back as she finally felt him the way she wanted to, his fingertips digging into her fleshy, hot, moist folds with intense, circular strokes – she could feel his hot, ragged breath on her skin, his face pressed against her cheek, her hands clenched in a helpless gesture on the material of his sweatshirt.

Tears of despair and delight streamed down their faces, tired of pretending and fleeing, shivers ran down her spine every time the tips of his fingers teased again that tender bud from which her sobriety of mind was taken away; it seemed to her that their bodies were moving on their own, something hard and throbbing under his trousers rubbing against her thigh with desperate strokes.

"− forgive me − say you forgive me −" He mumbled pleadingly in a breaking voice.

She felt him trembling all over just like her, unable to stop now, knowing there was no way back, her face wet with her and his tears.

She reached her palm into his hair and combed through it with her fingers, letting out her breath with a loud sob, moving involuntarily to the rhythm of his hand as it pressed harder and harder against her fleshy skin with the lewd click of her moisture.

"− I forgive you − I forgive you and ask for forgiveness −" She gasped as she felt something approaching, moaning louder and louder.

She thought that despite the fact that he was touching her in this forbidden, sinful place, some incomprehensible kind of intimacy and innocence was added to what was happening by the fact that he hadn't exposed her naked body, that he hadn't wanted to possess her, only to experience something with her and in her presence.

"− good God, you're leaking − so sticky − I'll lick it off my fingers −" He whispered with a kind of awe, as if he were talking about something sacred and mysterious.

She felt that his words had done something to her – she cried out loudly, parting her lips in disbelief when suddenly a wave of warm pleasure surged through her body like a lightning bolt.

She felt wonderful tickling in her lips, in the tips of her fingers, in her breasts, in her chest, her inside's clenching greedily around nothing, her moisture trickled down onto his hand, she heard his low, surprised groan.

Her body suddenly became numb; she would have fallen if he hadn't put his arm around her in time, his hand ran over her cheek heated from the exertion.

"− you look like Bernini's Saint Teresa − so beautiful −" He mumbled in a trembling voice, panting hard along with her, looking at her dreamily. She sighed sweetly, laying her head on his chest, letting him embrace her tightly.

She could feel his manhood throbbing under the damp material of his sweatpants.

He came.

She stayed in his embrace not daring to look at him, not daring to think about what they had done, wanting to push back the moment when they would feel remorse, pain and regret, sinking only into this wonderful relief.

You look like Bernini's Saint Teresa.

A sculpture in which a holy woman curves in ecstasy after an angel pierces her with an arrow of Divine Love.

God's Delight.

______

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sjsmith56 · 1 year ago

Text

Cold Hearted

Summary: AU one shot. A marriage of convenience between the son and daughter of two CEOS to benefit their companies leads to a friendship between the couple, then more.

Length: 6.7 K

Characters: Bucky Barnes, unnamed and undescribed female character. She is occasionally referred to as “Sweetheart” or “Pretty girl.”

Warnings: unresolved emotional trauma, Bucky is a bit of a party boy at first, loneliness, unrequited love, feelings of worthlessness and betrayal.

Author notes: There’s some angst in this but it’s part of the growth process for the couple as they learn to trust and rely on each other.

🥂 🏥 🐚

It was just a business deal according to my father. I marry the son of his biggest competitor and they signed an agreement to split the market between them. It sounded like something a mob boss would ask of their daughter, but my father wasn't in the mob, at least not so far as I knew. He was the CEO of a billion-dollar company, just like the competitor was and both of them had spent almost two years fighting to corner the market for a stupid product that would be outdated in a year, two at the most. Then someone, a VP or maybe my father's mistress (same person) suggested a marriage of convenience. After all, you wouldn't screw over family. So, here I was, standing in a church next to a total stranger, both of us facing the minister as he droned on and on about the sanctity of marriage.

We each said I do, when it was asked of us, then put a ring on each other's left hand, while not once making eye contact. When it was time to kiss, he looked at me then and kissed me hurriedly on my cheek; his blue eyes looking quickly away as if I was something unexpected. We signed the register, were introduced as Mr. and Mrs. James Barnes, then he offered me his arm and we stepped down the aisle towards the open doors at the end of the church. All I had to do was pull away from him, sprint through the doors, hail a cab and I could run away. But I didn't. I took the long walk, stood in the receiving line, shook hands with my father and my new father-in-law's business colleagues then was told it was time to leave. My husband offered me his hand, led me out the doors, past the people throwing rose petals at us and into the limousine. Our wedding party piled into the second vehicle. At least it was quiet in there and as it pulled away; he looked behind us then let out a breath of air, seemingly glad that was over with.

"You thirsty?" he asked. "I think there's water in the mini fridge."

Without waiting for an answer, he opened it, took out two bottles and uncapped one, offering it to me before he opened his, draining half of it almost immediately. I sipped mine several times, then placed the cap back on.

"What did you father offer you to do this?" he asked.

I looked at him. "Nothing, just said I better do it if I wanted to still be part of the family and get my inheritance."

He frowned. "That's cold. My dad offered me $10 million. I talked him up to 25."

I looked out the window. Swell. My husband had to be paid to marry me.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I guess that sounds crass. You seem nice but I'm not the faithful type. I like my freedom."

I looked at him. He was a handsome man and in real life would never look at someone like me. He was all nightclubs, parties, exotic vacations and I was a quiet, shy wallflower, who had only ever had a handful of boyfriends. At least he was honest, if telling me he wasn't the faithful type meant he was probably going to cheat on me.

"James, you know the contract stipulates grandchildren, at least two."

"I know. I thought we could use IVF. I wouldn't expect you to sleep with me." He was quiet for a moment. "Call me Bucky. It's my nickname. James is what my father calls me when he's about to chew me out about my lifestyle."

"Okay. So, we'll have separate bedrooms?" He nodded.

"If you want but I won't bring anyone home," he said. "I wouldn't embarrass you like that and I'll be as discreet as I can." He frowned. "Your dad say anything about the divorce agreement in two years?"

I looked at him. "No, what divorce agreement?"

"You get $100 million as a settlement plus a house and a car, child support. I saw the papers and you signed it."

My mind went blank for a moment. There were so many documents that I signed when this was proposed, and I just put my signature where the lawyer said. Why wouldn't they make it known I had a divorce agreement?

"I can ask my lawyer, if you wish," he said. "I mean, you are my wife now, and your wellbeing is my concern. I'm not a complete cold-hearted asshole."

I smiled at him, and he squeezed my hand then he drank some more of his water. We pulled up to the reception venue and waited for the driver to open the door. Bucky got out, then offered me his hand to get out. There were several flashes from the paparazzi, as Bucky was well known in certain social circles, then we hurried inside and made our way to a private lounge for our formal wedding pictures. As the pictures of me and my attendants were being taken, I noticed Bucky talking animatedly with a man. He seemed bothered at what the man was explaining then when he was called for our pictures he turned to him.

"Get it done," he said. "It's not fair and I'll expose the whole thing right now if it isn't fixed."

He smiled at me as he approached, then stood where the photographer told him, right behind me. As the photographer directed the others into position he leaned towards my ear and spoke in a low voice.

"My lawyer said you signed over the proceeds of the divorce agreement to your father. I told him that was false, as you didn't even know about the agreement. If they don't fix it, we'll get an annulment and he'll get nothing. Since I already got paid by my dad, I'll give you half. It's only fair." My mouth was open, and he placed his hand under my chin, closing it, as he grinned. "I told you, I'm not an asshole, well, at least not to those who are my friends."

My smile during the photographs was genuine. It had been a long time since I had anyone that stood up for me; certainly not my parents or any of my siblings. My grandmother, before she died, was the last person who ever advocated for me, and I had forgotten how good it felt to have someone in my corner. When the pictures were done, Bucky went over to a table filled with liquor bottles and poured out shots for everyone. I looked at him dubiously, as I wasn't much of a drinker.

"Come on, it's your wedding day," he smiled. "Open your mouth, pour it in and swallow."

I did as he said, feeling it burn down my throat. He laughed then did his own shot, before pouring another. With his encouragement I drank that one, then another before the wedding planner came in to say we had to make our entrance. Grabbing my hand, he pulled me out the door and waited for the rest of the wedding party to go in as they were introduced. Then it was our turn and he looked at me, then smiled.

"You ready, Mrs. Barnes?"

I nodded and we danced our way into the reception room, as the guests clapped in time to the music. As we passed my family's table, I noticed my father was glaring at me. Bucky noticed too and leaned in close to me.

"Kiss me," he said. "Let your dad know that we're fucking with him."

"He'll be angry," I answered.

"So? Let him. He's arranged this so that only he benefits from this marriage. You deserve a piece of the action."

He twirled me around until our lips were just inches apart, then with an almost evil grin, he kissed me, and I kissed him back. As the guests hooted and hollered, we gave them a good show, then he stood up and pumped his fist in time to the bass beat in the song. I looked at my dad again and he was livid. Before the wedding, I would have been terrified of my dad being like this but maybe the three shots, the kiss, and the encouragement of my fake husband changed something because I suddenly didn't care what my father thought. Pumping my fist and jumping in time to the music I joined Bucky as we continued our entry dance around the room, before finally collapsing into our seats at the head table. He pushed my water glass to me, while he drank his then leaned close to me again.

"The trick to partying is to stay hydrated," he said. "Always drink water when you drink alcohol. It takes care of the hangover as well."

The evening went way too fast as we ate, drank, danced our first dance (Perfect by Ed Sheeran), then cut the cake, threw the garter and the bouquet. Every time my father tried to come over to me, Bucky whisked me away to dance or to meet some of his friends. When it was time for us to make our getaway, he picked me up, threw me over his shoulder and carried me out to the limousine, making me laugh. As soon as we got inside, he told the driver where to take us, then took my hand and kissed it. If I hadn't known better, I would swear that this was a man that really loved me. By the time we got to the hotel, I was quiet again, realizing that everything that Bucky did that night was a lie. It was fun but it was still a lie.

We checked in, went up to the hotel room, where our bags had already been dropped off, and Bucky tipped the bell boy before locking the door. Then he sat on a couch and patted the seat beside him. I didn't come over right away and he looked at me with puppy dog eyes, so I sat next to him.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Are you always this good of an actor? You had me believing for a moment that you ... that we were real."

"We are legally married," he answered. "I wasn't acting. I had a good time tonight. At first, I thought you were kind of a stick in the mud, but I realized that you just haven't really lived. You've been kept on a pretty short leash by your family, haven't you?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" I sighed. "I don't like confrontation and I tend to let people have their way."

He nodded his head. "Like me. I'm sorry. I was just trying to get you to have a good time. You did have a good time, right?" Bucky was right about that as I did have a good time. I nodded. "Look, if there is anything good to come out of this arrangement one of them will be you allowing yourself to have fun. No matter what happens, I kind of like you, so if we become friends from this, I'll be very happy. Finally, getting you what is due to you is the top priority. I'm not going to let your father cheat you out of what was negotiated."

I smiled at him, then bent over and undid my shoes, slipping them off. Bucky gestured to his lap, and I changed positions, so my feet lay on top of his legs. Gently, he took one foot in his hands and began to massage it. I groaned and made a face as he hit every spot that was sore, making it feel so much better. When he was finished with that, he did the other foot. When I withdrew my feet from his hands, he got up and went to the bathroom, coming out drying his hands on a towel.

"I've drawn you a bath," he said. "Take your time, play your favourite playlist and I'll get set up out here."

"I thought ...." I looked at him, puzzled.

"What kind of husband would I be if I abandoned you on our wedding night? We won't have sex, but we can sleep in the same bed. I'm tired and it's been a long day."

Opening my bag, I took out my toiletries and pyjamas. He grinned at the pink elephants on them, then showed me his pyjama bottoms, with cookies on them. I chuckled, then went to the bathroom and closed the door. When I came out half an hour later, Bucky was changed into his bottoms and a plain white T-shirt, there was soft music playing and a bottle of champagne was open. On top of the bed was a plate of chocolate covered strawberries. Patting the space next to him, he offered me a hand as I crawled on, then poured me a glass of champagne. Holding our glasses up he made a toast.

"Here's to having a good time together, not a long time," he said. "Hopefully, we come out of this as friends because good friends are rare, and you can never have enough good friends."

We sipped the champagne, then he held a strawberry for me as I bit into it, before popping the rest of it in his mouth with a cheeky grin. For an hour we talked about ourselves, growing up in families that were focused on business more than anything else. I learned that Bucky lost his mother at a young age when she died of cancer. He went to boarding school, which he admitted could have made him bitter, but he formed some deep friendships and found some adults to have a meaningful substitute parent relationship with. His college years were spent mostly partying, but he did enough work to get his degree in finance and understood enough about business to agree that this marriage arrangement would keep both of our father's companies from inflicting fatal blows on each other. As I told him about being the quiet child in the family who seemed to always be ignored and forgotten when decisions were made, he frowned and held my hand, kissing it from time to time.

It was easy to talk to him and I cried a little that night. But he comforted me and when my yawns started coming more, he insisted I get under the covers. We curled up and faced each other in the dark. Before I closed my eyes he whispered.

"Sleep tight, pretty girl."

No one had ever called me pretty before.

For the next month, Bucky was pretty attentive. My father finally succeeded in cornering me to ask what the hell I was trying to do by bringing up the divorce agreement. Maybe being so much in Bucky's presence had rubbed off on me because I asked him why the lawyer thought I signed the money over to him. He grabbed my wrist and began to twist it when my husband walked in and quickly grabbed my father's wrist, surprising him with the strength of his grip.

"You don't ever touch my wife like that again," said Bucky, gritting his teeth a little. "I brought up the divorce agreement and was shocked that a father would be so cold-hearted to his daughter to literally try to pick her pocket before she even had any money in it. You want this deal to go through? Then you restore the agreement to what I signed; the money belongs to her. Otherwise, we get an annulment, and you get nothing."

"You can't annul the marriage," huffed my father. "You were together on the wedding night."

"We were but we didn't consummate the marriage," replied Bucky, throwing daggers at my father with his bright blue eyes. "Make sure you amend that divorce agreement and I want to be there when my wife signs it. You got that?"

He released my father, put his arm around me and led me away. We signed the amended agreement two days later that stipulated the money, house, car and child support, when we divorced, would go to me and only me.

Once a week, Bucky went out with his friends, partying. He always wore his wedding ring when the paparazzi took photographs of him and for quite a while he was careful, as there were no pictures of him going off with another woman. I knew he was seeing them, because he would come home smelling of their perfume, before he showered, put on his funky pyjama bottoms and slipped into bed, usually spooning behind me, something that he said he liked even though we had separate bedrooms.

Since the marriage agreement called for two children, Bucky arranged for us to visit the IVF clinic and we both underwent testing. He must have paid the doctor and staff there a lot of money to keep their questions to themselves because none of them ever said anything about why two healthy individuals who just got married didn't make a baby the old-fashioned way. I had to undergo shots to stimulate my ovaries so they could harvest multiple eggs. Then Bucky provided them with semen to fertilize the eggs in preparation for insertion into my uterus. Over the next few months, none of them implanted and I began to develop anxiety about it. He was great, never once blaming me. There were even a couple of occasions when he didn't go out with his friends and stayed home to comfort me when my period started, dashing our hopes once again.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, I realized something, about how I felt about him. It wasn't something I expected, falling in love with a man who made it clear from the start that friendship would be the most he could offer me. For as long as I could, I kept it to myself, not wanting to appear needy to Bucky. He had been wonderful and so kind to me. But after that realization, every time I saw him get ready to go out and knew that he would return smelling of someone else, it was inevitable that I finally said something.

"Don't go out," I whispered, one night, just as he came out of his bedroom, dressed in one of his Armani suits. "Please."

He looked at me as if I was joking then saw the pain in my eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked, sitting next to me.

"Stay home," I answered. "Don't go out with your friends tonight."

"I have to," he said. "We're on the VIP list at a new club opening. I'll be back before morning. After a little sleep-in we can spend the day together, maybe take a drive out to the coast." He smoothed my hair, then kissed my forehead. "Sleep tight, pretty girl."

He left without a backwards glance, and I cried. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last, especially when the paparazzi succeeded in acquiring a picture of Bucky and a starlet kissing each other. He apologized but the crack between us was there, and it would only get worse. The night it was the worst was the night I almost died.

We were supposed to be at a charity event together, but he texted to say he was running late, and he would meet me there. Of course, when I showed up without him, I was swarmed by photographers, all of them asking where Bucky was and who he was with. Ignoring them as best as I could I entered the venue and was shown to my table, seated with several other wives of prominent individuals. Even though I had improved my social skills and learned to have more fun, these women weren't inclined to be friendly and after enduring their whispered comments with no word from Bucky I decided to go home. A car service had dropped me off but expecting Bucky to arrive in his car we didn't book a return trip. There were no taxis available, so I began to walk, trying to hail one as I walked. Somewhere, along the way, I began to cry like the pathetic little individual I always knew I was. Funny how quickly I crumbled, when I figured that even Bucky had enough of me.

I woke up in the emergency room, with a bright light glaring down on me, a collar around my neck, a tube down my throat and IVs in my arms. A doctor leaned over me until I looked at him then began asking me questions, but I couldn't speak, not with the tube blocking my voice. He told me I walked out into traffic without looking and was hit by a car. My heart stopped twice but they brought me back. Was there anyone they should call? I tried to point at my wedding ring as Bucky was the only person I wanted to see, but my arms were splinted as apparently, I thrashed around too much when I was out. He figured it out and held up my phone. Painfully, I signalled the code numbers with my fingers, and he unlocked it then phoned Bucky. Returning a moment later he bent over me again.

"He's on his way. Hang in there, okay? Nothing's broken but you do have internal injuries."

I moaned since there was really no other way to communicate. I must have fallen asleep or passed out because when I woke up again, I was in an ICU hospital room, there were the sounds of several monitors, and Bucky was sitting on a chair, with his head in his hands. He looked up at a sound I must have made and immediately came to my side, placing his hand on mine. All I saw in his eyes were guilt and sorrow.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," he said. "This is all my fault. I was supposed to be there with you, but I let others distract me and before I even realized that I had missed the whole event I got the call from the doctor."

I closed my eyes, feeling the tears streaming down from them. His apology, though sincere, really meant nothing. He promised to be my friend and instead, he did what my family had done my whole life, ignored me. To me, it was proof that I was truly meaningless in this world, that I was insignificant. I felt a cloth on my face and opened my eyes to see Bucky wiping my tears away with a washcloth. Painfully, I turned my head away from him.

"Please, don't," he begged. "Don't be angry with me. I fucked up. I know I did. I thought we could get through the two years and be friends, but I haven't been a good friend to you."

I still didn't look at him. I wasn't angry but I was disappointed. He tried to take my hand in his, but I pulled it away, bringing a distressed sound out of him. It must have affected me because a nurse came in to check the monitors and suggested that Bucky go home and come back in the morning. He put up an argument, but she convinced him that I needed to rest. Reluctantly, he agreed and bent over me, kissing me on the forehead.

"I'll do all I can to make it up to you," he whispered. "You were the last person I ever wanted to hurt."

He left then and I eventually fell asleep. Those first few days he was there from early in the morning until late at night. His father visited the second day, and I was aware of a fairly emotional whispered conversation between him and Bucky. None of my family visited. Three days in they took the tube out of my throat, confident that my bruised lungs and ribs were strong enough for me to breathe on my own. It still hurt to speak, almost as much as I was hurting emotionally. Bucky watched me with glassy eyes after the doctor and nurse left, seeming almost afraid to say anything. I looked at him, and the tears began to fall again, in earnest this time. Even though my body hurt I sobbed, and he was right there, his chair pulled up to the edge of the bed, kissing my hand.

"How can I make it better?" he asked. "Please, tell me."

"You won't," I answered, my voice raspy. "You made it clear from our wedding day that you weren't the faithful type. We can't be friends anymore."

"No, please, don't say that," he pleaded. "I need you. Don't you know that?"

I shook my head. "I don't know anything anymore; except every time you walk out the door to be with someone else it hurts so much. Loving you wasn't supposed to happen, but it did."

"You love me?" he asked, not quite believing what I was saying.

I looked away, then nodded my head. "You were nicer to me than anyone I ever met. Then suddenly you were gone more and then you didn't show up last night."

I covered my face with my hands and wept. The edge of the bed dipped slightly as he sat there, then he was carefully lifting me up in his arms to hold me.

"I'm sorry." He stroked my hair. "You know there are times I wake up at night and you're talking in your sleep. Strange, weird stuff, about kangaroos and jungle roads, and stuffing your face with hot dogs at a ball game. One night, I spoke to you, and we carried on a weird conversation. When I finally said you should go back to sleep, you said okay. Then you said good night and that you loved me. Just the way you said it I knew you were telling the truth. It frightened me because I'm not a good person. I party and sleep around too much, I spend money like it will never end, and I never once told anyone other than my mother that I loved them. She died, and it got into my head that if I loved someone, I would lose them someday." He touched my wedding ring, running his fingertip on it. "Then I almost lost you and I never once told you that I was falling in love with you, a love that I was scared to feel."

"You don't love me," I scoffed.

"I love that you listen to me and follow my lead, even when you really don't want to at first. I love your goofy pyjamas and how cuddly they make you feel when you're sleeping in my arms. I love that I would rather ... be here in the hospital begging for your forgiveness and love, than partying with people who only want to ignore the real world. With you, I have real fun, where I laugh and feel good about helping you and being there for you, because that makes me feel good about myself."

"That's not love," I murmured.

"Maybe not but I know that I don't want to be anywhere but near you."

I looked at him, truly looked at him and saw a man with bags under his bloodshot eyes, his hair was sticking out at odd angles because he had fallen asleep in the armchair of the hospital room, and he had several days of beard stubble on his face because he hadn't shaved. This from a man who took pride in how he looked. He wasn't dressed well, like he normally was when he appeared in public. He looked like a mess, and it was because he loved me, and thought he had lost me.

"Do you think we could start over?" he asked, those puppy dog eyes suddenly prominent, even in their bloodshot state. "After you get better, we can go away and just be ourselves, without any family or the business bothering us. I don't care where and it doesn't have to be fancy or expensive. I just want to be with you."

"No more partying with your friends at nightclubs?" I asked. "No more sleeping with other women? Just you and me?"

"Just you and me," he repeated. "The only person I want to sleep with is you, when you're ready."

I couldn't help it. I sobbed again and began to cry. Immediately, Bucky began to kiss my face. Then he looked in my eyes, placed his hand on my cheek and kissed me for real, a soft and sweet kiss that said I was the most important person in his world.

He was as good as his word. Once I was released, he leased a guest house on the coast. It was quiet, far enough away from the other houses on that stretch of windswept beach that we could pretend we were alone. We visited farmer's markets, picking up fresh food for meals that Bucky cooked for me, trying but not always succeeding in his attempts. It didn't matter because we were together and that was the real reason we were there. We walked; short distances at first as I got my strength back, then longer where we would take our time and pick up interesting shells and rocks on the beach. Sometimes we kept them, sometimes we tossed them back into the ocean. Not once did he look at his cellphone. In fact, the charge ran out and he left it on the kitchen counter as a reminder that he wanted all of his attention on me. At night, we curled up in front of the fireplace until I fell asleep, and he would carry me in his arms to bed, helping me into my comfy pyjamas, before changing into his own and spooning behind me.

One night we had a storm, with pounding waves, thunder and lightning, and a wind that rattled every window in the house. He held me until I fell asleep. When I woke up, I looked at his sleeping face, admiring his straight nose, defined cheekbones, and the cleft in his chin. He must have sensed I was looking at him because he opened his eyes, those blue grey eyes that seemed to change colour like the ocean did whenever it was peaceful or angry. There must have been something in my eyes that morning because Bucky kissed me differently, then looked at me in a way he never had before. As his hands moved under my top, and caressed my skin, he shifted so that he was looking over me. I nodded yes, and he smiled softly, before kissing me again and pressing his body against mine.

As pieces of clothing were discarded, we explored each other's bodies, responding with soft sounds as we awakened our sensuous side. It was lovemaking that started out slowly, then built in intensity as Bucky showed me physically how much I meant to him. I had never been that intimate with anyone before, even though I thought I had with the few boyfriends of my limited experience. None of the others made me feel what he did and any last doubts I may have had about his devotion to me were erased. I was in love, truly in love for the first time and so was Bucky.

For six weeks we lived in this bubble where only we existed. Then Bucky plugged his phone in, and all the notifications sounded, one after another for almost an hour. He deleted the ones from his partying friends. They were part of his past now. There were a couple from my father, demanding to know where we were. Then there were the others from his father and lawyers. As he read them, he sighed then looked at me and sat in an armchair, pulling me onto his lap.

"When you were in the ICU, I asked my father for a favour," he said. "I asked him how we could take over your father's company."

"Why?" I asked. "Our marriage was the agreement to keep the competition equal with him, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, it was but when I demanded that your father amend that divorce agreement, he did something stupid and frankly, unethical. He entered into a secret agreement with an overseas company and contracted with them to provide him with the same product at a fraction of the cost. They aren't the same quality, but he is selling them for a bit less than ours, and he makes more profit on them. It's cut into our profits. We'll be alright because Dad's R&D division are already testing the update that would have been brought out at the end of the two years when we were originally going to get divorced. Of course, now, we're not getting divorced."

"We're not?" I asked, my heart racing a little.

"Nope. You've got me for life." He shrugged. "But it means you don't get your 100 million, although you do get a house and car. They were my late wedding presents to you." He cleared his throat. "Do you know how your father has his company structured?"

"No, I assumed he owns and runs it himself," I said.

"Well, he is CEO, but he doesn't exactly own it, at least not all of it," said Bucky. "It's actually shared between your dad, your siblings and yourself. He's never paid you dividends or anything from the company, has he?"

"No, I didn't know any of it," I said. "I feel stupid now, but I always assumed he had total control."

"I think you were kept in deliberate ignorance of it, and he used some shady tax loopholes to keep the money that was yours out of your hands. It doesn't appear he did the same thing to your siblings which led me to wonder why he has always seemed to be so cold-hearted to you."

It was true, my dad never really liked me. I was aware of that from my earliest memories. Bucky's hand on my mine drew my attention back to him.

"He's not your dad." I opened my mouth then closed it. "He was married to your mother when you were born but your father was someone else. The company was her's and he had no choice but to declare you as his daughter at your birth. When she died, she left the company divided up between all of you."

"My mother's not dead," I said.

"She's not your mother, she's your stepmother," he replied. "Originally, she was your dad's mistress. He married her a month after your mother died, when you were two years old. Since then, your father has cheated you out of everything that should have been yours."

"What do I do?" I asked.

"You could launch takeover plans of your own, but I think it would expose you to investigation and possibly prosecution if the full story of how your father operates becomes public." That wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing considering how he cheated me. Bucky smiled a little. "I think you should turn him in. Report him to the FBI, the IRS, and any other regulatory agency that oversees corporations. They'll freeze all the assets of the company while they investigate and once they confirm what my dad found out; you won't be a subject of investigation. You'll be recognized as a victim of a long-term plan to swindle you out of your inheritance. You can even bring a private civil suit against him. At the least it will expose your father and your family to some pretty intense public scrutiny. There might be some criticism about you, but I'll be with you while this happens, and I won't let anyone associate you with them."

I considered his words. For someone who said he barely passed his university courses he sounded pretty sure of himself and of what we should do. Just at that moment I felt like I had to throw up and I ran from him to the bathroom, emptying my stomach. His hands were on my hair, gently pulling it back so it didn't get soiled. Then he gave me a glass of water as I sat on the floor. A strange but satisfied smile was on his face.

"You haven't had a period since we first got here," he said.

I stopped drinking the water and looked up at him. "Do you think I'm pregnant?"

He shrugged then kneeled down to play with the ends of my hair. "Maybe. We can pick up a pregnancy test on the trip back to the city."

Something occurred to me. "The grandchildren clause ... who asked for that?"

He smiled. "My dad. I'm an only child so he wanted to make sure that I had heirs before I died because of my partying ways. If you are pregnant, I'll be happy and so will he. I'm going to be more involved in the company but not to the extent that you feel left out. In fact, my dad thinks you might be a good fit for the Board of Directors. We can work together and take over managing it when he retires."

"I don't know anything about business," I protested.

"I'll teach you," he smiled. "Say yes, to staying as my wife, the mother of my child, and partner in business. There's no one else I want to have it all with."

I agreed and his smile lit me up inside. When we returned to the city, the lawyers that his dad retained helped me turn my father and siblings in for the irregularities of how they ran my mother's business. Like Bucky said, several agencies became interested, and they confirmed that I had been cheated out of tens of millions of dollars worth of income and compensation. There were many shady deals they engaged in, and even the ones that weren't shady, like the marriage arrangement between Bucky and me, weren't always honoured. It took a long time for the whole thing to wind its way through the legal system but when it did, it was my company, and mine alone, as the Board of Directors fired my father and siblings after they were forced to divest their holdings in order to pay years of back taxes on the income they didn't declare. When Bucky's father, George Barnes, proposed a merger I accepted, being offered the position of Chief Ethics Officer in the combined companies.

There was something else that happened. On the way home from the coast, we stopped and picked up a home pregnancy test. The next morning, we waited as the stick processed the urine sample. The word Pregnant appeared and we accepted that our life was going to change. Bucky left behind the party lifestyle completely, becoming the partner in life I had always dreamed of. When our son was born, he was hands on as a father and stayed that way with each child we had, four in all. Some people said we lived a charmed life, but it wasn't always that way.

I never felt truly loved until I survived my accident and confessed my love to my husband. Bucky, who had dealt with his own trauma of his mother's death and being sent to boarding school at a young age, had lived a life of shallowness, afraid to truly be intimate with anyone, until he almost lost me. Our sham marriage ultimately brought him and his father closer together, healing the rift that had kept them apart. With the trust we built between us we formed a new family, made richer by the birth of our children. Although my biological father was dead, he did have children, born after his affair with my mother. We got along well, and they became my new siblings. Whatever cold-hearted life I suffered before I agreed to marry a man I didn't know didn't matter, as Bucky and I showered our own family with all the love we could muster. Above all else, we were happy.

One shots masterlist

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #buckybarnes original female character #bucky barnes au #marriage of convenience #business deal #friends to lovers #bucky barnes x reader

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rottenpumpkin13 · 1 year ago

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impulsive purchases Sephiroth has made?

Poor Financial Choices In Sephiroth's Apartment

• A gumball machine. He bought it purely because he didn't know these things could be bought. He followed Genesis to one of those whimsical upscale furniture stores when he was redecorating, spotted the gumball machine, and made his choice without asking how much is cost.

• Yoga gear, enough to open his own studio. In his defense, he does practice yoga, but there was a point in the beginning where he got wayy too into it and started buying everything he saw. It was a mistake, because all he uses is one (1) yoga mat. At least Angeal knows who to go to in case he ever needs 62 yoga balls.

• A mini trampoline. Again, he didn't know they existed before he saw one.

• A coffee table that doubles as a mini pool table when the glass top comes off. Again, he saw it at the store, went "ooh!" and then made Genesis and Angeal lug it back to his place. (he was too busy carrying the light up wall-sword-holder contraption he got for Masamune)

• A giant scented candle the size of a barrel. He likes scented candles, but hates how fast they run out, so to combat this he bought "that monstrosity" (Genesis' words, not his). It smells like eucalyptus. The smoke detector picked it up one time at 1AM and they had to evacuate the residence floor. Angeal confiscated it.

• A humidifier shaped like a cat that lights up and purrs. It's impractical, it doesn't work properly, and is an eye sore according to Genesis. Sephiroth only bought it because "that's not something you see every day."

• A plasma lamp, a lava lamp, a night sky projector, light-up LED lights, a lamp that's a skull with a lightbulb in its mouth. If it lights up in any different or interesting way shape or form, odds are Sephiroth has it.

• House slippers shaped like two chocobos that heat up. Zack talked him into buying them, but he never wears it on account of feeling ridiculous whenever he does. He wears them when he's alone but that's besides the point.

• A giant weighted stuffed chocobo he got from Genesis as a gag gift. Sephiroth doesn't see the gag. If he drapes the chocobo over himself it simulates human contact.

• Waffle iron, popcorn machine, hot chocolate maker, donut iron, things he buys and claims he'll use, but never does because he barely ever cooks. The only times he eats home cooked meals are when Angeal cooks for them, and it will be a cold day in hell before Hewley is caught making an omelet with a machine.

• Sephiroth once followed Angeal to the flea market in the slums, where he proceeded to thrift an entire collection of mugs shaped like realistic skulls. "Aren't these a novelty? I think I'll name each of them."

• A comically huge beanbag chair that makes him look (and feel) small when he's nestled into it.

• In conclusion, this is the result of growing up isolated in a lab without autonomy, and then gaining adult money and personal space.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #ffvii crisis core #genesis rhapsodos #ff7 crisis core #angeal hewley #headcanons

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redheadspark · 8 months ago

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ahh can we get modern au benedict and mix between scenarios 3 and 10?

A/N - This is cute, thanks for requesting this, anon!

Cider

Summary - Benedict brings you comfort after a movie scares you

Warnings - Mostly Fluff

“This was not a good idea,”

“No, no it’s fine,”

“Clearly it’s not, darling,”

You cringed from the sound of concern in his voice as your husband Benedict looked over at you with worry laced on his face. With the credit rolling on the screen in front of you, you found yourself gripping the blanket that was dropped across you a bit too tightly, with the dim lights of the living room not showing the genuine fear on your face from watching the movie you thought you could stomach.

Keyword: thought.

You got your hands on the most recent horror movie that an old friend of yours is starring in. She got one of the first copies before it would be sold on the market, and since you were one of her first supporters when she became an actress, she would always make sure you got into premiers or events for any of her films. You were grateful for her, even more so since she was the one who introduced you to Benedict at a large movie premiere. His family was well known in the charity and creative world realm, Benedict especially with his paintings and canvas work.

Now 6 months later, in your new apartment that you both moved into for the first time, you were a scardy cat over a simple movie. Pathetic.

“Here,” Benedict replied, taking the remote control to change the settings of the TV. The movie was gone, replaced with a random TV show on the cooking channel as he then hopped up from the couch to turn on a few lights. With warmth filling the room again, you realized that you were in fact clutching your blanket far too tight. Almost ripping it in half.

“A change of scenery is a must, don’t you think?” He asked as he then reached over to gently take the blanket off of you. Your fingers, once they were done holding the blanket for dear life, faced from top to bottom as Benedict then laced his own fingers with yours. He kissed the back of your hand lovingly.

“I think some hot cider is still in the pot, let’s have some,” He suggested, helping you up from the couch as you were still a bit shaken. The small living room was neatly decorated with Halloween and fall decor, something you both bought on a mini shopping spree since you two were excited about having Halloween together. It was your favorite holiday, ever since you were a little girl you thought the holiday was the best. Surpassing Christmas even, there was something about the autumn weather and being able to dress up in whatever you wished to be for one night.

Thankfully, you found a husband who loved Halloween as much as you did.

Walking through your apartment and dodging the cobweb decoration that was a pinch too low over the archway that led into the kitchen. Even the kitchen was decorated for Halloween, most of it was hand towels and knick-knacks that were on the countertops and within the cupboards. Thankfully, some of your friends gave you both Halloween decorations as a wedding gift and an apartment-warming present as well, clearly reminding you of your love for the holiday.

“AH, here we are. Let’s warm this up again,” Benedict said warmly as he moved to reheat the cider that was in the teapot. You leaned against the countertop, watching your husband at work as he hummed to himself while getting the teapot going again, “I’m grateful that Kate lent up this recipe,”

“I do love our sister-in-law,” You agreed as you chuckled, “She keeps Anthony in line,”

Benedict laughed as the cider was getting hot once again within minutes. He looked over at you, grinning from ear to ear at your appearance. Sporting your pajamas that included an old college t-shirt and sweats, your long hair that needed a trim, and dark circles under your eyes, he thought you were beyond beautiful. He always seemed the beauty in most of the things that were around him, especially with you. Someone who wore their heart off their sleeve, someone who was bold in what she said in how she said it, someone who loved wholeheartedly and would expect nothing in return.

He can only pour in as much love as you pour into others.

“Pouring out some cider into a fresh mug, he handed the drink to you as you wrapped your fingers around the mug tenderly. The spicy and yet soothing scent of the cider filled your nose, making those worries and fears from the movie slip away even more while you take a long drink. The spices hit your tongue along with the sweet apple taste going down your throat.

He knew you hated scary movies, realizing you weren’t a fan when he took you out on a movie date early in your relationship. Of course, you were trying to have a brave face, not wishing to back out from the movie since you were looking forward to having time with Benedict because of both of your busy lives. Yet halfway through the film when Benedict looked over at you, he saw the wide eyes and how your hand was clutching the armchair in a death grip. In fact, one of the jump scares in the film made you almost spill the entire tub of popcorn you two were sharing.

It was safe to say that Benedict was more aware of your scary movie phobia.

“How do you feel now, darling?” He asked as you grinned over the top of your mug. Seeing your husband taking care of you over your silly little fear, made your heart burst even more as you nodded your head.

“Better now, thank you, sweetheart,” You thanked, seeing him roll his eyes as he walked over to kiss you on the top of your head.

“Anytime. Plus, you know the deal: I’m right next to you for you to snuggle with if you do get scared,” He reassured you with a smirk on his lips, though you giggled as you swatted his arm.

“You say that just to get closer to me. Remember the last time you tried that move with me on our anniversary?” You reminded him, seeing him blush as you went on, “You wrapped your arm around me while I was distracted, tucked me in a bit closer when I got spooked, and then you—“

His hand went over your mouth immediately, you giggled as he was giving you a mocked look of shock.

“I remember us deciding not to discuss that anymore, dear,” he said, though he giggled as bad as you were as you licked his palm. He threw his hand off your mouth as you laughed, though he dived in and crowded you against the counter to kiss you soundly. He always swept you off your feet at the right time. Giving you the best hug when you told him about your promotion, kissing you down your neck when you fell into bed together for the first time, Kissing away the tears after you both returned from your grandfather's funeral.

But most of all, kissing you for the first time at a Halloween party.

The End.

October Prompt Session

#benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x female reader #fanfiction #writing #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton season 4 #benedict bridgerton fanfiction

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readychilledwine · 9 months ago

Text

Till Death Do Us Part

SJM Villains Week - Day One - Origin Story

"Are people born wicked, or do they have wickedness cast upon them?" -Wicked the Musical

Summary - Beron had known love once in his life, and even that was ripped from him

Warnings- This fic has some heavy topics. A whole species of fae is hunted for their wings until extinction. While it is not done in great detail, if that will potentially trigger you, please consider skipping this.

Other warnings- reader Death, spousal abuse, domestic, and child abuse inferred, loss of a spouse, death of a mate, in summary, just not my normal happy love story. Edited and formated on my cellphone, long story, if you see errors, you definitely didn't 👀

A/n - Happy @sjmvillainweek day one. I was sent a request about Beron losing the love of his life being his villain Origin story. I bounced between doing this as a mini series or as a one shot, but landed on the one shot due to mini series that end with reader Death not being a personal favorite of mine, plus, writing reader's death after writing 3 parts of her and Beron falling in love was rough. If you all want it, though, let me know I guess? Today is very out of my box, as you all will see with my Maeve fic queued for later, so to those of you who frequently write reader/oc deaths, I truly admire you. This was hard.

🪽Peep the Wings of Prythian headcanons Here 🪽

🗡Villains Week Masterlist🗡Master Masterlist🗡

The stake set in the middle of the grounds was the seal on the impact of Beron's actions. 100 years, 100 happy years of keeping her safe, and now he was locked in his own room, trapped as her execution was set up.

He should have known better, should have hid her better. Her kind was already rare and in the last 100 years, she was finally the last one. One last trophy to hunt and he had led his father right to her.

Lifeless wings hung high on his wall, still fresh with the scent of her blood. The luster they carried was fading, the vibrant burnt orange now a muted tone of its former glory.

Beron put his head in his hands, the faebane chains around his wrists clanging with laughter as he did. He forced his mind back to a happier time.

Fire Festival had you running around the small market near where the Leaf Folk lived. Mother needed flour. Father needed wine. Your sisters wanted candy. The first of October was special to you all. To your whole race. It was the start of a 31 day process where the females of your race were courted, married, and the hopes of young offspring came. .

Fire Festival was for lovers. It was for passion. It would be your first year to partake, and while you knew it took some females 3 attempts to meet their match, your wings couldn't help but flutter in hope you would meet yours this year.

As you day dreamed, supplies in a basket, you were blind to the male watching you. An outsider that had vendors closing their doors and windows with customer's inside, mamas rushing their children into their homes.

A voice cleared behind you, pulling you from your daze, “My lady.” It was instant, that snap of the mating bond tugging and tying you two together into a cursed string. ..

The dark-haired male put his hand to his heart, blindly stepping closer to you. Dark hair sat on top of his head, styled and brushed into perfection despite the evidence he had arrived on horseback. His slender face was handsome. Sharper cheekbones, full lips, a nose reminding you of a hawk beak. His clothing was high end, hugging his body as if he was poured into the material. “Beron,” he spoke to you, ripping you from your study of his figure.

“Y/n,” you whispered back, wings moving slightly to be out of sight.

“I have no interest in those,” he motioned towards them. “Only in the rumors of elder flowers in this area.”

You blinked at him, the olive branch you were about to offer him was dangerous, “I can show you if you vow to never speak of this place.”

Beron fought against his father as he was pulled to the temple. He knew the female he was being forced to marry was nice enough, beautiful, wealthy. He was forced to stand at the altar, a knife held to his little sister's back as he did. Aurelia entered either her normal grace, her own face solemn as the fae stood and she was escorted to him by her own proud father.

Her dress reminded him of a princess from tales of old. Far too large, puffy, and in a shade of white that did not compliment her porcelain skin and hair like fire.

They were both silent as they took their vows and the count down to your execution began. 2 hours. 2 hours he'd be forced to spend drinking and all that did was encourage more memories of you.

The pull of the bond became too much the following October, and the letters written on oak leaves could no longer be enough for either of you.

You were taking a huge risk, using the first feast and bonfires to sneak to his hunting cabin just a few miles away from the hidden edge village you'd spent your life in.

Beron was waiting on the porch, eyes coming alive as he heard the sound of your leaf-like wings crinkling as you flew over to him. ..

He caught you quickly, arms going around your waist, pulling your head to his chest. .

The first hug of many.

The first night filled with laughter and stolen kisses that'd come with the next 99 years.

He carried your one bag, frowning at your lack of possessions.

"Is this all you have, my love?”

”All I need,” Your tone was confused. “Did you expect more?”

He had. He had expected more than just the 7 dresses he pulled out. More than the one necklace he had given you. More than one more pair of leather shoes.

Beron glanced at you, chocolate eyes slightly sad, “I'm going to give you the world.”

Beron and Aurelia watched in silence as people drank and danced. “You said you were running,” he whispered under his breath to her. “You said you were leaving to prevent this.”

Aurelia looked at him, her whiskey colored eyes narrowing, “Do you think I didn't try to get him to come grab me? Do you think I sat and did nothing despite our deal?”

He rolled his own eyes, “Careful with your tone, wife,” the word felt like ash.

“Am I your wife? Or is she locked in the fox holes waiting to be the final show for our wedding? Who else has their marriage start with the burning of their husband's who-”

The slap that came before she could finish that sentence made the room fall into silence. Another beginning. Another drastic change. Beron knew Aurelia had sold out the location he kept you in. Her father had been the one to drag you in, bleeding and crying, dress torn.

Beron's father motioned for the night to continue like nothing had happened, as if he was beaming with pride at his son striking his wife.

“Just because he didn't want you after you willingly handed him your cunt, doesn't mean I didn't want y/n. I hope you enjoy both of us being as miserable as you clearly are.”

She sat wordlessly next to him, holding her cheek. She'd been warning of the heavy hands the Vanserra males carried, but Beron had never been aggressive. He'd always been kind to her. But she knew she was you and clearly Aurelia had gotten herself into dangerous territory.

Beron watched the clock as it ticked an hour. An hour to day dreamed about you.

The wedding of the Leaf Folk were not performed in a temple, an odd thing for Beron as he stood under the oldest apple tree in the groove. Its twisted trunk and tangled branches were almost menacing as you followed his eye.

You took his hands, whispering in the old tongue and making the tree light up with runes and stories of lovers wed under its branches. You were the last of your kind. The village somehow found and pillaged in one night. The groove of apples around you both was struggling, dying off slowly as its caretakers became a lost memory. “What do we do now?”

"We close our eyes and feel. We will know if the land blesses our union,” you smiled as you answered, closing your eyes. Fireflies began to fill the area, a slight breeze carrying the sounds of gentle music. You both opened your eyes to the deer to the fireflies.

“What the hell,” he paused. “What is this?”

"Approval from the Mother. She has blessed and signed off on our union,” Your hand went to the new rune in the tree, eyes watering as you followed the curves and slopes. “We're married.”

Beron was forced to stand, shackled again as guards made him and Aurelia walk to where he'd be forced to watch you burn. His family and Aurelia's father too spots near them, the other High fae in attendance whispering as they also took places. Public execution in Autumn was a favorite pastime for the rich high fae. They loved watching the poor, the criminals, the low fae burn or be gifts to the trees, consumed root by root.

His father had known that wasn't an option with you. Had he given you to the trees, the trees would free you. No true crime was committed, and on top of that, your kind was so closely linked to the trees, your life forces depending on each other.

Beron had tried to warn his father what killing you would do, how his family would lose control of the trees and the forest, how that was a magic given to his family by the Leaf Folks elders hundreds of years ago. A promise not to hunt them, yet every Nobel here had a pair of those wings on their walls. Fresh ones.

Beron pulled against his chains as he heard you fighting and screaming in the tongue of your people. He watched as you spit on the male dragging you, watched as you spit on his father.

You had, in many ways, made Beron's life easier. You had killed two of his brothers during your capture, making him the clear heir. You had stabbed his father with something rumors from the healers say wasn't closing, festering in his skin and muscles like an infection. The look of pride as you looked down from your nose towards his father made Beron smirk. You'd die a warrior. Die with not an ounce of fear but instead a river of rage.

His wife. His powerful fearless wife.

That sneer didn't change as you were tied to the stake. It didn't change as your so-called charges were read. It didn't change as you waited to be given the ability to speak one last time.

“The last of your kind, yet you won't beg for your life?”

“No,” you answered his father plainly.

The High Lord seemed surprised as he spoke again, “So you will curse my son to a life of madness?”

“I've cursed your son and court to so much more than that already,” you glared

It was then that Beron noticed the runes carved into your body in captivity. He held his breath as he read each one. As he read the fate your death would seal for this court and for him.

You had been lied to, told he gave away your location, that he handed you away willingly in exchange for the bride sitting next to him. All lies he would never be able to change.

It looked as if you were praying, but Beron knew the signs of Leaf Folk magic now. He knew what was happening as the wind picked up and lightning struck as your pyre was lit.

Beron shot out of bed, shaking his head as the nightmare replaying her death was fresh in his mind. He still blamed himself, still blamed Aurelia. 700 years later and he wasn't over her.

But how could he have been? Her curse was a plague on Autumn. A deep rot that settled into the remaining signs of her village first. Then that grove he had married her in. Then the surrounding forest and villages. It was choking off life in his court. Illness, famine, and death followed in its path.

Her curse had not just taken the forest, though, it had taken him. The lifeless mating bond was doubled by what she had down. Beron lost all sense of emotion and Humanity once she was gone. He lost himself. That much was clear by the scars littering his wife and children. By what he had done to Lucien.

He had no one to blame but himself.

He knew she was forbidden. A female considered low fae with wings like the rustling leaves of this very court, but Beron couldn't stop himself. He couldn't resist the feel of her soft skin, her scent of spun sugar and apples, her soft hair. Her eyes were his favorite thing, so light and bright. Full of life.

As he held his chest in bed, his sleeping wife was next to him. It was those eyes that haunted him. Those last words whispered before an execution.

“A plague on your houses, a plague on your court, until a son brave enough to kill for what's right comes forth.”

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